Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  Their voices went on, bickering gently, joking and giggling. Jenova let them wash over her. Ask him. She did not know whether she could do that. He might refuse, or worse, laugh at her presumption that he might wish to stay here at Gunlinghorn when his life in London was so much more exciting.

  And what of this place, this château? Le château de Nuit. There was a mystery there she had yet to unravel.

  Jenova sighed. In the old days, when they had been merely friends, things had been easier. She had not been afraid to say anything to him then. Now it was different. She felt as if her words could be misconstrued, or worse, that Henry might see past her barriers and into her heart. He could hurt her now far more than he could before.

  Ask him to stay.

  She would be risking her feelings, but if she did not ask, she would never know his answer. Mayhap Gertrude was right, mayhap Henry didn’t realize how much she would miss him.

  I will then, she told herself, fingers trembling as she tried to sew. I will ask him to stay, and if he refuses, then I will laugh and pretend I do not mind. But if he agrees…

  Jenova smiled to herself.

  “Sea holly,” she said abruptly. “His eyes are the color of sea holly.”

  And then blushed when all her ladies turned to gaze at her as if she had gone mad.

  Rhona peered down through the mist that hung about the lower parts of the hill, winding through the trees like skeins of wool, clinging with damp fingers to their trunks and bare branches. Everything was so still, so silent.

  She tried to subdue the flicker of fear inside her, the doubts. Oh, she did not doubt that she would be able to carry off this exchange with Reynard. She had done it before. Her doubts were more to do with whether she would be able to save Alfric and herself, fulfill her bargain with her father, and buy their freedom from him forever. For once they reached Normandy, Rhona knew she would never return to Hilldown, nor would she ever allow him to reenter their lives.

  Uther’s Tower was behind her, amongst the trees, a mishmash of stone and timber, some falling down, some in remarkably good condition.

  So here she was, in the freezing damp wood, alone in the mist. Lady Rhona, whose grace and manner portrayed her as a lady of highborn Norman blood, whose garments and jewelry were exquisite. But it was a sham. Beneath it all, Rhona knew she was nothing but a prisoner of her gender and her father’s cruelty.

  This morning, Rhona had sat and watched Baldessare gorge himself on cold meats and bread, washing it down with gulps of ale. He had seemed in a good humor, though Rhona had not known why. Unless it had been because he had dreamed last night of being wed to Lady Jenova. The thought had made her shudder, but she’d pushed it aside, and with it the knowledge that she was responsible for this change in direction. She could not afford to think of what would happen to Jenova—she had herself and Alfric to save.

  Baldessare had slammed his ale mug down on the trestle table, making her jump. “I wish I could tell Lord Henry that his privileged life is coming to an end. That he will no longer be the king’s favorite, his pet. Aye, I will make him sorry for all the humiliations and defeats he has made me suffer.”

  “If anyone can make him sorry, then it is you, Father.”

  Baldessare had fixed his cold eyes upon her. Rhona had returned his stare calmly enough, though inside her rib cage, her heart had been pounding like a warning drum.

  “Do not fail me in this, Daughter.” He had said it so quietly, but it had been no less of a threat.

  Rhona had smiled. It had been the bravest thing she had ever done. “I never fail, my lord.”

  She hadn’t told him about Reynard and this meeting; she had paid that thief Formac twice as much as usual to deliver the message and keep the details quiet. It had seemed safer somehow to keep as much as possible to herself.

  A bird flapped up from the undergrowth, wings whirring. Rhona shifted her seat on her mount, feeling her feet going numb despite the fur-lined boots.

  “My lady.”

  His voice was deeper than she remembered, with a rich timbre that set her senses quivering and humming. Rhona jerked her horse around, wondering how he had snuck up on her like that, without a sound. He was walking toward her through the trees. A heavy cloak covered him from shoulders to heels, but his head was bare, his dark hair damp from the mist.

  “Reynard.”

