Kissing the Bride E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 526

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

An Unexpected Passion Young widow, Lady Jenova of Gunlinghorn knows she must marry again, but is unsure of the bridegroom that has been chosen. However, she knows she can trust her devilishly handsome childhood friend, Lord Henry, who now advises the King! When they are trapped together by a winter tempest, she and Henry shock themselves by surrendering to a wildly passionate indiscretion. And suddenly Jenova must rethink her wedding plans… "Sara Bennett is one of today's most gifted romance writers. She writes with passion and truly gets into the 'heads' of her characters making them come to life for all of us to enjoy."—Joyfully Reviewed "Bennett gets this true-to-life tale of medieval life exactly right."—>i?Romantic Times

Leseprobe

Kissing the Bride

Sara Bennett

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Kissing the Bride

Copyright © 2004 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN: 9781641970525

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Discover More by Sara Bennett

About the Author

Dedication

Thank you to R for his love, support and belief in me through the years.

I honestly couldn’t do it without you.

Prologue

London

Winter, early 1075

Lady Jenova requests that Lord Henry of Montevoy come to her at Gunlinghom...

Lord Henry sighed as the messenger, an earnest young man in baggy breeches, carried on in a piping voice.

... come to her at Gunlinghom as soon as his duties at court allow him.

It was not that Lord Henry of Montevoy did not want to come to Lady Jenova at Gunlinghom, he thought as he sent the messenger off for refreshment. He had known Lady Jenova forever, and he was very fond of her. She had once been wed to the king’s cousin and was now a widow. Even if the king had not favored her, that marriage had made her important. No, it was not that Lord Henry did not want to visit Lady Jenova. It was just that, at this particular moment, he had other things on his mind.

King William was not currently in residence at court in London; he was across the Channel, dealing with rebels in Le Maine and attending to his affairs in Normandy. But many of the great men of England were there. There was intrigue afoot, stirrings among the barons, jostlings for more land and more power. Greed had awoken, lifting its head and casting a glance about to see who was watching.

Lord Henry did not like the tension he felt in the air these days.

It was not just the thought of leaving this simmering pot unattended that concerned Henry. He told himself he had always preferred to be in the thick of things, to know what was going on and with whom, to use his intelligence to untangle the problems of the realm. Henry had never been much of a one for the isolation of the country, and Gunlinghom was four days’ ride to the southwest.

And, of course, he enjoyed partaking of civilized pursuits. More particularly, good conversation, fine wine and beautiful women. With his clear blue eyes set in a face almost perfect, Lord Henry was often called the most handsome man in England. Henry had always treated the title with good humor—especially now, at the age of thirty-four. His handsome face hid a keen mind, and any man who at first glance dismissed him as just a face was soon put aright. Henry was an integral part of King William’s council, and as such the powerful barons saw him either as a shrewd friend to look to in times of trouble, or a man to be wary of if they were involved in anything detrimental to the king.

The women saw him differently. Henry was also famous as a lover, and few ladies could resist so handsome a trophy to show off to their friends.

Jenova was the only woman he’d ever known who was unaffected by his handsome face. She didn’t see him as a pretty trophy, or a shrewd adversary. That was one of the reasons Henry liked her, and why he felt so at ease with her. He could be himself with her, he could be Henry.

If he remembered rightly, the last time he had visited her, she had sent him home with an indulgent smile and with the admonishment to be good. Henry had laughed and kissed her fingers, then left her without a backward glance. Had he been “good”? In his way, he supposed he had, but Henry knew he had done things that Jenova would quibble over. What did she expect? She looked upon him almost as if he were a troublesome mortal and she a goddess on high: a man struggling to rise to the dizzy heights she expected of him and yet never quite reaching them. Still, she accepted his faults. She accepted him.

Such a friend, be they man or woman, was truly a rarity.

Henry sighed again. Of course, he would have to go to her. Jenova would not have asked if she had not needed to see him, and if he left at dawn tomorrow he could be in Gunlinghom in four days, assuming the weather held. That would give him a few hours to tie up any business he had at the court—his trusted second in command, Leon, could keep an eye on matters and report to him if or when it became necessary. That would leave this evening free for Henry to visit his current mistress, Christina.

He could not expect to find someone like Christina at Gunlinghom, nor would he feel comfortable preying upon Jenova’s women. She was always, to his mind, overly strict when it came to visiting lords defiling her ladies—especially when some of those ladies seemed most eager to be defiled.

He turned the message over in his mind. It was a strange relationship, the one between Jenova and himself, and yet it was a comfortable one. She had loved her husband, Mortred, and had been grieving for him now for two years. When Mortred died, Henry recalled, the glow had left Jenova’s green eyes. As if night had come to her soul.

Their son must be five years old. Henry tried to remember what he looked like and could not; beyond a pat on the head and a vague greeting, Henry never took much notice of the boy. In truth, children were of little interest to him; there was no place for them in his life. And as for having any children of his own...

Henry shuddered. He did not want the responsibility. Not after what had happened to him when he was a boy.

Shrugging off his dark thoughts, Henry let himself wonder what Jenova could want of him that required his swift attendance upon her. Was her son ill? Was she ill? But she would have said so, surely? Perhaps she needed his advice? But no, Henry smiled mockingly at his own thoughts, to Jenova he was and had always been Henry, whom she treated with a combination of amusement and indulgence and irritation, but never took too seriously.

That wasn’t strictly true, Henry chastised himself. When he gave Jenova advice on important matters, matters to do with land and the running and defense of her manor, she usually took it—she had always trusted him to know the best paths to follow in the murky waters of King William’s England. But once, when he had tried to tell her that a red gown suited her better than a yellow one, she had laughed until she’d cried.

