by Sara Bennett
Henry had thought he could do it; he had been determined to do it. He was a man to whom kings came to have their problems solved! Nothing, no puzzle, was beyond him. Except now he realized something new and very worrying; something that had never happened to him with a woman before.
He could not put the thought of Jenova out of his mind. He did not want to. She sat there in her russet gown with the forest green sleeves, the color a perfect match for her eyes, and he knew in his heart that to put her out of his mind was as impossible as stopping breathing. He wanted her again. He wanted her as many times as he could have her, and there was an utter recklessness in the thought that was completely foreign to cautious Henry’s nature.
Jesu, how he wanted her!
If possible, his body went harder. He couldn’t have stood up, despite the covering of his tunic, or everyone would have noticed his predicament. Henry looked about him at the great hall and the merriment of the castlefolk, and instead saw Uther’s Tower. The deep shadows and the snow outside and the flicker of firelight on Jenova’s creamy skin. Her little sighs and soft moans, and the way she’d drawn his body against hers and opened herself to him. The tremors inside her as she had pleaded with him not to stop….
Henry took a ragged breath. Enough. Surely he had more self-control than this, and he had promised. He had promised….
Jenova was laughing. He found himself watching her avidly as she pointed to the juggler, saying something to Raf with a gentle smile. In addition to the juggler, there were acrobats and singers and a tiny man who pretended to fall over. He fell over a great deal. Jenova found it all very amusing, and her melodious laughter rang through the hall this night, bringing smiles to the faces of all those around her.
Henry didn’t watch the entertainers. He watched her. His gaze brushed the flush in her cheeks, the smooth, high line of her brow, the stubborn tilt of her chin. The manner in which the russet cloth clung to her breasts, outlining their round, firm shape until he swore he could feel their softness filling his palms.
Henry only just managed to stop himself from groaning aloud.
This was ridiculous! He was behaving like a boy in his first passion, a lovesick knave with all his thoughts centered between his legs. How was it he could want her so badly? He had had her once, and usually, for him, once was enough. Once proved he had conquered her; he had won her, she was his. It proved he was no longer that snivelling boy, abandoned by his lady mother, good enough only to be passed from relative to relative and used by them when it suited. It proved he was an attractive and powerful man who needed no one.
Then why was this occasion so different? Why did it feel so different?
He had never wanted the intimacy of one woman. As a child, Henry had rarely had that intimacy, and he had certainly never experienced the close confines of such a life with his own family. His father had died fighting with other Crusaders, and his mother had shortly afterward deserted him for God. When she had left him for her monastery, Henry had sworn never to give one woman such power over him again.
And now that he had made his life just the way he wanted it, he had no intention of handing over, to another proud and selfish lady, the ability to hurt him.
No, that wasn’t right, he thought. Jenova was not proud and selfish. She was his friend. Once he had felt relaxed in her company because he had had no need to prove himself with her. Had that changed now? Had Jenova joined the ranks of all those other women he had seduced over the years? But no, Jenova was still different. She was still his friend, despite the fact that she had become his lover. His friend and his lover.
The idea terrified him.
And yet even that did not stop Henry’s wanting her. With a torturous, aching want that seeped into the deepest parts of his body and soul. Aye, he wanted her, and until he had had her again, Henry doubted he would get any peace at all.
Jenova clapped her hands, caught up in the antics of the entertainers. She turned and smiled at Henry, looking to share her innocent enjoyment, forgetting for a moment their newfound wariness of each other. Whatever she saw in his face caused her eyes to widen, and slowly the laughter drained from her face. Her hand crept to her throat, as if she were suddenly struggling for air, and her long lashes fluttered over her green eyes. She turned away, but not before Henry saw the tremor in her fingers and the way her teeth tugged at her full bottom lip.
Then Henry knew that, just like him, she was remembering making love in Uther’s Tower. And, like him, she was torn between the urge to run and the longing to do it again.
