by Sara Bennett
How could he bear not waking up to her kisses and her soft body beside his, not seeing her smiles or hearing her laughter? These were losses he could hardly begin to contemplate—there was a terrible ache in his chest when he imagined being without her. A burning pain of emptiness and grief. He had never felt that before for any woman. He didn’t know what to do about it. Clever and handsome Henry didn’t know what to do.
Marry her.
The words rang out in his head, startling him from his depression. I tried that, he thought. She refused me. What more can I do?
Tell her the truth.
Aye, and what then? He would not only destroy his chance to marry her but he would also ruin whatever friendship still remained between them. She would send him away, and when she was all alone, Baldessare would strike.
“No!”
Lamb, startled by his cry, jumped sideways and nearly unseated him. Henry clamped his mouth shut and hung on grimly, drawing the big stallion to a halt and settling his ruffled nerves.
“Your master is a fool,” he said, rubbing his hand over Lamb’s rough winter coat.
And so he was. He could not let Baldessare hurt Jenova. He could not let Jean-Paul send him back to London with his tail between his legs, leaving Jenova to her fate. The solution was to marry her, do it in haste, before his enemies could do aught about it. Then, if Jean-Paul wanted to tell Jenova the truth, let him. She would no longer want anything to do with him, but at least Henry would be her husband and in a position to protect her. Whether she willed it or not. Even if he fell out of favor, Henry thought feverishly, he would still have that power. The king would not take everything from him, surely?
So you would wed her in deceit.
“For her own good. For her safety, hers and Raf’s. It is I who have brought this danger upon them, and now it is I who must save them from it.”
It sounded plausible enough. Lamb tossed his head in agreement, bringing a grim smile to Henry’s lips. He turned him for home. Home, there was a bittersweet word. He had never felt he belonged anywhere, until now. Home was Raf, with his trusting smile, and Jenova, warm and pliant in his arms. Home was this place and its people. Aye, Gunlinghorn had become his home.
But instead of basking in the joy of his new discovery, Henry was facing the possibility of losing it all.
“Who are you, Jean-Paul?” he asked himself aloud, sending Lamb galloping down the slope toward the castle. “Why do you want to destroy me?”
All these years he had tried to forget. He had put the past behind a door in his mind and kept it shut fast. Sometimes at night he would dream, but during the day he had made a different life for himself. Risen up anew from the dreadful ashes. Now all that was under threat, and he had no idea how to stop it.
Perhaps Reynard would find out for him today, when he met with Lady Rhona? Surely there was some clue, some whisper, something! He must discover who Jean-Paul was. Although how that would help him, Henry did not know. Maybe it was just that knowing his enemy would make him seem less threatening, more beatable, than the faceless priest he had met upon the seafront.
Souris.
The name was a whisper in his head. Souris, clever and bright, his friend, and companion. Souris had saved him more than once, Henry admitted that. At the time he had been grateful. But Souris had not been trustable, he had had his own agenda. Henry had always known that Souris would never have helped him escape le château de Nuit. The château had been Souris’ home, and he had had no intention of leaving it.
Souris would have seen Henry’s leaving as a betrayal.
It would fester in him, it would become hate. Souris, damaged and yet fiercely intelligent, would find an especially cruel way to make Henry suffer.
Aye, that made sense.
If anyone had the ability to torture, to torment, to shut off any remaining spark of love or compassion, then it was Souris.
The Mouse.
The midday meal was being served. As Jenova passed through the great hall, toward the kitchen, the noise made her head ache. She ignored it. Just as she had ignored Agetha’s worried and accusing glances. The girl had not given up on Alfric, but Jenova had refused to hear another word from her on the subject. Thankfully, Agetha had known when to stop, at least for the moment.
Henry, it seemed, was not so intuitive.
Jenova knew he was watching her. Ever since she had come downstairs, his gaze had followed her. She had the uneasy feeling he was like a wolf, just waiting for the right moment to pounce and pin her to the ground.