“Are you a lady’s maid now, Henry?” she had asked him at last, her green eyes brimming. “Mayhap I should ask you for reports from the court as to what is in fashion. Mayhap you will wear a likeness of the latest headwear for me.” And she was off again, bubbling with mirth.

Henry had tried not to take offence. They had known each other since they were children, and to Jenova he would always be that boy who followed her about, who was to be tolerated in a fond sort of way.

He found her attitude frustrating, but at the same time oddly comforting.

Jenova was not like other women, and he had never treated her so.

“Reynard! ” he called suddenly.

“Yes, my lord?” Reynard, come last year from Lord Radulf’s household to serve Lord Henry, looked up from where he was slumbering by the fire. At the moment he had the appearance of a large, disheveled hound, his deceptively sleepy dark eyes fixed on Henry. But Henry knew Reynard was far from being the idle man he looked.

“We will go south to Gunlinghom at first light tomorrow. Prepare, will you? I do not expect our stay to be a long one.”

“Who is at Gunlinghom, my lord?”

Henry smiled. “An old friend,” he said. And realized that he was looking forward to this journey, after all. It had been too long since he had last seen Jenova. Far too long.

Chapter 1

The weather had not been altogether bad. South beyond London, the Forest of Anderida had enclose them like a green ocean, but Henry had arranged for guide to lead them through its timbered vastness. Snow had fallen, but not heavily, and not enough to slow down his troop of men.

Henry, huddled in his thick, fur-lined cloak, he thought wistfully of Christina, her long, dark hair covering the smooth, pale skin of her back as last evening she’d poured him wine from a jug. Her movements had been graceful and languid, and as she had turned to him, she had smiled. Aye, she had made a tasty picture, dressed only in her ebony locks.

He did not love her, any more than she loved him. Theirs was a relationship of convenience, and love was not something that was part of the contract between them. For Henry, women like Christina were a necessity—necessary pleasure. If she was not the greatest conversationalist, and her intelligence was shrewd rather than deep, what did it matter, when she more than satisfied him in bed? And as for Christina, the daughter of an ambitious minor noble, she was more than happy with her comfortable rooms and fine clothes and jewels.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” he had told her, sipping the wine.

She had blinked. “Go where, my lord?”

“To the Downs in the southwest, Christina. To Gunlinghom.”

Her eyes had widened. “Oh, my lord, I would not like to go outside London! There are savages in the countryside! ”

Henry had grinned. “Then it is as well you are not going, Christina. You will stay here until I return.”

She had been relieved, Henry thought now with wry humor. Christina had had no desire to share the perils of Henry’s journey. She liked him, or at least she liked the luxuries he could afford to give her, but that was as far as it went. She was glad he was going alone.

Why were women so fickle? They couldn’t wait to get into bed with him, but none of them sobbed more than a few false tears when it was time to part. Was it something to do with him? Did he not please them in some way? Henry knew that wasn’t so—his women were always well pleased. When their relationship had run its course, and they left, they nearly always took with them a mutual fondness. Nay, the problem lay elsewhere. And Henry had lately begun to understand that something was missing.

But what?

As clever and handsome as he was reported to be, Henry did not know.

In younger days he hadn’t felt the need to dwell on such puzzling and incomprehensible matters. Then all he had wanted was a lusty woman in his bed. But now... I must be getting old, he thought in disgust. Or maybe it was seeing Radulf and Lily, and Gunnar and Rose, and Ivo and Briar, all so happy, all content with exactly what they had, all so much in love...

It was ridiculous, but it made Henry feel lonely.

Love.

In his heart, Henry held a dark fear. Love would mean sharing all his secrets with another person and trusting them to understand. It would mean giving more of himself than he was prepared, or perhaps able, to give.

Henry had been more or less orphaned at the age of five, and at thirteen he had been a man well and truly. He did not look to love as a reason to survive.

What does it matter if I haven’t found a Lily or t Briarf, he asked himself angrily. He had what other men envied. He was well favored in looks and fortune, he had the king’s ear and any woman he wanted. It was no boast but honest truth. Women never turned Lord Henry down

Love!

He had no time for love; it was the least of his concerns. He admitted to himself that that was why he preferred the lighter intimacies of women like Christina; it was less trouble. It was safer.

Henry and his troop of men rode on, into the wintry forest, through the fertile Weald and onto the windswep Downs. Here the Gunlinghom River was born in the chalk downs and grew wide and strong, leading then into the Vale of Gunlinghom. Winter rains had turned ponds into small lakes, and the water meadows were ful of life despite the weather. Henry watched a long-legget waterbird fly low across the gray surface, momentarily surrounded by a flock of smaller linnets. Gunlinghon had always been plentiful in its harvests of both land ant water. Before the Normans came, life here had been fortunate, bountiful, and under Lady Jenova little had changed. In that regard, Gunlinghom was truly a small slice of Eden.

The castle stood upon a tall hill, overlooking the Vale. From the highest point of the keep, one could look out over the cliffs on the coast of England, to the very sea the Normans had sailed across to make their conquest.

The keep itself was constructed of timber cut from the woods surrounding the Vale of Gunlinghom. The strong wooden ramparts encircling the keep were currently being remade in local stone, with the grim-looking gatehouse already completed. Jenova was ferocious when it came to protecting what belonged to her, and Henry had suggested stone the last time he’d been here. Now, seeing with his own eyes that she had taken his advice, he felt an unexpected rush of pleasure.

Gunlinghom’s heavy gates opened easily to his name. Henry led his men into the bailey, casting an eye over the busy castlefolk, and nodding in reply to the many cries of welcome. He was known here. Liked, too, he thought. It was almost like coming home. With an odd catch in his chest, Henry realized that Gunlinghom was probably the nearest thing to a family and a home that he had ever had.