Jenova was wishing it had never happened. Or at least, she was wishing she could wish it had never happened. She had sworn to herself that she would put the matter from her mind, set it aside like a spent barrel of wine. She had believed she was managing so well, playing her part so well.
Until now.
When the little tumbler fell down, she had glanced to Henry to share the joke, and instead she’d found him watching her with an expression she could not mistake. Desire had been in the tense line of his jaw, in the burning blue of his eyes. Desire and lust. She knew it—read the signs. Because she felt it, too. And now her body was heating up.
She knew why she could not pretend.
Because she didn’t want to forget what they had done in Uther’s Tower. She wanted to think on it, linger on it, close her eyes and squirm with pleasure at the thought of those hot, blissful moments they had spent together. She wanted to dwell on each and every glorious detail.
I have been too long without a man, Jenova’s practical voice informed her. That is all. It has naught to do with Henry; he was simply in the right place at the right time. Any man would have done. I could have been trapped with…with Alfric and the same thing would have happened!
It was clear she needed to set matters in motion for her wedding as soon as possible, then she could escape this fix. Mayhap Alfric could take pity on her and wed her immediately. Surely if she let him know it was urgent, he would set aside his father’s absurd demands and do away with the formalities.
Jenova had to bow her head, hiding her smile as she considered herself upon her mare, riding madly through the snow to Alfric’s door, demanding he wed her without delay, crying, “For who knows what man I shall bed with next if you do not!”
Her smile faded, and her eyes grew bleak. It was all nonsense. She did not want Alfric, or just any man, to bed her. It was not Alfric who had made her body sing. It was Henry, and there was not another man in the whole of England who could take his place. Something had happened between them; it was as if a spark had been lit that could not now be extinguished. And Jenova, widow and mother and lady to the manor of Gunlinghorn, did not have a clue what to do about it.
“Mama, look!” Her son was pointing and laughing at the jugglers, and gratefully Jenova allowed him to distract her. Raf was a good boy, a fine boy, and she had great hopes for him. As a babe he had been sickly, but he had fought, and she had fought with him, and he had survived. Now she recognized that his thin, wiry frame belied his strength. Raf might look as if he were fragile, but in reality he was tough, he was a survivor. He was her son, and he would make the best of whatever fate threw at him.
Earlier, she had seen Raf seek out Henry. Henry, as she well knew, did not care for children; Henry could be a vain and selfish man in many ways. That did not detract from his abilities as a soldier and a loyal subject of the king and a basically good man—oh, yes, he could be charming. Jenova had felt the tug of his attraction more than once in the past, but she had laughed and marveled and shrugged it off. Henry the lover was not for her. She had much preferred Henry the friend. And she had come to depend upon his unencumbered affection, knowing that if she ever needed him, he would come to her.
Well, so he had, but how could she have known that this time it would all be so different?
Jenova lifted her head and allowed her gaze to settle once more upon the object of her confusion. Her heart gave a great thud, a terrible mixture of fear a
nd joy. He was watching her, too. Not slyly, not with the hope that she wouldn’t notice. No, not Henry. He had turned fully in her direction, his hair a dark halo in the candlelight, and his blue gaze was fixed deliberately upon her. Assessing, lingering, seducing—eating her up with his eyes. Jesu, had he decided not to honor their vow after all? Because it looked very much to Jenova as if he wanted more of her and was letting her know it.
Jenova gasped, and color warmed her cheeks. Like a simpering maid, she thought in disgust, but still she could not stop the blush. Aye, he was devouring her with his eyes, and she, who knew him so well, could not mistake the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. There was fire in the blue, a blaze of passion and remembrance and longing.
Jenova turned away jerkily, lifting a hand to shield her face. One of her ladies, Agetha, asked her what was wrong, but Jenova smiled and said she was tired. She did not dare turn to Henry again. She did not trust herself. She, who had always been so sure and practical, who had always done what was right, could not trust herself to behave in a manner appropriate to the Lady of Gunlinghorn.
