Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  “Jenova?” He was watching her, waiting for the answer to his question, and puzzled by her silence.

  She turned her thoughts away from this new, dangerous direction, and managed a pale smile. “I am still cold…that is, a little.”

  His frown deepened. Was his annoyance with her or the weather? Before she could ask the question, he lifted her cloak so that it enfolded them both, his arm sliding under the furred lining. He drew her in, close, to his side, and pressed her head gently down onto his shoulder. Surprise kept her from protesting, and then, when he tightened his hold about her, pleasure stopped her from moving away. Aye, she was enjoying it, enjoying being completely enclosed. By Henry.

  “You will soon be warm,” he murmured, and his breath stirred her hair, brushed against her skin. Her heart quickened within her breast, and her blood seemed to melt, turning her insides into a river of heat.

  Jenova heard her inner voice sound a warning. Run for your life! it said. She ignored it, just as she had ignored the danger of the storm clouds. Henry was her friend, her oldest friend, but as she listened to his voice rumble deep in his chest, and the easy beat of his heart, her usual equilibrium tottered into a quivering mess. The truth was, she liked his body, so hard and warm against hers, and the strong band of his arm about her waist.

  Jenova shivered again, but it was no longer from the cold. Nay, she was getting warm, far, far too warm, and all from touching Henry. Indeed she was ready for marriage; until now she had not realized how her woman’s body had missed the contact of a man….

  “Jenova?” Henry sounded concerned. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up. He was watching her, staring down into her face. Their gazes tangled, played games. Jenova slid the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, meaning to moisten its dryness, but instead the movement made him catch his breath. In an instant he was alert, his body tense. She knew he could see something of her feelings in her face. She was sure her need was writ plain in her eyes.

  Oh, Jesu, what was happening to her?

  Her heart began to beat hard in her chest, and the inner voice said, This is wrong. This is wrong, stop it now. And yet she could not seem to pull away from him, she could not seem to stop it. Not even to save her life could she pull away from the grip of whatever had her as its prisoner. Deep inside she knew she did not even want to.

  And then Henry made a sound very like a groan of pain, and dipped his head and kissed her.

  Henry’s mouth was hot, while his lips were cold. The combination was astonishingly delicious. Jenova, at first too surprised to move, found her own mouth responding, found herself kissing him back. He was so familiar, and yet so different. He was Henry and yet he was not the Henry she knew, had thought she knew. Someone she had imagined to be very familiar seemed to have altered beyond all recognition.

  But he was still Henry.

  Jenova pulled back with a shaken laugh, putting her fingers to her lips. He was staring down at her, breathing fast, and behind the confusion she saw in his eyes, mirroring her own, was desire. Hot, burning desire.

  It shook her to the core of her being. It jolted her back to the here and now, and out of whatever fantasy she had just strayed into.

  “I don’t know what is happening, Henry,” she said in a trembling voice, and it was no more than the truth.

  “I kissed you,” Henry said and turned away, moving to throw more wood upon their fire.

  Jenova felt chill with the lack of him. Her body still trembled, but was that cold or something more? She no longer trusted herself to know the difference. Her senses had betrayed her.

  “I cannot believe you have never been kissed before, sweeting,” Henry added, and his familiar mockery stung.

  Jenova forced a husky laugh. “Is that all it was? A kiss between old friends? It felt like more.” That sounded like a question, and she immediately wished it back.

  But Henry was busy with the fire, and there was nothing in his manner that confirmed what she believed she had seen in his eyes. Desire? For me? No! She had been mistaken. Henry did not desire her, why would he? They were friends, nothing more, and he had plenty of women to sate his needs. The simple truth was that she had probably looked so cold and miserable that Henry, being the kind man he was, had kissed her to warm her up!

  Henry arranged another cut of wood on the fire, concentrating on it as if his life depended upon it. Behind him, he could feel her puzzlement and her uncertainty, and he cursed himself. Why had he kissed her? The fact that she had looked so kissable, so delectable, should not have had any effect on him. He had never desired Jenova. She was the one woman he had always felt safe with, the one woman with whom he had never felt a need to prove himself.

