Knight of Passion (19 page)

The bishop then proceeded to lecture Jamie while pacing back and forth in front of him. “The most likely consequences of pursuing
this course are that you will end up languishing in prison or with your head on a pike. In either case, you can hardly claim
to have prevailed over your enemy.”

“That may be true,” Jamie said, acknowledging the bishop’s point. “Still, it changes nothing. Honor will not permit me to
withdraw the challenge.”

Bedford cleared his throat. “My brother complains that you have sent his friend Pomeroy several letters repeating the challenge.”

Jamie shrugged. There was nothing he could say to that.

“Am I correct in supposing,” the bishop said, “that honor would require you to allow Pomeroy to escape alive if he concedes
during the fight?”

“Aye, he can concede at any time,” Jamie said. “Perhaps we can convince Pomeroy to apologize,” Bedford said. “Would that resolve
the matter?”

Jamie did not like it. “I suppose it would have to do.” “Negotiating an apology will take time,” the bishop said, steepling
his hands and touching his fingertips to his chin. “Unfortunately, Stafford will not proceed with the marriage until the matter
of this challenge is resolved. That was the one point upon which he insisted.”

Praise God for that.

The bishop pursed his lips and looked at Jamie through narrowed eyes. “Still, I advise you to work the ground,” he said, tapping
his fingertips together under his chin. “I hear the ladies find you appealing. I suggest you put your mind to charming both
the girl and her father when you accompany them to Windsor.”

Jamie groaned aloud when he saw Gloucester, Eleanor Cobham, and their entourage preparing to board the royal barge at the
Westminster wharf early the next morning. He stepped back, hoping he would not be invited to join them. God’s beard, he wished
he was riding back to Windsor with Martin.

He had heard whispers about Eleanor in the short time he was in the palace. Apparently, another lady had fallen ill after
Gloucester had shown her favor.

Eleanor snapped her head around and caught Jamie staring. When he acknowledged her with a slight nod, she cast a speculative
look at him, head to toe. God have mercy, Eleanor examined him as if she were a man choosing a woman in a whorehouse. His
repulsion must have shown on his face, for the look she leveled at him now was pure venom.

“You must be Sir James Rayburn,” a male voice said behind him.

Stafford. Jamie drew in a deep breath, then made himself turn to meet his traveling companions. Stafford was stout and had
the florid complexion of a man who drank too much. Not a fighting man, that was for certain. Jamie had never seen a cloak
that startling shade of green. He tried not to stare at the matching liripipe hat with its ridiculously long tail.

“Good day to you,” Jamie said. “You are Lord Stafford?”

“I am!” the man said in a voice so loud Jamie wondered if he was hard of hearing. “And this is the prize, my friend.”

Stafford turned and waved his arm at a young lady who stood a few steps back. “This is my daughter, Lady Agnes Stafford.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Agnes,” Jamie said, making a polite bow.

She was not the sort of rare beauty like Linnet who made men stop and stare and forget where they were, but she was pretty,
with very fair skin and dark, soulful eyes.

“Sir James.” She gave no smile as she dipped her curtsy.

“Of course, the real prize is my lands,” Stafford said. “She is just the bonus, eh?”

Good God, how could a man speak about his daughter that way? No wonder the girl did not smile.

“You look like a strapping young man who can give me grandsons! That’s what I want from this, I don’t mind telling you—a grandson
to take over the Stafford lands one day.”

Stafford appeared unaware that a prospective bridegroom might be offended by his happy anticipation of his future son-in-law’s
death.

Jamie’s plan to make himself so unpleasant that Stafford would lose interest faded as the wretched man spewed on. He glanced
at the girl, feeling more sorry for her by the moment. What must it be like for a young girl to have such an oaf for a father?

“I only got the girl, you see,” Stafford said. He shook his head. “There is no greater disappointment to a man in this life.”

This had gone on long enough.

“My parents have both sons and daughters,” Jamie said before Stafford could hurl another insult at his daughter, “and, I can
tell you, they greatly prefer the girls.”