In the great hall, several servants bowed low, their voices hushed to murmurs. Henry hardly noticed them. The warmth and welcome of Gunlinghom embraced him, laced with the aroma of roasting meat from the kitchen. Henry felt himself begin to relax, the tensions easing out of his shoulders like loosening knots. He never relaxed in London—it was neither safe nor prudent to do so. And yet now, at Gunlinghom, the need to be constantly watchful was being replaced by a sense of well-being.

Henry could not help himself: He smiled. Making his way to the roaring fire, he accepted mulled wine from one of Jenova’s servants. He gulped it down, feeling instant warmth spearing through his chilled body, and then set about stripping off his heavy gloves and stamping the snow from his boots. Several castle dogs snuffled about him with friendly curiosity.

“Henry!”

Her familiar voice rose above the bustle. Henry did not realize how much he had missed her until he heard it. Or how the sight of her warmed his heart, he thought, as he turned.

Lady Jenova was coming toward him. Her moss green gown and the hem of her creamy chemise swirled elegantly about her legs, while a jewel-decorated, golden girdle rested low upon her shapely hips. Rings sparkled upon her elegant fingers, and her silken white veil drifted about her head and shoulders. Even from the far end of the hall, Henry could see the smile glowing in her green eyes.

Surprised, Henry wondered why he had never noticed that her skin was as creamy and as smooth as milk. And he knew the brown hair beneath her veil to be lush and curling, perfect for a man to tangle his fingers through. Her eyes, a haunting deep forest green, were set within long dark lashes and topped by slim, arching brows. Such eyes... they were really quite remarkable. Would they darken with passion when she was in the arms of a man?

With her wealth there must have been many suitors hoping to win her approval. And not just because of her riches, either. Jenova was an extremely good looking woman.

Although he had known many very beautiful women. Henry realized there was something about Jenova... something unique, something he had never noticed until now.

“I did not expect you so soon,” Jenova said.

“I did not think it worth sending your messenger with a warning I was on my way—I would have arrived before him.”

She gripped his hands firmly with her own cool fingers and smiled straight into his eyes.

For a moment, a single moment, he felt as if she had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. And then Henry blinked and shook off his strange abstraction. He raised her fingers to his lips, enjoying the scent and taste of her, surprising himself yet again. When he looked up, there was a twinkle in her green eyes.

“I thought that you might be otherwise occupied at court, Henry. Too busy with your intrigues to get away.”

“Nothing could ever be as important as your wishes, Jenova,” he said blandly, and for once he meant it.

She laughed. Jenova never took his compliments seriously, Henry thought irritably, but in another moment he was smiling at his own foolishness. This was Jenova, after all. Why should it suddenly matter to him whether she believed his compliments or not?

“You are looking well,” he said.

She was tall for a woman, for she stared into his eyes at almost the same height. “I am well,” she replied. “Come, Henry, and sit with me a moment. As soon as my sentries came to tell me they had seen you, I told the cook to prepare food, and I know you will want a hot bath, so there will be one waiting, when you are ready for it. You see, we are not complete barbarians here.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

She pulled a face at him and turned away. Henry followed her. Her skirts swayed gently as she walked, and the line of her back was straight and graceful. The sight of her was to be enjoyed, but Henry told himself that what he really enjoyed about it was that he felt absolutely no desire. None at all, he insisted to himself. There was no urgency to bed her, and to make her his. It was actually quite restful. He had not fully appreciated it before, but being with Jenova was really very soothing.

Jenova led him to an alcove, partially hidden behind an embroidered screen. Gracefully, she sat down, arranging her skirts about her, and Henry sat beside her, smiling as he watched her fuss. She seemed to be avoiding his eyes. What had she done that she could not tell her oldest friend?

“You sent for me and here I am. Now, tell me, Jenova,” he said with a slight impatience. “What is it?”

She looked up, and her green eyes shone with both excitement and trepidation. “Henry, oh Henry, I am thinking to marry again.”

Henry stared. For such a practised lordling who was never at a loss for a quip or a joke, he suddenly found himself with nothing to say. And worse, inside his chest a mixture of very intense emotions writhed like serpents.

Was one of them dread? But why should he feel thus? And was another disappointment? Now it occurred to Henry to wonder why he was so surprised by her news. She had loved Mortred, aye, but he had been dead two years, and there must have been many ambitious barons who had set their sights upon her since. True, she had told Henry soon after Mortred had died that she did not intend to wed again, and because of her kinship with the king, it had been possible for her to honor her vow. The king’s fondness for her had worked in her favor, and Jenova had remained a widow, ruling her own lands, doing just as she’d wished. Indeed, thought Henry with an inner smile, when had he ever known Jenova to do otherwise? Henry tried to dear his thoughts, tried to shrug off the strange mood that had come upon his normally cold and rational self. Mayhap he was just concerned for her well-being? That must be it, he thought with relief, as he looked at her.

Jenova was frowning at him, a tiny wrinkle between her arching brows. “You do not seem overjoyed, Henry,” she said with a bite to her tone. “And I have not even told you his name. This does not bode well, does it, for your attendance at my bride ale?”

Henry managed to laugh, though it took more effort than he would have believed possible.

“I am sorry, Jenova, but it was a shock... a surprise. I had no idea... You have been a widow so long, I am used to your single state. I did not realize you wanted to alter it. Who is the fortunate man?”

“I have not decided to say aye to him yet, but the man is Baldessare.”

Henry kept the smile on his face through sheer strength of willpower. Jenova gave him a sharp, searching glance but seemed satisfied with what she saw. Relaxing a little, her cheeks faintly flushed, she proceeded to tell him about her chosen husband.

But Henry wasn’t listening. He did not need to hear anything about Lord Baldessare. Henry knew him. Twice Jenova’s age, war-struck and truculent, how could such a man attract the attention of the Lady Jenova, let alone her affection? For, aye, there was affection in her voice.

