by Sara Bennett
Aye, Rhona knew well enough that if she and Alfric were to remain comfortable and healthy, if they were to continue to enjoy their favored place as the baron’s children, then they must strive to please him and do his bidding. Alfric must stop his sulks and do as she said, and then they might both of them come out of this with their father’s approbation rather than his truly frightening displeasure.
Rhona leaned closer to Alfric, her voice a whisper. “Smile, brother! Our father is watching!”
Alfric glanced nervously at the grim-faced man further down the table, and he forced a smile, swallowing his mouthful of roasted pork with difficulty. Rhona patted his arm. That was better. There was no denying her brother had a winsome look when he wanted to use it. All was not lost, she insisted to herself with an optimism she was far from feeling. Lord Henry, she reminded herself, was only here for a visit; his real life was in London. He would be gone soon, and when he was, her brother could resume his wooing of Lady Jenova without interruption.
Rhona caught her brother’s arm as they moved toward their sleeping quarters—there were guest chambers partitioned off at the further end of the great hall—and drew him into the shadows by the wall. “What is wrong with you?” she whispered angrily. “I thought we agreed you needed to charm her, win her to you, not play at being a sullen child!”
Her brother pulled away from her grip. “She looks at him too often,” he grumbled, for all the world like the sullen child she had just accused him of being. “There is more there than friendship, I feel it, Rhona. Do you see the way she looks at him?”
Rhona tossed her head as if it mattered not. “They have known each other for a great many years, Alfric. You heard them speaking of their childhood together? I thought Lord Henry was Mortred’s friend, but ’tis Jenova he cherishes. Don’t be so foolish as to accuse them of deeds they have not committed. And even if they have…”
She had his attention now, and she made use of it.
“Even if they have, it is none of your affair. Lord Henry will be gone soon, and you will still be here. In her loneliness, you are the one she will cleave to. In fact, you may turn it to your advantage. Why not wait awhile by the turn in the stairs to Lord Henry’s chamber? If the lady decides to pay him a visit, you will be well placed to remind her of the consequences of her actions. Do not berate her, mind, but treat her compassionately, as if you understand and are willing to forgive her her small weakness.”
“So even if she is going to another man’s bed, I must pretend not to care?” Alfric said mutinously.
“Of course not! You care, but you forgive her because you love her despite her faults. She will think you a better man for expressing such sentiments. Now is that plain enough, foolish brother of mine?”
He grunted, but nodded with reluctant agreement.
“Good. Then play your part, Alfric, or we must both face the consequences of your failure. You know what will happen if we displease our father.”
Her brother glanced around sharply, as if expecting to see their father standing there. They both feared him, but whereas Rhona seemed able to charm their father into leniency and herself out of trouble, Alfric could never win any concessions. The baron considered him a failure—Alfric could never live up to the tough and bloody image their father so admired in a man. Gentle Alfric was a complete disappointment to him, or had been, until now. Lady Jenova and her rich lands had given Alfric a chance to show his quality, and Rhona meant to make sure he did.
For all their sakes.
Her gaze shifted. Suddenly she noticed the large, swarthy-skinned man who had just stepped out from the alcove nearby. He was well within listening distance of their conversation, and judging from his stillness, he’d clearly been taking full advantage of that fact.
“Hush!” Alfric had seen him, too, and was tugging urgently at his sister’s sleeve. They had both been spied upon too often by their father’s creatures not to be wary of any listening ears. There was very little privacy in the Baldessare household. Even Jean-Paul, who often professed to be their friend, had repeated confidences when it suited him.
Rhona straightened her back, lifting her chin with a show of bravado. She had never allowed any of her father’s men to see her fear, and perhaps that was why they respected her far more than they did her brother. Besides, there was something about the eavesdropper that irritated her, be it his unkempt shaggy hair and big, solid body, or the way he refused to lower his dark eyes in the respectful manner to which she was entitled.
Rhona fixed him with a disdainful look. “Why should I care if he hears us?” she said loudly and curled her lip. “He is just a servant. He is nothing. He is the mud under my boot.”
Alfric laughed nervously. “Come, Rhona,” he said and pulled her away toward the sleeping chambers.
She went with him but turned her head and found the big man gazing after her. There was something in his face that caught and held her attention. Servant he might be, but that was arrogance in the tilt of his head and a single-minded determination in the set of his thick jaw. Rhona had an uncomfortable feeling that her hasty words, far from discouraging him, had acted as a bait to this shaggy bear.
Nay, she told herself impatiently. He wouldn’t dare! She was a lady. Servants, no matter how attractive, could look, but that was as much as they could do. If he tried to go further, her father would kill him—if she did not do it first.
Reynard stood, watching them go. He had followed the two Baldessare siblings down the great hall and successfully secreted himself in the alcove, but it had been difficult to hear their whispers, and he had edged too close. From what he had overheard, it seemed the girl was advising her brother on ways to ensnare the affections of Lady Jenova. Also, they were afraid of displeasing their father. He could hardly blame them for the latter; Lord Baldessare looked like a mean old ogre.