“They do?” Stafford asked, pinching his face as if he were tasting something foul.

“They say daughters are like the sun, bringing warmth and happiness to their home, while sons are like the winter storms,
bringing chaos and trouble.”

Jamie was making this up out of whole cloth, but he felt compelled to compensate for Stafford’s churlish—nay, malicious—disregard
for his daughter’s feelings.

When Stafford opened his mouth to argue, Jamie said,
“The second barge is here. Let us board quickly so your daughter will have a seat near the brazier.”

Eleanor Cobham was bringing such a large entourage to Windsor that several of her ladies and servants, along with a good many
trunks, had been left behind to share the second barge with Jamie and the Staffords.

Stafford’s head spun around to where the barge had just pulled up. “ ’Tis damp on the river. I must have the seat nearest
the brazier for my gout.”

While Stafford elbowed his way ahead of the others waiting on the wharf, Jamie held his arm out to the girl. She took it without
offering him a word or a smile. After a short time with her father, Jamie no longer wondered at her dour expression.

There were two braziers on the barge. Seeing her father settled in the choicest seat by the first, Jamie found a seat for
the girl near the second brazier. The boatmen worked quickly to batten down the heavy cloth cover that served to protect the
passengers from wind and rain and keep the heat from the braziers within.

For some time after the boatmen eased the barge away from the wharf, Jamie and Lady Agnes sat in silence. She was such a tiny
thing that he felt huge beside her.

The girl worked a kerchief in her hands. She seemed so desperately unhappy that he felt an urge to rescue her. Another man,
however, would have to save her from her father. Still, he wished there was some way he could ease her misery.

The girl did not appear to have the skill most women had of filling awkward silences. Jamie was trying to think of something
to say to her when she suddenly turned her
dark eyes on him and asked him a question as if everything depended upon it.

“How many demons would you say are in hell?” Jamie thought he must have misheard her. “What did you ask?”

This time she spoke slowly, as if she suspected he might be slow-witted. “How many of the angels turned against God to take
their place with Lucifer?”

He blinked at her, trying to think of how to respond to such an unusual question.

“Most of the holy men agree,” she said, her dark eyes intent on his, “that one in three angels fell from grace.”

“Then it should be a simple calculation,” Jamie said, feeling rather proud of himself, “provided you know how many angels
there were to start with.”

“That is just the difficulty,” she said. “ ’Tis most distressing, but there is some dispute as to the precise number of angels
at the time of Lucifer’s revolt.”

“So long as the good angels outnumber the demons two-to-one, what does it matter how many demons there are?” Oddly, Jamie
was starting to enjoy himself.

“That is a soldier’s answer,” she said with a smile that quite transformed her face. “But you could as well ask why the ratio
should matter at all when the good angels have the power of God on their side.”

“ ’Twas your question to begin with,” Jamie said, giving her an answering smile. “Tell me, why do you care how many fallen
angels there are?”

She pursed her lips and gazed off into the distance, her expression intent once again. After a long moment, she said, “When
I pray for the strength to resist demons, I would like to use the number.”

“But surely God already knows how many there are.” She turned her large dark eyes on him again. “You are right, of course.
Mother Therese—she is the abbess at Saint Mary of the Woods near my home—tells me I devote too much time to the contemplation
of the small points of faith.”

Jamie did his best to hide his smile. Mother Therese sounded like a wise woman to him.

“But when it comes to God,” the girl said, “how can one say any point is small? Saint Paul himself said in his Epistle to
the…”

As penance for his sins, Jamie spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the meaning of various biblical verses. He did not
mind it so much, and it seemed to please her. Well, it did not please her, precisely, for she grew quite agitated as she made
her points.

Truly, they should let the poor girl go to the convent.

One of the women, a commoner by her dress, shot dark glances at them each time Lady Agnes’s voice rose. Eventually, the woman
gathered her skirts and left the shelter, apparently preferring the drizzle and the conversation of the boatmen outside to
their theological discussion.

