Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

“How can the telling of such a thing help her? ’Tis more likely to put her at outs with her father. I would not want Baldessare angry with me, would you?”

He seemed so sincere. Jenova could see it in his eyes. He wanted her safe, and he saw marriage as the way to do it. She believed that about him; she even believed that he was fond of her. If she were fond of him, then she would not mind marrying him. They could live apart and be perfectly happy seeing each other only occasionally. But Jenova loved him, loved him with her heart and her body and her soul, and it was just not enough anymore to have him as her comfortable friend.

She would rather not have him at all.

Her decision confirmed, Jenova patted the seat beside her. “Sit down, Henry.”

He eyed her narrowly, impatiently, but he came and sat beside her. Jenova decided he looked even worse at close quarters, with his unshaven face and shadowed eyes, and the hint of self-mockery about his mouth.

“Mayhap you do not understand how it is for a woman in my position, Henry,” she said in a carefully moderated voice. The voice, she realized guiltily, she had used in her conversation with Alfric not long since. “I am better off alone.”

“You do not trust me.”

He said it evenly, as if it didn’t really matter, but she saw something in his eyes, something hurt, as if she had struck him with a closed fist. Henry, hurt? It was almost impossible to believe. Henry, a man with an iron shield of confidence, with an easy, smiling charm? She found it difficult to believe anything she said to Henry could pierce that armor. And yet, looking at him now, she did not see much of that old Henry at all.

Jenova wondered if she could have wrought this change. Was this her fault? But no, how could it be! Whatever had happened to Henry, he was keeping it locked away inside. For her to help him, he must trust her.

“I trust you,” she said carefully. “Far more than you trust me. I have said this before, but I think…I know you are keeping something from me. There is more to your concern about Jean-Paul, and probably about Baldessare, too, more than you are telling me. But if you will not tell me, then I cannot give your wishes proper consideration. And I do not wish to marry you under these circumstances. I am sorry, Henry.”

“So you need no help with all of this? You can defeat Baldessare, hold off his army, discover the spy in your keep, and protect your lands until the king’s return? There seems little point in me remaining here, then. I am merely in your way.”

He was angry with her, and his words gave her a pain in her heart that was as sharp as a needle. But she kept it at bay—there would be time to feel later.

“I never expected you to stay at Gunlinghorn forever,” she said quietly. “Of course I will miss you. You know I will. I…I am used to you being here, Henry. Raf will miss you, too. But I am fully aware that your real life is elsewhere; you have never led me to believe anything differently.”

Now was the time, if he wished, to tell her what was troubling him. To trust her. To throw himself open to her healing love. Henry stared at her and said nothing. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on his face, and when he leaned back against the window embrasure, his body was as tense as iron. Jenova watched him sadly, eyes fixed on his profile, the perfect line of nose and brow and bearded jaw, the fall of his hair, the hard soldier’s body. Something was eating him alive, but he would not share it. And Jenova knew she could not bow to his wishes. He must tell her the truth—as much as she loved him, they could not live together otherwise.

“You are very understanding, Jenova,” he said at last, and there was little emotion in his voice—perhaps a hint of dry mockery.

“We are friends, Henry. We were friends before and we will, I hope, be friends after.” It was costing her a great deal to be so reasonable and so calm. To pretend her heart was not breaking.

“Aye, friends.” There was bitterness beneath the surface, but she ignored it. He might be suffering from hurt male pride because she wouldn’t accept his help, or irritation because she had not needed him to ride to her rescue. Or mayhap he was simply annoyed because she had put him into a corner. But Jenova could not escape the sense that, deep inside, he needed her most desperately.

“Raf is expecting you to take him riding tomorrow,” she said, holding on to her composure by a thread.

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “I hadn’t forgotten. Will he really miss me?”

Now there was vulnerability in the line of his mouth, an uncertainty that had never been there before. Jenova felt tears sting her own eyes, and she had to look away and pretend to smooth her sleeve. “Of course he will, Henry. You are his hero.”

Henry smiled back, but the pain in his face had not gone away. “I am glad I am someone’s hero then, sweeting. If you do not mind, I think I will go and speak to your scribe. I have some plans for him to draw up, for your harbor. That will be safe, at least.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

He took her hand as if to kiss it, then changed his mind and let it go. Jenova smiled, but he had already gone through the door. It was best, she told herself. Her heart was breaking, but he would never know it. She would allow him to go back, without guilt, to the life he loved without feeling he needed to stay on for her sake.

This was her gift to him, and it was of far greater value than any tunic.

“Jean-Paul?”

In the moment after opening her door, Rhona had time to gather her wits and smooth her features into the mask she usually wore when she was in his presence. That he was in her room at all was frightening enough, but there could be an entirely innocent explanation for it.

“Where have you been, my lady?” That single pale eye raked over her, taking in the wrinkles in her clothing, her untidy hair, her bruised lips. Ticking off each damning piece of evidence against her.

He knew. Somehow he knew, and Rhona was experienced enough to realize she would be foolish to pretend otherwise. But she could bend the truth, make it work for her. She had done it before.

“I have someone in Lord Henry’s camp who tells me things. I was meeting with him, Jean-Paul. Furthering the interests of my father and Alfric.”

His gaze was still upon her, his disconcerting face in shadow. “Who is this ‘someone’?”