  He came closer, looking up at her, his dark eyes flattering her squirrel-lined cloak and the red wool gown beneath it. She had left off her veil, braiding her hair and laying the long plait over one shoulder. She knew her skin was white from the cold, her nose pink, her lips rosy red, but Reynard did not seem to find fault in any of that—in fact he looked as if he could devour her on the spot.

  Her breath came faster. This was a contract, she reminded herself. A way to get information, to get what her father wanted. It meant nothing personally. She must remain cold and in control, whatever Reynard might do to her.

  He was watching her from heavy-lidded eyes. “You asked to meet me here, my lady, and here I am.”

  “So you are.”

  Suddenly he smiled, his rather harsh face warming, and held out his gloved hand to her. “Let us go inside before we freeze to death. I have built a fire.”

  With a sense of abandoning herself to the fates, Rhona held out her arms and slid down to the soft, snowy ground, and into the warmth of Reynard’s embrace.

  Again she was struck by how very big he was, and yet, strangely, she knew she did not fear him because of it. Being a small woman, she had never felt entirely comfortable in the company of big men, and she had expected it to be no different with Reynard. But it was. Here, now, standing within his muscular arms, she felt safe, protected, as if she did not want to leave them.

  Rhona made herself step away, until she was once more solitary. Alone. For good measure she threw him a cold and haughty look. He raised an eyebrow back at her, as if her manner amused him. As if he knew very well what she was really feeling.

  He cannot know, Rhona reminded herself firmly, pressing back a sense of panic. He is a man, a servant, not a seer. I must not give him a power over me that he does not have.

  “A fire?” she said evenly, as if her feelings were not in rebellion. “In Uther’s Tower? I did not think there was enough of it left to keep out the rain, let alone sit in in comfort.”

  “You will see. Come, and we will talk.”

  Talk? Only talk?

  She hesitated a moment more, but her feet were beginning to turn into lumps of ice and she had lost the feeling in her hands. Even her teeth ached. She wanted to be warm. Besides, she was tired of mistrusting everyone, of being afraid. With a proud lift of her head, Rhona allowed him to lead her back into the mist-swathed trees toward Uther’s Tower, trailing her horse behind them.

  When they reached it, Reynard pushed open the stout door and entered, stooping his head beneath the lintel. Gratefully Rhona followed. It was a single room, dim and small but weatherproof. The fire Reynard had built in the center of the floor did little to help the murky atmosphere, but Rhona was willing to put up with a little smoke if she could be warm. She hurried across and held out her hands, trying not to groan with the pleasure of it. It might be close and smoky in here, but actually it wasn’t as filthy as some of the huts of the serfs and villeins she’d seen on the Hilldown estate. Lord Baldessare was not a man who wasted his gold or his compassion upon those who could not help him further his ambitions.

  “I will put your horse with mine, under shelter,” Reynard said. “Sit down and warm yourself, my lady, while I am gone.” The door closed behind him, and she was alone.

  He had set a stool by the fire, and she sat upon it, arranging her skirts and pretending she did not feel awkward and ill at ease. He was being so kind. Rhona was not used to kindness. In fact, she was far more used to unkindness than to this tender care that Reynard was displaying.

  Now that her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and her hands and feet had thawed out, Rhona looked
about her. The room was clean, with firewood stacked neatly in one corner and straw heaped in another. Enough to make a bed for two. She shivered and hastily looked away, and again she wished she had not chosen this place to meet.

  Suddenly she did not want to be here. She did not want to give her body to Reynard, coldly, in payment for his informing on his master. It felt wrong. Her stomach roiled at the idea of it, as if she had eaten something rotten. Instinctively, Rhona gathered her skirts in her hands, preparing to rise to her feet and leave.

  But it was already too late.

  Reynard had stepped back into the room, accompanied by a swath of mist, and he closed the door firmly against the cold. The fire flickered and settled back into a steady glow. For a moment he stood looking at her, noting her tension, the grip of her hands on the red wool cloth, her wide eyes staring into his.

  “There is no need to go,” he said quietly, and brushed the snow from his hands. “I won’t hurt you, my lady.”

