Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  But there were no signs yet of their affair cooling, and he seemed to be melding into other areas of her life, places he had never been before.

  Yesterday, she had asked for his attendance at a meeting with a merchant from Gunlinghorn Harbor. “I need your advice, your thoughts,” she had said, as if they’d mattered to her. This had not been unusual in itself—Jenova often asked for his advice—but rarely on the day-to-day running of her lands and its people.

  Henry had attended the meeting, prepared to offer what advice he could and stave off boredom. Gunlinghorn was hardly London, after all. These matters were not likely to affect the future of the kingdom.

  But before long, Henry found himself actually intensely interested in what was being said. He found it stimulating in a way he had not expected—certainly had not expected outside the machinations of the court. He was surprised at himself, and curious as to why he was so engaged in the business of Gunlinghorn.

  Was it because of Jenova?

  Aye, but it was much more than that. It was because he cared. Henry admitted it at last, uneasily. He cared deeply about this place and its people.

  The merchant had come to ask Jenova to consider giving her harbor to him as a fief: He would pay her an annual rent, and in return she would allow him to command the trade in the harbor as he wished and keep the profits. At present, the harbor was part of Jenova’s Gunlinghorn estate, and therefore hers to do with as she willed.

  “A good, honest man like myself, my lady, would be more than happy to remove the worries of such a matter from your already overburdened shoulders. I heard that a boat ran aground lately? You do not want to be troubled with problems like that. It would be my pleasure to spare you from them in any way I could.”

  Jenova had glanced at Henry, a sparkle in her eye, ignoring his grimace at the flowery language. “Would you really, Master Will? I had thought that bearing heavy burdens was part of being the Lady of Gunlinghorn.”

  The merchant had continued to flatter and chatter, but it had been very clear to Henry that he’d had his eye on the prize. Gunlinghorn Harbor. With the increasing number of ships arriving there and the prospect of more trade, the man had seen a way to being rich. He’d planned to seize it, and he had not wanted to share. A feeble and lazy lady might have taken his offer, glad to be rid of the “burden.” But Henry had known such a move would not have been in Jenova’s interest.

  “You say that a boat lately ran aground,” he’d said, cutting through the flummery. “The harbor is beginning to silt up, then. What will you do about that, Master Will? Have you any plans? Will you put some of your moneys into repairs?”

  Master Will had hemmed and hawed, but it had been clear he’d had no intention of doing anything about such long-term problems as the deep channel becoming too shallow to take the larger ships. His plan had been to make his money and go.

  “Some things are simply God’s will,” he had ended piously.

  “No, they are Lady Jenova’s will, and she is more than capable of overseeing her harbor and the ships that come into it. She is also clever enough to keep her harbor from silting up.” Henry had spoken with deceptive mildness.

  Master Will had eyed him with dislike. It had been clear he’d wished Henry back in London that very instant, and the knowledge had amused Henry. Poor Master Will had believed it had only been Lord Henry preventing Jenova from caving in to his wishes. Clearly he had not known the lady very well, and it had seemed that Jenova had been quite content to have had it so.

  “Lady Jenova is a fragile and beautiful woman, my lord,” he had replied, a little desperately. “Women should not be burdened with the troubles of commerce. They do not understand such things. It is for men to help them, and I would not like to think I stood by and watched her sufferings, when I could so easily have relieved her of her troubles.”

  “Relieved her of her troubles?” Henry had snorted. “I’ll warrant you would like to! And line your pockets with her profits at the same time. Be gone, Master Will. We have heard enough of your self-serving nonsense. Lady Jenova has made her decision; she will be keeping her harbor.”

  “My lady,” Master Will had blurted, his face falling. “It was not my intention to—”

  At that moment Jenova had stepped in and smoothed his ruffled feathers, and eventually she had eased him from the door. Her smile, when she had turned again to Henry, had been broad and filled with genuine amusement, and something more. Pride. But of whom had she been proud?

