Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  “Come, lady, and lie down upon my bed. There is much, much more.” He was easing her back onto the bed, using his strength, kneeling over her. Her shawl fell open, and her skin glowed like pearl.

  Should I be letting him do this? Jenova asked herself feverishly. Should I be allowing him to enslave me like this? But he was already rearing over her, his hands sliding up her thighs and curling over them, to open them to his perusal.

  And then he leaned forward and took her in his mouth, and Jenova lost all awareness of herself as her senses mastered her entirely. All she yearned for now was to find release from this aching pleasure. His tongue flicked against her, and she arched up like a bow, gasping and crying out, beyond caring who heard her. And then, before she could begin to gather and put back together the scattered pieces that were Jenova, he entered her with one deep thrust, his mouth and hands scattering her once more.

  Jenova found herself climbing that pleasure staircase again, moving with him, driving all doubts before them. There was nothing but the awareness of his skin, his body, his mouth. There was something magic in him, something pagan, that spoke to a part of her she had not known was there. She was simply a woman named Jenova.

  And Henry took her to a place she had never known existed.

  When at last she lay quiet in his arms, she tried to make sense of it. “I think,” she said, “that because I have never found pleasure like this before, now I cannot stop. Oh, I have had my joys and my sorrows, ’tis true, but not pleasure like this, Henry. Not even with Mortred. You have secrets that no other man knows. You can cast spells. That is why I cannot resist you.”

  Henry laughed softly, his body hot as a furnace against hers. “If that is what you want to believe, sweet Jenova, then so ’tis. I am a sorcerer.”

  He began to kiss her again, rolling her over so that he was atop her. The length of his manhood slid between her thighs, and although she was a little sore from him now, she didn’t care. She wanted him again, just as he wanted her.

  “Nay, I have no secrets, Jenova,” he whispered his confession against her lips. “I can cast no spells. The magic you feel comes from you and me, together.”

  “Then it will wear itself out?” Was that disappointment in her voice? She was not a child, she should not fear the truth. And Jenova knew in her heart that he was far more experienced in these matters than she.

  “Of course it will wear itself out, Jenova. ’Tis a short-lived thing, the fire of new passion. Soon, it will cool and we will tire of each other.”

  Grief assailed her, but she swallowed it down. “Then we must enjoy every moment?”

  “Aye, Jenova, for as long as it lasts.”

  His mouth covered hers, gently at first, and then with a rising desire. As if he wanted to devour her. Jenova was more than willing to be devoured. His palms cupped her bottom and drew her up, teasing her, entering her only slightly. It was Jenova who thrust upwards, impaling herself fully upon him, making them both groan, and starting the dance all over again.

  Morning broke. He had slept without one of his nightmares, and that was always a good thing. The pale light crept through the slits in the shutters, making bars on Henry’s bed and on Henry himself. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, thinking it was this that had awoken him. Until he felt the touch of a small, warm hand burrowing into his and tugging. Who would dare to wake him, after a night of such wild passion? He was wrung out; he wanted to sleep. But the tugging wouldn’t stop, and at last, blearily, he opened one eye, glaring at the owner of the offending hand.

  A small boy stood by the bed, his green eyes bright with excitement and his mouth set in a familiar line of stubborn determination—he had seen Jenova’s mouth look just so.

  “Lord Henry,” he said in an overloud whisper. “You told me to wake you so that you could see me on my pony.”

  Had he done such a ridiculous thing? Surely not? Henry closed his eyes. There was a vague memory, but that had been before Jenova had come to his room like a siren, and left him exhausted, washed up like a shipwrecked sailor upon his bed. The remembrance brought a smile to his lips, and the boy mistakenly took encouragement from it, tugging harder.

  “Lord Henry,” he insisted, “come on! You promised!”

  With a deep sigh, Henry opened one eye and then the other. He was certain he hadn’t promised, but mayhap he had given that impression. At any rate it was clear he was not going to get any peace until he did what this small, persistent creature wanted. Reluctantly, he rose from his bed and reached for his clothing.