  Why in God’s name had that suddenly changed?

  But it hadn’t, Henry insisted to himself. Nothing had changed. It had been a momentary aberration, and now it had passed. He glanced at her over his shoulder, noting her wet, straggling hair and cold, pinched face. See, not a flicker of desire, he told himself proudly.

  And then he looked at her again.

  She really was soggy. Her gown was soaked and clinging to her, her arms were wrapped about her body with her fingers tucked under her arms, as if seeking warmth. Her feet in their damp stockings were as close to the fire as she could bear them.

  “You need to take off your wet clothes,” he said matter-of-factly. “My cloak is almost dry now. You can use that to cover yourself until your own dries.”

  Something deep in his mind was jumping about, waving its arms and shouting, but he didn’t heed it. A warning? What warning? He needed no warning. This was Jenova, remember? Jenova needed his help, and he had never failed her before.

  Jenova cocked her head to one side, as if she heard the warning too. “I don’t know, Henry….”

  “You will freeze to death, Jenova. You do want to get home to Gunlinghorn, and eventually wed your Alfric, do you not?”

  Perhaps it was mention of her bridegroom that did it, or perhaps it was the matter-of-factness in Henry’s tone. Jenova felt herself relax as her fears receded. Henry was right. Of course he was. Jenova knew it. It was just that, after that kiss, she felt a little uneasy with him. Another sensation she had never experienced in Henry’s presence before.

  Don’t be silly. This is Henry. I need to get warm or I really will get ill. It is foolish to be prudish with a man I have known most of my life.

  With a shrug, she reached under her cloak and began to unfasten the damp laces at the neck of her gown with stiff, uncooperative fingers. Henry watched her sideways, pretending he wasn’t. When he could bear her fumblings no longer, he sighed loudly and, crawling across to her, pushed her fingers aside and quickly unknotted the laces. He undid the cloak, too, and pulled it from her shoulders.

  “There. Now take your things off, and I will fetch my cloak for you.” But again he hesitated, eyeing her damp feet, then he began briskly to remove her stockings from where they were tied above her knees. He pretended the legs he was uncovering were not slim and very attractive; he sensed that if he stopped for a moment to consider what he was doing he might well be in trouble.

  “Now,” he said, as she thanked him gravely, “take off the rest.”

  He went to fetch his cloak, bringing it to her before laying out her own cloak and stockings on the woodpile. Then he returned to the fire and sat with his back to her. Very soon a bare arm stretched out and dropped the remainder of her garments beside him. He noted them. Her gown and a warm woollen chemise and another, silken one, to be worn close to her skin. Henry proceeded to deal with them as matter-of-factly as the rest. If his fingers noted that the last chemise was soft and clinging, and retained the scent of her skin, he told himself not to dwell upon it. And if his head felt a little dizzy, as if he were becoming intoxicated, he told himself it was the smoke.

  When at last he had finished his task, and found the courage to turn again to Jenova, she was sitting on her side of the fire, small within the folds of his much
larger cloak, her hair spread over her back and shoulders to dry. Her side of the fire? When had it become necessary to separate them like this? When had he needed to put distance between them? This was Jenova, his friend, his sweeting…and her hands were shaking as she held them to the flames.

  And yet he hesitated. He played for time.

  “We are still like children,” he said, and smiled. “Too busy playing our games to notice the weather closing in.”

  “We always were a b-bad influence on each other.” Jenova’s teeth were chattering now, though she strove to keep them still. “R-remember how my mother was always trying to s-separate us?”

