“I like sneaking about with you.”
Well, he did not. He was damned tired of clandestine meetings and creeping about as if he were bedding another man’s wife. That was fine in the days when he did occasionally bed other men’s wives. But not now. Not with Linnet.
“I do want to go, but one of us must stay to watch over Owen and the queen,” she said in a reasonable tone that grated on his nerves. “Left on their own, I fear they will never keep their secret.”
How long could he keep his own secret? How long before she realized she was meant to be his wife?
“Come to bed,” he said and pulled her to her feet. Tenderness was not what she was going to get from him this time. But he was going to make damned sure she missed him.
Jamie hated the thought of being away from her, even for a few days. Through the narrow window, the sky was growing dark. Soon, they would have to dress and make their way—separately, of course—to their own chambers to prepare for supper.
’Twas poison in his stomach to leave without having matters settled between them. Christmas guests would start arriving. Soon the palace would be crawling with half the men of consequence in England.
“How many others have there been?” he asked.
Linnet lifted her head from the pillow to look at him. “Others?”
“Other men,” he said between his teeth. “Other lovers.” “Would it matter?” She sat up. “How many women have you bedded?”
“Come, Linnet, that is hardly the same thing.” Really, where did she get these notions?
“Not to you, of course.” She turned her back to him and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“Tell me there has been no one else in England.” He thought again of all the guests that would soon fill the castle. He could not bear knowing another man would look at her and remember the feel of her skin beneath his hands.
Blood pounded at his temples.
“There has been no one,” she snapped.
Praise God for that. He folded his hands behind his head and drew in a deep breath. If she was lying, he did not want to know the truth.
“The same cannot be said of you,” she said, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. “There was that horrid Eleanor Cobham, for one.”
“I told you I did not want to bed her. I do not even recall it.”
“Do not lie. You remember it quite well.” In an undertone, she added, “Sore cock, indeed.”
Linnet drew men like flies. They were drawn to her ethereal beauty—and even more to the wildness they sensed beneath it. God, how he hated to leave her.
He sat up, turned her toward him, and searched her face. “Can I trust you while I am gone?”
From the murderous look she gave him, she did not like the question. But he did not care. He had to know.
“Can I?”
“If you do not trust me, do not bother coming back.”
He took that as a yes. But he wanted more than to know she would not climb into another man’s bed in the few days he would be gone.
She tossed the bedclothes aside, retrieved her chemise from the bottom of the bed, and leapt to the floor. As she lifted her arms to drop the chemise over her head, his gaze preceded it down the graceful line of her back, her nicely rounded buttocks, and her long, long legs.
Lord above, she was beautiful.
She went to the window and stood, arms folded, with her back to him.
He followed her and spun her around so he could look into her eyes. “With Bedford returned, my duties are done here.”
Her shoulders tensed beneath his hands. But if he was waiting for weeping and begging, he might be an old man before he saw them.
