“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. She 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.