“Appropriate” never stopped Mortred, did it?
The thought made her stiffen. Mortred had lied to her, treated their marriage—and their love—with contempt. Mayhap it was time for Jenova to do the same? She had meant to marry Alfric, but wasn’t that just more of the same “appropriate” behavior? Jenova, Mortred had said to her once, you are always so predictable. Now Jenova wondered if there wasn’t another, more reckless, manner in which to take her revenge and at the same time indulge herself in this new and unexpected passion.
Like a lightning flash in the darkness, she knew that making that vow of abstinence with Henry had been a mistake. In denying them both, she had only made it more difficult to forget. Mayhap, she thought feverishly, if she were to wallow in her madness, saturate herself in this newfound passion, then she could revenge herself upon her dead husband and wear out her folly at the same time? The end result would be the same, but the getting there would be so, so much more enjoyable….
“My lady?” It was Agetha again, her slightly protruding blue eyes watchful, disapproving. “You seem distracted.”
“’Tis nothing, Agetha. I was puzzling over a problem, but now I have made a decision on it. I have chosen my path.”
Agetha fingered the jewel at her throat and looked as if she would like to ask more, but Jenova turned to call one of the servants to refill the wine jugs. She did not want to talk about what that decision was to anyone; it was no one’s business but her own.
And Henry’s.
Henry lay awake in the darkness. He could not sleep. And although the reason he could not sleep lay in a chamber below, he could not seek her out. He was a guest in Jenova’s castle; he could not destroy her trust in him by coming to her bed like a rutting boar. He should not have looked at her like that at the table. She might have been ignoring him, but that was no excuse to give her such a blatantly sensual stare.
He had wanted to shatter her pretended calm. Force her to remember what he could not forget.
For a moment there, he had almost believed he’d seen reciprocation deep in her moss green eyes—a flicker of need as hot as his own. And then it had been gone and he’d been left doubting his own senses. Well, that was a first! Henry the great seducer, the conqueror of women, the master lover! Henry, who always boasted he could have any woman he wanted! Except that the woman he wanted this time was the one woman he could not have. Whom he had sworn not to touch again, ever.
Henry groaned and turned over in his bed, restless and uncomfortable. Just thinking about Jenova aroused him, and knowing he couldn’t have her was only increasing his longing. He could send Reynard for a whore, but he did not want a bought woman; for the first time in his memory he would rather suffer unfulfilled passion than be comfortable.
The sound of the door opening was slight, but in a moment Henry had bent and snatched up his sword, within easy reach beside the bed, and thrown back the covers. He rose up, entirely naked, feet apart, ready for any intruder.
Candlelight wavered through the narrow opening the door made, and with it came an ethereal figure. Long, brown tresses hung to her hips, the silken strands catching the light in a myriad of colors. A sheer shawl, wrapped loosely about her form, was more an enticement than a covering. Henry could see the shadow of her body through it, and, as she stepped softly into his room and half turned to close the door, he realized he could see more than just a shadow. His eyes feasted on the delicious curve of her waist, the warm pink of her nipples, and the rich brown curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Jenova?” His whisper sounded harsh. “Why have you come?”
“Why do you think, Henry?”
“I hope to God you do not expect me to be strong and send you back to your room, because I can’t do it. I do not have that much strength.”
She drifted closer, the candle flame spluttering, and he became aware of her womanly scent. Instantly his body went rigid, his head spun, his mouth went dry. “Jenova…” he groaned. “Please.”
“I do not want you to be strong,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she had no idea what she was doing to him, how dangerously close he was to grabbing her and throwing her upon the bed. “You have started a fire in me. I thought I could deny it, but…” She took a trembling breath. “I see now it will not be easily put out, and I see now that to deny these feelings would be foolish as well as cruel. We should allow them free rein, indulge ourselves. Only then will we be rid of the fire, only then can we go back to being as we were.”
