“ ’Tis a simple question,” he said from the bed. “It requires a simple answer, yea or nay.”
He got distracted for a moment as she pulled long, silky strands of her hair out from her chemise.
“How soon do you want to marry?” she asked, crossing her arms.
She was asking when; he took that as a good sign.
“As soon as it can be done.”
“Must it be soon?” she asked.
“Aye, it must.”
She nodded but then bit her lip. Not the joyful bride he hoped for.
He got up from the bed and went to her. “What is it? Tell me what worries you.”
She gave him a long, assessing look before she spoke. “I have put a great deal of effort into building my trade,” she said. “You would not expect me to give it up completely, would you?”
He could not help smiling, because it was so like her. She could not simply say she would be his wife; she must negotiate the terms. Well, he had one term he would insist upon as well.
“I have no objection, so long as it does not require us to live in London.”
“A long visit once or twice a year will do.”
The radiant smile she gave him lifted his heart. At last, she seemed happy about their marriage.
“In another year,” she said, clapping her hands together and rising on her toes, “I shall have enough saved to buy your lands for you.”
What was she talking about? “I don’t need my wife to buy lands for me.”
“I do not mean to offend you.” She rested the flat of her hand against his chest, which had an unexpected calming effect on him. “You have need of lands, and I have the means—or will have soon. You would think nothing wrong in marrying an heiress for her lands. Why should this be different?”
Was this the reason she wished to wait?
“I can provide you a home,” he said. “Eventually, we will have a finer one, once Bedford grants me lands for my service.”
She had distracted him from what he meant to say.
“But there is a promise you must make to me,” he said, “or we shall not marry.”
Her smile faltered. “What is it?”
“You must give up these senseless grudges. You must promise me—absolutely—that you will cease to seek revenge on every person you believe to have wronged your family when you were a child.”
“But I have good cause,” she said with that stubborn look in her eye.
“I do not care if you do. It is dangerous, and I will not have it. How could I leave to do my duty in France, knowing you are home in England provoking men to violence at every turn?”
More than that, he could never hope to make her happy until she gave up this obsession of hers.
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at him, as if judging whether there was any room to negotiate.
“I’ll not move an inch on this, Linnet.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I will not be the man who has to tell his children their mother is in the Tower for murder—or worse, that her body was found floating in the Thames.”
She looked off to the side, tapping her foot. This was hard for her, and he knew it. He waited her out.
Finally, she blew out her breath and said, “All right. I agree.”
“I will have your solemn promise on it.”
She looked as if she would rather eat worms, but he was not budging. In sooth, he would have liked to ask her to write the promise in blood. But he was a reasonable man.
She sniffed and tilted her chin up with all the dignity of a queen being asked to relinquish her crown.
“I shall pray fervently that God punishes those who wronged my grandfather and left my brother and me to starve,” she said, her voice edged with bitterness. “I shall pray that they suffer in this life and burn in hell for all eternity in the next.”
“And?”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I swear I shall cease to pursue the godforsaken demons myself.”
There, she had said it. He had won. He took her hands and lifted them to his lips.
“I have something to give you.” Jamie lifted the medal of Saint George, the dragon slayer, from around his neck and slipped the silver chain over her head.
“But King Henry gave that to you,” Linnet protested. “I cannot take it.”
“It is a saint for soldiers,” he said, smiling down at her. “But with the trouble you get into, I would feel better if you wore it.”
Linnet lifted the medal from where it rested between her breasts and touched it to her lips.
“Thank you,” she said, blinking back tears. “I shall never take it off.”
He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Now it would be nice if you told me you love me and want to be my wife.”
“I do love you.” She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. “I could not give you up again.”
Joy and a quiet sense of peace settled over him as he held her in his arms. She was his now.
Then she leaned back and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I have a confession to make.”
Damn. He didn’t want to hear this. He tensed, hoping her confession would not make him have to kill Edmund Beaufort.
“I like to listen to the tales of your victories.”
He laughed. “Now I believe you love me.”
“I love you with all my heart, Jamie Rayburn.”
Jamie held her to him and closed his eyes. Five years he had waited for this. At long last, Linnet was truly his.
All he wanted would be his.
Chapter Twenty-two
Linnet clapped with the others as the mummers cavorted through the hall in their masks. All through yuletide, there had been lavish entertainments, from dancing bears to acrobats. In the lower ward, there were cock and dog fights, which she despised, but those were easily avoided.
The sounds of harp, flute, and tabor floated down from the gallery as people milled about, stretching their legs and making conversation before the next round of entertainment.
Linnet and Queen Katherine stood side by side with their backs to the wall. Speaking in low voices, they gossiped good-naturedly about various nobles and merchants in the Great Hall.
“That young squire of Sir James’s is going to have all the ladies sighing in a year or two,” the queen remarked.
“Martin has such a pure heart. I wonder if he’ll notice?” Linnet said with a laugh. “I’ve grown quite fond of him.”
“A pure heart—likely he’s the only one in this room you could say that of,” the queen said with a sparkle in her eyes. She took Linnet’s hand and squeezed it. “ ’Tis good to see you so happy, my dear.”
