by Sara Bennett
He had thought to protect her, but instead it seemed he had caused her more pain. Henry sighed. “I am sorry,” he murmured.
But Jenova was too angry to listen. “I wished I could have taken a lover while Mortred was alive. I wanted to hurt him as he hurt me. But he was dead, so instead I thought marrying Alfric would show them all—all those who knew the truth and pitied me—that I no longer grieved for a man who had never loved me. I wanted to feel again, Henry. I wanted my revenge, even though it was too late. And now I have no Mortred, no Alfric…I have nothing.”
Henry lifted his head and sat up straighter in the bath. A spark lit his eyes. “You wanted to take a lover, Jenova? You wanted revenge? Then take your revenge. Use me to take your vengeance upon Mortred. Here, now, show him you no longer care.”
She blinked, but she didn’t pretend not to understand what he meant. “Here?” she asked, and glanced over her shoulder at the door.
“Here. The water is still hot.”
“But…now?”
“Reynard is watching, we are private. You can do as you wish.”
Henry watched her bite her lips as she thought, saw her gaze drop to his body beneath the water. “Take your revenge on Mortred,” he murmured, “and chase him from our lives.”
She met his gaze again, and now her green eyes shone and her face was flushed and young. She was the girl he had known long ago; the wild girl who would do anything he did and more. And he had loved her for it. Aye, Henry admitted, of course he had loved her then, she had been everything to him. But his life had taken him elsewhere, and they had grown up apart, and Jenova had wed Mortred….
Slowly, her eyes on his, Jenova began to disrobe. Her fingers were trembling, and Henry could read her self-consciousness, though she was pretending hard not to feel that way. She peeled off her yellow gown and the clothing beneath it, revealing a body that was firm and smooth and beautiful. Her breasts full, her raspberry nipples making his mouth water, the slim line of her thighs and the curve of her waist, the rounded flesh of her bottom and the dark curls below her belly.
He wanted her, all of her, with a need that went beyond lust and desire, and seeped into his very soul. He had never felt like this before—it could not be love. Henry was sure he could not love. For with love went trusting, and Henry, abandoned by his mother, hiding his past, found it difficult to trust women. He did not want to open his heart to someone who might break it; he had survived too much to risk himself in that way. Love was such a chancy thing, after all.
Jenova let her chemise slide in a puddle about her slippers. It was not her best one, but she did not think Henry would care or notice. He was gazing at her now as if he truly would eat her up. Revenge, he had said. The notion had taken root in her, and she felt alive, invigorated, powerful.
Henry reached out a hand.
“Nay,” she said, her voice breathy. “Do not touch me. This is my vengeance, remember. You are my lover, and I have brought you here to seduce you, to show Mortred that he means nothing to me. You must not touch me, Henry. I will tell you what to do.”
He did not like that so well, but Jenova didn’t care. Henry had lied to her. Reluctantly, he nodded.
She stepped free of her remaining clothing and stooped over him. Her soft breast brushed his cheek and he groaned, turning to take her in his mouth, but she moved away. Her hands slid over his shoulders and chest, slowly, a little tentatively, and then with increasing eagerness, exploring him as if she had never touched him before. Her palm slid down, below the water, over the hard plane of his belly. He caught his breath and she smiled. His erection nudged against her fingers and she stroked him, and his hips bucked.
“I’m dying,” he groaned. “Jenova, let me touch you.”
She hesitated, unwilling to relinquish control, but her skin was tingling and flushed by the need to have his response.
“Very well, but you must stop when I say so.”
Henry turned, rubbing his freshly shaven face against her belly where she leaned over him, then he reached to caress her breasts, gently squeezing before finally enclosing first one nipple, and then the other, in his warm mouth.
For a moment Jenova felt quite dizzy. She clung to the sides of the bath, awash with feeling. His hand slid up into her hair, tugging her face down to his, and her lips to his lips. He ran his tongue around them, tasting her, and then he devoured her mouth in a long and passionate kiss.