It was beyond his comprehension.

“ ’Tis all very well, sweeting,” he said patiently, interrupting the flow of her lilting voice, “but isn’t he a little old for you?”

Jenova stopped, blinked and stared. And then she laughed aloud. “Oh Henry, you fool! No, no, not the father! I am thinking to marry the son. Alfric. He is not too old, in fact he is younger than me, and very amiable. I am certain we will get on very well together.”

“You mean he will never forbear you anything you ask for, and you will boss him about unmercifully,” he retorted.

Jenova had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Well, mayhap. But I would not want a man who ruled me, Henry. I am too used to my own way, and more so now, when I have run Gunlinghom for so long, alone. I fear I would not take kindly to interference.”

That last sounded like a warning. Had she asked him here because she wanted him to say “aye” to everything she asked of him? Well, he thought with a sudden spurt of anger, he’d be damned if he’d come all this way just to flatter her.

“My sweet Jenova,” Henry began, careful to sound as friendly and helpful as he could. “I do not mean to criticize, but to marry with the expectation of treating your husband like one of your serfs does not bode well for your future happiness.”

Jenova smiled coolly and narrowed her intriguing eyes. “And of course you are all knowledgeable when it comes to marriage, Henry.”

“Nay, you know I am not, but I have witnessed many others falter, or end in misery.”

“Henry, I do not marry for love,” she explained to him in a patient voice. “I honestly do not expect to find anything more than companionship, and if I wed a man who bows to all my wishes, I will certainly be the happier for that.”

But Jenova deserved so much more, Henry thought, and felt sadness for her sake. She seemed to believe herself unworthy of genuine happiness. Unworthy of the sort of love that Henry’s friends had discovered. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t know such a love was possible? Perhaps, like Henry, she had never experienced it? But no, that could not be, for she had loved Mortred, or at least the man she had imagined Mortred to be. Henry had made very sure that she never learned the sordid truth about Mortred, and he believed he had succeeded—after all, Jenova had sworn not to remarry when her husband died.

So what had changed her mind?

He opened his mouth to ask her and then stopped himself. It was not his business. He was here to give Jenova practical advice, not to take on the role of bridegroom finder. She would laugh at him, or mock him, and deservedly so. Jenova, he reminded himself firmly, was a clever and intelligent woman. She knew what she wanted, and if she wanted young Baldessare for her husband, who was Henry to deny her her heart’s desire?

And perhaps it is her heart's desire. Perhaps, despite her protestations, she has fallen in love with him.

The thought slipped slyly into his head. He gave Jenova a searching glance. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes glowed, her lips had curled into a sly little smile... She looked well, very well indeed. But was she a woman in the throes of a lusty love? Henry did not think so, but mayhap that was because he didn’t want to think so. He admitted it to himself. There was something about believing Jenova in love with Lord Baldessare’s son that turned him unpleasantly cold.

Jenova tried to hide her smile. Henry looked grumpy. He didn’t approve of her marrying again, but he was trying to hide it. Had he and Mortred been close friends, she might have understood his lack of enthusiasm. But they hadn’t been. Henry must have been well aware of the lie that was Mortred.

Jenova’s smile faltered. Why had he never told her? Why had he let her wallow in her grief never knowing the truth? For two years! Had Henry kept her in ignorance because he saw naught wrong in Mortred’s behavior? Or because he sought to protect her from a knowledge that would wound her?

Knowing Henry so well, Jenova favored the latter explanation. Aye, she had known him since they were children and he had been sent to live with her family, claiming some tenuous kinship with her father. “Henry has been abandoned by his own mother,” Jenova remembered her father saying, as if it had been a serious fault in Henry’s character. As if the abandonment had been entirely Henry’s doing.

Sometimes, now, the boy that he had been still crept into her heart like a little ache, and sometimes the man he had become irritated and yet intrigued her in equal measure. Most of the time she tended not to take him too seriously—she had known him for too long—but he did offer good advice some of the time, and some of the time she was inclined to take it.

As for her possible bridegroom, Jenova admitted to herself that Henry was partially right. She had chosen Alfric because he would deny her nothing, and she was well aware she could order him about. A woman would be a fool to give herself to a man who would not put her first.

But there was more to her sudden decision to remarry.

Vengeance. Aye, there was that, if one could take vengeance against a husband who was dead. The fact was, Jenova felt foolish for mourning so long for a man unworthy of her grief. But over and above these things, there had grown a strong sense of lacking, of loss, of loneliness...

Aye, she was lonely.

What would Henry know of that? Jenova asked herself irritably. It was doubtful he was ever lonely. From the rumors Jenova had been privy to, and her own observations, she knew that Henry didn’t lack for female companionship. He would not understand her loneliness, her taking the weight of Gunlinghom upon her shoulders and making a success of it, and then having no one with whom to share her triumphs. She had no one to laugh with, to weep with, no one with whom to spend the long nights, to hold her in the darkness, and to wake with in the morning light.

More than anything, though, Jenova knew she missed the companionship and the closeness she and Mortred had once shared. That was what she wanted from Alfric—someone to smile at her and hold her hand and lead her to the table, someone to kiss her and hold her when she was feeling low. It didn’t need to be wild passion; she didn’t really think she was capable of wild passion. Jenova just wanted someone who cared—or did a good job of playing the part!

She shook off her melancholy thoughts. Usually she had no time for such self-indulgence—the running of Gunlinghom left her with very little time to ponder her solitary state. And if she wed Alfric, there would be no need to ponder it at all.

“I hope you will treat Alfric with courtesy,” she said, giving Henry a long, censorious look. “I do not want him to feel as if you are judging him.”

