Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

He smiled at her again, and his smile made her feel hot. “I’d never tell you nay, sweeting, you know that. I am yours, body and soul, to do with as you please.”

The picture he made for her was not at all calming. Suddenly she was too close to the fire, or she had eaten far too many of Matilda’s pastries. She felt uncomfortable and a little feverish. She wanted to wriggle on her bench and fan herself with her hand.

Jenova found herself looking at him, really looking at him. His violet-blue eyes, his wide mouth, his masculine throat, his broad chest and narrow hips and his strong legs, stretched out before him. His hands, long-fingered and scarred, resting elegantly upon his lap. And she found herself wondering what it would feel like to have those hands on her bare skin.

Luckily, before the rogue thought could progress any further, their cozy interlude was interrupted.

“My lady?” One of the men-at-arms was standing before her, a note of urgency in his voice. “A boat has run aground on a sandbar inside the river mouth. They are asking for help to pull her off.”

“What boat is this?” Henry asked with interest.

“From Bruges, my lord. They say they are carrying wine and oil and some bolts of cloth. We can attach ropes from the shore and pull her free. The tide is on the turn, so that will make things easier. Have we your permission to help?”

Henry opened his mouth and then stopped and looked at Jenova. She could see the quick remembrance in his eyes. This was her harbor, her village, her river. The decision was hers. His consideration pleased her—not many men would have remembered that it was not their place to give orders, and if they had, not many men would have cared.

“Of course you must help,” she said briskly. “Use all the men-at-arms and as many of the villagers as you can find.”

The soldier left, and Henry rose to his feet, stretching, and held out his hand to Jenova. “Come, we had best take a look at this boat from Bruges.”

Outside the air was cold, and the wind tossed their cloaks and made Jenova catch her breath. A craft lay stranded upon a narrow sandbar, tipped to one side and being washed about by the incoming tide. The boat was rather squat, with a combination of deck and tarpaulin to keep her cargo safe and dry. Several crew members were busy tossing ropes to the men upon the shore, while Reynard pointed and shouted and generally took charge.

“I doubt we are needed here,” Henry said, glancing at Jenova’s huddled form. “Are you cold?”

Jenova nodded her head. “I am, but ’tis not that. I have much to do. I think ’tis time for me to return to the castle, Henry. I can ride alone; I have done it before. ’Tis perfectly safe. Mortred long ago rid our lands of any brigands.”

“I will come with you. Reynard can manage here.”

The swell of pleasure she felt at his offer seemed excessive, and Jenova forced her voice into more moderate tones. What was happening to her? She had been alone with Henry before, many times. This agitation was new.

Jenova glanced at the sky. There were dark clouds edging it to the north, but they seemed far away. She considered the danger and dismissed it in her eagerness to ride with Henry.

“Very well. We can ride east, along the cliffs. You will like that, Henry. It is a wild and dangerous place.”

“Then we will enjoy them together,” Henry said with a smile that made his eyes bluer than ever. “We will be wild and dangerous together, Jenova.”

And why, Jenova thought, as Henry helped her onto her mount, did that sound like a threat?

Or a promise.

Chapter 3

The cliffs were dizzyingly high, and below them the gray sea prowled and snarled. Henry and Jenova set their horses at a gallop over the tufts of grass, startling the birds and a few egg-gathering villagers. The wild setting reminded Henry of Jenova’s family home, in Normandy, where the same sea also crashed against cliffs. Perhaps, thought Henry, that was why she loved Gunlinghorn, and perhaps that was why she was so content with her life here.

Although not completely content, he reminded himself as he paused to catch his breath. Not if she wished to remarry. Mortred’s image shimmered in his mind, half forgotten, dark-haired and light-eyed, his face scarred from smallpox. In character, Mortred had been a little like Henry, confident and clever and brash. But his passage through life had been far easier; he had grown up under

King William’s shadow and protection and had not had to battle against Henry’s odds.

Jenova’s mother had wanted her daughter to marry Mortred when she was still very young, but Jenova would not have him. Mortred had married elsewhere, but the woman had died without any children to show for their union. So Mortred had cast his eye about again, and this time Jenova had decided to be more amenable. She had fallen in love with him, and so she married him. Henry had had no doubts at the time that Mortred loved her, too. He had even believed that Mortred would be faithful to her—or mayhap he’d just hoped so.

But of course he hadn’t been.

During their marriage there had been other women, lots of them, but at least Mortred had kept the knowledge of them from his wife. How could she, safe at Gunlinghorn, have known what her husband had gotten up to elsewhere? There had been times when Mortred’s careless behavior had angered Henry, and he had struggled hard to hide the facts from Jenova. It had been she he’d thought of every time he’d lied or tidied away Mortred’s mess. Not Mortred.

And would you have behaved any differently? the voice in his head mocked him. If you had been wed to Jenova, would you have been true to her and only her?

Possibly not. Probably not, he corrected himself. But then he would never have allowed himself to be placed into a position where he could hurt her, would he?

A gull soared above him, screeching, and then diving, sending his thoughts tumbling along with it. The sea air blew cold against his face, stinging his eyes, tugging at his clothing, and yet he felt very much alive. And carefree. Here at Gunlinghorn there was nothing to do, no one to see, no rumors to track down or unravel, no plots to untangle, no assassins to fear. It had been a long time since Henry had felt so unfettered by worldly cares.