  “I am not afraid of you,” she retorted. It was the truth—she wasn’t afraid of Reynard. Only of herself.

  Something was happening to her. She was allowing her feelings to interfere with her plan. And such strange feelings…feelings she had never allowed herself to experience before.

  There was a wooden bench against the wall, and he dragged it across to the fire, so that it was to one side of her. Then he sat down, drawing his cloak about him in a graceful movement and stretching his hands toward the flames. His gloves were thick and mended and his boots were also worn, but of good-quality leather, the toes damp from the snow. His tunic was the Lincoln green one, and his breeches clung to strong muscled thighs and trim hips. He was broad across the shoulders and chest, and he sat a little hunched over, relaxed.

  He was unlike any man she had ever met or known or seen before. She could not stop looking at him; she did not want to. Suddenly he turned his head sideways and looked up at her with a rueful grin.

  “So here we are, my lady. Just you and me in Uther’s Tower.”

  For a moment, Rhona was tempted to grin back. She felt like a child, a little girl, confronted by something new and wondrous, and she wanted to partake of it.

  “Just you and me, with a bargain to seal,” she said now, drawing herself up proudly, reminding herself why she was here. “Let us get it over and done.”

  She went to rise to her feet, wondering as she did so whether her legs would hold her. But he reached out and caught her hand, preventing her trying. Rhona went still, staring into his eyes, wondering what he meant to do. She saw compassion in the dark depths. Did he actually dare to pity her? A churl, a servant, pity a Norman lady! Her face hardened as the anger swept through her, and she was grateful for it.

  “I have done this before, Reynard. Do not think I am a poor maiden sacrificing herself for you. I am a Norman lady and I can well look after myself!”

  “Now do not tear into me, my lady,” Reynard said wryly, but still he did not let her hand go. His fingers were warm and strong and rough from work. In the midst of her fury, Rhona wanted to cling to them for dear life and never let go. “I want you,” he went on, “believe me I do. If I were truly a churl, I would show you that part of me that wants you the most. But I do not want to lie with you here. Not hastily and without feeling, as if we were beasts. I want to enjoy you, my lady, but for me to do that, you must enjoy me.”

  She felt frozen, her hand still clinging to his.

  No. No, no, no! We made a bargain. I agreed to his terms and now he has changed the rules. Enjoy him? I cannot allow myself to enjoy him, or to enjoy being with him. I cannot allow my feelings to become engaged. That is not how it works. If I were to ever feel while I were paying my debts, I would curl up and die. If I were ever to take a long, hard look at what I have become, then I would want to die.

  And yet Rhona realized, with a surge of dismay, that that was exactly what she did want. She wanted to have Reynard take her with feeling, with joy, with meaning. That was why she had felt ill at the idea of consummating their bargain in cold blood. When she looked at Reynard she did not feel cold; she felt hot. And it was only in heat that he and she should come together.

  “My lady,” he murmured, “Rhona.” His tug on her hand brought her back to herself, just as he pulled her up from the stool. Her knees gave way. She tumbled into his arms. He caught her easily, settling her on his lap, enfolding her against his chest, pressing her head to his shoulder. And she sat there where he had placed her, stiff as a board, as unresponsive as it was possible for her to be, and yet inside her all was turmoil.

  She should not feel like this. For her own sake, she must not. Rhona had learned long ago that to care for someone was to invite pain into one’s heart. To survive in this harsh world one needed to have a heart of stone.

  “I told you my father was a shipwright,” Reynard murmured in her ear.

  “You did,” she said, her voice husky and small, as it had been in the garden at Gunlinghorn Keep. “What of it?” she added, more forcefully.

  “I did not tell you he was also a navigator. He could read the stars. When he was younger and more carefree, he traveled to distant lands and saw many strange sights. Lands that were covered in ice the whole year round, and others that were hot and baked and made of sand.”

  Rhona wanted to make fun of him, to scoff at his words, but they evoked a longing in her that had never been there before. To escape, to travel far away, to be free of her old life. Was such a thing really possible?

