by Sara Bennett
This was dangerous, far too dangerous.
He pushed inside her, just a little, as if to test her. If he expected her to resist, then he was mistaken. Jenova pushed back, wrapping her thighs about his hips, clasping him in her arms. He sank in deeper.
Now it was Jenova who pleaded with him not to stop, moving restlessly beneath him. But Henry had no intention of stopping. He doubted that he could, even had he wanted to. The feel of her, the sensation of being inside her, the scent of her, was pounding relentlessly at his senses. Had he ever felt like this before? He could not remember it, and if he had, then it was a long time ago. Aye, he felt more than a man. This was more than just a releasing of the tension in his body, the pleasing of himself with a willing woman, far, far more….
He felt like a god.
Henry eased more of himself inside her, experiencing the slight resistance of a woman who has not had a man for some time. The knowledge gave him immense satisfaction. He did not want that mooncalf, Alfric, to have her. Henry wanted to be the one. The one to take her, to make her weep with pleasure, to make her beg for more, to make her forget all other men.
Jenova was moving her head restlessly from side to side, her soft hair loose and tangled about them. The fragrant scent she used filled the air as her body warmed. He buried his face in those tresses, and pushed that last little bit, deep into her body. And stopped, his own body shaking with the need to go slow, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.
“I’m not hurting you?” he asked, in a voice husky with tension.
She laughed, almost a sob, and closed her arms even more tightly about him. “No, Henry, you are not hurting.”
“Not even if I do this?”
She groaned at his movement, trembling with the pleasurable sensations he was causing. He moved again, and she cried out, lifting her hips to allow him greater access. And he drove deep, once and again, suddenly as mindless as her in his need to find release.
As the wave of pleasure swept over them both, Henry was aware of an edge of frustration. He had planned to do so much more! He had hardly had a chance to explore her creamy flesh, to tease her into a state of heightened passion, to run his fingers and tongue over every swell and curve of her…. Where had his mastery gone, his self-control? It had deserted him. And now, even as he rode that long, wondrous wave of repletion, he wanted her again.
It was not ended, and he wanted her again.
How could that be?
Finally they lay still, clasped in each other’s arms. With his palm still on her breast, he could feel her heart beat, feel it slowing, her body languid with pleasure. For a moment all was quiet and well, all was perfection. In the midst of the storm they were at peace.
And then with a jolt, her heart began to pound and her body stiffened, and Henry knew that memory had returned. And with it, realization.
Jenova felt crippled with returning knowledge. What have I done? How could I have been so foolish? Both confusion and wretchedness beat at her like hard fists. Henry was her friend. What they had done had complicated that fact terribly, mayhap even destroyed their friendship forever. How would she ever look him straight in the eye again? How would she ever again turn to him with ease and trust? How could he ever look at her again without remembering how she had turned into a wanton in his arms?
Jenova felt tears sting her eyes.
She should have said no. Made a joke of it. Put an end to the situation before it had begun. She could have done that. She was well able to manage all manner of awkward situations. But Jenova knew why she had failed in this one. Because she hadn’t wanted to end it. She had been just as caught up as Henry in what had been happening between them. Maybe more so. She hadn’t been able to think of anything but the pleasure he’d been giving her. Nothing else had mattered.
She had never felt like this before, not even with Mortred, whom she had believed she’d loved and whom she had lain abed with many times. But never like this; it had never been like this. As if her body were awash with feeling, alive with need, as if she might do something wild and completely against her nature. As if a caged creature she had not known existed inside her had been set free.
She frowned. Of course, then there was the fact that Henry was a practiced seducer—he had had more women than there were trees in Gunlinghorn Woods. Aye, she had been his willing partner, but he would have known exactly how to play her body, how to dull her doubts, how to make her forget all her fears. If she was another type of woman, she would blame him totally for what had happened between them, accuse him of forcing her to desire him against her will.
But Jenova was a just woman, and she knew her accusations would be unfair. Besides, she was certain Henry did not want these complications any more than she. He might be a fine lover, but in this instance he had been as much a victim of their unexpected passion as Jenova.
It had happened, but it was over. Time to move on.
With determination, Jenova pushed Henry aside and stood up, holding the cloak about her like a shield as she moved to fetch her clothing from where it lay drying by the fire. The cloth was warm, and although not completely dry it was far better than before. She picked up her chemise and clutched it, and her courage, in both hands, before she turned back to face him.
Henry was sitting very still, naked, watching her. He seemed very much at ease with himself, at ease with his body and its perfection. Although, she remembered now, it wasn’t so perfect after all. There were scars upon that golden flesh, ridges of white where weapons had cut and slashed, where other men had tried to harm him. He wasn’t perfect, he was just a man.
His face was unreadable. He was waiting for her lead, she realized. Patiently waiting to agree to whatever decision she made. Jenova swallowed, pleased and yet dismayed by the power he was handing over to her. Whatever road she took now must be the right one, for both their sakes.
