Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  Then he remembered. Soon Alfric, with his brown, melancholy eyes, might be master here, and Henry would no longer feel welcome. The idea of that sulky boy at Gunlinghorn was suddenly so repugnant to Henry that he determined that if the marriage went ahead, he would never visit again.

  With that realization came another. Henry had never understood just how much he would miss Gunlinghorn.

  And Jenova.

  He glanced at her, wondering if she was thinking the same thing, if she realized this might be one of their last days together. But Jenova was smiling as she gazed over her domain, her thoughts clearly very distant from his own. Jenova caught his eye, and there was a wildness in hers that he remembered from when they were children. “Let’s ride to the sea,” she cried and, with a laugh, kicked her horse into a gallop. She flew down the hillside, and into the woods, the hood of her fur-lined cloak falling back from her hair. She didn’t look back, she just expected him to follow her. And so he would; so he always did. With a laugh of his own, Henry set off in hot pursuit.

  They spent the next few hours simply enjoying themselves, in a manner they had not done for years. They reached the sea at Gunlinghorn Harbor, the village that straddled the mouth of the river where it spewed into the sea. Jenova received revenue from the trading boats that came and went from her harbor, and because it was a relatively safe, though small, anchorage along an often dangerous coastline, she was never short of vessels putting in. Dwellings and hostelries had grown up around the timber wharf, catering to the seamen, merchants and traders, with their packhorses, who came to carry the goods to market elsewhere.

  “My lord.” Reynard nodded toward one particular building, where a sign painted with the image of a black dog was propped against the wall. “My father’s sister lives here. Her name is Matilda. Have I your permission to visit her? If you wish”—he glanced at Jenova—“she will serve us with food and ale. I have heard this inn is well known for its good service.”

  Henry raised a brow. “I did not know you had blood relations here, Reynard.”

  “My father was a builder of boats, my lord, and lived here for a time under the reign of the English king Edward, called the Confessor. My father’s sister married and stayed after he returned to Normandy.”

  “Thank you, Reynard,” Jenova said. “I would be glad to partake of your aunt’s hospitality. I know Matilda, and you are right, this inn has a fine reputation.”

  Reynard’s aunt Matilda was a small, plump woman with wiry dark hair, and when she hugged Reynard, her head only came to his armpits. She fed them well, and Jenova sat by the fire, warming herself, and enjoying the informality. ’Twas not often she allowed herself a day away from the endless tasks that befell her at Gunlinghorn. She glanced across at Henry and found him watching her in an oddly intent manner, his eyes half closed. Almost at once he smiled, sharing the moment.

  “It is long since we sat together like this,” he said. “As I recall, your mother would never let you sit idle for long. You had to learn to be a great lady.”

  “And you a brave knight,” she retorted.

  “She did not like me,” Henry said matter-of-factly. “She was afraid you would grow too fond of me.”

  “All the girls were in love with you, Henry. ’Twas the fault of your handsome face.”

  She was teasing him, and he laughed, but there was something at the back of his eyes. Something she did not recognize.

  “But you did not, did you?” he said at last. “Fall in love with me, I mean. You made me run errands for you, and fetch and carry. And I was only too willing to do so.”

  “You could have told me nay, Henry.”

  He smiled at her again, and his smile made her feel hot. “I’d never tell you nay, sweeting, you know that. I am yours, body and soul, to do with as you please.”

  The picture he made for her was not at all calming. Suddenly she was too close to the fire, or she had eaten far too many of Matilda’s pastries. She felt uncomfortable and a little feverish. She wanted to wriggle on her bench and fan herself with her hand.

  Jenova found herself looking at him, really looking at him. His violet-blue eyes, his wide mouth, his masculine throat, his broad chest and narrow hips and his strong legs, stretched out before him. His hands, long-fingered and scarred, resting elegantly upon his lap. And she found herself wondering what it would feel like to have those hands on her bare skin.

  Luckily, before the rogue thought could progress any further, their cozy interlude was interrupted.