  It was early, very early. There were few of the castlefolk about as Henry and Raf descended into the great hall. Outside in the bailey, the air was brisk, stinging color into the boy’s pale cheeks, and making Henry’s eyes water. He asked himself again why he was allowing this boy to urge him along on a mission he had no desire to undertake, when he’d much rather be back in his warm bed. Thinking of Jenova.

  A farrier leading a horse nodded respectfully at Henry, then glanced down at Raf, his old, lined face folding into a doting look. A couple of serving maids, their arms full of laundry, giggled and ducked curtseys at Henry but cooed at Raf. Henry smiled despite his bad humor—clearly Raf was a favorite at Gunlinghorn, a good sign for a future lord of the manor. With a long-suffering sigh, he let himself be tugged along into the musty stables.

  They passed the stalls of numerous horses, and Raf named them all, informing Henry of who was most likely to ride each beast and how often. His knowledge seemed a little extreme for so young a boy, but Henry let it pass. He, too, had haunted the stables as a child, although he could not ever remember waking guests at dawn.

  “This is my pony!” Raf said proudly, as he finally drew Henry to a stop at a stall at the further end of the building.

  Henry blinked. Raf’s pony was a grandsire at the very least. The creature looked placid enough, but he was nothing like the ponies usually ridden by the children of the wealthy and powerful. If Mortred had been alive, Henry was certain he would have found something rather more spirited for his son and heir. Jenova was possibly afraid her sickly son might be hurt on anything less docile.

  Raf was watching him, green eyes old far beyond his years. Henry tried to compose his face, but it was already too late.

  “You don’t like him,” Raf said dully, and his lip wobbled. The big green eyes filled.

  Henry felt a wave of sheer terror wash over him. Don’t cry, he thought. In God’s name, do not cry!

  “No, no, ’tis not so! This is truly a fine animal, a…a loyal animal. Nice and…and…quiet, I’ll wager.”

  The boy gave him a suspicious glance. “He is very quiet,” he agreed. “Is that a good thing?”

  “It can be. And is he slow?” Henry ventured.

  “Mama says there is nothing wrong with being slow, and that even a lord has to grow up a little before he can ride a fast horse.” The boy said it dutifully, but the gaze that now strayed toward Henry’s stallion was wistful.

  A memory came to Henry. Himself as a child, gazing longingly at the destrier that belonged to the current lordly relative he was living with. He would have given much to be allowed to ride that beast. He came every day to lurk about the stables, dreaming, obsessing. No one noticed, no one seemed to care. His obsession grew, until one day he found himself alone with the destrier. It was a fateful moment, and Henry was unable to resist temptation.

  In a moment of sheer, youthful foolhardiness, he climbed up onto the stall and leaped, trying to straddle the huge beast with his skinny legs. The destrier, bad-tempered and far too strong for him, crashed through the stall door and took Henry, clinging to its mane, on a wild ride around the castleyard before depositing him in a particularly foul midden. Henry was humiliated, a laughingstock, but the lord of the castle still beat him black and blue for his temerity.

  Strange, he had not thought of that for a very long time. It was not one of his better memories, but it was not one of his worst ones, either. It had the effect of reminding him
that once he had been a young boy, like Raf, believing he was invincible, wanting to grow up all too quickly. If the lord of the castle had been a kindly man, or the grooms had been more observant, Henry might have been allowed to ride the destrier, safely seated behind an experienced handler. Mayhap Henry would then have been satisfied, or at least content enough not to try it on his own.

  He could have been killed, not just humiliated and bruised.

  Henry narrowed his eyes, watching Raf as the boy watched the stallion. Was it really worth taking the risk that history might repeat itself with Jenova’s son? Mayhap he could do now for Raf what the lord of his childhood had failed to do for him?

  “Would you like to ride my horse?” The words came out of Henry before he could stop them. In response, the boy’s face lit up like a beacon, and it was already too late to bring them back.

  “Oh yes,” Raf whispered. “May I? May I really?”

