Kissing the Bride Page 3

  “Lord Alfric,” Jenova introduced him, “this is my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Henry of Montevoy.”

  Alfric looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of Henry, and then as quickly narrowed. There was no mistaking the gleam of jealousy in them. He tightened his mouth. In a heartbeat he had turned from a handsome, charming young man into a small boy who has had some bauble taken from him and doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.

  Was Alfric really so lacking in trust for Jenova that he would be jealous of an “old friend”?

  Or was it just that Lord Henry’s reputation with women had followed him all the way to Gunlinghorn?

  Still, Henry did not allow his own smile to falter—he was doing this to please Jenova, not Alfric. He gritted his teeth and made his brief bow and spoke of his pleasure at meeting Alfric. Then, for good measure, he added, “As Lady Jenova has mentioned, she and I are very old friends,” stressing the word.

  Alfric’s demeanor brightened a little, although he still didn’t appear altogether comfortable in Henry’s presence. “L-lord Henry,” he stammered. “I have heard of you, of course. Your name is well known throughout the-the land.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? You flatter me, Lord Alfric.”

  “No, no, I do not! You are known f-far and w-wide. My father has often spoken of you. Indeed, once at court, when h-he claimed a parcel of land to the west, you—” But Alfric came to an abrupt halt. His face flushed a deep and ugly red, and he glanced away, swallowing audibly. “That is, he-he met you once, in London, at court. That is all I-I meant to say.”

  Reynard snorted rudely, turning it into a cough. Henry ignored him. “Of course you did,” he said evenly. “And I do remember your father.” And the matter you speak of, he thought, but did not say it aloud. Alfric already looked as if he was about to explode with embarrassment, or terror, or both.

  Jenova appeared confused, as well she might. Her glance slid over Henry’s innocent expression and narrowed, as if she blamed him for Alfric’s state—most unfair, in Henry’s opinion. Then with a brilliant, determined smile, she took Alfric’s arm and, speaking softly to him, led him within the keep.

  Henry followed, his smile genuine and no longer polite. He remembered the incident at court well enough, although he had forgotten it until Alfric reminded him. The father had claimed some land that was not due him, and the king had asked Henry what he thought. Henry had said he had seen the land himself and had joked that he wouldn’t mind having it, and the king, more as a rebuff to Lord Baldessare’s presumption than to reward Henry, had promptly given it to him. Baldessare had left in a rage, swearing vengeance.

  He must have thought better of it, for the vengeance had never eventuated, but it was clearly still on his, and his son’s, mind. Being acquainted with the truculent and bitter Lord Baldessare, Henry could well imagine that the slight, and the loss of the land, had never been allowed to be forgotten.

  The meal was succulent and well prepared, and there was even a juggler to add to the occasion. Jenova was excelling herself to please her would-be bridegroom, and young Alfric seemed willing and eager to be pleased. Now and then he would cast a nervous glance in Henry’s direction, and his stammer was more pronounced when he spoke to him, but otherwise the occasion went off without further incident. Henry was able to converse with some of Jenova’s household, her ladies and steward and Sir John, the knight in charge of her garrison.

  Gunlinghorn impressed him tonight, with its elegance and grandeur, as it had never done before. It was the sort of place he might have dreamed of living in, as a child. An abandoned child, he reminded himself wryly. A son of the minor nobility, Henry had been technically an orphan by the age of five, when his devout mother had decided to enter a religious house and spend her remaining years within its walls. She had wanted to be a nun from girlhood but had been prevented by her family and forced to marry. With her husband dead and a son she looked upon as the product of a sin rather than her own flesh and blood, she had followed her inclination.

  Alone and abandoned, Henry had been passed from relative to relative, no matter how tenuous the connection. He had lived in many different castles and keeps throughout Normandy, reliant upon others for his well-being—or lack of. He had looked upon it as an adventure, suitable training for the tough knight that he one day planned to become. And then he had been taken to a castle like no other. He had been drawn into the shadows—swallowed whole with no hope of escape. Henry had been thirteen when he’d been released from that hell, and he had taken the chance he’d been given. Like a phoenix he had risen anew from the ashes and four years later had been knighted for his bravery in a small skirmish. He had not looked back.