  “I would like to see those places,” Reynard went on.

  “Why haven’t you, then?” she asked. Her body was growing warmer, and softer, relaxing in his arms. She felt herself molding to his shape, her breasts brushing his tunic, her hands, still resting in her lap, twitching to stretch up and touch his face, twine about his neck, pull his mouth down to hers.

  “It seems…melancholy to go alone. I would like a companion. Someone to turn to and say, ‘Look there!’ or to laugh with me when I was happy, or weep with me when I was sad. But to go alone, my lady,” he shook his head, “I would rather not go at all.”

  Rhona took a deep breath. He was spinning her wits like a spider’s web. She could not think straight. They had come here to speak of Lord Henry and Lady Jenova. She had much to do, and he was delaying her with foolish tales of icy lands!

  “Tell me about your master,” she said harshly and pulled away, seating herself once more upon her stool. She straightened her cloak, tossed her golden braid back over her shoulder, and glared at him. “That is what you have come to tell.”

  Reynard smiled, a rueful smile, as if she had caught him out. But he didn’t really seem to mind, and he linked his hands between his knees and did as she asked without argument.

  “Lord Henry has a fine house in London, with a mistress he changes often, and many powerful friends. And yet he does not want to leave Gunlinghorn.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “Mayhap it is because he is fond of Lady Jenova, and she of him.”

  “More than fond,” Rhona said, “if he has all that awaiting him in London and has not returned.”

  “She and he are old friends.”

  “Very old friends.”

  Reynard lifted his head and looked across at her. “Nay, lady,” he was saying earnestly. “’Tis not as you think. They grew up together in Normandy, and have always been close. Lady Jenova sent word to Lord Henry to come and offer her advice on her marriage to your brother. I do not think Lord Henry advised against it, but the lady decided on her own that she did not want to go ahead with the wedding.”

  “My father does not believe that, and neither do I.”

  “I do not think your father wants to believe it.”

  That was true enough. “Has your master spoken at all of leaving, of returning to London?”

  “Aye, he has spoken of it, but he does not wish to leave Lady Jenova while she is at odds with your family. He fears for her safety.”

 
With justification, thought Rhona bleakly. If only Henry and Jenova knew just how dangerous her father was, and that Rhona herself was working against Jenova! Henry would flee to London in an instant and take the lady with him. Perhaps he had thought of that? Rhona knew that if there was any sign of them leaving, she must act to prevent it. She could not let it happen, for if Jenova left, all Rhona’s hopes for freedom would go with her.

  “I want him to leave, not her,” she said coldly, hiding her fear. “’Tis in all our interests if Henry leaves as soon as possible, and Lady Jenova remains at Gunlinghorn, alone.”

  “I see. So, with Lord Henry gone, Lady Jenova will be unprotected and open to your father’s persuasions? Is that what you want, my lady?”

  Her eyes focused on Reynard, and she found that he was studying her, reading her. How clearly he had seen through her just then! Her heart gave a little flutter. It was best if he did not know what she was planning. She must be careful, very careful….

  “I sent a message to your master through Lady Jenova. Le château de Nuit. Did he get it?”

  “He got something. He has been like a wounded wolf, snapping and snarling at me, though he pretends to Lady Jenova there is nothing amiss.”

  Rhona raised her eyebrows. “Really? I did not realize it was so powerful a message. My father says he has a friend who knows a dark secret, something that Henry will do anything to keep hidden.”

  “And do you know who this friend is, my lady?”

  “Nay.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are very curious, Reynard. I thought ’twas you who did the spying for me, not the other way around.”

  He reached out his hand and brushed his finger down her cheek, stroking the soft, pale skin with a reverence that took her by surprise. But the glow in his eyes was far from reverent as he said, “I am eager to do well in your service, lady, and receive my reward.”

  Her breath caught with just a few words and a glance. The dark gleam of his eyes made her body suddenly want to turn all warm and melting in his arms. She was the one in charge of this situation, not he. It was too important for her to lose her wits now.