What she said made sense, but Henry suspected some other matter lurked behind her green eyes, something she wasn’t telling him. He tried to think clearly, but he was dizzy with the knowledge that Jenova was giving him leave to sate himself upon her body. Quickly, before she changed her mind, he held out his arms to her. She smiled and blew out the candle, and then she was moving into his embrace, soft and warm and perfect. Jenova was his, and this time Henry did not mean to make any foolish vows denying himself the pleasure of her.
Chapter 6
No turning back now, Jenova thought. Even had she wanted to, she doubted Henry would let her. His erection butted against her belly, urgent, eager, and she reached down to stroke him. With a soft moan, Jenova raised her mouth to his, and he plundered it, kissing her with wild passion. Sucking on her lips and her tongue, his hands tangling in her long hair.
It wasn’t enough, she thought feverishly. She wanted more, and more, and more….
How can Henry, my familiar Henry, stir such wild wantonness in me?
Even after her decision in the great hall, Jenova had lain in her bed, fighting the need to go to him. Wait until the morning, the voice in her head had ordered her, that proper Lady of Gunlinghorn voice. Tell him of your decision in the morning…if you must!
But somewhere between the tossing and turning, between pacing her floor and wrestling with her feelings, she had come to the conclusion that there was no need to wait. What had happened between them in Uther’s Tower had changed her, and she no longer had the willpower to resist. She wanted him now, she needed him now, and for once in her life she would live for the moment.
Henry’s hands slid down her back, cupping her curves through the thin shawl, holding her hips against his, lifting her a little so that his manhood could slide between her thighs and rest against her. She moved against him, pleasure spiraling through her at the friction this caused.
With a groan, he eased back, trying to slow their passion. He brought his hands up to cup her breasts, gently molding the soft flesh into his palms. Jenova arched into his touch, gasping when his thumbs brushed across her sensitive nipples, her hands twining in his hair and drawing him closer. Henry paused, resting his scratchy cheek against her breasts, his breath a warm, reverent murmur against her skin.
“You are so beautiful. Why did I never realize you are so beautiful?”
His words surprised her. “You are very hand
some,” she said at last, “but I always noticed that.”
He laughed a little harshly and rubbed his cheek against her, abrading her soft breast as if to punish her. “But you were never overwhelmed by it,” he replied with a hint of mockery. “Were you, sweeting?”
“If you mean did I ever feel like swooning at your feet, then nay, Henry, I did not. I am not the swooning type.”
“Not even when I do this?” he teased, and in the darkness his blue eyes fixed on hers as he eased slightly away from her body. And then she felt his fingers, his clever fingers, caressing her, sliding down over the swell of her belly to the downy curls, slipping through them to find the warm opening between her thighs.
“Not even then,” Jenova managed, but her voice had grown husky and less certain.
He smiled, his fingers moving, stroking. “You are very hot, lady,” he whispered softly. “You are right, there is a fire in you that has been lit. I fear…I fear it will take a strong and lusty man to put it out.”
“And that is you?” Jenova retorted, but already her head was spinning, her legs trembling so badly that she did not know how much longer they would hold her. He bent to nuzzle against her neck, nipping her flesh with his teeth, not hard enough to hurt but enough to send tingles of excitement skipping across her skin. She rested her hands about his hips, her fingers moving against the firm, hard flesh that covered him, finding the curve of his buttocks. A soldier’s body. He may dress as a smiling courtier, he may pretend to be a gentleman, but in essence Henry was a warrior.
“Ah, here ’tis, the heart of the fire,” he was saying in that rough-tender voice. He cupped her, his forefinger slipping inside while his thumb brushed against the aching nub. She moved against his hand, her breath sighing between her lips, turning to a gasp when he bent his head to take her nipple in his mouth.
“Henry,” she managed, reaching to clasp his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him closer. His mouth was a torment, but it was a torment Jenova knew she could not do without, and she pulled him closer still.