The girl was beautiful. Small, but voluptuous, everything in its right place. He would have to pick her up to kiss her, but it would be worth the effort. From his more lowly position, Reynard had been watching her tonight, watching the manner in which she’d glanced about her, taking everything in, and the way she had ogled Henry. At first he had been surprised, and then amused. Henry wasn’t interested in her—Reynard thought he knew why that was, too—and some instinct told him the girl wasn’t really interested in Henry, either. She had been putting on a show, trying to draw his attention. It had been tried before, and by women far more skilled than Lady Rhona.
What did she hope to achieve? Reynard guessed she wanted to leave the way open for her brother to continue his clumsy wooing of Lady Jenova. If Alfric had any spine in him, he could do that on his own, not use his sister as a whore. She deserved better….
Reynard shook his head in disgust. Disgust at the girl, and at himself. He should not care what she did. She was no concern of his. She had made it clear enough what she thought of him. He was nothing. He was mud under her boot. He remembered again the sight she had made as she’d walked off, the sway of her hips beneath the red gown, the arrogant toss of her head. Aye, she was certainly a fine lady…or at least she thought she was.
She was also a lady who needed a lesson in manners.
And Reynard knew he was just the man to give it to her.
Chapter 8
In her own chamber, the solar above the great hall, Jenova could not sleep. Before the feast this evening, she’d been visited by the captain of the ship freed from the sandbar by her men and the villagers of Gunlinghorn Harbor. He had been grateful, anxious to thank her, but he had also been eager to do business. He had, he’d told her, some bolts of cloth he wished to show her. Alas, he could not give them to her for nought, although he wished it were so, but he could do her a very favorable deal, if she were so inclined…?
The cloth was exquisite, particularly one bolt. White velvet, the rarest and most beautiful of materials, and so difficult to attain. Velvet was uncommon enough in England, but the color white was beyond price. Jenova had stroked it, h
ardly breathing, an unfamiliar sense of avarice taking hold of her. “How much?” she’d asked bluntly, and she’d closed her eyes in dismay when he’d told her. The captain had gone on to insist this was a fair price and that he had intended to ask much more. Jenova sighed. The velvet would make a beautiful gown for her marriage to Alfric—she had thought to wear her red wool, but this was so much more fitting for the Lady of Gunlinghorn.
Henry’s blue eyes will blaze if he sees me in this.
The thought had been unexpected and somewhat shocking. Jenova knew she should not be thinking of Henry and her marriage to Alfric in the same breath.
“Very well,” she had said, trying not to think how much better such a sum of money could be used elsewhere. “I will have the white velvet, Captain. All of it.”
The man had hardly been able to contain his glee.
Jenova glanced at the trunk now, where her precious cloth was contained, and felt slightly sick. Not because of the cost but because she was beginning to have second thoughts.
She felt as if something inside her had shifted, subtly but emphatically. Matters about which she had been so clear and certain had now changed. Tonight when Alfric, with his hopeful brown eyes, had continued to flatter her—a little desperately now, she thought—the words she had once enjoyed had seemed hollow and meaningless. She had wanted him to stop, to leave her alone. If only, she had thought, she could find peace and quiet, mayhap she could order her thoughts again, make some sense of them.
Not long ago she had been looking forward to Alfric becoming a part of her life. But now…Those dreams were becoming faded and vague; nothing seemed clear to her anymore. And aye, she admitted it to herself, she was having great difficulty imagining Alfric as having any part in her life at all!
It is Henry’s fault.
He had done things to her body and mind. Now all she could think about was Henry, Henry, Henry! And when next she might have him alone with her. Even today, amidst the feast she had planned and hoped to make perfect, she had been impatient for the Baldessares to be gone. Just so that she and Henry could be together. She had dared not look at him too often, in case she gave herself away to the people around her, in case her desire glowed like moonlight in her eyes.
Jenova shivered, but she wasn’t cold. She was remembering the moments in the stillroom when he had held her and brought her to her peak, and she had been like a wild thing, pressing her own hand to her mouth so as not to scream. Her body ached for his. How could that be right? How could that be just? How could she go on into the future she had planned when her every waking thought was for him?
Henry had said their passion would fade, and she had been sorry for that, but in a way she had been relieved, too. Henry had no part in her future—at least, not in the major role he was playing now. But Jenova had not seen any sign of her own passion fading. If anything it had grown hotter, more desperate—her familiarity with Henry had only made her want him more, not less.
And that was very disturbing indeed.
With a restless sigh, Jenova rose from her bed. Outside her window, the snow fell in silent beauty, coating the bailey in white and turning the world beyond into a dreamlike landscape. This was her land, her place, and she had always felt as if she knew what was best for it and herself. She was Gunlinghorn. Now everything had changed, and she was no longer sure—she was adrift. She did not know what she wanted. The future no longer seemed comfortable, or perhaps it was just that the path she had chosen no longer felt like the correct one. Not because she had seen another, better path—she told herself she accepted there was no future for herself and Henry—but simply because Henry had turned her ideas of happiness upside down.