“This must never happen again, Henry,” she said quietly. Her voice was flat and serious, and she realized it sounded just like it did at the manor court, when she passed judgment on her wayward people. She reached up to push her long hair over one shoulder, and found that her hands were shaking. “We have been friends for so many years. To believe we could be more than that is ludicrous. Ridiculous. This was an aberration, and I am certain we will both be very relieved to put it from our minds.”
Henry watched the emotions flitting across Jenova’s face. She had never been able to hide her feelings—she had never had to. He could see she regretted what they had done, and that it confused and frightened her. Obviously she did not want him to trespass upon her further than friendship. She did not think him capable of more.
Henry knew, in that deepest secret part of him, that he was not worthy of more.
Nay, he wasn’t worthy of Jenova; he didn’t want the complications that would now plague them. But he could not help but wonder whether she would have felt more at ease with what had happened if it had been Alfric with her here, alone in Uther’s Tower. Henry could offer her advice on fortifications and help her sort out her problems with Baldessare, but he was denied the joy of being her lover. And yet she had let him into her body; she had near swooned with the pleasure of it. Would Alfric have been able to give her ecstasy like that? Henry asked himself a little arrogantly.
At once he stopped himself.
He was being unfair.
Jenova was thinking to wed Alfric, not Henry. Jenova was the one woman Henry had always felt at ease with because she was the one woman he did not physically desire. He did not feel he had to live up to his reputation as a master of seduction with her.
And now? How could he ensure that their friendship survived this moment of madness and did not simply deteriorate into a brief affair? Jenova’s friendship meant more to Henry than any physical pleasure, and it did not matter that he had found a pleasure with Jenova that he had never felt in his life before. He did not intend to lose it.
“You are right, Jenova, this must never happen aga
in.” He repeated her words back to her firmly, evenly, and he meant every one of them. And wondered why those same words suddenly felt like a betrayal of them both.
Henry reached for his breeches, hurriedly dressing, ignoring Jenova doing the same. Now he wondered, guiltily, if it had actually been his intention, when they’d ridden out alone from the harbor, that matters go this far. He had said it was fate, but now he remembered the mixture of jealousy and frustration he had experienced when Jenova had told him she was thinking of wedding a poor excuse for a man like Alfric, when he knew she could do so much better. Was he really such a devious fellow that he would take her just to show her what she was missing?
Henry knew he was devious, and he had done things best not spoken of aloud, but Jenova was special. He would never purposely hurt her. Never! But despite his sincerity, his protests sounded like weak posturing, because he had hurt her. He had hurt them both, and their friendship might never recover from it.
“Henry?” Her voice was tentative, and when he looked up from putting on his boots, he saw that her green eyes were full of tears.
Something in his chest gripped him—an urgent need to reach out and take her in his arms and comfort her.
He did not dare.
Impatiently, she brushed at her cheek, wiping away the moisture, and then blinked hard. “Do you think we could go back, Henry? Or have we rent our precious friendship asunder? Oh Henry, I do not want to lose you….”
His chest ached, but he held tight to his self-control. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out a hand to touch her damp cheek. Her skin was warm and soft, and he wanted more. He could not have it, he would not allow himself to have it, and there was a bittersweet triumph in his self-denial. It was not often Lord Henry of Montevoy denied himself a woman.
“How can it be spoiled?” he asked her with gentle mockery. “We have been friends since childhood, Jenova. We will be friends until we are in our graves. We will forget this moment, I promise you. We will put it behind us. We will never speak of it again.”
Jenova’s smile was sheer relief, brightening her forlorn face like sunlight through the storm. Her voice in reply was breathy. “Aye, we will never speak of it again, Henry. You are right, it will be forgotten, and everything will go on as it did before.”
Their eyes met and held. His so blue and hers deep green, tangling, touching hidden places, remembering, and already beginning to imagine the possibility of a next time. It was like a caress. Her happy smile faded, and his grew cynical. The words were a lie, and now they both knew it. There was no feasible way in which they could go back in time.
Everything had changed forever.
Abruptly they both glanced away, denying the truth, and continued dressing in silence, while outside the hut the storm began to ease.
Chapter 5
The great hall at Gunlinghorn was pleasantly frenetic. A log as big as a man burned in the massive fireplace, making the air warm and smoky. Fortunately, the table on the dais where Jenova and Henry were seated was close to the heat, for even such a fire as this failed to reach all the corners of the great hall. Outside, above the noise of the feast, the wind howled. The foul weather had closed in again soon after they’d reached Gunlinghorn Castle, and now snow was falling in silent swathes across the land. Despite the many candles’ brave and bright light, the gloom of winter encompassed them.
Henry could not have returned to London even if he had wanted to. Strangely, for one so much a part of the court, he did not. His gaze rested on the people crowding the hall about him. At one of the tables, Reynard hunched over his food, the rest of his men close by. As he allowed their chatter and noise to wash over him, Henry found himself idly wondering what was happening beyond Gunlinghorn. As Jenova bent to smile at something one of her ladies said, her veil drifting about her shoulders and disclosing a lock of glossy brown hair, as a servant moved to pour more red wine into Henry’s silver goblet, he let his thoughts drift northwards. To the concerns that had kept him busy before he’d received Jenova’s missive.