  Aye, he was proud of what he had become, the life he had made for himself, the man he had molded from the boy. He preferred the present. The past was full of dark corners. Memories he did not revisit often. Shadowy recollections he preferred not to dwell upon.

  Much better to remember when William the Bastard had set out to conquer England, although he had claimed at the time it was rightfully his. Whatever the legality of the matter, Henry had known it was his opportunity to make good. He saw that he could use William’s ambitions as a lever to raise himself higher. So it had been. He’d been there with William at Hastings and had helped him to victory. Ever since that day, the king had enjoyed his company and found his clever tongue useful. And he had certainly been well rewarded for his efforts.

  Not that Henry was complacent. He was well aware that his circumstances could change quicker than King William’s moods. His position would always be precarious, and he could never be too careful. One of the reasons why, despite his trust in Leon, his second in command, he preferred not to be away from court for too long. Allegiances shifted, favorites fell, wheels turned full circle, and Henry did not intend to be one of the casualties.

  Mayhap I shouldn’t have come, Henry thought now, uneasily. There were stirrings at court and about England; some of the Anglo-Norman barons were intent upon securing more land than they deserved. It had been Henry’s job to keep an eye on these rumors and plots, and to put a stop to them if it became necessary. Leon would send word if matters became dire, he knew, and yet….

  But Jenova had asked for him, and because she was his friend, and he wanted to please her, he had come. Although, he thought grimly, if pleasing her meant allowing her to wed a weak fool like Alfric, then he might do better to displease her. Was that what she really wanted? A husband who would gaze at her as if he was witless and do exactly as she told him? Then Alfric was perfect for her.

  Besides, who was Henry to judge!

  He, himself, had never looked for more than a compliant mind and body when seeking a new mistress, and that could not be much different for a wife. Certainly the last thing he had ever wanted was for his heart to be engaged. Christina was pretty and amiable, and she cared no more for him than he cared for her. The perfect situation, surely? Why should Jenova be any different in her choices, and why should Henry want her to be?

  “Well?” Jenova demanded, when at last Alfric was gone and they were alone again. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and a strand of hair had come loose from her veil and lay against her temple. She looked like a young girl again, rather than a mature woman who had been wed and borne a son. Henry had an urge to reach out and brush the strand away; he squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself.

  Suddenly, touching Jenova did not seem like a good idea.

  “Well?” she asked again, impatient with him now. “What do you think of Alfric?”

  “What do I think of Alfric?” Henry pretended to ponder. “Does it matter what I think?”

  Jenova poked her finger into his arm. “Stop teasing me, Henry. I want to know your opinion of my future husband.”

  “Very well. I think that Alfric is smitten with you, Jenova, and as long as his love lasts, he will be easy enough to manage.” That was the truth as Henry saw it.

  Jenova, who
had begun to smile, froze. “‘As long as it lasts’?”

  “No love lasts forever, but some last longer than others. I don’t know whether the fact that he is jealous of me is a good sign, or a bad sign. Mayhap good.”

  “Jealous!” Jenova declared, green eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, Henry? Alfric has no reason to be jealous.”

  “Didn’t you see the way he looked at me when we met? He was jealous, Jenova. He thought you and I are…” Her eyes had narrowed even more, like a cat, and Henry bit his lip on the less than polite word he was about to use. “Let us just say, sweeting, that he believes we are far more than friends.”

  Jenova broke into a peal of laughter. “You cannot be serious! You and me, Henry! I will have to explain to Alfric that if there are two people in all of England least likely to be lovers, then ’tis you and me!”

  For some reason Henry did not feel amused.

  What was so amusing, anyway? What was wrong with him? Was he less of a man than Alfric? Henry felt the stirrings of a strange anger deep inside himself. He was a better man than that cow-eyed youth, and he knew it! Why did Jenova find the notion of him and her so laughable? It was enough to make him want to prove her mistaken.