  “My lady?” One of the men-at-arms was standing before her, a note of urgency in his voice. “A boat has run aground on a sandbar inside the river mouth. They are asking for help to pull her off.”

  “What boat is this?” Henry asked with interest.

  “From Bruges, my lord. They say they are carrying wine and oil and some bolts of cloth. We can attach ropes from the shore and pull her free. The tide is on the turn, so that will make things easier. Have we your permission to help?”

  Henry opened his mouth and then stopped and looked at Jenova. She could see the quick remembrance in his eyes. This was her harbor, her village, her river. The decision was hers. His consideration pleased her—not many men would have remembered that it was not their place to give orders, and if they had, not many men would have cared.

  “Of course you must help,” she said briskly. “Use all the men-at-arms and as many of the villagers as you can find.”

  The soldier left, and Henry rose to his feet, stretching, and held out his hand to Jenova. “Come, we had best take a look at this boat from Bruges.”

  Outside the air was cold, and the wind tossed their cloaks and made Jenova catch her breath. A craft lay stranded upon a narrow sandbar, tipped to one side and being washed about by the incoming tide. The boat was rather squat, with a combination of deck and tarpaulin to keep her cargo safe and dry. Several crew members were busy tossing ropes to the men upon the shore, while Reynard pointed and shouted and generally took charge.

  “I doubt we are needed here,” Henry said, glancing at Jenova’s huddled form. “Are you cold?”

  Jenova nodded her head. “I am, but ’tis not that. I have much to do. I think ’tis time for me to return to the castle, Henry. I can ride alone; I have done it before. ’Tis perfectly safe. Mortred long ago rid our lands of any brigands.”

  “I will come with you. Reynard can manage here.”

  The swell of pleasure she felt at his offer seemed excessive, and Jenova forced her voice into more moderate tones. What was happening to her? She had been alone with Henry before, many times. This agitation was new.

  Jenova glanced at the sky. There were dark clouds edging it to the north, but they seemed far away. She considered the danger and dismissed it in her eagerness to ride with Henry.

  “Very well. We can ride east, along the cliffs. You will like that, Henry. It is a wild and dangerous place.”

  “Then we will enjoy them together,” Henry said with a smile that made his eyes bluer than ever. “We will be wild and dangerous together, Jenova.”

  And why, Jenova thought, as Henry helped her onto her mount, did that sound like a threat?

  Or a promise.

  Chapter 3

  The cliffs were dizzyingly high, and below them the gray sea prowled and snarled. Henry and Jenova set their horses at a gallop over the tufts of grass, startling the birds and a few egg-gathering villagers. The wild setting reminded Henry of Jenova’s family home, in Normandy, where the same sea also crashed against cliffs. Perhaps, thought Henry, that was why she loved Gunlinghorn, and perhaps that was why she was so content with her life here.

  Although not completely content, he reminded himself as he paused to catch his breath. Not if she wished to remarry. Mortred’s image shimmered in his mind, half forgotten, dark-haired and light-eyed, his face scarred from smallpox. In character, Mortred had been a little like Henry, confident and clever and brash. But his passage through life had been far easier; he had grown up under
King William’s shadow and protection and had not had to battle against Henry’s odds.

  Jenova’s mother had wanted her daughter to marry Mortred when she was still very young, but Jenova would not have him. Mortred had married elsewhere, but the woman had died without any children to show for their union. So Mortred had cast his eye about again, and this time Jenova had decided to be more amenable. She had fallen in love with him, and so she married him. Henry had had no doubts at the time that Mortred loved her, too. He had even believed that Mortred would be faithful to her—or mayhap he’d just hoped so.

  But of course he hadn’t been.

  During their marriage there had been other women, lots of them, but at least Mortred had kept the knowledge of them from his wife. How could she, safe at Gunlinghorn, have known what her husband had gotten up to elsewhere? There had been times when Mortred’s careless behavior had angered Henry, and he had struggled hard to hide the facts from Jenova. It had been she he’d thought of every time he’d lied or tidied away Mortred’s mess. Not Mortred.