But, she told herself, she was ready for him. He would not take her by surprise again. If necessary, she would refuse to see him. Her heart was still too sore from their last encounter….
A hand came out of the shadows and caught her arm. Henry! The entrance to a storeroom was close beside her, and as Jenova gasped and tried to pull free, she realized that Henry had been lurking in there, waiting for her. Lord Henry of Montevoy among last year’s dried apples. It might have been amusing if it had not been so infuriating.
“Jenova.”
“Go away, Henry.” Her teeth were gritted, her fists clenched.
“I must tell you—”
“I mean it. Go away. Go home to London. I do not want you here anymore. You came to offer me advice—well, you have given it. Now go.” She faced him, forcing herself to meet his eyes, wanting him to understand that she meant what she said.
He stared back at her, his gaze caressing her features, delving into her brain. She could already tell that he wasn’t going anywhere; this was Henry, after all—he was simply rethinking his strategy.
“You don’t understand, Jenova. You must marry me. You will not be safe until you do. As your husband I can deal with Baldessare and protect your interests. You must not think I will prevent you from doing just as you wish. I would not be a jealous husband, or a possessive one. Far from it, I swear to you. You can continue to rule Gunlinghorn as you will, do as you wish. Can you not see that?”
Jenova shook her head in bemusement—was this meant to persuade her or send her screaming to her solar?
Henry smiled, reaching to touch her shoulder. He must have thought he had convinced her. “Jenova, you do see. You must do this for Raf’s sake—”
“Enough!”
Oh, she was angry now. How dare Henry use Raf to turn her to his wretched point of view! He truly was misguided if he thought he could bully her by using her son as bait. She would have none of him or his squeamish conscience. Let him go home and forget her, as she would forget him.
“No, Henry. I say again, no, no, no! I can take care of my son and myself. I am used to doing so. Mortred, as you know, was never here and I was alone. I am used to being alone.”
“Jenova,” he tried again, but now there was desperation in his eyes, and a hint of something she had not seen there before. Some terrible pain had him in its grip, and suddenly Jenova had had enough. Damn the man!
“What is it, Henry? Tell me what is amiss. Something has happened, I know it. You must tell me—”
“No.” Jesu, he looked pale and sick, yet even now he half turned away, as if to hide from her.
“Henry, how can you ask that I wed you, put my life in your hands, and yet refuse to tell me what is wrong?”
“There is nothing to tell.”
She met his eyes and saw beyond the smiling blue to something else. A child, locked in a small, dark place without hope of rescue. Jenova sighed. Very well. It had come down to this. If he would not tell her, she would not have him at Gunlinghorn. The choice was his.
Her voice was flat and cool. “If you have nothing to tell, then I want you gone by tomorrow. Do you understand? You will say your good-byes and go.”
He shook his head. “No, I won’t.” His mouth closed in a hard line. Here was Henry the warrior, about to engage in battle. “Not until I know you are safe, Jenova.”
Exasperation filled her, and a strange urge to laugh. No? Previously it had seemed as if he cou
ld not leave soon enough; now he was refusing to leave Gunlinghorn. Infuriating man!
Mayhap he noticed the change in her face, or mayhap he just decided to try another tactic.
“I think the reason you want me to go is because you are afraid of me,” he said, and there was a wicked note in his voice, and a wicked gleam in his eyes.
She knew that look. Its power was not to be underestimated. Already Jenova felt her toes curl inside her calfskin slippers. “That is nonsense,” she retorted, giving her voice a rousing note. “I don’t fear you in the least. Why should I?” But, just in case, she took a step back.
“Because you know in your heart that I will eventually persuade you to do as I want. Because you can’t resist me.”
He reached out and caught her hand, giving her knuckles a gentle nip before she could react and pull it away again. His mouth burned her skin. She felt her body respond, softening, readying itself for his. No, no, this was not the time to be ruled by her desire!