Henry cast up his bright blue eyes, and the smile he gave her was a touch mischievous. “I won’t intimidate him, sweeting, if that is what you mean.”

Jenova studied him a moment more, trying to make him out, but of course it was impossible. If Henry did not wish you to read his thoughts, then you couldn’t. It was one of the most infuriating things about him. On the surface he was charming and easygoing, but there were hidden depths to Henry. Well, she would just have to take him at his word.

Jenova relaxed into a smile of her own. “Thank you, Henry. Now, there was something more...”

“Oh?”

“It concerns Lord Baldessare, Alfric’s father. He sent his scribe, who is also his priest, with a request... nay, a demand,” Jenova’s eyes glittered, “that the marriage contract include my agreement that, in the event of Alfric’s death, he himself would become guardian to my son, and protector of Gunlinghom.”

Henry frowned. “Guardian to your son? If you were a feeble female, I suppose I would understand it, but you are not. And protector of Gunlinghom? You have had no protector thus far, why would he imagine you needed one?”

“That is what I ask myself,” Jenova said, pleased to see he was as put out by Baldessare’s demands as she. “Perhaps you can discover what notions are wriggling about like worms in that man’s head, for I fear he is beyond me.”

Henry smiled at the image, but he still looked uneasy. “He is a tough old warrior, I grant you. Perhaps he thinks all women are weak and unable to care for their lands, and there’s an end to it. Perhaps if we persuade him you are as capable and clever as you are beautiful, he will desist.”

His praise pleased her. “Well, I will not agree to his terms, and there’s an end to it. If I wed Alfric and anything were to happen to him, I would rule alone, as I do now, until my son is old enough to see to his own inheritance. I do not want interference from strangers who know nothing of Gunlinghom, and care less.”

“Is Alfric sickly?” Henry was still worrying at the problem. “Mayhap the father knows something you do not.”

Jenova tapped a slim finger against her cheek. “I would not have thought so, no. He appears hale and healthy. But you must make your own judgment on the matter, Henry. I’ll warrant you know more than I of the lies and tricks powerful men like to play.”

Henry wondered if she meant that as a compliment. If not, then what was she implying? She was the only woman he knew who could confuse him like that. “My feeling is that Baldessare is simply too greedy to allow the possibility of Gunlinghom falling out of his grasp.”

“But it is not in his grasp. If I marry, I will be marrying Alfric.”

“And Alfric is a man you can rule, Jenova. But think on this; if you can rule him, then so can others.” He stood up. “I will bathe, and change my clothing, and see you and your bridegroom anon.”

Jenova smiled, and then watched as he strode across the hall, calling to his man as he went. He looked very handsome, despite the dust of his journey, but then Henry had never been anything but handsome. It was ungenerous of her, she knew, but sometimes she wished he could look just a little worn or frazzled. A little less than perfect.

Henry’s big, swarthy servant, Reynard, fell in behind him. He wore Henry’s emblem on his tunic, the phoenix surrounded by flame. The two of them, Henry and Reynard, vanished up the stairs into the keep’s upper reaches.

Jenova knew that in her heart she was glad she had asked Henry to attend her. He may be famed for his honeyed tongue at court, but she knew that in such a situation as this he would give her an honest opinion. Even if she did not agree with it, she could rely upon him to be sincere. That was something she missed when he was not here—a man who told the truth to her. Alfric tended to flatter her, telling her what she wanted to hear. And while it was very nice, and he seemed to mean it, Jenova preferred the brutal truth.

You are as capable and clever as you are beautiful.

The words echoed in her head. Did Henry really think her beautiful? She imagined he was used to flattering women, and doing other things to them that made them gasp and squirm and beg for more. An image of his naked, well-muscled shoulders and back, his body almost entirely covering the female form beneath him, his hands and mouth touching, caressing, his chestnut hair curling at his nape... her fingers tangling in it as she felt his lips, warm and teasing, moving over the plump curve of her breast toward its center. His hot mouth brushing her so that she gasped. His tongue circling, and then his lips closing over her and she... she...

Jenova stood up abruptly. Shocked. What on earth was she thinking? Henry’s women were naught to do with her. She was sometimes curious, aye, but for some reason just now that curiosity had gotten out of hand. Her cheeks felt quite hot. And it wasn’t just her cheeks.

Jenova took a deep breath and pushed all such thoughts firmly out of her head. Enough. That was quite enough of that. She had Alfric to dream of, hadn’t she? Henry was her friend and that was all. Even to begin to imagine such a situation was dangerous and foolish and a sure way to get herself hurt.

When she was quite certain that she had regained her composure, Jenova went to attend to her own appearance.

Chapter 2

Alfric, son of Lord Baldessare, arrived on a snowy horse at the head of a troop of grim-faced men. He was dressed in a fine woollen tunic of woad blue, with soft, dark leather breeches. The spurs attached to his boot-heels shone like stars. He was a good-looking young man, with hair fairer than Henry’s, and with eyes of a deep, melancholy brown. As Jenova came to greet him, the gaze he turned upon her was more like a hound’s toward its master than a future bridegroom’s toward his bride.

Henry sighed inwardly. If Jenova wanted a man who was her slave, then she had chosen well. While he stood back and waited to be introduced, Alfric was busy kissing her fingers and whispering preposterous compliments to her, his puppy-dog eyes full of meaning. Reynard, who was standing behind Henry, murmured something derogatory under his breath.

“Now, now, Reynard,” Henry said in mock reprimand. “We cannot all be men of intelligence. And the lady seems to be enjoying his attentions.” Indeed, Jenova was quite flushed. “Perhaps that is a lesson for you and me—be not clever or skilled if you want to succeed with the ladies. They much prefer stupid men.”