  “Next he will be wanting to open a market every week on the quayside,” she had said, “to take advantage of the cargoes arriving so frequently. We will have traders and buyers coming from all over southern England to purchase wares.”

  “So you will,” Henry had teased. “Let me guess, Jenova. You are thinking of doing that yourself.”

  “But of course. That was why I did not want to relinquish control of the harbor. I would be a fool to do so.”

  “So you didn’t really need my advice after all?”

  He had known she was no fool, but still the idea that she had not needed his counsel had wounded him.

  “Oh, but I did,” Jenova had insisted. “I needed you here in person, Henry. If you had not been here to send him away, he would never have gone. You see, I did not want to insult him—he is useful to me—but you could insult him for me. It is fine for him to be at odds with you, but I have to remain the saintlike Lady Jenova. Such men as Master Will prefer not to believe that their lady tallies up her profits before bed—it spoils that image of fragile feminine weakness. And that image comes in very useful, Henry, when I want something done.”

  Henry had laughed. “So I played the devil to your saint?”

  “You did indeed. We made a perfect pair.”

  Her pride had been in him, in Henry.

  She had been looking at him as if he had exceeded all her expectations.

  Under her gaze Henry had felt himself grow a little taller—some parts more than others. But now, when he thought about the incident, he began to wonder if Jenova hadn’t been trying to teach him something else entirely. Had her lesson been that Gunlinghorn wasn’t as boring as he thought, that his presence here would actually be of use to her? The harbor, for instance. It would be a challenge to keep the channel deep enough for larger vessels.

  Such a challenge appealed to Henry.

  Was that what Jenova was saying to him, in her own devious manner? That fundamentally there was nothing to be found in London that could not also be found here?

  The memory faded; Henry blinked and found himself once more in the bailey at Gunlinghorn. He urged Lamb to hurry up, smiling at Raf when the stallion tossed his head and snorted impatiently. He used to think he was a clear-thinking man, a pragmatic man, but now he didn’t know what to think. Worse, he didn’t know what to do! To one side stood Baldessare and his oblique threats, as well as Henry’s satisfying life at court; on the other side stood Jenova and her son, and Gunlinghorn. And in between both was Henry, with his dark secret and his desire for Jenova, and his very real fear that he could never be the man she wanted. The man she deserved.

  He would fail her.

  She just did not realize it yet.

  Unaware of Henry’s churning thoughts, Jenova drew her warm furs closer about her and watched him and her son, seated upon the big stallion, trotting so steadily around the castleyard. The animal, with his enormous feathery hooves, took cautious, surprisingly light steps. Henry had complete control, and she wasn’t afraid for Raf. Besides, he was enjoying himself so much that she very much doubted any command of hers would be heeded.

  She had never thought of Henry as a man with a fondness for children. He had never taken much notice of Raf before, and indeed she had sensed he was grateful she had not pressed him on the matter. Jenova was not sure she fully understood his current change of heart. Henry, in her past experience, never did anything without expecting something in return.

  Is he trying to please me to gain my favor
?

  He already had all he wanted from her—she denied him nothing these days. Last night they had lain in each other’s arms, their bodies joined, delirious with pleasure. He had brought her to her peak again and again, making her cry out, uncaring who heard her. And she had wondered, as she always wondered at such moments, how much longer it would last.

  Jenova told herself to stop trying to see into the future. She should just enjoy it, take it moment by moment. Soon Henry would go, back to London and his real life, and she would be alone again. Alone without even a husband like Alfric to look forward to. But she would still be the Lady of Gunlinghorn, loved and looked up to. Surely there was something to sustain her in that?

  Raf laughed and waved one hand. “Mama, we are riding to London!” he shouted. Henry smiled and shook his head at her, while she smiled back. She knew Raf wasn’t riding to London, she knew that neither she nor Raf would ever ride to London with Henry. He did not want them there. London was where his real life lay, and Jenova suddenly knew, with a cold shiver in her heart, that he did not want them to be part of his real life.

