Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Reynard watched her go, his gaze lingering on the furious sway of her hips, the arrogant tilt of her head. She was a little beauty, no mistake, and it was a shame she had refused him. That she was also a liar and a cheat, and wanted to bring down Lord Henry and Lady Jenova with her manipulating ways, bothered him not at all. He could see past that to the possibilities that lay deep in her heart.

He had looked into her brown eyes and seen something proud and stubborn and wounded. It had made him feel almost protective. He did not want to hurt her, but he could not allow her to hurt others. He hadn’t really believed that comment about selling her maidenhead, although the man who had told him had been one of Lord Baldessare’s former grooms, now come to work for Lady Jenova.

What father would do that to his daughter?

Evidently Baldessare would—there had been no mistaking the dismayed acknowledgement in her lovely face. Probably that was where she had gotten the idea that she could have anything she wanted if she was prepared to offer herself in return. To men of breeding with plenty of money, that is. The groom had also been keen to impart other gossip, tales of Lady Rhona’s activities, which, even if exaggerated, still caused Reynard to wonder if she was truly the lady she pretended to be.

But Reynard had seen enough of the world to know that sometimes, out of desperation and despair, people found it necessary to act in a manner they would not otherwise have contemplated. Mayhap Lady Rhona was desperate? Or mayhap she despaired?

Or mayhap she just enjoyed men?

Reynard remembered how she had looked at him, as if she had certainly enjoyed the thought of him and her, together. She had made much of the fact that he was a churl, but he did not think that would have mattered if he had held her in his arms.

He shook his head to clear his mind. She was entangling him in desire and he hadn’t even had her yet! But he would, oh he would. Although Reynard considered himself an experienced ladies’ man, and with justification, he knew when to take a step back. His senses were giving him that warning right now.

Lady Rhona had an air of danger about her. She thought she had his measure. Reynard smiled. She was an apprentice compared to him. He could read her as his father the shipwright had read the weather. She had said nay to him for now, but she would be back.

Chapter 13

The great hall at Gunlinghorn rang with merriment. The castlefolk ate, drank, chattered and enjoyed the entertainment. Raf cuddled close to Jenova, sleepy-eyed, his little warm body reminding her of how fortunate she was. And how fortunate Raf was, never to grow up with a father like Baldessare!

She glanced at Henry where he sat contentedly, listening to something Agetha said. He had made Jenova blush once tonight already, with his praise of Agetha’s violet soap. His charming smile and words had been all for Agetha, but the hot glint in his eyes had searched for and found Jenova.

I will never be able to smell violets again without growing hard, he had told her after their bath together. Jenova had laughed and retorted that next time he must try her own rose-scented soap. As if he would be with her a long, long time. As if they had forever.

He was not like Mortred, she admitted that now. In her heart she had known it all along. He was honorable and noble and trustworthy, all the things she cherished in a man. And he was kind and generous and protective of her and Raf and Gunlinghorn. He was all that and more. And she did not want him to leave.

Jenova sighed. She had a strong urge to tell him about her growing doubts where Baldessare was concerned, but she stilled her tongue. Henry might think she was telling him simply to keep him here, with her. He would know she was quite capable of looking after herself—she was the Lady of Gunlinghorn after all. But it was true, she was anxious, and she was beginning to think she had reason.

That reason was Alfric.

Earlier, he had managed a few words alone with her despite her machinations. Agetha had left to see to an errand—the girl no doubt believed herself to be helping her hero—and Alfric had begun a long speech about loving her above all others. Jenova had stopped him and reiterated her former declaration. “I will not change my mind. I am sorry, Alfric. Forgive me if I have hurt you.”

His face had paled. “I may forgive you, but my father never will. He will force us into marriage, lady,” he had added, urgently. “Believe me, ’tis better if you wed me of your own free will. You will not like my father’s way of doing things.”

Jenova had stood up, staring down at him. “Are you threatening me, Alfric?”

Alfric had shaken his head, his eyes bright with tears. “Nay, my lady, I am trying to help you.” Without another word, he had also risen to his feet, bowed, and left her.

Jenova had remained standing, feeling increasingly uneasy. She still felt uneasy, many hours later. It sounded as if Alfric thought Lord Baldessare would force her into marriage with his son. He could not be so foolish. And yet Alfric had seemed to think he would—he had looked sick with fear.

Jenova shifted restlessly, causing Raf to murmur in complaint. Why had she said she would marry Alfric in the first place? What had she been thinking? She had seen enough

of what marriage could do to women who were unhappy in their choices, or the choices made for them. Foolish, foolish Jenova. She had thought to revenge herself on Mortred’s memory…instead she had put herself and all who depended upon her at risk.

“Jenova?”

Henry was leaning toward her, his blue eyes curious. “You look so serious,” he said. “What is wrong?”

“There is nought wrong.” She shook off her introspection, determined to put on a brave face. “Do you like the mummers?”

Henry glanced at the players dressed in their outlandish costumes. They were meant to be Saracens, but they looked more like bundles of rags. His brilliant gaze came back to her, seeming to delve into her very soul.

“I like the mummers. I like everything about Gunlinghorn.”

Did he mean it? Was he no longer pining for London? She thought he did mean it—there was an openness in his face. Mayhap Gunlinghorn had wound its spell upon him at last. But was it strong enough to hold him?

“Will the Baldessares return?” he asked her, interrupting her thoughts. “I thought they had gone for good last time. Have we really seen the last of them?”