Knight of Passion (7 page)

And it undid him.

When she acted strident and independent, he could resist her. When she was angry, as she had been at Eltham, he could keep
his distance. But seeing her vulnerable like this broke down every barrier he had.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was holding her lovely face in his hands and kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids…

And then, at long last, his mouth was on hers. Outside the window, the wind blew harder and the rain pounded against the ground,
echoing the thundering of his heart as he gave himself to long, deep kisses.

Kissing Linnet felt as it always had: both a familiar coming-home and wildly erotic. It was as if nothing had ever changed.

He broke away to bury his face in her neck and breathe her in. The smell of her skin filled him… and he was a lost man.

Five years of trying to forget her, gone in one breath. Every woman he had touched to wipe away her memory was forgotten.
There was no one for him but her. There never had been. There never would be.

He kissed her again. Though her face was still damp with tears, she kissed him back with a fierceness that sent his blood
thundering in his ears and pulsing through every
part of him. Her fingers grazed the bare skin of his belly beneath his loosened shirt. He gasped as the surge of lust nearly
blinded him.

They fell to the floor, tearing at each other’s clothes, seeking the skin beneath. Her throat, her breasts, her thighs, her
jaw. Every part of her was both familiar and a rediscovery. He reveled in the smell of her hair, the exquisite line of her
throat, the perfect breasts that filled his hands. He had to have her, to own her, to make her his again.

“ ’Tis been so long.” Her voice was rough with longing in his ear. “Please. Now. I cannot wait.”

Oh, aye. Now.

They went from memory, their bodies joining with a violent, pent-up need for each other. All he knew in life was this passion
between them—a passion so hot it burned his eyelids and scorched his soul.

Being inside her like this was all he wanted, all he was. Pounding, thrusting. She held on to him, her legs a vise around
his hips, her hands clutching his hair. When she screamed, he exploded in a climax that was near death.

He could barely keep from collapsing on top of her and crushing her with his weight. Somehow, he managed to fall beside her
and roll over onto his back. His ears rang. He was light-headed, dazed, gasping for air.

Good God. Sex like that could kill a man.

He crossed an arm across his forehead and stared at the ceiling.

Christ, what had he done?

He could not look at Linnet. If he did, he would want to pull her into his arms… to feel her head resting on his shoulder…
to run his hands over her back… his fingers through her hair…

Nay, he could not look at her now and say what he must. “This will not happen a second time,” he said at last. “I’ll not play
your fool again, Linnet. I’ll not do it.”

He pulled his braies and chausses up from around his knees and sat up. Damn, he hadn’t even taken his boots off. He pulled
his shirt and tunic over his head, then got to his feet. With his back to her, he tied the laces of his chausses.

Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll take you to your chamber and bring your brother to you there.”

Praying she did not need his help with her own clothing, he finally turned around to face her.

God help him. With her flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and skirts in disarray around her, she looked well-used. And every
man’s dream in the deep of night.

She was attempting to hold her gown over her breasts as she struggled to get her arm through one sleeve. As his gaze slid
over her bare shoulders, he cursed himself for his weakness. Touching her was dangerous, but what could he do? He could not
walk her through Westminster Palace half-naked.

He swallowed and offered her his hand. “Let me help.”

One moment, Linnet felt deliciously glorious, stretched out like a cat on the floor with her arms above her head. The next,
she was stricken, nauseous with hurt, and clutching her gown to her chest to hide her nakedness.

After the firestorm of passion that exploded between them, Jamie simply got up and dressed. No last kiss or touch. No soft
word. Nothing but the harsh statement that he would not be made a fool again.

Outside the windows, the rain had grown into a storm, casting a dark pall over the room. She was grateful for the loud drum
of rain that covered her labored breathing.

When Jamie offered his hand, she ignored it and continued struggling into her gown. Damnation! ’Twas impossible to get into
it alone. Fighting back tears, she stumbled to her feet and turned her back to him.

He helped her into her sleeves and then swept her hair aside to fasten her gown. Each time his fingers grazed her still-sensitive
skin, unwelcome sensations rippled through her. She wanted to scream at him, but she could not trust herself to speak yet.