Lady Agnes’s eyes followed the other woman out. “That woman walks with the devil,” she said in a low voice.

Jamie turned to stare at her. Truly, this young lady was a constant surprise.

“I advise you to wear a cross and say your prayers,” Lady Agnes said. “For that one had her eyes on you, and it cannot be
to good purpose.”

“And I thought she was watching you,” he said, trying to make light of it by teasing her.

“Aye, she was, but for a different reason.” Agnes nodded, her face earnest. “I make her uneasy, for she knows Satan can gain
no purchase with me.”

Apparently Agnes did not think the same could be said of him.

W
indsor Castle was filling up with guests, although none of the royals had arrived yet—if you did not count the queen, which
no one did. Linnet stood looking out the narrow window of her bedchamber, wondering what could be keeping Jamie in London.

She never thought she could miss him so much. Why had she not gone with him when he asked her? Their angry parting left her
with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was anxious to see him and make things right between them.

A movement caught her eye, and she turned her gaze eastward to find a line of barges coming up the river. Knowing Jamie would
return by horse, she was only mildly interested in these new arrivals.

Her interest grew, however, when she saw that one flew the royal banner, the Lancaster lion and French fleur-de-lis. The first
man off was Gloucester, his ermine-trimmed cloak and brilliant crimson, gold, and blue tunic proclaiming his royal status.
The woman on his arm with her hood pulled up against the cold was likely his mistress, Eleanor Cobham.

Linnet was about to go down to join the formal greeting party when the second barge pulled up to the wharf. Because she was
not eager to see either Gloucester or his mistress, she paused to see who would emerge from the other barge.

Her heart did a flip as a tall figure jumped to the dock before the boatman tied the boat. The winter sun glistened on the
almost black hair blowing across his face. At last, Jamie was here. She picked up her skirts to hurry down, when she saw Jamie
turn back toward the barge and raise his arms.

Linnet stood stock-still, skirts clenched in her hands, as Jamie put his hands around a petite woman’s waist and lifted her
off the barge. That was unnecessary; there were steps the lady could have taken. Then, in a protective gesture that sliced
Linnet’s heart, Jamie tucked the lady’s hand into his arm. As the two crossed the dock, Jamie bent his head down to her as
if intent on catching her every word.

Linnet dropped onto the stool next to her and pressed her hand to her chest, trying to breathe. Surely, she was reading too
much into what she had seen. These were simple gestures of courtesy that any knight would show a lady in his company.

Yet, she felt so light-headed she had to lean forward and rest her head on her knees. What would she do if she lost Jamie
again? In building her trade and plotting her revenge, she planned years ahead, anticipating each move as if it were a complex
game of chess. Yet, when it came to Jamie, she lived day to day, moment to moment. Why?

She knew damned well why. Neither she nor her plans fit into the kind of life Jamie wanted. That was as true
now as it was five years ago. She could never be the sort of wife he wanted: a woman who always behaved as she should, bowed
to his “greater wisdom,” and caused him no trouble.

And yet, she did not know how she could survive losing him again.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Jamie hovering over the young woman on the dock. Had he given up on her already? Nay, he had no
hopes to give up this time. Although he was drawn by the passion that burned between them, he no longer saw her as a woman
he would want as his wife. And Jamie wanted a wife.

Her shortcomings seemed many and large. She swallowed back the tears that stung at her eyes. Feeling sorry for herself was
not one of her usual failings. She stood up and snapped her fingertips against the skirt of her gown to straighten it.

She needed to decide what she wanted, and then she could go about getting it, as she always did.

But what did she want? She wanted Jamie. But she also wanted her boot on her enemy’s neck until he begged for mercy. And that
was the problem. Would Jamie wait for her while she settled her obligations from the past?

She would find this last man, the shadowy figure who was behind the scheme against her grandfather, and punish him. Once that
was done, she would figure out what to do about Jamie.

She had time. Jamie had been gone but a week. He could not have become attached to another woman in so short a time. This
helpless woman who needed lifting off boats could mean nothing to him.