Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

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.

Henry had thought he could do it; he had been determined to do it. He was a man to whom kings came to have their problems solved! Nothing, no puzzle, was beyond him. Except now he realized something new and very worrying; something that had never happened to him with a woman before.

He could not put the thought of Jenova out of his mind. He did not want to. She sat there in her russet gown with the forest green sleeves, the color a perfect match for her eyes, and he knew in his heart that to put her out of his mind was as impossible as stopping breathing. He wanted her again. He wanted her as many times as he could have her, and there was an utter recklessness in the thought that was completely foreign to cautious Henry’s nature.

Jesu, how he wanted her!

If possible, his body went harder. He couldn’t have stood up, despite the covering of his tunic, or everyone would have noticed his predicament. Henry looked about him at the great hall and the merriment of the castlefolk, and instead saw Uther’s Tower. The deep shadows and the snow outside and the flicker of firelight on Jenova’s creamy skin. Her little sighs and soft moans, and the way she’d drawn his body against hers and opened herself to him. The tremors inside her as she had pleaded with him not to stop….

Henry took a ragged breath. Enough. Surely he had more self-control than this, and he had promised. He had promised….

Jenova was laughing. He found himself watching her avidly as she pointed to the juggler, saying something to Raf with a gentle smile. In addition to the juggler, there were acrobats and singers and a tiny man who pretended to fall over. He fell over a great deal. Jenova found it all very amusing, and her melodious laughter rang through the hall this night, bringing smiles to the faces of all those around her.

Henry didn’t watch the entertainers. He watched her. His gaze brushed the flush in her cheeks, the smooth, high line of her brow, the stubborn tilt of her chin. The manner in which the russet cloth clung to her breasts, outlining their round, firm shape until he swore he could feel their softness filling his palms.

Henry only just managed to stop himself from groaning aloud.

This was ridiculous! He was behaving like a boy in his first passion, a lovesick knave with all his thoughts centered between his legs. How was it he could want her so badly? He had had her once, and usually, for him, once was enough. Once proved he had conquered her; he had won her, she was his. It proved he was no longer that snivelling boy, abandoned by his lady mother, good enough only to be passed from relative to relative and used by them when it suited. It proved he was an attractive and powerful man who needed no one.

Then why was this occasion so different? Why did it feel so different?

He had never wanted the intimacy of one woman. As a child, Henry had rarely had that intimacy, and he had certainly never experienced the close confines of such a life with his own family. His father had died fighting with other Crusaders, and his mother had shortly afterward deserted him for God. When she had left him for her monastery, Henry had sworn never to give one woman such power over him again.

And now that he had made his life just the way he wanted it, he had no intention of handing over, to another proud and selfish lady, the ability to hurt him.

No, that wasn’t right, he thought. Jenova was not proud and selfish. She was his friend. Once he had felt relaxed in her company because he had had no need to prove himself with her. Had that changed now? Had Jenova joined the ranks of all those other women he had seduced over the years? But no, Jenova was still different. She was still his friend, despite the fact that she had become his lover. His friend and his lover.

The idea terrified him.

And yet even that did not stop Henry’s wanting her. With a torturous, aching want that seeped into the deepest parts of his body and soul. Aye, he wanted her, and until he had had her again, Henry doubted he would get any peace at all.

Jenova clapped her hands, caught up in the antics of the entertainers. She turned and smiled at Henry, looking to share her innocent enjoyment, forgetting for a moment their newfound wariness of each other. Whatever she saw in his face caused her eyes to widen, and slowly the laughter drained from her face. Her hand crept to her throat, as if she were suddenly struggling for air, and her long lashes fluttered over her green eyes. She turned away, but not before Henry saw the tremor in her fingers and the way her teeth tugged at her full bottom lip.

Then Henry knew that, just like him, she was remembering making love in Uther’s Tower. And, like him, she was torn between the urge to run and the longing to do it again.

Jenova was wishing it had never happened. Or at least, she was wishing she could wish it had never happened. She had sworn to herself that she would put the matter from her mind, set it aside like a spent barrel of wine. She had believed she was managing so well, playing her part so well.