“I can resist you perfectly well,” she retorted, trying not to sound breathless.
He smiled, that so-handsome Henry smile. And yet he was different…. That was when Jenova realized that his hair was a little tousled, his tunic a little rumpled. Henry, who was always immaculate, was far from it. And when had he last asked for hot water, for one of his daily baths? Jenova, who had longed to see him mussed, realized with despair that it only added to his appeal. It gave him a vulnerable air that made her want to take him in her arms and comfort him.
Jesu, what was she going to do with him?
“Can you resist me?” he said. “Let me see.” He came closer, but she edged away. “I only want to kiss your lips. They are so sweet, Jenova. They taste of wild fruit. The sweetest and juiciest berries, all lush and red. But wild at heart and wanton, like you in my arms. I want to kiss them, and then I want to kiss your—”
“Henry…” she breathed in anguish, wanting to look away, wanting to stop listening. Knowing that every word he spoke was drawing her deeper into love with him.
“You are not like any of the others, Jenova.”
He sounded as if he meant it. His mouth was still curved in that irresistible, teasing smile, but his eyes were serious and his gaze unswerving. She might almost have thought it a vow.
Jenova honestly didn’t know what to say, how to fight him. She only knew that her head was pounding and she longed to be alone.
“Please, Henry,” she began again, trying to make her voice firm. She could order her garrison, why not a single man? “Please, leave Gunlinghorn. It is no use you staying. I will never marry you. I will never marry anyone. I have made my decision.”
“Never is a long time,” he replied, lifting his eyebrows. “Marry me now, and if we don’t like it, we don’t have to see each other very often. Once a year, on the stair landing—”
With a cry of angry frustration, Jenova turned and left him. She half thought he would follow and continue to pester her, but he did not. He must have known he had said enough. What was she going to do with him? She could order her garrison to throw him outside the gates, or arrest him and lock him up in her dungeon. Mayhap just tie a gag about his mouth so that he could not speak.
It was a ridiculous situation.
Jenova had thought Henry had had more pride than to linger where he was not wanted, especially when she had refused him so often and so finally. Mayhap that was the reason he was staying; his pride. She had dented it badly by turning him down—Lord Henry, the handsomest man in England—and now he meant to repair the damage by making her beg. Please marry me, Henry, please….
“I cannot bear it,” she murmured. “I cannot bear to have him here. I do not want him for my husband when it is all for duty and consideration! When there is something very wrong and he will not tell me what it is.”
I love him, and I want him to love me.
The words were on the very tip of her tongue. Jenova was afraid that, if she was not careful, she would say them aloud. Somewhere Henry could hear her. How he would smirk then, how he would laugh! His pride would be restored to its previous hard shine.
But Jenova’s would be in tatters.
She straightened her back. No, she would not let him hurt her like this. There was something amiss. She knew it; deep inside, she sensed it. Henry was hiding something from her, and it was making him miserable.
With new determination and energy, she vowed she would make him tell her what was wrong. Aye, somehow she would wheedle his secret out of him…or else it would truly be the end between them.
Chapter 18
The Black Dog was a single-story building, with a warehouse on one side and a bakery on the other. A board painted with a rather ferocious-looking dog sat outside, otherwise Rhona doubted she would have known where to go without asking. As she dismounted her mare, her legs were shaking, and it was only with great effort that she walked toward the low doorway.
The last two days had been fraught with fears that her father would somehow prevent her from coming. Alfric had kept to his room much of the time, sullen and hollow-eyed. Rhona herself might have felt as depressed as her brother, but she’d had her plan to buoy her up. The chance to be free.
And then, this morning, when she had overheard Jean-Paul and her father…mayhap she was losing her courage, but she had been afraid then. Something in that husky voice had frightened her, so that all she had wanted to do was turn and run.