Another moment and Jenova knew she would be unable to think at all. Already she felt his fingers warm against her inner thigh. With a gasp she pulled away and stood, panting, glaring at him. He made as if to rise from the heated water, but Jenova stayed him with a hand to his shoulder.
“Nay,” she said, and smiled. “I want you to remain, Henry. I want to…to ravish you.”
To his credit he did not smile back, but his blue eyes glinted before he lowered the long lashes over them. “Do it then,” he said in a harsh voice. “No more games.”
“You mean like the games you and Mortred played with me?” she retorted. Once again the powerful sense of anger gripped her. Before she could change her mind, Jenova stepped into the bath, uncaring for the dangerously swishing water. With one foot on either side of his hips, she lowered herself, her body sprawled across his. His erection brushed her swollen flesh.
He groaned, his fingers white as he gripped the rim of the bath. She lifted herself, then lowered herself again, allowing him limited access before withdrawing. His hard length prodded her swollen, secret layers. She gasped and moved forward, allowing him to suck at her breasts, murmuring encouragement.
“Jenova,” he groaned. “Please…please…”
Mercilessly, Jenova lowered herself onto him again and again, teasing him. But each time it was more difficult to pull away, and in truth she wanted to sink herself fully upon him. It was not in her nature to hold back, and this was Henry, her Henry. She wanted to enjoy him and let him enjoy her.
“Now,” she gasped. “Touch me now, Henry.”
He did more than touch. He caught her hips in his hands and pushed up, deep, so deep inside her. Jenova felt her body go fluid, and a great shudder then overtook them both. She was flying toward the sky—a clear midnight blue meadow strewn with gleaming stars—and the world vanished below her.
When it was over, she lifted her head from his chest, her damp hair curling about her, a pulse still fluttering in her throat. “You are not like Mortred,” she said, and there was a new certainty in her voice, and a kind of wonder. “I have been telling myself that you were, but you aren’t like him at all.”
“No,” he agreed, making a joke of it. “I am like Henry.”
But there was an expression in his eyes, a combination of joy and fear, as if she had found him out.
“Do you forgive me? For keeping the truth about Mortred from you?”
Jenova leaned forward across his chest, their bare, damp flesh sliding together, and looked into his eyes. She saw contrition there, and warmth, and the desire to comfort her and make her happy. “Aye, Henry,” she murmured, touching a finger to his lips, “I forgive you.” She traced the shape of his mouth. “I think I would forgive you almost anything….”
Henry caught his breath, and something flashed in his eyes, startling her. But before she could ask him what was the matter, he drew her up against him, and his mouth closed hard on hers, drowning her in passion.
Chapter 12
Once again Alfric and Rhona came riding into Gunlinghorn. Alfric’s spurs were shining, his tunic of fine brown wool was brushed smooth, and his fair hair was neatly cut. He looked like the handsome young lord that he was—a widow’s dream.
Any other widow but the one keeping watch from her chamber, the one who did not want to see him and stated so aloud.
“But you must, my lady!” cried Agetha in dismay, her blue eyes wide. “’Twould be very ill mannered if you refused him access to you, and after you said you would wed him not so long ago.”
“I do not wa
nt to elevate his hopes again, Agetha.”
Agetha stabbed her needle into the cloth she was embroidering, her mouth pursed. She had always favored Alfric; Jenova had not realized just how much until she had rejected him. Now Agetha alternated between singing his praises in the hope Jenova would change her mind, or grieving for the loss of the handsome young man. Jenova did not know which was worse, hearing a dozen times a day how perfect Alfric was, or listening to how she could expect to be full of regrets in her dotage over the fact that she had not snapped him up when she’d had the opportunity.
Jenova wished she could be as blind in love as Agetha desired her to be, that she could believe in someone as wholeheartedly as Agetha did Alfric. But Jenova was older and wiser by far, and she told herself she had been hurt too badly by Mortred to ever trust blindly again…. Her mind drifted to the evening before, and lying in Henry’s arms in the warm, fragrant water. She found herself smiling for no particular reason.