It was true. Joy filled her heart and lightened her step. She had floated through the days of holiday festivities in a feathery cloud of bliss. The prospect of marriage was unexpectedly… freeing. Instead of making her feel confined, it brought her a sense of contentment.
At least it did most of the time.
But now and then, the twin vices of anger and guilt dug their talons into her. Justice had been denied her. The man responsible for ruining her grandfather’s last years still enjoyed the fruits of his thievery. He had robbed her of everything that protected her and left her at the mercy of the worst sort of men.
She thanked God every day that Jamie’s uncle Stephen had saved her and Francois. And she would never forgive her father for failing to do so. Of course, he had failed her long before that.
“When will you become formally betrothed?” the queen asked.
Linnet was grateful to the queen for diverting her. It was difficult, but she was determined to keep her word to Jamie and not dwell upon the past.
Queen Katherine, dear friend that she was, was giddy over their upcoming marriage.
“As soon as Christmas Court ends, we will travel to Ross Castle to make our betrothal pledges in the presence of his family.”
Despite Jamie’s reassurances, she felt anxious ab
out how his parents would receive her. She had met the Fitz-Alans briefly in Normandy when she was a girl; both had seemed formidable. Once before, Jamie had led them to expect she would be his wife—only to come home empty-handed. She suspected that would be hard for a parent to forgive.
“It will be an adventure for you, living in the country and becoming part of a large family.”
“Although I used to tease Jamie about wanting this sort of life,” Linnet said with a broad smile, “it is what I want now, both for me and our children.”
It comforted her to know that her children would grow up within the protection and warmth of a large extended family.
The thought of having a child lifted her heart. It was such a hopeful act. She had never allowed herself to think of having a child before. Although she refused to admit it to Jamie or Francois, she did know her efforts involved some danger. Besides, children were about the future, and she had been absorbed with the past.
“I should like nothing better than to raise my son in the country,” the queen said with a catch in her voice. “They will take him from me again soon.”
“I am sorry for it,” Linnet said.
“At least I have Owen,” the queen said. “And a time will come when we, too, shall marry.”
“Do not speak of it here, please!” Though the queen had spoken softly, Linnet looked quickly about her to be sure no one had overheard.
The queen seemed perilously close to tears. Desperate to divert her, Linnet said, “There is that awful Lord Stafford and his daughter.”
Queen Katherine touched a kerchief to her nose. “I do hope they are not coming this way.”
“What could Bedford and the bishop have been thinking, attempting to pair Jamie with Agnes Stafford?”
“Nothing could be simpler to understand,” the queen said, in control of herself again. “Lady Agnes is a land-rich heiress, and Jamie is a strong warrior from a family with close ties to the Lancasters.”
Though Jamie had told her—repeatedly—that it was a delicate situation, it nagged at Linnet that he had not poured cold water on Stafford’s expectation of a marriage offer for his daughter. Jamie wanted to seek his parents’ counsel. His mother, he assured her, would know how he could extricate himself without damaging his family or humiliating the young lady.
“The Stafford girl is quite pretty, but with a little effort, she could be a beauty.” Queen Katherine made a disapproving tutting sound with her tongue. “She wears the most unflattering gowns. And a smile would do her no harm.”
Linnet was in no mood to hear this.
“Mon Dieu! Here they come.” The queen pasted a regal smile on her face.
“Your Highness, Lady Linnet.” Stafford made a bow and greeted them in a voice that easily carried above the noise of the hall.
Stafford’s orange and red tunic and matching hat and hose were so bright Linnet blinked. Perhaps his daughter wore such somber colors to avoid drawing more attention to them.
The queen appeared too stunned by his attire to speak.
“Where is Gloucester?” Stafford demanded, as if the queen were her brother-in-law’s keeper. “Haven’t seen him all evening.”
“Did you enjoy the mummers and the acrobats?” Linnet asked, seeking safer ground.
“Actors and acrobats are ungodly men and women,” Lady Agnes said. “I averted my eyes as best I could.”
Linnet was afraid to meet the queen’s eyes for fear of laughing.
“The money would have been better spent as a donation to the church,” Lady Agnes added.
The girl seemed unaware that she was judging the wisdom of royal expenditures—and to the queen, no less.
“Surely God would find no harm in a little entertainment,” Linnet said with a smile.
Lady Agnes looked at her as if she had spoken a foreign language.
“Lord Stafford,” the queen said, “I hear you must leave us soon.”
Praise God for that.
“I must take my leave on the morrow, but my daughter will remain here in Lady Elizabeth’s care.”
Poor Lady Elizabeth.
“You see, my health is not good. I…”
Linnet could not decide which was worse: hearing about Stafford’s digestive problems or listening to his daughter preach at her.
When the pair finally left them, Linnet leaned against the wall to recover. Before she could catch her breath, Edmund Beaufort glided between several people to join them.
“Your Highness,” Edmund said as he made his low bow, then turned to Linnet. “And the bewitching Lady Linnet. When will you run away with me?”