  And would you have behaved any differently? the voice in his head mocked him. If you had been wed to Jenova, would you have been true to her and only her?

  Possibly not. Probably not, he corrected himself. But then he would never have allowed himself to be placed into a position where he could hurt her, would he?

  A gull soared above him, screeching, and then diving, sending his thoughts tumbling along with it. The sea air blew cold against his face, stinging his eyes, tugging at his clothing, and yet he felt very much alive. And carefree. Here at Gunlinghorn there was nothing to do, no one to see, no rumors to track down or unravel, no plots to untangle, no assassins to fear. It had been a long time since Henry had felt so unfettered by worldly cares.

  He was not sure he trusted it.

  Jenova was also deep in her own thoughts, though hers were more prosaic. In her head, she was counting up the carefully packed barrels of salted meat in her storerooms, and wondering if they would last through until the spring. She did not doubt they would, not really, for she was a careful housekeeper. But winter was a season for taking stock of what they had, and what would be needed for Gunlinghorn in the year ahead. Jenova had a great many souls dependent upon her good management, and she did not mean to fail them.

  Mortred had never understood that, or perhaps he just had not cared as much as she. He was like Henry, preferring the life and liveliness of court and the king’s company and, she had discovered, the easy women to be found there. Domestic bliss was not for Mortred, it seemed, and yet she had been too besotted and trusting to see it. Never again. She would never place herself in such a position again.

  The wheeling gull caused her to look up, too. And as she did, a snowflake fluttered down and melted upon her cheek. They had ridden far today, almost to the farthest edge of her lands, and suddenly she realized that the weather was closing in. The threateningly dark clouds she had seen earlier were almost upon them. Already a thick mist hung low over the hills to the north, lapping at the forest that lay between them and the safety of the Vale of Gunlinghorn. Soon the storm would be surging in to cover them all. She had been so lost in dreams that she had failed to notice the approaching danger.

  “We must go home,” she said sharply and glanced over her shoulder at Henry. “There is snow coming, and lots of it.”

  Henry too was frowning at the heavy clouds. Snow was beginning to fall more quickly now. “Hurry then,” he replied and met her eyes. “Lead the way, Jenova, and I will follow.”

  She gave a brief nod and, without another word, headed into the forest.

  The air grew swiftly colder, and as hard as they rode, they could not outrun the snow. Thick, blinding snow. Jenova felt her body growing chilled, her feet turning to ice, and feared that soon they would be unable to continue. That was when she saw the old tree, the gnarled and twisted oak, rising tall above its younger brethren. And she realized she was much closer to Uther’s Tower than she had been aware.

  Uther’s Tower was a place used mainly in the warmer months by the woodsmen who cared for the Gunlinghorn forests. However, there were times when her people used it for shelter in the winter, so it was kept in good order all year round. They would be safe there, and surely it made sense to wait out this storm in relative comfort.

  She felt a tingle of doubt. As if she was about to make a decision that would have far-reaching consequences….

  “Jenova?” Henry was behind her, his face grim and white with cold, his eyes narrowed against the weather. “We cannot stop here,” he shouted. “We must find shelter!”

  Henry was depending upon her, Jenova reminded herself. He trusted her to get them to safety. He was following her, just as he had promised to do. She owed it to him not to fail.

  “There is shelter. There!” she called back, and pointed through the stark trees. Henry nodded to show he had heard, and urged his tired horse after her, ducking his head beneath the bare branches, once again letting her lead the way.

  Uther’s Tower rose stark before them. A squat tower gave the building its name, and attached was a solid cottage structure, made of a mixture of timber and stone. It looked as if it had simply sprung up from the ground. There was already a thick coating of new snow upon the jagged roofline, and more piled up in front of the low door.

  Henry dismounted, quickly using both his hands to clear enough of the snow out of the doorway so that they could open the door and enter. He looked back at her. “Come on!” he said, with a frown. “You’ll freeze to death.”

