The
stench of the Thames made Sir James Rayburn’s eyes water as
he rode
through the angry crowd. Men glared at him but moved out of
the way
of his warhorse. As he pushed through them, his thoughts
returned to
the evening before.
Over
supper, the other guests pressed Jamie for news of the
fighting in France.
As he warmed to his tale, the ladies leaned forward, hands
pressed to
their creamy bosoms.
He
liked to tell stories. Just when he had begun to enjoy
himself, Linnet’s
words came back to him. What you need, Jamie
Rayburn, is a dull English wife who will be content to
spend her evenings
listening to you recite tiresome tales of your
victories.
After
all these years, Linnet’s ridicule still rankled. Damn the
woman.
Five years since he’d seen her, and she could still ruin
his evening.
Calling
him boring was the least of Linnet’s crimes against him. It
embarrassed
him to recall how he had worn his heart on his sleeve back
then. While
he professed eternal love and adoration, Linnet used him
without a shred
of guilt or regret.
Someone
should have told him that men value a woman’s virginity far
more than
women do themselves. He had mistaken the gift of hers as a
gift of her
heart—and a pledge of marriage. Never again would he let a
woman humiliate
him like that.
Thinking
of her now put him in a foul mood. “We’ve seen enough,”
Jamie
said, patting Thunder after the horse snapped at a fool who
got too
close. As Jamie turned his horse to return to the bishop’s
palace,
someone grabbed hold of his boot.
“Please,
sir, help me!”
The
old fellow’s eye was purple with a fresh bruise. From his
clothing,
Jamie guessed he was not a part of the rabble, but a
servant of some
noble household.
Jamie
leaned down. “What can I do for you?”
“The
crowd separated me from my mistress,” the man said, his
voice high
and tremulous.
Sweet
Lamb of God, a lady was alone in this mob?
“Where?
Where is she?”
The
old man pointed toward a gap created by the drawbridge, and
Jamie had
a clear view of a lady in a bright blue and yellow gown
sitting astride
a white palfrey. She stuck out from the horde around her
like a peacock
atop a dunghill.
“Out
of my way!“ Jamie shouted, waving his whip from side to
side above
the heads of the crowd. He was still twenty yards from the
lady when
he heard her scream. Hands were grabbing at her, attempting
to pull
her off the horse. Someone caught hold of her headdress.
Despite the
noise on the bridge, Jamie heard the gasps of the men
around her as
a cascade of white-gold hair fell over her shoulders to her
hips.
The
air went out of him. There was only one woman in
Christendom with hair
like that. Linnet. And she was in grave danger.