By the time he finished, she had control of herself. She slapped away his hands when he attempted to help her with her shoes.
Finally, she was dressed so she could leave this wretched room. Between Pomeroy and Jamie, it would be forever etched in her
mind. If she never returned to Westminster Palace, it would be too soon.

“Do you remember Owain ap Tudor?” Jamie said as he walked beside her down the narrow corridor. “He was one of King Henry’s
squires of the body.”

He spoke as if making polite conversation at dinner in a hall full of people. As if he had not been inside her not ten minutes
ago. As if nothing earth-shattering had happened between them.

Well, she could play this game as well as he. Concentrating to keep her breathing normal and her voice steady, she said, “You
mean the handsome Welshman with the devil in his eyes?”

“I suppose so,” he said with an edge. “He calls himself Owen Tudor these days. He will be meeting us at Windsor with a letter
commending him to the queen’s service.”

“I shall look forward to seeing Owen,” she said, deliberately using his Christian name. “The company of a good-humored man
of charm and wit will be immensely refreshing.”

As they turned onto the main corridor, she saw her escape: Francois and Jamie’s young squire were coming toward them.

But she was not going to leave it like this. Nay, she was not. She would not let him walk away without a word, as if it had
not happened. She grabbed Jamie’s arm, jerking him to a halt. When he turned toward her, she slapped him across the face,
hard.

“Don’t you ever touch me again and then regret it, Jamie Rayburn.” She was so angry her vision blurred. “Don’t you ever do
it.”

She picked her skirts up and left him where he was. She did not look back.

“W
ait here,” Linnet told her clerk.

It had not been easy to find the herbalist. She and Master Woodley had spent the better part of an hour lost in the backstreets
of London.

There was no reason to hide that she was seeking the old woman’s help. Many people came to her, as Linnet’s grandfather had,
for headache powders or a salve for aching joints. All the same, Linnet glanced up and down the lane before going through
the door of the small shop.

The gloom of the interior did nothing to alleviate her unease. As her eyes adjusted, she took in the rows and rows of tiny
bottles and jars on the shelves that filled the wall on one side of the room. She stepped closer to see them better. The bottles
were filled with every color of liquid. Curious, she picked up one that was thick with dust. Clearly, an unpopular remedy,
but for what? She twisted the stopper off to take a sniff.

“Have a care with that, you foolish girl!”

Linnet jumped at the voice behind her and turned to find the oldest woman she had ever seen shuffling toward her.

“Curiosity can kill as surely as a blade,” the woman hissed as she wrapped her gnarled fingers around Linnet’s hand. “This
potion is for warts and will burn your hand like boiling oil if you spill it.”

Linnet put the stopper back in the bottle with care. “Sorry, I did not mean to…”

“Snoop? Bah. Of course you did.”

The old woman took the bottle from Linnet and put it back in its place on the shelf.

“Kill a man if poured into the ear,” the old woman muttered, then nodded, as if having a conversation with herself.

Linnet reconsidered her quest. Suppose the old woman gave her the wrong herbs, and she became lovesick over a goat or grew
an extra finger? It was known to happen. Although her grandfather spoke highly of this woman’s skills, that had been many
years ago.

“ ’Tis a problem with a man that’s brought you here,” the old woman said.

Linnet drew in a quick breath. “Do you have the sight?” It was often the case with women who dealt in herbs and magic.

“What other reason brings a young woman aglow with good health to me?” the woman said. “ ’Tis always a man causing her trouble
of one sort or another. But I’ll not complain. If men behaved as they ought, I’d have no food on my table.”

Linnet smiled as she thought of buying the potion for warts and pouring it into Pomeroy’s ear. Unfortunately, life was never
that simple.

“If you’ve come seeking magic to do harm, you can turn yourself about and go.” The woman made a circular
motion with her spindly finger and then pointed to the door. “I trade only in healing herbs and love potions.”

“I have come for two remedies, both to good purpose.” Linnet sidled up to the woman and said in a low voice, “I want the herbs
that keep a woman from getting with child.”