  He was right, she knew it. And yet she had a sense of risking all, of burning her bridges, of stepping into the unknown….

  Jenova followed him inside.

  It was hushed out of the storm. For a moment Jenova blinked, seeing only darkness, and then slowly her sight grew accustomed to the gloomy interior of the building. There was but a single room, with an earthen floor and some clean straw tossed into a heap against one wall. Wood had been piled neatly, and while Henry stabled their horses in the lean-to at the back of the tower, Jenova began to make a fire.

  Her hands were frozen now, as well as her feet, and when the wood finally caught with a lick of flame, she sank down beside it with a grateful whimper. By the time Henry returned, his cloak heavy with snow, the wood was well ablaze and giving off some heat.

  “I did not pay enough heed to the weather,” she confessed, giving him an apologetic look as he fastened the door. “I saw the storm approaching, but I was enjoying myself too much, and I thought we had time—”

  He untied the laces of his cloak and swung it off, laying it over the woodpile to dry. “So was I. Enjoying myself, I mean.” Henry came and stood by the fire, looking across the flames at her. He seemed to be searching her face, reading her thoughts, and then he gave a wicked smile. “We were the same when we were children, remember? Riding out together and forgetting ourselves. Your mother was always scolding. We are equally at fault, Jenova, but we are safe here now. And in such luxurious lodgings. What is this place?”

  “Uther’s Tower. We don’t really know who Uther was, but legend says he was a long-ago king of this part of England. I think he was a Briton, holding his lands against the Romans. He built this tower as a warning to them not to come any farther. One of the stories tells of his love for the wife of a captain of a Roman Legion. This may even have been where the lovers met.”

  Henry raised his brows. “’Tis not very romantic.”

  “Aye, it is,” she retorted, refusing to be annoyed with his skepticism.

  “I could think of better places to meet,” he went on, glancing about. “There isn’t even a comfortable bed.”

  Jenova shook her head at him in disgust. “They were in love, Henry. ’Tis a state of mind.”

  “Like lunacy?”

  She tried to smile, but suddenly she was just too cold. Even though the fire was now crackling pleasantly, she couldn’t seem to get warm. There wasn’t enough heat to counteract the intense cold th
at had already entered her body and was still seeping into the building from the snowstorm raging outside.

  With a frown, Henry moved to kneel by her side. “Are your feet cold?”

  “I cannot feel them at all.” Despite her furs, Jenova shook and shivered.

  “Here, then.” He reached to take her boots in his hand, swiftly removing them and arranging them by the fire to dry. Her stockinged feet were very cold, and his hands were so warm…. They felt wonderful. He set about rubbing each of them to warmth, toes, heel and instep. Next he set to work on her hands, pink with cold beneath her gloves.

  His face was creased with concentration as he performed his task, and his touch was impersonal and thorough, yet gentle. He was doing what needed to be done, but Jenova did not feel like an object, far from it. She felt cherished; there was something very agreeable in his touch, something very comforting, almost sensuous…. Jenova was aware of her whole body relaxing, growing languid with the pleasure of Henry ministering to her.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said softly. “You are very good to me.”

  Henry looked up at her, the firelight dancing in his blue eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he mocked. “We are old friends, are we not?”

  He looked very appealing. And very handsome. Why, thought Jenova in surprise, he is like a stranger! If she had not remembered this was the man she had known forever, her childhood companion, she would have been as foolishly attracted to him as any other woman. Jesu, she was attracted to him….

  A warm trickle of an unfamiliar sensation ran through her cold body, a stirring she had not felt for a long time. Jenova shivered.

  “Are you still cold?” Henry demanded, a crease of worry between his brows. He reached again to clasp her hands, his fingers strong and sure. There was a crooked white scar on the back of one of them, and suddenly she thought; I do not know how he came by that scar. And at the same time she realized that there were many things she did not know about Henry. In her arrogance she had believed she knew everything there was to know about him. The truth was, she didn’t. She couldn’t. And mayhap it was not safe to do so.