“ ’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.”
