Kissing the Bride Page 2

  For a moment, a single moment, he felt as if she had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. And then Henry blinked and shook off his strange abstraction. He raised her fingers to his lips, enjoying the scent and taste of her, surprising himself yet again. When he looked up, there was a twinkle in her green eyes.

  “I thought that you might be otherwise occupied at court, Henry. Too busy with your intrigues to get away.”

  “Nothing could ever be as important as your wishes, Jenova,” he said blandly, and for once he meant it.

  She laughed. Jenova never took his compliments seriously, Henry thought irritably, but in another moment he was smiling at his own foolishness. This was Jenova, after all. Why should it suddenly matter to him whether she believed his compliments or not?

  “You are looking well,” he said.

  She was tall for a woman, for she stared into his eyes at almost the same height. “I am well,” she replied. “Come, Henry, and sit with me a moment. As soon as my sentries came to tell me they had seen you, I told the cook to prepare food, and I know you will want a hot bath, so there will be one waiting, when you are ready for it. You see, we are not complete barbarians here.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  She pulled a face at him and turned away. Henry followed her. Her skirts swayed gently as she walked, and the line of her back was straight and graceful. The sight of her was to be enjoyed, but Henry told himself that what he really enjoyed about it was that he felt absolutely no desire. None at all, he insisted to himself. There was no urgency to bed her, and to make her his. It was actually quite restful. He had not fully appreciated it before, but being with Jenova was really very soothing.

  Jenova led him to an alcove, partially hidden behind an embroidered screen. Gracefully, she sat down, arranging her skirts about her, and Henry sat beside her, smiling as he watched her fuss. She seemed to be avoiding his eyes. What had she done that she could not tell her oldest friend?

  “You sent for me and here I am. Now, tell me, Jenova,” he said with a slight impatience. “What is it?”

  She looked up, and her green eyes shone with both excitement and trepidation. “Henry, oh Henry, I am thinking to marry again.”

  Henry stared. For such a practised lordling who was never at a loss for a quip or a joke, he suddenly found himself with nothing to say. And worse, inside his chest a mixture of very intense emotions writhed like serpents.

  Was one of them dread? But why should he feel thus? And was another disappointment? Now it occurred to Henry to wonder why he was so surprised by her news. She had loved Mortred, aye, but he had been dead two years, and there must have been many ambitious barons who had set their sights upon her since. True, she had told Henry soon after Mortred had died that she did not intend to wed again, and because of her kinship with the king, it had been possible for her to honor her vow. The king’s fondness for her had worked in her favor, and Jenova had remained a widow, ruling her own lands, doing just as she’d wished. Indeed, thought Henry with an inner smile, when had he ever known Jenova to do otherwise?

  Henry tried to clear his thoughts, tried to shrug off the strange mood that had come upon his normally cold and rational self. Mayhap he was just concerned for her well-being? That must be it, he thought with relief, as he looked at her.

  Jenova was frowning at him, a tiny wrinkle between her arching brows. “You do not seem overjoyed, Henry,” she said with a bite to her tone. “And I have not even told you his name. This does not bode well, does it, for your attendance at my bride ale?”

  Henry managed to laugh, though it took more effort than he would have believed possible.

  “I am sorry, Jenova, but it was a shock…a surprise. I had no idea…. You have been a widow so long, I amused to your single state. I did not realize you wanted to alter it. Who is the fortunate man?”

  “I have not decided to say aye to him yet, but the man is Baldessare.”

  Henry kept the smile on his face through sheer strength of willpower. Jenova gave him a sharp, searching glance but seemed satisfied with what she saw. Relaxing a little, her cheeks faintly flushed, she proceeded to tell him about her chosen husband.

  But Henry wasn’t listening. He did not need to hear anything about Lord Baldessare. Henry knew him. Twice Jenova’s age, warstruck and truculent, how could such a man attract the attention of the Lady Jenova, let alone her affection? For, aye, there was affection in her voice.

  It was beyond his comprehension.

  “’Tis all very well, sweeting,” he said patiently, interrupting the flow of her lilting voice, “but isn’t he a little old for you?”