Now, in hindsight, Rhona considered that it might not have been a lack of bravado that had caused her to want to escape at that particular moment. Maybe she had simply been living this uncertain life for too long, and she had reached a point where she could not go on. Surely everyone came to such a moment in their lives, when it was too difficult to take another step forward? Then again, not everyone had to live the life Rhona did.
She felt sickened, by herself as much as by her father and Jean-Paul. Even Alfric’s whining sickened her, though she pitied him. Aye, she loved him even as she wished she were not the one responsible for him. They must get away! If they did not get to Normandy this time, Rhona had a real fear that they never would.
Inside the door there were voices and smoke. The smells of ale and food and other, less savory, odors. Rhona stood, blinking, trying to get her bearings. She jumped when a voice piped up at her side.
“Will I stable your horse, me lady?”
A boy, peering up at her through a thatch of red hair, his eyes as blue as summer.
“Yes, thank you. Tell me, is Reynard here?”
The blue eyes narrowed, grew sly. “Aye, me lady. He’s over there, by the fire.” And then he was gone, and she was left to try and see through the gloom to where the boy had pointed.
Something big moved, shifted in the shadows, and came toward her. Rhona did not retreat, although she felt like it. Reynard’s face and form took shape from the murk, his eyes gleaming down at her.
“My lady,” he said, and she felt like his. His lady.
“Reynard,” she replied, her voice deliberately cold and mannered.
He reached out and took her arm, his fingers stroking the yellow wool of her sleeve and the warm flesh beneath it. “You are like a beam of sunlight,” he said, and when he said it, it did not sound trite. “There is a private place at the back,” he added quietly, ignoring the interested looks they were getting. “Come with me.”
She would have gone with him anywhere, she acknowledged to herself as she followed him down the narrow alley beside the building and into the yard at the back. He had twisted her around his big little finger, taken her cold, wounded heart and made it beat again. And Rhona did not know whether to be grateful to him or fear him the more because of it.
At the back of the inn, there was a wooden ladder leading up into a loft set in the roof above the smoky room she had just seen. She negotiated the ladder without any mishap, and Rhona was already sitting up above, upon a pile of straw, when Reynard’s head rose through the doorway. He sat down beside her—th
e roof was too low for him to stand—and turned to look at her.
His eyes searched her face, which was pale, she knew, from lack of sleep, while she sat, avoiding his gaze, wondering what he was seeing, what he was thinking.
Reynard sighed. “There is something wrong. Tell me, so that I can help you.”
He would help her? It was as if a warm light pierced the sense of aloneness that had begun to swallow her up.
She would not cry. She would not cry.
“How can you help me?” she asked him, her voice husky with emotion. “I am beyond it.”
Reynard touched her cheek with his finger, gently brushing her skin, leaning in so close to her that his breath warmed her. “Nay, you are far from that, lady.”
She wished it were so. But he did not know her, not really. Rhona sighed. “I am what I am because I have had to be, in order to survive. Things are not…easy in my father’s keep, Reynard. I learned long ago that I must be strong for my brother as well as myself. And now there is a chance,” she said as she looked at him sideways, beneath her lashes, wondering just how much she should tell.
“A chance?” he prompted.
“A chance to escape forever. To Normandy. My father will let us go if I help him to gain Lady Jenova.”
Reynard paused a moment. “And by ‘gain’ you mean that she should marry your brother?”
“Nay, not Alfric. We have gone beyond that. Wed my father.”
Their eyes met. She saw no particular reaction in Reynard’s—did he already know? Well, he may as well know the rest.
“It was my idea.”
Now there was disgust before he masked it. Rhona told herself she was not upset or insulted, for it was only what she felt for herself. “I cannot be squeamish,” she went on quietly. “I cannot afford to be. I have my brother and myself to think of. My father has said he will let me sail for Normandy if I gain him Lady Jenova, and I hope to take my brother with me. I cannot take him if he is wed to Jenova. If I must sacrifice her to achieve our freedom, then I will do it.”