“Poor Lord Alfric,” Agetha muttered, hauling the needle through her embroidery and tugging it tight. “He must be feeling so confused and bewildered. His feelings must be so hurt. He is so sensitive. How can he bear it if you now refuse even to see him when he has come all this way—”
“It is barely two hours’ ride from Hilldown Castle to Gunlinghorn,” Jenova retorted. “And I can bear it very well.”
Agetha’s lips tightened. “The Baldessares are your neighbors, my lady. One day Alfric will stand in his father’s stead. Does that not make you anxious to be on good terms with him?”
Agetha was right. In these dangerous times who knew when it might be necessary for her to call upon his help. Jenova felt her heart sink. Aye, she would see Alfric and listen to him, and refuse him. But, she vowed, it would be the last time.
“Very well, Agetha,” she said. “I will see him, but in the great hall. I do not want to be alone with him.”
Triumphantly, Agetha tossed her ill-treated embroidery aside and went tripping down the stairs. It crossed Jenova’s mind, not for the first time, that Alfric would be far better off with Agetha as his wife. She was sweet and pretty and certainly loyal. ’Twas a shame the girl had little in the way of dowry to offer the land-greedy Lord Baldessare.
When Jenova reached the great hall, she saw that Alfric and Rhona stood by the fire, waiting, their heads close together, as if they were plotting against her. Jenova, pausing in the doorway, thought that perhaps they were. Rhona, in particular, was cunning enough for anything—Jenova had never trusted her. And Alfric was too gentle and easily led to be trustworthy beyond Gunlinghorn’s boundaries. Wed to her, living here with her, he would never have disobeyed her. Away from her, he would be like a leaf blown by whichever breeze was stronger.
She was well rid of the pair of them.
“My dearest l-lady!” Alfric spotted her as she approached. He strode to meet her and took her hand, pressing a fervent kiss to her flesh. Jenova struggled not to jerk her fingers free. Despite his greeting, his brown eyes were cautious, anxious, as if he were uncertain of her reaction. She could not blame him for that—if she had a sire like Lord Baldessare, she would be anxious, too.
Jenova suddenly no longer found it difficult to smile and say, gently, “Alfric, I am truly glad to see you. I would like us to be friends again. For us to put aside the unpleasantness that occurred the last time you were here. However, I must tell you that if you have come here thinking to persuade me to change my mind in regard to your wish to marry me, then you have wasted your journey.”
Alfric’s mouth quivered, his eyes filled with tears. “But, my lady—”
“My brother does want to persuade you to change your mind, my lady,” Rhona said evenly, her cool tones slicing through what threatened to be an impassioned plea from her sibling.
Jenova turned to her with relief. She did not want a scene. “Then I am sorry, but—”
“Surely you do not want Alfric to lie, and declare otherwise?” Rhona went on, clearly intent upon saying what she must. “I am very sure, Lady Jenova, you abhor lies as much as I do. But be assured, my brother will not embarrass you over this matter, he will not make you uncomfortable. Alfric will bide his time, and follow your lead. He is young, and he can wait until you are ready to look upon his love for you in a more favorable light.”
Clever words, thought Jenova, looking from one to the other. The Baldessare siblings were very alike in demeanor, with their fair hair and brown eyes. A handsome couple, neither of them having inherited their father’s rather bucolic looks. Whatever sort of father he was, he had seen that his son and daughter had been well taught in the ways of the Norman aristocracy.
“My lady?” Rhona’s eyes shone with an inner intelligence and determination, while Alfric’s were more like a child’s, begging for some sign of her affection, for some spark of hope. She hated to think what their father would say to them if she turned them out without the least sign of hospitality. And yet if she were cruel, was it not sometimes kinder to be so? It prevented one from having false hope. It was better to allow Alfric to suffer one short moment of pain now, and save himself a later, longer suffering by remaining blindly hopeful that she would change her mind.
“Alfric is young and handsome; he will soon find himself another wife,” Jenova said, although not quite as coldly as she wished.
Rhona’s eyes flashed, but at once she disguised her anger with a smile, hiding it well. In contrast, Alfric looked even more likely to burst into tears.