Jamie could pretend it would not happen again, but a woman had to be pragmatic. Their passion had exploded like oil spilled
on a cooking fire. No matter what their intentions—or how angry she was with him at present—the risk of their emotions raging
out of control again was too great for her to take the chance again.

She had started her bleeding this morning—as if her mood was not foul enough after Pomeroy and Jamie. But she would not rely
on luck a second time.

“I warn every woman, the herbs will nay prevent every pregnancy. Never stops them, though,” the old woman said, shaking her
head. She pointed to a large cloth bag on the floor. “This one you boil, then soak the piece of wool in it that you use to
block the womb.”

Linnet raised her eyebrows. If she and Jamie ended up in bed again, it was hard to imagine them stopping to do all that.

“Works best if your man’s predictable, if you know what I mean.” The woman pursed her lips into a mass of wrinkles, then said,
“The sort who wants an extra cup of ale and a cozy after Mass on Sunday, reg’lar as rain.

“But if you’ve a young man, as I’m guessin’ you have”—Linnet jumped as the old woman jabbed her side with a pointy elbow—“then
you’ll be wanting the oil of pennyroyal or wild carrot seeds.”

Linnet had heard that a woman could bleed from
every orifice and die from taking a few drops too many of penny royal.

“The wild carrot, please.”

The old woman nodded, apparently agreeing with her choice. “Now tell me what else you’ve come for,” she said, raising one
scraggly eyebrow. “I’d wager a ha’penny ’tis a strange one.”

Linnet leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Do you have something that works the opposite of a love potion? A potion
that will cause a woman to find a man—a particular man—unappealing?”

She thought of Jamie’s midnight-blue eyes… and then of how the hard muscles of his stomach felt under her fingertips.

Unappealing might not be strong enough.

“The potion must make him repulsive. Repugnant. Abhorrent.”

The old woman gave a high-pitched cackle. “If one medicine does its work, dearie, you’ll not need the other. So which is it
you want,” she said, chortling and waggling her head from side to side, “to prevent the bedding or just the begetting?”

“This one is for a friend,” Linnet snapped. This was not entirely a lie; the queen could use a dose to keep her from Edmund
Beaufort.

The old woman wiped her eyes on her dingy apron. “Tell your ‘friend’ to confess to the priest and stop fornicating with a
married man.”

“He is not married,” Linnet said, growing more annoyed.

“All the same, ’tis the work of the devil, and I’ll not do
it. I am a God-fearing woman, I am.” Her head bobbed, and she added in an undertone, “Unlike some I know.”

The woman groaned as she leaned down to lift a large cloth bag onto the table that held her weights and measures. “I’ll get
the wild carrot seeds for you.”

“Let me help you with that,” Linnet said, rushing over to lift the bag for her.

“Ah, you’re a good girl,” the woman said. “Not like that other highborn lady what come here.”

“Who was that?”

“If I’d known she meant to use that love potion on a Lancaster—and a married one at that,” the woman said, ignoring Linnet’s
question, “I swear by the bones of Saint Peter, I’d never have given it to her.”

“A Lancaster? Which one?” Linnet asked.

The woman shook her head. “I can see warning you about curiosity a second time is a waste of my breath. ’Tis in your nature,
just as evil is in others.”

Linnet disregarded the shiver that went up her spine and leaned across the table on her elbows. “Come, tell me. Who did she
give the potion to?”

“Never say where you heard it.” The old woman glanced toward the door, then said in a raspy whisper, “She used it on Gloucester
himself, to take him from that foreign wife of his. May God forgive me.”

Linnet sucked in her breath. “You mean Eleanor Cobham?”

“Aye. She’s a bad’un, I tell you. Her and that priest who follows her like death.”

She motioned for Linnet to lean closer. “Then she comes back, asking for the other kind, same as you. ’Tis a
dark art, I tell her, but she don’t care. She’s one who wants what she wants.”

“What did she do when you refused her?”

The woman began scooping wild carrot seeds from the large bag into a small one. “I hear she went to Margery Jourdemayne.”