Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

He began to kiss her again, rolling her over so that he was atop her. The length of his manhood slid between her thighs, and although she was a little sore from him now, she didn’t care. She wanted him again, just as he wanted her.

“Nay, I have no secrets, Jenova,” he whispered his confession against her lips. “I can cast no spells. The magic you feel comes from you and me, together.”

“Then it will wear itself out?” Was that disappointment in her voice? She was not a child, she should not fear the truth. And Jenova knew in her heart that he was far more experienced in these matters than she.

“Of course it will wear itself out, Jenova. ’Tis a short-lived thing, the fire of new passion. Soon, it will cool and we will tire of each other.”

Grief assailed her, but she swallowed it down. “Then we must enjoy every moment?”

“Aye, Jenova, for as long as it lasts.”

His mouth covered hers, gently at first, and then with a rising desire. As if he wanted to devour her. Jenova was more than willing to be devoured. His palms cupped her bottom and drew her up, teasing her, entering her only slightly. It was Jenova who thrust upwards, impaling herself fully upon him, making them both groan, and starting the dance all over again.

Morning broke. He had slept without one of his nightmares, and that was always a good thing. The pale light crept through the slits in the shutters, making bars on Henry’s bed and on Henry himself. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, thinking it was this that had awoken him. Until he felt the touch of a small, warm hand burrowing into his and tugging. Who would dare to wake him, after a night of such wild passion? He was wrung out; he wanted to sleep. But the tugging wouldn’t stop, and at last, blearily, he opened one eye, glaring at the owner of the offending hand.

A small boy stood by the bed, his green eyes bright with excitement and his mouth set in a familiar line of stubborn determination—he had seen Jenova’s mouth look just so.

“Lord Henry,” he said in an overloud whisper. “You told me to wake you so that you could see me on my pony.”

Had he done such a ridiculous thing? Surely not? Henry closed his eyes. There was a vague memory, but that had been before Jenova had come to his room like a siren, and left him exhausted, washed up like a shipwrecked sailor upon his bed. The remembrance brought a smile to his lips, and the boy mistakenly took encouragement from it, tugging harder.

“Lord Henry,” he insisted, “come on! You promised!”

With a deep sigh, Henry opened one eye and then the other. He was certain he hadn’t promised, but mayhap he had given that impression. At any rate it was clear he was not going to get any peace until he did what this small, persistent creature wanted. Reluctantly, he rose from his bed and reached for his clothing.

It was early, very early. There were few of the castlefolk about as Henry and Raf descended into the great hall. Outside in the bailey, the air was brisk, stinging color into the boy’s pale cheeks, and making Henry’s eyes water. He asked himself again why he was allowing this boy to urge him along on a mission he had no desire to undertake, when he’d much rather be back in his warm bed. Thinking of Jenova.

A farrier leading a horse nodded respectfully at Henry, then glanced down at Raf, his old, lined face folding into a doting look. A couple of serving maids, their arms full of laundry, giggled and ducked curtseys at Henry but cooed at Raf. Henry smiled despite his bad humor—clearly Raf was a favorite at Gunlinghorn, a good sign for a future lord of the manor. With a long-suffering sigh, he let himself be tugged along into the musty stables.

They passed the stalls of numerous horses, and Raf named them all, informing Henry of who was most likely to ride each beast and how often. His knowledge seemed a little extreme for so young a boy, but Henry let it pass. He, too, had haunted the stables as a child, although he could not ever remember waking guests at dawn.

“This is my pony!” Raf said proudly, as he finally drew Henry to a stop at a stall at the further end of the building.

Henry blinked. Raf’s pony was a grandsire at the very least. The creature looked placid enough, but he was nothing like the ponies usually ridden by the children of the wealthy and powerful. If Mortred had been alive, Henry was certain he would have found something rather more spirited for his son and heir. Jenova was possibly afraid her sickly son might be hurt on anything less docile.

Raf was watching him, green eyes old far beyond his years. Henry tried to compose his face, but it was already too late.

“You don’t like him,” Raf said dully, and his lip wobbled. The big green eyes filled.

Henry felt a wave of sheer terror wash over him. Don’t cry, he thought. In God’s name, do not cry!

“No, no, ’tis not so! This is truly a fine animal, a…a loyal animal. Nice and…and…quiet, I’ll wager.”

The boy gave him a suspicious glance. “He is very quiet,” he agreed. “Is that a good thing?”

“It can be. And is he slow?” Henry ventured.

“Mama says there is nothing wrong with being slow, and that even a lord has to grow up a little before he can ride a fast horse.” The boy said it dutifully, but the gaze that now strayed toward Henry’s stallion was wistful.

A memory came to Henry. Himself as a child, gazing longingly at the destrier that belonged to the current lordly relative he was living with. He would have given much to be allowed to ride that beast. He came every day to lurk about the stables, dreaming, obsessing. No one noticed, no one seemed to care. His obsession grew, until one day he found himself alone with the destrier. It was a fateful moment, and Henry was unable to resist temptation.

In a moment of sheer, youthful foolhardiness, he climbed up onto the stall and leaped, trying to straddle the huge beast with his skinny legs. The destrier, bad-tempered and far too strong for him, crashed through the stall door and took Henry, clinging to its mane, on a wild ride around the castleyard before depositing him in a particularly foul midden. Henry was humiliated, a laughingstock, but the lord of the castle still beat him black and blue for his temerity.

Strange, he had not thought of that for a very long time. It was not one of his better memories, but it was not one of his worst ones, either. It had the effect of reminding him

that once he had been a young boy, like Raf, believing he was invincible, wanting to grow up all too quickly. If the lord of the castle had been a kindly man, or the grooms had been more observant, Henry might have been allowed to ride the destrier, safely seated behind an experienced handler. Mayhap Henry would then have been satisfied, or at least content enough not to try it on his own.

He could have been killed, not just humiliated and bruised.