  If Henry had been inclined to change his mind, the expression in Raf’s eyes stopped him. How could he say no when the child was so excited and so grateful? And surely Jenova would not mind too much? If he remembered aright, Jenova had been as wild as Henry in her youth, and had ridden her father’s horses fearlessly, much to the poor man’s dismay. But then Jenova had been a beloved daughter, and much had been forgiven her. Matters had been far otherwise for Henry.

  “Come on then,” he said gruffly and led the way toward the stallion’s stall.

  The horse moved forward to snuffle Henry’s hand with its whiskery jaws, searching for a treat. “What’s his name?” Raf asked softly, gazing up in wonder at the big, horsey face.

  Henry smiled down at him. “I call him Lamb.”

  “Lamb?” the boy repeated, frowning. “That does not sound very frightening, Lord Henry. I thought a horse such as this would be named something more…” He stopped and glanced quickly at Henry, as if suddenly realizing he was on the verge of being impolite. “Why do you call him Lamb?” he asked quickly instead.

  “Because he can be as gentle as one, when he wishes to be. The rest of the time he is more like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  Raf thought about that. “Do you think he will be gentle now?”

  “I’ll make certain of it.”

  Raf nodded, perfectly trusting. The knowledge that he was looked upon in such a light made Henry feel anxious and slightly sick. He did not want to be anyone’s guardian angel, and he certainly did not want to keep watch over Jenova’s son. He was hardly suited to such a position, and he did not desire the responsibility. And yet that was what he had just done, in the matter of the stallion. He had taken upon himself the mantle of Raf’s guardian uncle, if not quite angel. No, definitely not an angel….

  Henry smiled. Lord Henry of Montevoy as an angel? Now there was an amusing thought!

  After instructing Raf in a no-nonsense voice to stand well back where it was safe, Henry saddled the stallion and led him out of his stall. Lamb had decided to abide by his name this morning and plodded from the stable placidly enough, only half rearing once, when he spied a basket full of kittens to one side of the door. The mother cat hissed and arched her back, but they were already out into the yard, and Lamb pretended not to notice the insult.

  Raf followed them with wide-eyed expectancy, careful to stay at a safe distance from Lamb’s enormous, feathery hooves. Henry lifted the boy onto the saddle, chuckling as he slipped and had to cling with both hands to save himself. Not that he had been in any danger—Henry would have grabbed him if he had started to fall.

  “Now hold tight,” he warned, and led the stallion a few gentle steps.

  Raf’s grin of delight threatened to split his face in two. Had the boy really been so lacking in male companionship that he found a round of the stableyard on Henry’s stallion so exciting? In truth, this was tame stuff, and Henry was sure they could do better. He glanced about and noted that the bailey was still nearly empty. The weather and the early hour had made the castle servants reluctant to begin their day. He didn’t see the harm in taking the boy out under the gatehouse and then back again.

  Henry slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up behind Raf, wrapping one strong arm about the boy to hold him close.

  “Are you ready?” he asked calmly.

  Raf nodded, his brown hair flopping, and he turned excited green eyes up to Henry.

  Henry smiled and, with a gentle tap of his heels, set Lamb at a trot toward the gate.

  “He is very big,” Raf said, his voice jumping up and down with the movement of the horse.

  “Very big.”

  “He is very fast.”

  Henry smiled again. “Yes, very fast. Too fast for you, Raf. But when you are older, then you will have a horse just like this.”

  The green eyes turned speculative. “Do you swear it, Lord Henry?”

  Instantly, Henry wondered what in God’s name had possessed him to say such a thing. He couldn’t swear to give the boy something over which he had no eventual control. This was Jenova’s son, and naught to do with Henry. Alfric would have more influence over this boy! And yet Henry wanted to say yes, he wanted to make Raf smile, he wanted to give Raf something he himself had never had. And suddenly that selfish desire meant more to Henry than any trouble he might cause himself later on.

  “I swear it.”

  Raf’s smile was stunningly brilliant. Henry had never realized before what joy there was in making a child smile. Mayhap he had been wrong in having no children of his own, in thinking they would only bring him pain. Mayhap there was even something healing in spending time with the very young.