  “She never could. We always found a way to sneak past her watchful eyes.” His smile turned grim at the memories—perhaps his recollections were different from Jenova’s. It was true, her mother had never liked him, she’d had a way of pursing her mouth when she’d looked at him, as if he’d reeked of some odor only she could smell. But Jenova had been indifferent to her mother’s threats and warnings, preferring to make up her own mind. In those days she’d believed Henry could do no wrong, and in repayment for her loyalty he had led her into much mischief. He would not have blamed her if she had abandoned him to his own company, but she never had. Jenova had remained his loyal friend.

  “You were always very kind to me, Jenova. Probably far kinder than I deserved.”

  She looked at him in the firelight, and her green eyes glowed with golden lights. “Oh Henry,” she said softly, “you were such a sweet little boy. I could no more have given you up than…than my best pony.”

  He chuckled at the comparison, but his heart swelled. She had loved him, and he her, there was no denying it, but time had moved on and they had grown. He had done things he would not wish her to know about, lived a life far beyond her world, while she had in turn become a wife and a mother to Mortred’s son, and the Lady of Gunlinghorn. They were as far apart as the moon and the sun, but still that long-ago bond remained, tying them together.

  She was his lodestone, he realized, his center. He needed her to remind him of his origins, of who he really was. He needed to see the warmth and admiration in her eyes to continue to believe in himself.

  With lithe grace, Henry stood and moved back to her side of the fire. It was fate, he told himself, what happened next. It was not up to him, or her. Perhaps it was this place, this Uther’s Tower. He slipped his arm about her, and drew her in against his body and his warmth. She was shaking, and he murmured in sympathy, and put his other arm about her, so that he could hold her tight against his chest. When she still shook, he lifted her onto his lap, and held her there, curled within his arms. Her damp hair tickled his nose and he burrowed into it, enjoying her fragrance.

  “Am I still sweet?” he asked her at last, more for something to ease the awkward moment than because he needed to know.

  Jenova managed a giggle, and he felt her icy fingertips creep up and flutter against his cheek. “Of course, dear Henry. You will always be s-sweet. To m-me.”

  He looked down at her with a raised brow.

  She smiled, her face pale and naked within the heavy mass of her hair. Young. Vulnerable. Defenseless. And yet her body was so soft curled against his; he could feel her breasts through the cloak, where they pressed against the arm he had wrapped about her. The nipples were hard little nubs from the cold. He wanted to warm them with his mouth.

  He closed his eyes, but that was no good either. He could feel the soft roundedness of her bottom resting upon his groin. In a moment she would feel him growing hard. But he couldn’t help it. He should move away from her, but he didn’t want to. She felt so good, and he didn’t want to.

  “Henry?”

  She sounded uncertain. He opened his eyes and found her gazing up at him, and now Henry understood what the warning deep inside him had been about. And realized also that he should have heeded it. But it was too late.

  Jenova knew it too. Her green eyes clouded as they gazed into his, and she opened her mouth to speak. To tell him nay? Henry did not know. He was already bending down to claim her lips.

  If she had been about to refuse him, she had changed her mind, because before he reached her mouth she had lifted her own. When they joined their lips together, it was mutual.

  And this time there would be no stopping.

  Chapter 4

  Henry’s mouth was firm, yet tender, persuasive as his lips urged hers to respond, to open. Jenova needed no urging. She felt dizzy, not herself at all, and again the warning pealed in her head. Surely this was sheer lust. The need of her body, so long without a man, to find a mate. In her heart she knew it, and yet the knowing didn’t seem to make a scrap of difference.

  She wanted him, and want was enough.

  Somehow her hands had crept up to his shoulders and around his neck. Her fingers were tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. She felt his hand slip inside the cloak and close with tender possessiveness upon her breast. A groan leaped from her throat, and she felt him smile against her lips.

  “Henry…” she whimpered, but he would not let her say more. He bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth. Jenova let her head fall back at the sensation of his warm tongue against her sensitive flesh. The pleasure shot through her like an arrow, and she stared with dazed eyes at the rough timber beams of the roof. The urge to push him away, to stop this now, still remained, but with each touch, each kiss, it was growing fainter.

  At least she was no longer cold.

