Jesu, she had said more than she’d meant, and now he would ask her more questions! She waved her hand at him as she turned away, saying she must go and ignoring his call. But as she hurried toward the kitchen, Jenova felt his curious eyes burning into her back, and she knew in her heart that she was only forestalling the inevitable.
Henry wondered what Jenova could have meant.
I know, and I am glad for it?
Did she not want Raf to resemble his father? But she had loved Mortred! Hadn’t she? Henry well knew that she had mourned him and refused to marry again. She had refused even to contemplate it, until now. He had hoped that her love for Mortred had been the real reason she had rejected Alfric and caused such a scene. That she had suddenly been struck by a realization that Alfric was not, and never could be, Mortred.
Her other explanation, that she had had an abrupt change of heart, was plausible enough but very unlike her usual self. Jenova did not sway like a tree in the wind—she was a practical woman of fixed opinions. Surely she must have known what Alfric was like when she’d first set eyes on him? She was certainly not blinded by love for him; the reasons for her marriage, as she had recounted them to Henry, had been clear and precise. How could the scales have fallen from her eyes when they’d never been there in the first place?
No, there was another reason. Something else had happened to change her mind. If she had not refused Alfric because of Mortred, or a sudden realization of what he was, then what?
Henry was aware of a shaky feeling inside. A niggling, fearful doubt. He recognized what it was, that dark worm tunneling its way through his heart. He was afraid that Jenova had refused Alfric because of him. Because of what they had done together in Uther’s Tower; what they were still doing, whenever they had the opportunity.
Did she, somewhere in her secret woman’s heart, hope that Henry would ask her to marry him? That they would, somehow, despite all the odds against them, live happily ever after?
If that was the case, then she was doomed to be disappointed. Henry knew he would not make any woman a good husband, especially not a woman he cared about as much as he cared about Jenova. He was far too concerned for her happiness to place himself in a position where he could hurt her. Oh, he wasn’t sorry she had refused Alfric and sent Baldessare off in a fury. He had never believed Alfric was the man for Jenova.
But neither was Henry.
And yet Henry knew, with a sickening clench in his belly, that in the circumstances, his jubilation that Jenova was no longer planning to wed Alfric was excessive. And it was not just because he did not feel Alfric was good enough. It was because now he, Henry, would not have to stay away from Gunlinghorn just because Alfric was here. He could visit just as usual and see Jenova. He would still be able to take Raf up upon his stallion, enjoy the boy’s admiration and smiles, and make him extravagant promises. For Henry, life could go on much as before.
He was happy with an outcome that had made Jenova unhappy, and he despised himself for it but could not seem to help feeling it.
Baldessare was right. He was not a good man. He was a liar and a thief; a man who reeked of unwholesome secrets. And if that reek did not quite contaminate his friends, friends like Jenova, then his secrets would certainly cause her to eye him with disgust were she ever to discover them. She would turn her back on him and never speak to him again.
Does Baldessare know?
The question was the one he had asked himself last night and dismissed, as he did now. Baldessare was the sort of man who, if he had something to use against Henry, would use it immediately. He was impulsive—not much of a plotter or a planner. It was one of the reasons Henry did not consider him particularly dangerous—he had more bluster than substance.
Threats like those Baldessare had thrown out would not hurt Henry. He must do better than that, Henry thought as he turned about, only to bump into someone standing directly behind him.
“Reynard!” He pushed his man impatiently aside and continued back across the great hall, with Reynard now in pursuit of him.
“My apologies, my lord,” Reynard said without a hint of it in his voice. “I was worried for Lady Jenova. Lord Baldessare was like a man possessed of more than one evil spirit.”
“Aye.” Henry paused and glanced at him with a frown. “Do you think his anger will cool?”
“I think he is the sort to build on it, adding twigs, until it blazes all the brighter.”
“Very lyrical, Reynard,” Henry mocked. “So you do not think Baldessare will sit wringing his hands over this matter?”
“Nay, I do not.”
“Then you do not believe we should return to London just yet?” he went on thoughtfully, as if it was something he had been considering. “I was thinking it was time to go back to court. There is the matter of the earls and their plotting….”
Reynard met his eyes, and Henry saw the full knowledge there. Reynard knew a lie when he heard it, and knew what was expected of him in return. “Leon would send for you, surely? I think we should stay at Gunlinghorn as long as we are needed.”
That was the answer Henry wanted. Very good. Then why was the churning sensation in his belly increasing, and why were his muscles rigid and tense? Henry knew it was in his own self-interest to leave now, return to the life he excelled at and understood, the life he had mapped out for himself when he was thirteen years old. Then he had been the phoenix rising from the ashes.
Did he really want to burn again? To lose all he had gained by stepping back into the flames?
“You are right, Reynard,” he said with a sigh. “We should stay at Gunlinghorn. As long as we are needed.”
“Lord Henry?” Raf’s warm little hand slipped into his, and Henry looked down with a smile. “Can we ride Lamb now?”
“My apologies, Raf. Come then, let us not keep Lamb waiting any longer.”
As he began to walk away with the boy, Raf said, “I heard you tell that big man you would stay here as long as you are needed. Does that mean forever?”