“There, now, that is the worst of it,” Jenova continued on, more rousingly. “We have stated our positions, and put our differences behind us. Let us take some wine and be friends again. Tell me, how is your father?”
“He is well, my lady,” said Rhona, “but if you will excuse me, I prefer to take a stroll in your gardens while you and my brother speak privately. There are still matters he wishes to broach with you, if you will be good enough to hear him?”
Jenova did not want to hear him, but Alfric was watching her pleadingly, like a puppy that expects to be beaten. She was not normally a hard-hearted woman. She had stated her situation, but it could not hurt her to listen to what he had to say, although she feared it would only be more of the same. She would be kind and then send him on his way.
Jenova nodded brusquely. “Very well.”
Rhona smoothed her saffron-colored skirts, her fingers heavy with jeweled rings. The Baldessares were wealthy, and it seemed that when it came to his offspring, their father did not stint upon clothing and decorations. Only upon his love and affection.
“Thank you, my lady. I will leave you alone then, briefly.”
Jenova watched the younger woman cross the great hall, her back straight and her head high. There were many rumors about Rhona, but Jenova had never inquired into their truth or otherwise. She did not consider her a close friend—Rhona was not the sort to unburden her heart to another or allow anyone to get too close to her. She kept her distance. Until now, Jenova had never wondered why.
“My lady?” Alfric was holding a chair for her, his expression eager. Jenova nodded to a servant, who stood with a tray upon which was set the wine jug and best goblets.
“Will you take some wine, Alfric? It is very good.”
“It cannot be as good as you, Lady Jenova.”
Jenova tried not to roll her eyes. She glanced about a little desperately and caught sight of Agetha, hovering by the dais, her eyes fixed upon her hero. At least Agetha did not see his feet of clay…. An idea suddenly occurring to her, Jenova beckoned her over. “Agetha, please come and join us. I am sure Alfric will not mind.”
Alfric looked as if he minded very much indeed, but he could hardly say so. It would have ruined his portrayal of a perfect gentleman. In contrast, Agetha looked as if she might burst with the pleasure of being in the company of her hero. Jenova began to pour the wine, satisfied that she had made the best of a very awkward situation.
Rhona wandered about the flower borders, shivering from the cold desp
ite her fur-lined cloak. Nothing green was growing at this time of year, apart from the winter stalwarts of holly, ivy and bay. A sprinkling of snow lay upon the ground, and every now and then a fresh flutter of flakes would fall about her.
It had been necessary for her to leave the great hall so that Alfric could be alone with Jenova, despite the fact that Rhona could see it was all a pointless waste of time.
The lady had made up her mind. Her brother had not measured up to Lord Henry, and angry as she was, Rhona could understand why. Poor Alfric, ’twas not his fault he was weak and frightened and so willing to please. Lady Jenova would eat him alive if they ever did marry. But Rhona knew in her heart that they would not.
Jesu, she was not about to tell her father that! Instead she would spin some tale about Jenova still being undecided, and that Alfric was gradually whittling down her defenses. That there was still hope…. With luck, Rhona’s lies would hold his rage in check until she came up with a better plan. And to come up with a better plan, she needed information from inside Gunlinghorn Keep: She needed a spy.
That was the other reason Rhona was walking out here despite the bitter cold; the real reason she had come to Gunlinghorn on what was clearly a fool’s errand.
He had been in the castleyard when they’d arrived. Reynard. He had been striding from the direction of the stables, crossing the path of her mounted entourage. Most certainly he was just as arrogant and rude as she remembered, because he had not troubled to lower his eyes from hers. His gaze, dark and amused, had slid over her like a touch, making her shiver from more than the cold.
Rhona had stared back at him, but it had been she who had dropped her eyes first.
He was a stranger and a servant, she reminded herself. Rough and uncouth, ill-mannered and unkempt. Although mayhap not quite as unkempt as she had first thought, for this morning he had appeared quite well turned out in a Lincoln green tunic and brown breeches, with a studded belt fastened about his hips. She had even spied a ring upon his finger—the jewel in it had flashed yellow in the wane light as he’d pushed his dark hair out of his eyes.
