Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Henry smiled. “Wherever and whenever you wish, my lady.”

Jenova kissed him again, wondering if she would have the strength to break away, and then she pulled out of his arms and ran, back toward the keep, hardly noticing the cold wind at all.

Chapter 7

Lord Baldessare and his family were to come to Gunlinghorn, to a feast that Jenova had arranged in their honor. They would be remaining at the castle overnight and returning home the following morning. It was an event that had been planned for some time, and although Henry wished he could lock and bar the gates against Alfric and his relatives, and deny them entry, he knew he could not. Even the weather conspired against him, the day dawning bright and clear instead of with the blizzard he had hoped for.

On a day like this, he and Jenova could have ridden for miles. Just the two of them. They could have returned to Uther’s Tower, reliving that first time. Instead it was to be wasted on the Baldessares, and Jenova had already wasted two days now on preparations. She had been bustling about, dealing with food and wine and entertainment, making the lives of her servants a misery. Henry had hardly seen her.

Well, apart from one very interesting tryst in the stillroom.

Henry remembered it now with a satisfied smile. He had come upon Jenova in that secluded, sweet-smelling place, surrounded by syrups and preserves, with bunches of drying rosemary, fenugreek and sage hanging from hooks in the ceiling, and upon the shelves, pots of such winter remedies as white horehound mixed with honey for coughs, and goosegrease for chilblains.

The room was cool and dim, the lighted candle wavering on the table where Jenova worked. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she was grinding dried chamomile leaves with a mortar and pestle.

Henry simply watched her for a time, enjoying the movement of the muscles in her arms and shoulders, the jiggle of her breasts, the little murmurs of effort. It was cool and dry in here but she wore no cloak, and she had left off her veil, so that her hair lay in a thick plait to her hips.

“What are you doing, sweeting?”

She jumped, despite the quiet timbre of his voice, and turned to stare at him. “Henry?” She wiped an arm over her brow, as though conscious of her disheveled state. Tendrils of hair clung to her damp skin, and she looked flushed and adorable. “I’m making a medicine for Lord Baldessare. Alfric says his father has painful headaches.” Jenova turned away after another uncertain glance.

Henry thought he knew the reason for Baldessare’s aching head—the heavy burden of his conscience—but he did not say so. He let her work a moment, simply enjoying the sight of her, and then he moved. Jenova turned her head to look at him again, doubtfully, as he slipped his arms about her waist.

He began by nuzzling her neck, kissing the soft, vulnerable flesh there, gently blowing on the fine tendrils of her hair. She gasped, leaning back against him, and soon the pestle and mortar were forgotten as his hands moved over her breasts, finding her rigid little nipples through the wool cloth.

“Someone will come,” she whispered huskily, turning her face so that she could lick at his ear.

“Not before you, I hope,” he said, and began to ease up her skirt. His fingers slid over the long, shapely line of her thighs, finding their way between, where she was warm and damp and ready.

“Henry,” she gasped, arching against his invasion and welcoming it at the same time. He pressed his fingers deep inside her, at the same time brushing against that eager little nub. She shuddered, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Henry,” she whispered again.

“Hush, sweeting,” he murmured against her hair. “Relax and enjoy what I can give you. Let yourself feel….”

Her body moved to the rhythm of his fingers, anointing them with the wet evidence of her pleasure. Henry, with one ear open to any sounds beyond the stillroom, brought her to completion, holding her as she cried out and shuddered in his arms.

His own body was aching, demanding his own release, but he ignored it and instead kissed her mouth gently, allowing her to catch her breath. Giving her pleasure, watching her pleasure, had been enough. In a strange, unnerving way, Henry was happy with that. It was the first time he had ever been content to give without expecting something in return.

Remembering the moment, Henry knew a tremor of unease. Why had it been enough? Because he had known that, as they’d stood together among the herbs in the fragrant silence, Jenova had been his. Not Alfric’s, and not Mortred’s. It had been Henry who had made her gasp and plead, Henry whose expertise had drawn from her the cries of a woman complete.

What is wrong with that? Jenova wants this as much as me. Maybe that was so, but in Henry’s experience, passion was finite. Jenova had told him she was prepared for that, but Henry wasn’t sure he was. But he was certain of one thing. With such thoughts churning in his head, he was in no mood to spar with Lord Baldessare.

Jenova had arranged a sumptuous meal, and the tables groaned with bounty. The great hall had been decorated with mistletoe and other winter plants, giving a welcome touch of greenery, while the fire burned bright. The setting was perfect, but the guests within it were less so. Within a few moments of the feast’s beginning, Henry was fervently wishing himself elsewhere.

The older lord clearly wanted to vent his spleen on Henry, but he did not have Henry’s finesse. When Henry smiled at Baldessare’s barbs as if they were jests, failing to respond in kind, Lord Baldessare’s muttered insults turned more reckless.

“The king has grown weak. He lets his favorites rule the country and turns a blind eye to their greed,” he blustered rudely.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “He rewards loyalty and endeavor, Baldessare. Do you call that weakness? I would call it common sense.”

“There are many loyal men who never receive the rewards they deserve. How can they remain loyal when they see other, lesser men continually taking what should rightfully be theirs?”

Lord Baldessare was short and thickset, with gray hair shaved almost to his skull, and a leathery, bitter face set with hard gray eyes. He looked like a man who was never happy with what he had, and who was always looking beyond to his neighbors.

“Mayhap those so-called loyal men would do well to think hard and long about what they had done to displease their king, rather than let themselves be consumed with envy,” Henry said thoughtfully. “If such men took the time to think before they opened their mouths, we would all sleep easier.”

Baldessare snorted in disgust. “Aye, you have a pretty face and a pretty tongue, Lord Henry. The king enjoys your witticisms, no doubt, at the expense of plain speech. Mayhap he should poke around in your past a little more, and see what foul things he brings up.”

Henry felt himself go cold. He hid it, or hoped he did, facing Baldessare with a slight smile, bluffing before those cold, sharp eyes that were cleverer than he had thought. Or mayhap Baldessare was just fishing in the hope of catching something he could use in his campaign to hurt Henry. Aye, that must be it. Best he did not know just how accurate that last hit had been.