  Jenova stopped, blinked and stared. And then she laughed aloud. “Oh Henry, you fool! No, no, not the father! I am thinking to marry the son. Alfric. He is not too old, in fact he is younger than me, and very amiable. I am certain we will get on very well together.”

  “You mean he will never forbear you anything you ask for, and you will boss him about unmercifully,” he retorted.

  Jenova had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Well, mayhap. But I would not want a man who ruled me, Henry. I am too used to my own way, and more so now, when I have run Gunlinghorn for so long, alone. I fear I would not take kindly to interference.”

  That last sounded like a warning. Had she asked him here because she wanted him to say “aye” to everything she asked of him? Well, he thought with a sudden spurt of anger, he’d be damned if he’d come all this way just to flatter her.

  “My sweet Jenova,” Henry began, careful to sound as friendly and helpful as he could. “I do not mean to criticize, but to marry with the expectation of treating your husband like one of your serfs does not bode well for your future happiness.”

  Jenova smiled coolly and narrowed her intriguing eyes. “And of course you are all knowledgeable when it comes to marriage, Henry.”

  “Nay, you know I am not, but I have witnessed many others falter, or end in misery.”

  “Henry, I do not marry for love,” she explained to him in a patient voice. “I honestly do not expect to find anything more than companionship, and if I wed a man who bows to all my wishes, I will certainly be the happier for that.”

  But Jenova deserved so much more, Henry thought, and felt sadness for her sake. She seemed to believe herself unworthy of genuine happiness. Unworthy of the sort of love that Henry’s friends had discovered. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t know such a love was possible? Perhaps, like Henry, she had never experienced it? But no, that could not be, for she had loved Mortred, or at least the man she had imagined Mortred to be. Henry had made very sure that she never learned the sordid truth about Mortred, and he believed he had succeeded—after all, Jenova had sworn not to remarry when her husband died.

  So what had changed her mind?

  He opened his mouth to ask her and then stopped himself. It was not his business. He was here to give Jenova practical advice, not to take on the role of bridegroom finder. She would laugh at him, or mock him, and deservedly so. Jenova, he reminded himself firmly, was a clever and intelligent woman. She knew what she wanted, and if she wanted young Baldessare for her husband, who was Henry to deny her her heart’s desire?

  And perhaps it is her heart’s desire. Perhaps, despite her protestations, she has fallen in love with him.

  The thought slipped slyly into his head. He gave Jenova a searching glance. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes glowed, her lips had curled into a sly little smile…. She looked well, very well indeed. But was she a woman in the throes of a lusty love? Henry did not think so, but mayhap that was because he didn’t want to think so. He admitted it to himself. There was something about believing Jenova in love with Lord Baldessare’s son that turned him unpleasantly cold.

  Jenova tried to hide her smile. Henry looked grumpy. He didn’t approve of her marrying again, but he was trying to hide it. Had he and Mortred been close friends, she might have understood his lack of enthusiasm. But they hadn’t been. Henry must have
been well aware of the lie that was Mortred.

  Jenova’s smile faltered. Why had he never told her? Why had he let her wallow in her grief never knowing the truth? For two years! Had Henry kept her in ignorance because he saw naught wrong in Mortred’s behavior? Or because he sought to protect her from a knowledge that would wound her?

  Knowing Henry so well, Jenova favored the latter explanation. Aye, she had known him since they were children and he had been sent to live with her family, claiming some tenuous kinship with her father. “Henry has been abandoned by his own mother,” Jenova remembered her father saying, as if it had been a serious fault in Henry’s character. As if the abandonment had been entirely Henry’s doing.

  Sometimes, now, the boy that he had been still crept into her heart like a little ache, and sometimes the man he had become irritated and yet intrigued her in equal measure. Most of the time she tended not to take him too seriously—she had known him for too long—but he did offer good advice some of the time, and some of the time she was inclined to take it.

  As for her possible bridegroom, Jenova admitted to herself that Henry was partially right. She had chosen Alfric because he would deny her nothing, and she was well aware she could order him about. A woman would be a fool to give herself to a man who would not put her first.

