Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

“Jenova.” He hesitated, wondering if he should even ask his questions—there was so little time. A week, the priest had said. A week to save himself, to redeem himself, to make all well again. It wasn’t long enough.

“Henry? What is it?” There was anxiety in her voice now, their discord forgotten. “What is the matter? I know there is something wrong, and I won’t be fooled by your pretending otherwise.”

Tell me! Jenova’s eyes were saying, but Henry did not believe she meant that he should tell her everything. Still, he found himself speaking, the words tumbling out.

“I met Baldessare’s priest when I was at Gunlinghorn Harbor. He wore a…a mask over his face.”

“Jean-Paul? His face is badly damaged. A fire, I think. The skin is scarred and puckered…awful. He wears the mask when he goes out so as not to frighten people. Why was he down at Gunlinghorn Harbor?”

Now, there was a question, Henry thought, but it was not one he intended to answer. At least, not honestly, and not now. He imagined her face changing as he told her the story, imagined her eyes growing cold, her skin pale with disgust. No, he could not tell her—he was not brave enough.

“He is no fool,” she went on, seeming not to notice his silence. “Jean-Paul, I mean. He is a clever and educated man. ’Tis a cruel thing to say, but he seems wasted upon the Baldessares. He would have made a fine cardinal, except…” She pulled a face, catching Henry’s gaze. “I do not trust him. There is something there that he hides well. He tries so hard to pretend he has no feelings; even when people slight him because of his face, he shrugs it off. But you just know that, inside, he is like a boiling pot, bubbling and seething.”

“You describe him very well, sweeting.”

“Why did you ask, Henry? What did he say to you? Tell me, I want to know.”

Tell me…

“He asked if I would…persuade you to marry Alfric.” No need to frighten her yet with talk of a bridegroom like Baldessare. “I said that decision was yours alone.”

Jenova’s eyebrows rose, her smooth brow creasing. “I am surprised. I did not think such a matter as my marriage to Alfric would concern him.”

“Is his whole face ruined? I mean—”

“You mean, what did he look like before he was disfigured? A sweet face, I think. Not so much handsome as appealing. Pale eyes and long lashes—one of his eyes is still so, the other one is blind. I do not know how old he is, ’tis difficult to tell.”

Henry nodded. She had just described several of his companions at le château de Nuit. And yet in his heart, deep, deep in his heart, he already knew who he was. The he who could hate him enough, who was patient enough, cruel enough, to do this thing to him. Betrayal, that was what was at the heart of Jean-Paul’s game.

Henry’s betrayal.

“Stay away from the priest,” he said with quiet urgency. “Do not be alone with him, Jenova, and do not let Raf near him. I do not like him. He is dangerous.”

Jenova eyed him uneasily. “Of course I will be careful, Henry, although I k

now I am perfectly safe here, on Gunlinghorn land. You would…you would tell me, if there was anything more, wouldn’t you, Henry? You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

Henry smiled into her eyes, but his heart was bleak. Trust her? Jesu, if only he could believe she could make all right again! But he feared even Jenova did not have that power.

Jenova wanted to force him to tell her what was in his mind. Something had happened, something more than his meeting with Jean-Paul. He was acting oddly, as if he were looking inward even as he smiled and chatted and lathed her with his famous charm. She knew him too well to be easily deceived—didn’t he know that? Whatever it was, it was clear Henry did not want to share it with her.

Why had he spoken of court again? Even though it had been in the context of helping Raf, something for which she should be grateful, the mere mention of it had soured her joy. She didn’t want him to go. She had half thought, hoped, that he had changed his mind.

She had learned from Mortred how painful it was to give oneself wholly to a man. She must try and keep her distance. And her heart in one piece.

Then why was it already feeling like it was too late?

“Jenova?”

He was watching her, his eyes so very compelling. Something in her own eyes must have betrayed her, for he caught her fingers in his and squeezed them tightly, as if for comfort. The moment stretched out. “Jenova,” he murmured again, his low voice skimming her skin and her senses. And suddenly she was intensely aware of his body, his warmth, the scent of him. Desire flooded through her, quickening her breath, heating her blood.

Just like that, she was ready for him.

“Henry,” she breathed, and looked into eyes blazing with ardor.

His face was rigid with his need of her. He stepped closer, and his warm breath stirred her veil. “I want you,” he said, his lips almost touching her skin. “Now.”

She laughed, as if she had drunk too much wine. “Now? Before my entire household?”