How could she wed Alfric and live here with him now that she knew what she would be missing? How could she be content with affection now that she knew the hot ache of real passion? It would almost have been better if she had remained in ignorance. She could have been content then, blindly, foolishly content.
And what made it worse was the possibility that this situation might be nothing at all out of the ordinary for Henry. Henry might not be overwhelmed by it at all. For all Jenova knew, she was just another body to him, another woman with whom to pass the time.
Not so for Jenova. She felt as if he had taken her from her comfortable, familiar world and then torn it asunder. She could never put it back together the way it was. She could never be the way she was.
Oh Jesu, what am I to do?
Mayhap there was still hope that it could all turn out as Henry said—that this passion, this desire, would burn itself out? If she was no longer afflicted with the heat and the longing, she might learn to be satisfied with someone like Alfric, she might learn to accept a more lukewarm passion.
Please, please let it be so!
And if it was not, if she found herself no longer able to be Alfric’s bride under any circumstances? Jenova rested her cheek against the cold wood of the window in despair. Lord Baldessare would not be an easy man to dissuade once he had set his sights on something. And, as she was all too well aware, he had his sights set on Gunlinghorn, even if it was only through the compliance of his son. Alfric’s character was not strong, and he would always be ruled by someone. Jenova had planned to be his master, but she had known she would have to make her position very clear to his father. Lord Baldessare would have had to learn very early on that, once Jenova and Alfric were wed, he would no longer have a part to play.
Jenova had had no doubts as to her own ability to handle Alfric, rule him firmly but gently, and at the same time keep his father at bay. But if she now turned around and spurned Alfric altogether…no, Lord Baldessare would not be happy with that.
If she had not known exactly what sort of man he was before, she knew now. During her specially prepared feast there had been little appreciation for her efforts in the baron’s demeanor, and he had not once complimented her, or even shown the most rudimentary good manners. The chief emotion she’d sensed in him was a smoldering bitterness. Even when she had presented him with her headache medicine, he had looked at it as if it were poison. No thank you, no gratitude. Just cold dislike.
And Jenova did not think it would take much for Baldessare’s dislike to spill over into rage and violence. He was not the sort of man who should ever be crossed. Jenova did not believe Lord Baldessare would ever forgive a transgression, imagined or otherwise, and he was definitely not the sort of man to kiss and make his peace with his enemies.
Jenova told herself firmly that she did not fear him. She was the Lady of Gunlinghorn, widow of the king’s cousin, and the king himself was fond enough of her to allow her to arrange her own marriage. No, she did not fear Baldessare. He would need to be a brave man indeed if he were to attempt to harm her in some manner.
Or a desperate one.
Jenova straightened and moved away from the window. The rug beneath her feet was soft and warm—a relic of her father’s travels to the East. He was dead now, as was most of her family. Her mother, too, was gone, but she had died happy in the knowledge that Jenova had outgrown her rebelliousness and had made a good marriage. She was alone, and although that did not bother her usually, it did tonight. It would have been pleasant to have had someone who was close to her, someone of whom to ask advice.
Of course, there is Henry.
Jenova tried not to hear the sly note in the thought. Aye, she told herself briskly, she could seek Henry out in his chamber. Talk to him about Baldessare, ask his opinion again. The last time, he had seemed lukewarm on the matter of her marriage to Alfric. Was that because he disliked Baldessare, or did he have some other agenda? She should ask him, she should discuss it with him.
But it was no good, Jenova could not lie to herself. That wasn’t the real reason she wanted to see Henry—a warm tingle across her skin, a melting heat in her blood. She needed to be held close by him, to be kissed and loved by him. She had resisted long enough. Her guests would be abed now, there would be no one to see, and she needed h
im so.
Feeling dangerously reckless, Jenova drew her fur-lined cloak over her thin chemise and slid her feet into her slippers. She reached toward the door.
Would he be alone?
With repugnance, she remembered again the table on the dais and the greedy Baldessares taking their fill of her good food and wine. And the lovely Lady Rhona, with her dark gaze fixed firmly upon Henry, as if she fully expected him to fall in love with her on the spot.
At first Jenova had been a little shocked by such a blatant display. And then she had been angered. Women, more particularly wellborn ladies, did not behave so in her hall! Was this what happened while Henry was attending court? Were women always giving him suggestive looks? And did he always take advantage of them?
Is she with him now?
Jenova took a breath and tried to think clearly. Rhona’s come-hither look, though very shocking, had actually begun to turn a little stale before the meal had ended. Henry had not seemed to be aware of it, or if he had been, he had not responded to it. He had spent his time bickering with Baldessare or staring into his wine goblet. Indeed, she had rarely seen him so out of sorts, but then Jenova knew she was not quite her usual self either.
If she had been Rhona, she would have come to the conclusion that Henry wasn’t interested. That, young and beautiful as Rhona may be, she was not the woman Henry wanted in his bed tonight.