“I need no help when it comes to the ladies, my lord,” Reynard replied with some arrogance.

Henry turned and looked him up and down. Reynard was a big man, more like a bear than a man, but with his rugged good looks, women seemed to cluster about him. Even Christina, when she thought Henry wasn’t watching. Mayhap Reynard was right, and he did not need instruction from Alfric. Or Henry.

“Lord Henry!”

Jenova had finally managed to fight free of her aspiring bridegroom, and now her gaze was fastened meaningfully upon him. It was time for him to play his part, outwardly at least. But, as Henry strolled forward, full of his usual smiling confidence, he felt anything but amiable toward Alfric, son of Baldessare.

“Lord Alfric,” Jenova introduced him, “this is my oldest and dearest friend, Lord Henry of Montevoy.”

Alfric looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of Henry, and then as quickly narrowed. There was no mistaking the gleam of jealousy in them. He tightened his mouth. In a heartbeat he had turned from a handsome, charming young man into a small boy who has had some bauble taken from him and doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.

Was Alfric really so lacking in trust for Jenova that he would be jealous of an “old friend”?

Or was it just that Lord Henry’s reputation with women had followed him all the way to Gunlinghom?

Still, Henry did not allow his own smile to falter—he was doing this to please Jenova, not Alfric. He gritted his teeth and made his brief bow and spoke of his pleasure at meeting Alfric. Then, for good measure, he added, “As Lady Jenova has mentioned, she and I are very old friends,” stressing the word.

Alfric’s demeanor brightened a little, although he still didn’t appear altogether comfortable in Henry’s presence. “L-lord Henry,” he stammered. “I have heard of you, of course. Your name is well known throughout the land.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? You flatter me, Lord Alfric.”

“No, no, I do not! You are known f-far and w-wide. My father has often spoken of you. Indeed, once at court, when h-he claimed a parcel of land to the west, you—” But Alfric came to an abrupt halt. His face flushed a deep and ugly red, and he glanced away, swallowing audibly. “That is, he-he met you once, in London, at court. That is all I-I meant to say.”

Reynard snorted rudely, turning it into a cough. Henry ignored him. “Of course you did,” he said evenly. “And I do remember your father.” And the matter you speak of, he thought, but did not say it aloud. Alfric already looked as if he was about to explode with embarrassment, or terror, or both.

Jenova appeared confused, as well she might. Her glance slid over Henry’s innocent expression and narrowed, as if she blamed him for Alfric’s state—most unfair, in Henry’s opinion. Then with a brilliant, determined smile, she took Alfric’s arm and, speaking softly to him, led him within the keep.

Henry followed, his smile genuine and no longer polite. He remembered the incident at court well enough, although he had forgotten it until Alfric reminded him.

The father had claimed some land that was not due him, and the king had asked Henry what he thought. Henry had said he had seen the land himself and had joked that he wouldn’t mind having it, and the king, more as a rebuff to Lord Baldessare’s presumption than to reward Henry, had promptly given it to him. Baldessare had left in a rage, swearing vengeance.

He must have thought better of it, for the vengeance had never eventuated, but it was clearly still on his, and his son’s, mind. Being acquainted with the truculent and bitter Lord Baldessare, Henry could well imagine that the slight, and the loss of the land, had never been allowed to be forgotten.

The meal was succulent and well prepared, and there was even a juggler to add to the occasion. Jenova was excelling herself to please her would-be bridegroom, and young Alfric seemed willing and eager to be pleased. Now and then he would cast a nervous glance in Henry’s direction, and his stammer was more pronounced when he spoke to him, but otherwise the occasion went off without further incident. Henry was able to converse with some of Jenova’s household, her ladies and steward and Sir John, the knight in charge of her garrison.

Gunlinghom impressed him tonight, with its elegance and grandeur, as it had never done before. It was the sort of place he might have dreamed of living in, as a child. An abandoned child, he reminded himself wryly. A son of the minor nobility, Henry had been technically an orphan by the age of five, when his devout mother had decided to enter a religious house and spend her remaining years within its walls. She had wanted to be a nun from girlhood but had been prevented by her family and forced to marry. With her husband dead and a son she looked upon as the product of a sin rather than her own flesh and blood, she had followed her inclination.

Alone and abandoned, Henry had been passed from relative to relative, no matter how tenuous the connection. He had lived in many different castles and keeps throughout Normandy, reliant upon others for his well-being—or lack of. He had looked upon it as an adventure, suitable training for the tough knight that he one day planned to become. And then he had been taken to a castle like no other. He had been drawn into the shadows—swallowed whole with no hope of escape. Henry had been thirteen when he’d been released from that hell, and he had taken the chance he’d been given. Like a phoenix he had risen anew from the ashes and four years later had been knighted for his bravery in a small skirmish. He had not looked back.

Aye, he was proud of what he had become, the life he had made for himself, the man he had molded from the boy. He preferred the present. The past was full of dark corners. Memories he did not revisit often. Shadowy recollections he preferred not to dwell upon.

Much better to remember when William the Bastard had set out to conquer England, although he had claimed at the time it was rightfully his. Whatever the legality of the matter, Henry had known it was his opportunity to make good. He saw that he could use William’s ambitions as a lever to raise himself higher. So it had been. He’d been there with William at Hastings and had helped him to victory. Ever since that day, the king had enjoyed his company and found his clever tongue useful. And he had certainly been well rewarded for his efforts.

Not that Henry was complacent. He was well aware that his circumstances could change quicker than King William’s moods. His position would always be precarious, and he could never be too careful. One of the reasons why, despite his trust in Leon, his second in command, he preferred not to be away from court for too long. Allegiances shifted, favorites fell, wheels turned full circle, and Henry did not intend to be one of the casualties.