  Some time later, Jenova paused in the stable doorway, her heart giving a sudden, hard thud. She had been seeking Henry all over Gunlinghorn Castle, and here he was, sitting on an overturned barrel by the brazier in the stable with her son. Their heads were bent close over something or other, Raf leaning his body trustingly against Henry’s side.

  Who would have thought it? Henry had never seemed the least bit interested in Raf. Jenova, although she loved her son fiercely, had accepted Henry’s indifference, just as she accepted his other shortcomings. She had never sought to change him. Not even now.

  Gathering her wits, she began to walk toward them. Outside, the snow had stopped and the sky was clear and blue, but the wind was bitter. Even in her wool cloak and fur-lined hood, she shivered. Was Raf warm enough? What if he were to catch a chill? Jenova quickened her step.

  “Raf?”

  He looked up and instantly gave her a cheerful grin. Her heart turned over, as it always did when she looked upon her son. He was her life, and she would never do anything to jeopardize his future. That was why, in her marriage contract, she would make certain that Lord Baldessare could have no power over them, even if Alfric should die young.

  “Mama, see!” Her son pointed in excitement at whatever Henry held in his hands. “Raven has had babies.”

  Jenova raised an eyebrow as she drew closer. Henry was holding several squirming, mewling bodies in his cupped hands, and at his feet, watching intently, was Raven, a large, fluffy black cat.

  “So she has,” she managed, feeling strangely dizzy. Henry looked up at her and smiled wryly, as if he were mocking himself, while Raf hopped about madly beside him, overcome with excitement. The picture they made, the man and the child and the kittens, was such a strange and unexpected one. It made her heart ache.

  Jenova forced away the odd emotion and took a breath. “Are you warm enough, Raf? The air is bitter.”

  “We have been riding,” he piped up and then glanced swiftly at Henry, as if he was afraid he had said something he should not.

  “Riding?” Jenova demanded sharply. “On your pony?”

  “No.” The boy looked at Henry again. “On Lord Henry’s stallion. He goes much faster than my pony. His name is Lamb, but he isn’t always as gentle as one. That is why I must never ride him on my own. But one day, when I am grown, I will have a horse like Lamb, Mama.”

  �
�Will you?” Jenova asked blankly, her head spinning again. What on earth had they been up to? How had so much happened in so short a time? “Agetha wants you to come and eat now, Raf. Go and find her.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Now, Raf. Raven’s kittens will still be here when you are done.”

  His lip drooped, and as he walked away his steps dragged, but he went. Henry lifted his handful of kittens and began to settle them back into their warm basket by the brazier. Their mother received them irritably and began lapping at them with her tongue, washing away his offending scent.

  Jenova continued to watch him a moment in silence, trying not to be softened by the fall of his hair over his brow and the rough, unshaven line of his cheek and the curve of his firm mouth. It was all very well to see Henry like this, in a completely different light, but he was still the same man he had always been. He had not suddenly changed overnight because they were now lovers. Jenova knew she must not deceive herself into believing Henry would become the perfect man for her, and the perfect father for Raf. In that direction lay much heartache.

  “You should have sent Raf to me if he was bothering you, Henry.”

  “It was no bother.”

  Jenova tried to read his thoughts, but he was still dealing with the kittens, a crease between his brows as he carefully laid the last one in with its brothers and sisters. Giving in to temptation, she reached out a hand and pushed back the truant lock of hair. He glanced up with a surprised smile, and then reached out an arm to draw her closer to his side. He was warm, and she could smell the male scent of him. Just like that, desire uncurled inside her, making her shiver.

  “You are cold?” Henry demanded. Their gazes met, tangled, were reluctant to let go. She saw the spark in his eyes, too, turning the blue brighter and fiercer than it had been before.

  “A little.”

  Henry rose gracefully to his feet and pulled her fully into his arms. Jenova held her breath. They were alone in the stables, only the horses’ soft nickers to keep them company, but there was always the chance someone would see them. Did her reputation, her position, mean nothing to her? The Gunlinghorn servants, particularly Agetha, would be shocked if they knew their lady had taken a lover. And what of Alfric, what would he say? Suddenly it all seemed too difficult.