  Well, what did you expect? she asked herself impatiently. Enjoy the moment, as Henry is fond of saying. Take what you can, and savor the memories. You have made your bed, Jenova, now sleep in it!

  Chapter 11

  Jean-Paul closed his eyes, trying to still the ache in his head. The pain was elusive, not yet the pounding agony it would soon become. The headaches were part of what he was now, and he had grown to accept them. Just as he had grown to accept the ruination of his body and face.

  That did not mean he had to like it.

  God taught forgiveness, but Jean-Paul did not forgive. He could never forgive what had been done to him that night, when the fire had come and he’d been abandoned to this half-life. He had survived, dragging himself away from the charred building, lying half dead in some peasant’s hovel. But he had survived.

  The people of the village had claimed it was a miracle, that God or one of his many saints had stepped in and taken up Jean-Paul for His own. It had suited Jean-Paul to allow them to believe that, to let himself be persuaded into the monastery, and to learn the ways of the holy men there.

  But it wasn’t true.

  The thing that had kept Jean-Paul alive during those early dark days, and all the days that had come afterward had been revenge. It had been as simple and as complicated as that. Someone would pay for what had happened to him; it was only just. God taught justice, as well as forgiveness. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life?

  Yes, someone would pay, and that someone was Henry of Montevoy.

  The ache in Jean-Paul’s head intensified. Henry had abandoned him when he’d needed him most, left him to die, and worse. Henry deserved all that was coming to him. Despite the pain, Jean-Paul smiled. He was going to enjoy himself in the weeks ahead.

  The bath was placed in one of the rooms off the great hall, small but private. Henry lay back in the steaming water with a sigh and closed his eyes amidst the rather feminine scent of violets—Agetha had provided him with the soap.

  Henry had a fetish for cleanliness, which was always a source of amusement to his friends. When they made him the subject of their jokes, he would shrug and laugh and tell them that he preferred not to carry around the filth they preferred. But it was more than that—he knew in his heart that his past had much to do with the need to cleanse himself so often. To scrub and scrub at a stain that only he could see and that could never be removed.

  Henry shook off such grim thoughts, moving restlessly in the water. Lady Agetha had offered to scrub his back, as good manners required, but he had refused her, to the relief of them both. Now, if it had been Jenova…

  When he was with Jenova, nothing more mattered. She would probably laugh if he told her that and think he was teasing her, or begin to make plans for the future. Henry did not trust himself that far. His future had never consisted of remaining with any one woman longer than a month, but even that alarming thought didn’t make him want to pack up his belongings and ride northward.

  He sighed again, sinking deeper into the water, his well-muscled body a golden blur beneath its surface, while his head and shoulders rested against the side.

  The muffled voices from the great hall faded, soothed, and for a time he dozed. He dreamed of forests and the moon sailing in a dark sky and evil things abroad. And blood. Warm, warm blood. It was the sensation of more hot water being poured carefully into the side of the bath that brought him to his senses. Henry blinked and looked up. Reynard was pouring the water, concentrating upon his task, wearing his bland servant’s face.

  “Is it late?” Henry asked, stifling a yawn. “I fell asleep.”

  Someone stirred near the door, the whisper of skirts. “So late that I came to see what you were up to, my lord. Reynard led me to you.”

  It was Jenova. She came forward, looking angelic in pale yellow, her hands clasped before her. But her green eyes held an expression that was anything but saintly. Henry slid further into the water, hoping to hide what she did to him.

  “Bathing again, Henry?” she teased gently. “You must allow me to help you wash.”

  “I have already refused Agetha.”

  “But you will not refuse me, my lord. It is customary in noble households for the lady to assist her guests at their bath, as you well know. I would not wish you to think me impolite.”

  Henry glanced at Reynard. Jenova had never done this before, and even though she was perfectly correct, his manservant was not a fool. He must know there was something else afoot here—he had probably known from the first. Henry hoped he would know what was required of him now.