Mayhap I shouldn’t have come, Henry thought now, uneasily. There were stirrings at court and about England; some of the Anglo-Norman barons were intent upon securing more land than they deserved. It had been Henry’s job to keep an eye on these rumors and plots, and to put a stop to them if it became necessary. Leon would send word if matters became dire, he knew, and yet...

But Jenova had asked for him, and because she was his friend, and he wanted to please her, he had come. Although, he thought grimly, if pleasing her meant allowing her to wed a weak fool like Alfric, then he might do better to displease her. Was that what she really wanted? A husband who would gaze at her as if he was witless and do exactly as she told him? Then Alfric was perfect for her.

Besides, who was Henry to judge!

He, himself, had never looked for more than a compliant mind and body when seeking a new mistress, and that could not be much different for a wife. Certainly the last thing he had ever wanted was for his heart to be engaged. Christina was pretty and amiable, and she cared no more for him than he cared for her. The perfect situation, surely? Why should Jenova be any different in her choices, and why should Henry want her to be?

“Well?” Jenova demanded, when at last Alfric was gone and they were alone again. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and a strand of hair had come loose from her veil and lay against her temple. She looked like a young girl again, rather than a mature woman who had been wed and borne a son. Henry had an urge to reach out and brush the strand away; he squeezed his hand into a fist to stop himself.

Suddenly, touching Jenova did not seem like a good idea.

“Well?” she asked again, impatient with him now. “What do you think of Alfric?”

“What do I think of Alfric?” Henry pretended to ponder. “Does it matter what I think?”

Jenova poked her finger into his arm. “Stop teasing me, Henry. I want to know your opinion of my future husband.”

“Very well. I think that Alfric is smitten with you, Jenova, and as long as his love lasts, he will be easy enough to manage.” That was the truth as Henry saw it.

Jenova, who had begun to smile, froze. “ ‘As long as it lasts’?”

“No love lasts forever, but some last longer than others. I don’t know whether the fact that he is jealous of me is a good sign, or a bad sign. Mayhap good.”

“Jealous!” Jenova declared, green eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, Henry? Alfric has no reason to be jealous.”

“Didn’t you see the way he looked at me when we met? He was jealous, Jenova. He thought you and I are...” Her eyes had narrowed even more, like a cat, and Henry bit his lip on the less than polite word he was about to use. “Let us just say, sweeting, that he believes we are far more than friends.”

Jenova broke into a peal of laughter. “You cannot be serious! You and me, Henry! I will have to explain to Alfric that if there are two people in all of England least likely to be lovers, then ’tis you and me! ”

For some reason Henry did not feel amused.

What was so amusing, anyway? What was wrong with him? Was he less of a man than Alfric? Henry felt the stirrings of a strange anger deep inside himself. He was a better man than that cow-eyed youth, and he knew it! Why did Jenova find the notion of him and her so laughable? It was enough to make him want to prove her mistaken.

Henry inwardly shook his head at his own shortsightedness. Such a step would be both foolish and cruel. He was not a cruel man, and he was certainly not a fool. If Jenova had hurt his pride, then it had been unintentional. She was his friend. Surely having such a friend was far, far better than making her his lover for a short time, and then, inevitably, having nothing.

But, just for an instant, a heavenly vision came to him. Of Jenova, her creamy skin uncovered and her brown hair loose about her lush body. Her green eyes, sleepy with desire, lifted to his and her arms held out toward him.

Just for an instant, and then it was gone, and Henry could breathe again.

Jenova was combing her hair. The long, heavy tresses fell over her back and shoulders, curling up at the ends, shorter strands tickling her face and neck. She often thought her hair dull, but the firelight brought out the many different colors to be found in it—gold and mahogany and red. They gleamed and meshed, making the dull glorious.

She thought of Alfric and smiled. He might seem young, but he would mature with time and some careful tutoring from her. Henry was right. Although she had not liked to admit it, Alfric was uncomfortably jealous of other men. That, Jenova decided, was the fault of his youth, and of his overbearing father. With time his confidence would grow, and he would no longer be quite so insecure.

He was not Mortred, she reminded herself. He did not have Mortred’s easy self-confidence. But then she did not want another Mortred. She had loved her husband, mourned him, and he had betrayed her. Men like Mortred, men like Henry, found it too easy to manipulate a woman’s gentle heart and willing body. She wanted no more of them.

Jenova took a deep breath.

Wasn’t that one of the reasons she was marrying Alfric? To take revenge upon Mortred’s memory? But that was her secret. Not even Henry must know the true extent of her hurt—he would not understand. Henry never allowed emotion to interfere with business, and what was marriage but a business contract?

She drew her comb through her hair, remembering Henry’s face when she had laughed at the idea of him and her. She should not have laughed. It had been impolite of her. But the thought of them together had struck her as so bizarre that it was amusing. They were so totally unsuited, so unlikely a couple! For a moment there he had looked... hurt, before his good humor had reasserted itself. That was one of the wonderful things about Henry; he was so even tempered that very little upset him. He had been a sweet boy, and he had grown into an amiable man.

Jenova knew she was lucky to have Henry as her friend. And so much better to be his friend than his lover. She had always felt a little sorry for his women, although they did not appear to resent the experience. There were always lots more of them willing to take the place of those who had gone before.

Is he really such a good lover?

The curious thought had hardly entered her mind when it was followed by an image of Henry. Golden skin and blazing violet-blue eyes, rising above her, his handsomeness all for her. She shook her head, uncomfortable with herself. No, no, not again, that would never do! Henry was her friend, one of her few friends, and she did not want to ruin such a fortunate relationship. Once, when they were hardly more than children, they had kissed one afternoon in a meadow, and it had been very sweet, but that was long ago. Such things were best forgotten.