  Henry inwardly shook his head at his own shortsightedness. Such a step would be both foolish and cruel. He was not a cruel man, and he was certainly not a fool. If Jenova had hurt his pride, then it had been unintentional. She was his friend. Surely having such a friend was far, far better than making her his lover for a short time, and then, inevitably, having nothing.

  But, just for an instant, a heavenly vision came to him. Of Jenova, her creamy skin uncovered and her brown hair loose about her lush body. Her green eyes, sleepy with desire, lifted to his and her arms held out toward him.

  Just for an instant, and then it was gone, and Henry could breathe again.

  Jenova was combing her hair. The long, heavy tresses fell over her back and shoulders, curling up at the ends, shorter strands tickling her face and neck. She often thought her hair dull, but the firelight brought out the many different colors to be found in it—gold and mahogany and red. They gleamed and meshed, making the dull glorious.

  She thought of Alfric and smiled. He might seem young, but he would mature with time and some careful tutoring from her. Henry was right. Although she had not liked to admit it, Alfric was uncomfortably jealous of other men. That, Jenova decided, was the fault of his youth, and of his overbearing father. With time his confidence would grow, and he would no longer be quite so insecure.

  He was not Mortred, she reminded herself. He did not have Mortred’s easy self-confidence. But then she did not want another Mortred. She had loved her husband, mourned him, and he had betrayed her. Men like Mortred, men like Henry, found it too easy to manipulate a woman’s gentle heart and willing body. She wanted no more of them.

  Jenova took a deep breath.

  Wasn’t that one of the reasons she was marrying Alfric? To take revenge upon Mortred’s memory? But that was her secret. Not even Henry must know the true extent of her hurt—he would not understand. Henry never allowed emotion to interfere with business, and what was marriage but a business contract?

  She drew her comb through her hair, remembering Henry’s face when she had laughed at the idea of him and her. She should not have laughed. It had been impolite of her. But the thought of them together had struck her as so bizarre that it was amusing. They were so totally unsuited, so unlikely a couple! For a moment there he had looked…hurt, before his good humor had reasserted itself. That was one of the wonderful things about Henry; he was so even tempered that very little upset him. He had been a sweet boy, and he had grown into an amiable man.

  Jenova knew she was lucky to have Henry as her friend. And so much better to be his friend than his lover. She had always felt a little sorry for his women, although they did not appear to resent the experience. There were always lots more of them willing to take the place of those who had gone before.

  Is he really such a good lover?

  The curious thought had hardly entered her mind when it was followed by an image of Henry. Golden skin and blazing violet-blue eyes, rising above her, his handsomeness all for her. She shook her head, uncomfortable with herself. No, no, not again, that would never do! Henry was her friend, one of her few friends, and she did not want to ruin such a fortunate relationship. Once, when they were hardly more than children, they had kissed one afternoon in a meadow, and it had been very sweet, but that was long ago. Such things were best forgotten.

  If she had really hurt his feelings by laughing at him, then she would make it up to him tomorrow. She would take him out riding! Although the Vale of Gunlinghorn and the surrounding hills were white with snow, the ride would be a bracing treat. Henry had always loved to ride around Gunlinghorn.

  Jenova was well aware that he would already be missing the court, with its verbal maze of rumor and gossip, the constant stimulation of his mind and his senses. Henry thrived upon such things; they were his life. It was important that while he was here, she keep him entertained with all the pursuits he enjoyed.

  Aye, tomorrow they would go riding.

  Just the two of them.

  The Gunlinghorn countryside was white, the fields covered in a crisp layer of snow, the water meadows and marshes half-frozen, while ice and snow hung heavy from the bare branches of the trees in the woods. Beyond the cliffs to the south, the sea was gray and sullen, while some brave gulls floated in a sky that was just as gray.