  But there was more to her sudden decision to remarry.

  Vengeance. Aye, there was that, if one could take vengeance against a husband who was dead. The fact was, Jenova felt foolish for mourning so long for a man unworthy of her grief. But over and above these things, there had grown a strong sense of lacking, of loss, of loneliness….

  Aye, she was lonely.

  What would Henry know of that? Jenova asked herself irritably. It was doubtful he was ever lonely. From the rumors Jenova had been privy to, and her own observations, she knew that Henry didn’t lack for female companionship. He would not understand her loneliness, her taking the weight of Gunlinghorn upon her shoulders and making a success of it, and then having no one with whom to share her triumphs. She had no one to laugh with, to weep with, no one with whom to spend the long nights, to hold her in the darkness, and to wake with in the morning light.

  More than anything, though, Jenova knew she missed the companionship and the closeness she and Mortred had once shared. That was what she wanted from Alfric—someone to smile at her and hold her hand and lead her to the table, someone to kiss her and hold her when she was feeling low. It didn’t need to be wild passion; she didn’t really think she was capable of wild passion. Jenova just wanted someone who cared—or did a good job of playing the part!

  She shook off her melancholy thoughts. Usually she had no time for such self-indulgence—the running of Gunlinghorn left her with very little time to ponder her solitary state. And if she wed Alfric, there would be no need to ponder it at all.

  “I hope you will treat Alfric with courtesy,” she said, giving Henry a long, censorious look. “I do not want him to feel as if you are judging him.”

  Henry cast up his bright blue eyes, and the smile he gave her was a touch mischievous. “I won’t intimidate him, sweeting, if that is what you mean.”

  Jenova studied him a moment more, trying to make him out, but of course it was impossible. If Henry did not wish you to read his thoughts, then you couldn’t. It was one of the most infuriating things about him. On the surface he was charming and easygoing, but there were hidden depths to Henry. Well, she would just have to take him at his word.

  Jenova relaxed into a smile of her own. “Thank you, Henry. Now, there was something more….”

  “Oh?”

  “It concerns Lord Baldessare, Alfric’s father. He sent his scribe, who is also his priest, with a request…nay, a demand,” Jenova’s eyes glittered, “that the marriage contract include my agreement that, in the event of Alfric’s death, he himself would become guardian to my son, and protector of Gunlinghorn.”

  Henry frowned. “Guardian to your son? If you were a feeble female, I suppose I would understand it, but you are not. And protector of Gunlinghorn? You have had no protector thus far, why would he imagine you needed one?”

  “That is what I ask myself,” Jenova said, pleased to see he was as put out by Baldessare’s demands as she. “Perhaps you can discover what notions are wriggling about like worms in that man’s head, for I fear he is beyond me.”

  Henry smiled at the image, but he still looked uneasy. “He is a tough old warrior, I grant you. Perhaps he thinks all women are weak and unable to care for their lands, and there’s an end to it. Perhaps if we persuade him you are as capable and clever as you are beautiful, he will desist.”

  His praise pleased her. “Well, I will not agree to his terms, and there’s an end to it. If I wed Alfric and anything were to happen to him, I would rule alone, as I do now, until my son is old enough to see to his own inheritance. I do not want interference from strangers who know nothing of Gunlinghorn, and care less.”

  “Is Alfric sickly?” Henry was still worrying at the problem. “Mayhap the father knows something you do not.”

  Jenova tapped a slim finger against her cheek. “I would not have thought so, no. He appears hale and healthy. But you must make your own judgment on the matter, Henry. I’ll warrant you know more than I of the lies and tricks powerful men like to play.”

  Henry wondered if she meant that as a compliment. If not, then what was she implying? She was the only woman he knew who could confuse him like that. “My feeling is that Baldessare is simply too greedy to allow the possibility of Gunlinghorn falling out of his grasp.”

  “But it is not in his grasp. If I marry, I will be marrying Alfric.”