If she had really hurt his feelings by laughing at him, then she would make it up to him tomorrow. She would take him out riding! Although the Vale of Gunlinghom and the surrounding hills were white with snow, the ride would be a bracing treat. Henry had always loved to ride around Gunlinghom.

Jenova was well aware that he would already be missing the court, with its verbal maze of rumor and gossip, the constant stimulation of his mind and his senses. Henry thrived upon such things; they were his life. It was important that while he was here, she keep him entertained with all the pursuits he enjoyed.

Aye, tomorrow they would go riding.

Just the two of them.

The Gunlinghom countryside was white, the fields covered in a crisp layer of snow, the water meadows and marshes half-frozen, while ice and snow hung heavy from the bare branches of the trees in the woods. Beyond the cliffs to the south, the sea was gray and sullen, while some brave gulls floated in a sky that was just as gray.

Jenova had risen early, washing and dressing in her warmest gown and fur-lined boots, and hurried down to the hall. Henry, who was already risen, as she had known he would be, smiled at her over his mug of ale and morning meal of bread and cheese. Jenova hesitated as she reached him. That was odd. Why had she never noticed before how white and strong his teeth were? And how the little lines by his blue eyes creased up so attractively when he smiled?

For a moment her thoughts were confused, and she found herself wondering what she had been about to say, but she quickly shook off her strangeness. It wasn’t as if she had never seen Henry before. And yet, just for a moment there, he had been like a stranger. A handsome, desirable stranger.

“I thought we could go riding this morning, Henry,” Jenova said, a little breathlessly, striving for normality. “I have not been out for weeks, and although ’twill be cold, I believe the weather will hold for a few hours.”

Henry’s smile broadened. “I would enjoy that very much, Jenova.” He hesitated. His smile remained but lost something of its ease. “Alfric will be coming?”

Jenova shook her head. “No, not Alfric. We will go together, Henry, just you and me.”

Henry nodded, and then hesitated, as if debating something, before launching into what sounded to her like a prepared speech. “I have been thinking about your marriage, Jenova. The king may not approve an alliance between you and Baldessare. Mayhap you should wait until he returns from Normandy and see what—”

Jenova held up her hand. “No, Henry. Not today. We will speak of my marriage, but not this day. I intend to forget the Baldessares, all of them, and enjoy myself. Please,” she added.

Henry paused. It was true, he had been mulling over her marriage during the night, and the more he mulled, the less happy he became at the idea of his Jenova aligning herself with that family. And perhaps more importantly, the less happy he believed King William would be. But she was right, such things could keep until later.

“Of course,” he said genially and rose to his feet. “Let us ride together.”

“Mama, Mama, can I come?”

The boy running toward them had hair that curled wildly about his head and neck and was the same color as Jenova’s. He came to a halt against her skirts, buffeting her, but she laughed and hugged him to her. What is his name? thought Henry. What was Jenova’s son’s name?

“Raf, you grow stronger every day,” Jenova pretended to scold, solving the problem for him.

Raf gave her a broad grin and then turned his gaze on Henry. There was a slightly wary look in his eyes now, as if he was well aware that Henry did not willingly seek the company of children. Henry had a suspicion that Jenova herself may have told her son not to bother their guest, and he was grateful.

“Good morning, Raf,” he said in a falsely jovial voice.

The boy bowed carefully. “Lord Henry, I pray you are well in mind and body.”

Henry’s lips twitched despite himself, while Jenova bent and murmured something in the boy’s ear. For a moment Raf looked mulish, but then with a resigned sigh he nodded. A plump young woman waited anxiously farther down the hall, clearly waiting to ferry him away. He turned and, slightly dragging his feet, returned the way he had come, but not before he cast another glance at Henry. This time the look in the boy’s eyes was pleading, and Henry had an uncharacteristic urge to call him back, to say that of course he could go with them. He stifled it.

Boys like Raf reminded him too much of his own young and innocent self.

He supposed he had been that innocent, once. Or nearly so. Life had sometimes been difficult, and he had been much alone, but he had been brave and strong and determined to make the most of his opportunities. How was he to know he would fall in with such evil creatures?

Jenova’s warm fingers brushed against his, startling him from his reverie. “Come then,” she said gently, almost as if she had read his mind. “Let us go while the weather holds.”

The horses had not been exercised for some time, and they were as eager as Henry and Jenova to be out in the brisk morning air. For a while they simply rode, Reynard and the troop of men-at-arms spread out behind them. When they reached the top of Gunlinghom Hill, they stopped, breathless, and gazed at the view before them. On such a crisp and cold day, it was possible to see for many miles. Henry looked with satisfaction upon the rich Vale of Gunlinghom, with its wide river and meadows and, overlooking it all, the stark bulk of the protecting castle. This may not be London, but, to Henry’s mind, it was the next best thing. If he had to live in the country, if he was ever forced to become a live-in landlord, then he would choose Gunlinghom.

Then he remembered. Soon Alfric, with his brown, melancholy eyes, might be master here, and Henry would no longer feel welcome. The idea of that sulky boy at Gunlinghom was suddenly so repugnant to Henry that he determined that if the marriage went ahead, he would never visit again.

With that realization came another. Henry had never understood just how much he would miss Gunlinghom.

And Jenova.

He glanced at her, wondering if she was thinking the same thing, if she realized this might be one of their last days together. But Jenova was smiling as she gazed over her domain, her thoughts clearly very distant from his own. Jenova caught his eye, and there was a wildness in hers that he remembered from when they were children. “Let’s ride to the sea,” she cried and, with a laugh, kicked her horse into a gallop. She flew down the hillside, and into the woods, the hood of her fur-lined cloak falling back from her hair. She didn’t look back, she just expected him to follow her. And so he would; so he always did. With a laugh of his own, Henry set off in hot pursuit.