  Reynard didn’t disappoint. “I will wait in the hall, my lord,” he said without inflection. “If someone comes looking for you, I will be sure to let you know…in plenty of time.” The door closed behind him.

  “Henry?” Jenova rested her cool hand upon his shoulder.

  He lifted her fingers to his lips, enjoying the feel and scent of her. “Of course I will not refuse to let you help me wash. I will revel in it.”

  She smiled and stooped to kiss his cheek. “Mmm. You smell of violets.”

  “Agetha provided the soap.”

  Jenova’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “Ah. Forgive her. She is very fond of Alfric.”

  “Then she is a woman of little intelligence. Alfric does not want you for yourself, Jenova, only for what you can bring to his father.”

  He had spoken the truth without thinking, and although Jenova gave another smile, the sparkle had gone from her eyes.

  “You think not? Well, I suppose he is like all men. If a woman has property or fortune and she has breasts and the ability to make children, then she will do. What does it matter what she thinks or feels, if she is happy or sad?”

  Henry sat up straighter. Suddenly the water felt a little chill, although Reynard had just heated it. He had sensed this strangeness in her before, when Mortred had been mentioned in the great hall, after the Baldessares had left in anger. Then, he had thought her unease had been because of his questions about Alfric, but now…

  “This is about Mortred, is it not, Jenova?”

  She stared back at Henry as if she could not look away.

  “Jenova, did you know—” He shook his head, thinking that it was wrong to hurt her after all this time if she was unaware. Mortred, the king’s cousin, a man who drank to excess and frequented the brothels, and cared little for his wife and son, far away at Gunlinghorn. Henry had despised him even as he’d kept Mortred’s secrets, believing that his silence was protecting Jenova from the hurtful truth. He was still protecting her.

  “Did I know?” Jenova laughed softly, but there was a terrible bitterness in her. Frowning, he searched her face, noting the little crease between her brows, the straight line of her mouth, the flush of heat in her cheeks. “Aye, I did know, Henry. I discovered quite recently that my husband was a liar and a cheat.”

 
; Jesu! She knew about Mortred after all. He had believed he had saved her from that pain. Henry had even hoped that because Mortred had strayed only when he’d been away from home, Jenova would not have guessed.

  Her eyes narrowed and her gaze grew hard and accusing. “You knew, didn’t you, Henry? About Mortred? All along, you knew, and said nothing to me!”

  “What would I have said? I could not hurt you—”

  Jenova gave another bitter, humorless laugh. “Hurt me? Nay, Mortred did enough of that. I did not even know until he was dead, after I had wept for him and mourned him and wished myself at his side in the tomb. So then I felt doubly ridiculous, as if I had been cheated of his memory as well as his love. I had mourned a man who had made a fool of me. Who swived every woman he saw or met or knew. He had one of my own ladies, here in my keep, you know.”

  She wiped a tear furiously from her eye, as if she did not want to waste them on her dead husband.

  “He betrayed me with one of my own ladies! I found out from her very mouth, before she left Gunlinghorn last year. She took pleasure in telling me, lingering on the detail.”

  “Jenova.” But he had no answer.

  “Why?” she demanded of his silence, and her voice broke with the depth of her humiliation and misery. “Why go out seeking other women time and time again, when I was willing to give him everything I had, be everything to him? How could he do that to me?”

  The tears rolled down her cheeks, but she no longer seemed to notice them.

  Henry wished he had Mortred here, beside him. It would have been a grim joy to make his nose nice and bloody. But Mortred was dead and gone, and it was Jenova who concerned him now.

  “Jenova, he was unworthy of you.”

  She shook her head, bewildered, and anger glinted in her eyes. “You knew, Henry. You knew. You should have told me. I cannot forgive you that you knew and did not tell me.”

  “Sweeting—”

  “No, there is no excuse. Better to wound me with the truth than leave me to mourn a man like that, Henry.”