  “And Alfric is a man you can rule, Jenova. But think on this; if you can rule him, then so can others.” He stood up. “I will bathe, and change my clothing, and see you and your bridegroom anon.”

  Jenova smiled, and then watched as he strode across the hall, calling to his man as he went. He looked very handsome, despite the dust of his journey, but then Henry had never been anything but handsome. It was ungenerous of her, she knew, but sometimes she wished he could look just a little worn or frazzled. A little less than perfect.

  Henry’s big, swarthy servant, Reynard, fell in behind him. He wore Henry’s emblem on his tunic, the phoenix surrounded by flame. The two of them, Henry and Reynard, vanished up the stairs into the keep’s upper reaches.

  Jenova knew that in her heart she was glad she had asked Henry to attend her. He may be famed for his honeyed tongue at court, but she knew that in such a situation as this he would give her an honest opinion. Even if she did not agree with it, she could rely upon him to be sincere. That was something she missed when he was not here—a man who told the truth to her. Alfric tended to flatter her, telling her what she wanted to hear. And while it was very nice, and he seemed to mean it, Jenova preferred the brutal truth.

  You are as capable and clever as you are beautiful.

  The words echoed in her head. Did Henry really think her beautiful? She imagined he was used to flattering women, and doing other things to them that made them gasp and squirm and beg for more. An image of his naked, well-muscled shoulders and back, his body almost entirely covering the female form beneath him, his hands and mouth touching, caressing, his chestnut hair curling at his nape…her fingers tangling in it as she felt his lips, warm and teasing, moving over the plump curve of her breast toward its center. His hot mouth brushing her so that she gasped. His tongue circling, and then his lips closing over her and she…she…

  Jenova stood up abruptly. Shocked. What on earth was she thinking? Henry’s women were naught to do with her. She was sometimes curious, aye, but for some reason just now that curiosity had gotten out of hand. Her cheeks felt quite hot. And it wasn’t just her cheeks.

  Jenova took a deep breath and pushed all such thoughts firmly out of her head. Enough. That was quite enough of that. She had Alfric to dream of, hadn’t she? Henry was her friend and that was all. Even to begin to imagi
ne such a situation was dangerous and foolish and a sure way to get herself hurt.

  When she was quite certain that she had regained her composure, Jenova went to attend to her own appearance.

  Chapter 2

  Alfric, son of Lord Baldessare, arrived on a snowy horse at the head of a troop of grim-faced men. He was dressed in a fine woollen tunic of woad blue, with soft, dark leather breeches. The spurs attached to his boot-heels shone like stars. He was a good-looking young man, with hair fairer than Henry’s, and with eyes of a deep, melancholy brown. As Jenova came to greet him, the gaze he turned upon her was more like a hound’s toward its master than a future bridegroom’s toward his bride.

  Henry sighed inwardly. If Jenova wanted a man who was her slave, then she had chosen well. While he stood back and waited to be introduced, Alfric was busy kissing her fingers and whispering preposterous compliments to her, his puppy-dog eyes full of meaning. Reynard, who was standing behind Henry, murmured something derogatory under his breath.

  “Now, now, Reynard,” Henry said in mock reprimand. “We cannot all be men of intelligence. And the lady seems to be enjoying his attentions.” Indeed, Jenova was quite flushed. “Perhaps that is a lesson for you and me—be not clever or skilled if you want to succeed with the ladies. They much prefer stupid men.”

  “I need no help when it comes to the ladies, my lord,” Reynard replied with some arrogance.

  Henry turned and looked him up and down. Reynard was a big man, more like a bear than a man, but with his rugged good looks, women seemed to cluster about him. Even Christina, when she thought Henry wasn’t watching. Mayhap Reynard was right, and he did not need instruction from Alfric. Or Henry.

  “Lord Henry!”

  Jenova had finally managed to fight free of her aspiring bridegroom, and now her gaze was fastened meaningfully upon him. It was time for him to play his part, outwardly at least. But, as Henry strolled forward, full of his usual smiling confidence, he felt anything but amiable toward Alfric, son of Baldessare.