While King William was occupied with his troubles across the Channel, his barons were bereft of his strong, checking influence. Archbishop Lanfranc, who sat upon the throne as Regent, did his best, but some of the younger barons lacked either good sense or caution, or both. Henry was beginning to believe that Roger, Earl of Hereford, and Ralph, Earl of Norfolk, were talking treason. Talking was not the same as doing, and they were clever enough to keep their intentions well hid. Henry wished the king would return to knock some sense into them before it was too late. William’s mere presence would be enough to still such restless talk.
“Keep an eye on my kingdom,” the king had said to him before he’d left. “I trust you, Henry, to do what is necessary if it becomes necessary.”
King William knew that behind Henry’s handsome smile was a ruthlessness that could be relied upon in times of crisis. Henry would crush anyone who rose against his king; he had done it before. There were some things he would not do, but not many.
Henry had long ago put aside his conscience.
But that didn’t explain why he felt so miserable and confused when it came to Jenova and their moments together this afternoon. It didn’t explain why he couldn’t just take what she’d offered and enjoy her and shrug aside regret. He had to admit to himself she was his one weakness, his Achilles’ heel. His conscience. Aye, mayhap, if he had any part of a conscience left at all, then its name was Jenova….
“My Lord Henry?”
Henry turned his head and found Jenova’s son beside him. Earlier he had noticed the boy seated by his mother at the other end of the table, being petted by Jenova’s ladies. But now here he was. At Henry’s side.
Henry stared at the boy uneasily—he had rarely spent more than a moment or two in his company. He was a small boy, with a narrow, piquant face and great green eyes. Perhaps he was sickly? Children often were—only the strongest lived to adulthood. Perhaps that was why Lord Baldessare had put Alfric forward. Did he see an opportunity for himself through Jenova’s misfortune?
“My Lord Henry?” This time the boy tugged at Henry’s brown velvet sleeve, with its crimson embroidered cuff. Henry, who was renowned at court for his style, smoothed the slight crease and forced a smile.
“Yes, uh…” What was the child’s name? He had forgotten it again. But the boy didn’t seem to notice or care—he prattled on regardless.
“You must come and see me ride tomorrow, Lord Henry. Mama says I am too small to ride, but I am strong. I am five, you know.”
Henry did not think he looked strong. In fact, the boy looked as if a mild puff of air would blow him away. His wrists, poking from his sleeves, were like twigs, and his breeches hung on his skinny legs.
“Will you come and watch me ride?” Raf’s voice had risen—that was his name, Raf.
Henry was not about to argue with a child. “Of course,” he said politely, having no intention to do so. He didn’t understand why Raf would want him to come and watch him ride anyway. What was he to Jenova’s son? Perhaps the boy had confused him with someone else—Alfric, mayhap? Although Henry could not recall Alfric paying any special attention to Raf when he was last here.
“I will come and fetch you when it is time.”
Henry blinked. “Time for what?”
“To watch me ride!” Raf grinned, as if it were a game between them.
“I’m certain that is not necessary—”
“I will fetch you,” Raf repeated firmly, and his devilish grin turned into a smile. A sweet smile. His whole face seemed to come alight and alive, to actually glow with happiness. Again Henry blinked, taken aback by the brilliance of it. Surely that was Mortred’s smile? More innocent, of course, but still Mortred’s smile. Mortred, before he took to spending his days and nights in the stews.
And then, before he could say another word, Raf was gone, scampering on his skinny legs back to his mother’s side. Henry watched the boy tugging at Jenova’s sleeve much as he ha
d done with Henry’s, and Jenova dutifully bending her head to listen to what her son had to say.
When had her profile become so perfect?
He had meant to watch her reaction to her son’s words, in case she was cross with Henry for promising something he had no intention of fulfilling. But now he became distracted by the curve of her mouth, the soft swell of her pouting bottom lip and the gentle arch of the upper one. He wanted to press his mouth to hers, to follow its shape with the tip of his tongue—last time he’d kissed her, she had tasted of wild, sweet berries. He wanted to taste those berries again.
Heat burned in his blood. She was at the other end of the table, but now it was as if he could smell her scent. His groin tightened, hardened, and he clenched his jaw. This was madness! Why torment himself like this when there was no chance of his having her again? He took another sip of wine, trying to wash the sensations away. His moody glance about the hall showed him there were plenty of other pretty women and some real beauties. What was it about Jenova that made him blind to all the others? He had sworn never to think of her in that way again, never to touch her, to sink himself deep inside her and watch her lips part as she gasped with pleasure….
Henry gulped at his wine again, draining it. As he lowered the goblet, he realized that Jenova was looking at him. Her hand was resting on her son’s shoulder, and whatever it was Raf had said to her, she did not like or else she had read his mind. Those beautiful green eyes were anything but friendly. They burned into him. He raised his empty goblet to her and wondered how long it would take him to turn her cross mood into panting desire—if he had not promised not to touch her.
Jesu, he should never have come to Gunlinghorn!
If he had not come, then he would not have lost control and taken Jenova, complicated everything, turned everything that had been familiar between them into foreign territory. And now he had to pretend it had never happened.