  Her fingers trailed across his tunic, and then impatiently tugged at the ties at his throat. Henry shifted back and pulled the garment over his head, and with it his shirt, carelessly tossing both to one side. Now when Jenova touched him she found only warm, smooth, muscled flesh. He was tawny, like his hair, his skin warming to the reflection of the firelight. She discovered a scar here and there, and a line of hair running down to his belly. She followed it. Over the hard flesh of his stomach, down further still, disappearing inside the tight breeches.

  Her fingers followed.

  He groaned and leaned back, propped up upon his arms, bare chested, with his head thrown back, as if to give her complete access to his body. As if he were hers to do with as she willed. Jenova feasted upon him with her eyes. He was not a giant of a man, but he was well muscled and strong, and there was no fat upon that lean, hard body. So handsome, so well-made, so perfect. No wonder the women of the court pursued him.

  Her eyes dipped lower.

  There, beneath the firm dark cloth of his breeches, between the long, hard muscles of his legs, was the steep rise of his manhood. Henry was most definitely aroused. Delicately, fingers trembling now, she reached out to brush her hand over him. And then to smooth them against the rigid, thick length that was hidden there. He caught his breath; his arms shook. And yet he did not pounce upon her, he did not rip open his breeches and take her as she half thought he might. He let her move the moment along at her own pace.

  Jenova was grateful for that. It had been a long time, after all, since she had had a man to herself. Carefully, she began to unlace the top of his breeches, loosening them enough so that she could begin to tug them down over his narrow hips and well-muscled thighs. His manhood sprang free, and she sat back, trying not to stare.

  It had been a long time, but surely her memory was not that fuzzy? Surely she would remember if a man’s part was that big? Why—she reached out—her fingers could not even reach around it! Mayhap if she squeezed….

  His breath caught sharply and he sat up, catching her hand in his where she still grasped him. His eyes blazed, as if he were afire. “Slowly, sweeting,” he said in a deep, husky voice. His manhood quivered in her hand, and she wanted to stroke it better. Tentatively she stretched out a finger, smoothing the velvet flesh, and he let her, his eyes glazed. “Jenova,” he groaned, “I do not want to spend until I am inside you. Deep inside.”

  Now it was her turn to catch her breath. Henry slid his arm about her waist and slowly, using his streng
th to support her, he eased her back onto the ground. The hard ground, when he had declared that lovers needed soft beds. But although the floor beneath her was firm, his big, thick cloak cushioned it, made it almost cozy. Above her, Henry’s body moved into place upon hers, keeping her from the cold. Now she was completely cocooned in his warmth.

  And her desire.

  Her hands ran over him, all bare flesh and curved muscle. It had been a long time since she had felt a man’s passion, and known it was for her and her alone. Her fingers sought again that hard evidence of his desire for her, and she smiled when Henry moaned softly, pressing his lips to her skin in tiny, urgent kisses.

  “I should stop,” she whispered, but her fingers kept exploring, gently squeezing. She couldn’t seem to make them stop; she didn’t want to.

  “Don’t stop, Jenova,” he murmured. “Not now, not now…” He bent to her breasts, caressing the full, creamy flesh with his tongue, lathing her nipples until it was almost pain, and most certainly pleasure. She arched up against him, making soft noises of encouragement, and felt his erection against her inner thigh. His hand followed, cupping her hot flesh, his thumb sliding up and down the swollen cleft. She was wet with need, wanting him, aching for him. It had been so long, so long….

  Henry kissed the base of her throat, making a trail up the arch of her neck and finding her mouth. Gentleness departed now, and he kissed her with passion, his tongue tangling with hers. Between their bodies his knee parted her thighs, widening them. The head of his erection brushed against her soft curls and she felt her legs tremble. Wanting him. Needing him. Her skin was on fire, and everywhere he touched a new blaze sprang forth. Her body throbbed with the need to find fulfilment, and she had long ago ceased to care for the consequences of what they were doing.