“Never.” When he paused too long over her hand, Linnet tugged it free. At least he had not started writing poetry to her. But then, Edmund only pretended to be a romantic.
She did not see Jamie until he stood beside her, scowling at Edmund as if he would like to rip him limb from limb. To Edmund’s credit, he did not step back.
Jamie gave Edmund a curt nod and clamped his hand on Linnet’s arm. “Excuse us, Your Highness. Lady Linnet and I have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Jamie’s jaw was clenched as he steered her across the room. He waited to speak until they were behind a pillar in the anteroom.
“If that man looks at you like that again, he will regret it.”
“Like what?” Linnet said, though she knew precisely how Edmund looked at her.
“Like he is imagining you naked in his bed,” he said. “Did he ask you to be his mistress again?”
The vein in his neck was pulsing.
“He believes your motives are the same as his, since he thinks you are about to wed Lady Agnes,” she said, because Jamie deserved a little goading. “Edmund is a good sort, really.”
Jamie made an indecipherable sound that could not be interpreted as agreement. Truly, he had no sense of humor about some things.
A servant going by with wine offered them a cup, which Jamie took.
“The stars were aligned in your favor the day we met again,” she said, leaning back against the pillar. “Otherwise, you might have actually married that Agnes Stafford. Mercy, a duller woman I have never met.”
Linnet could jest about it now that she knew nothing would come of it.
“Do not speak harshly of Lady Agnes,” Jamie chided.
“There is much I respect and admire about her. She will make some man a fine wife.”
For men, there was a long distance betwixt respect and desire. However, Linnet chose not to mention the obvious.
“For such a godly woman,” she said in a low voice, “she has big breasts.”
Jamie choked on his wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Linnet, leave the poor woman alone!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You noticed her breasts, didn’t you?”
“Aye, of course I did.” Jamie shrugged. “They are a fine feature—a God-given feature, I might add. Where you got the notion a godly woman cannot have an attractive shape, I could not guess.”
The conversation had ceased to be humorous. “You find this Agnes attractive? Very attractive?”
“Are you jealous?” he said, grinning like an idiot.
He leaned down and blew in her ear, sending a ripple of tingles down her spine. Then he whispered, “Why would a man choose a plain oatcake when he could have an apple tart with clotted cream?”
She burst out laughing, her ill humor gone in an instant. “So I am your apple tart, am I, Jamie Rayburn?”
“Wait a few moments, then follow me,” he said next to her ear. “I am going to steal a bowl of clotted cream from the kitchen.”
She leaned back and raised her eyebrows. “You cannot mean…”
He winked and nodded.
She rolled her eyes, but she said, “Where shall I find you?”
“Meet me downstairs in the undercroft. We’ll find an empty storeroom.”
His eyes went dark as he ran a finger slowly down her arm. Such a small gesture, and yet her pulse beat wildly. Sh
e would go anywhere with this man.
“Count to two hundred,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Linnet only got to thirty-five.
She picked up her skirts as she hurried down the stone stairs. With her mind occupied with thoughts of Jamie and clotted cream, she almost ran headlong into two people coming up the steps.
The black-clad figure was Hume, the priest who served as Eleanor Cobham’s clerk. Whatever was he doing down here? He could have no more business in the undercroft than she.
Even more surprising, the priest was in the company of Margery Jourdemayne, the Witch of Eye. All the ladies in Eleanor’s circle used Margery for their medicinal needs, from love potions to headache powders. Since Margery’s arrival at Windsor, however, Linnet had not heard a whisper about her providing anything but these ordinary remedies.
Consequently, Linnet had dismissed the old herbalist’s dire warnings about Margery practicing dark magic and consorting with the devil. All the same, something in the woman’s penetrating stare sent a shiver up her spine.
“Good day to you,” Father Hume said.
Who was he to give her that malevolent look? She arched an eyebrow and swept her gaze over him.
“Good day,” she said and then continued down the stairs at a brisk pace, as if she had an important errand to attend to—which she did.
She continued along the low arched passageway wondering where she would find Jamie. With all the guests, servants would be in and out of the wine cellar, so he would not choose there. Farther down, the door to the spicery was ajar. That was odd. Because spices were as valuable as gold, the room was usually locked up tight.
Was this where Hume and Margery had been? The spicery would be a treasure trove for a woman in Margery’s trade. After glancing up and down the corridor, Linnet slipped inside.
Pungent smells surrounded her. She stopped to draw in a deep breath, trying to identify them. Rosemary, mint, lavender, sage, cinnamon. The rich, intermingled scents were intoxicating. Which had Margery come for? Mint leaves for the headache? Mustard for a poultice? But why would Father Hume come with her?
There was a drop of some substance on the long table used to mix or pour spices into smaller containers. Linnet put her nose to it and sniffed. It had a strong, tangy odor. She rubbed her finger over it, then touched her finger to the tip of her tongue. Her tongue went numb—an analgesic of some sort? Father Hume seemed young to be suffering from aching joints.
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