  Jenova had risen early, washing and dressing in her warmest gown and fur-lined boots, and hurried down to the hall. Henry, who was already risen, as she had known he would be, smiled at her over his mug of ale and morning meal of bread and cheese. Jenova hesitated as she reached him. That was odd. Why had she never noticed before how white and strong his teeth were? And how the little lines by his blue eyes creased up so attractively when he smiled?

  For a moment her thoughts were confused, and she found herself wondering what she had been about to say, but she quickly shook off her strangeness. It wasn’t as if she had never seen Henry before. And yet, just for a moment there, he had been like a stranger. A handsome, desirable stranger.

  “I thought we could go riding this morning, Henry,” Jenova said, a little breathlessly, striving for normality. “I have not been out for weeks, and although ’twill be cold, I believe the weather will hold for a few hours.”

  Henry’s smile broadened. “I would enjoy that very much, Jenova.” He hesitated. His smile remained but lost something of its ease. “Alfric will be coming?”

  Jenova shook her head. “No, not Alfric. We will go together, Henry, just you and me.”

  Henry nodded, and then hesitated, as if debating something, before launching into what sounded to her like a prepared speech. “I have been thinking about your marriage, Jenova. The king may not approve an alliance between you and Baldessare. Mayhap you should wait until he returns from Normandy and see what—”

  Jenova held up her hand. “No, Henry. Not today. We will speak of my marriage, but not this day. I intend to forget the Baldessares, all of them, and enjoy myself. Please,” she added.

  Henry paused. It was true, he had been mulling over her marriage during the night, and the more he mulled, the less happy he became at the idea of his Jenova aligning herself with that family. And perhaps more importantly, the less happy he believed King William would be. But she was right, such things could keep until later.

  “Of course,” he said genially and rose to his feet. “Let us ride together.”

  “Mama, Mama, can I come?”

  The boy running toward them had hair that curled wildly about his head and neck and was the same color as Jenova’s. He came to a halt against her skirts, buffeting her, but she laughed and hugged him to her. What is his name? thought Henry. What was Jenova’s son’s name?

  “Raf, you grow stronger every day,” Jenova pretended to scold, solving the problem for him.

  Raf
gave her a broad grin and then turned his gaze on Henry. There was a slightly wary look in his eyes now, as if he was well aware that Henry did not willingly seek the company of children. Henry had a suspicion that Jenova herself may have told her son not to bother their guest, and he was grateful.

  “Good morning, Raf,” he said in a falsely jovial voice.

  The boy bowed carefully. “Lord Henry, I pray you are well in mind and body.”

  Henry’s lips twitched despite himself, while Jenova bent and murmured something in the boy’s ear. For a moment Raf looked mulish, but then with a resigned sigh he nodded. A plump young woman waited anxiously farther down the hall, clearly waiting to ferry him away. He turned and, slightly dragging his feet, returned the way he had come, but not before he cast another glance at Henry. This time the look in the boy’s eyes was pleading, and Henry had an uncharacteristic urge to call him back, to say that of course he could go with them. He stifled it. Boys like Raf reminded him too much of his own young and innocent self.

  He supposed he had been that innocent, once. Or nearly so. Life had sometimes been difficult, and he had been much alone, but he had been brave and strong and determined to make the most of his opportunities. How was he to know he would fall in with such evil creatures?

  Jenova’s warm fingers brushed against his, startling him from his reverie. “Come then,” she said gently, almost as if she had read his mind. “Let us go while the weather holds.”

  The horses had not been exercised for some time, and they were as eager as Henry and Jenova to be out in the brisk morning air. For a while they simply rode, Reynard and the troop of men-at-arms spread out behind them. When they reached the top of Gunlinghorn Hill, they stopped, breathless, and gazed at the view before them. On such a crisp and cold day, it was possible to see for many miles. Henry looked with satisfaction upon the rich Vale of Gunlinghorn, with its wide river and meadows and, overlooking it all, the stark bulk of the protecting castle. This may not be London, but, to Henry’s mind, it was the next best thing. If he had to live in the country, if he was ever forced to become a live-in landlord, then he would choose Gunlinghorn.