Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

How could he bear not waking up to her kisses and her soft body beside his, not seeing her smiles or hearing her laughter? These were losses he could hardly begin to contemplate—there was a terrible ache in his chest when he imagined being without her. A burning pain of emptiness and grief. He had never felt that before for any woman. He didn’t know what to do about it. Clever and handsome Henry didn’t know what to do.

Marry her.

The words rang out in his head, startling him from his depression. I tried that, he thought. She refused me. What more can I do?

Tell her the truth.

Aye, and what then? He would not only destroy his chance to marry her but he would also ruin whatever friendship still remained between them. She would send him away, and when she was all alone, Baldessare would strike.

“No!”

Lamb, startled by his cry, jumped sideways and nearly unseated him. Henry clamped his mouth shut and hung on grimly, drawing the big stallion to a halt and settling his ruffled nerves.

“Your master is a fool,” he said, rubbing his hand over Lamb’s rough winter coat.

And so he was. He could not let Baldessare hurt Jenova. He could not let Jean-Paul send him back to London with his tail between his legs, leaving Jenova to her fate. The solution was to marry her, do it in haste, before his enemies could do aught about it. Then, if Jean-Paul wanted to tell Jenova the truth, let him. She would no longer want anything to do with him, but at least Henry would be her husband and in a position to protect her. Whether she willed it or not. Even if he fell out of favor, Henry thought feverishly, he would still have that power. The king would not take everything from him, surely?

So you would wed her in deceit.

“For her own good. For her safety, hers and Raf’s. It is I who have brought this danger upon them, and now it is I who must save them from it.”

It sounded plausible enough. Lamb tossed his head in agreement, bringing a grim smile to Henry’s lips. He turned him for home. Home, there was a bittersweet word. He had never felt he belonged anywhere, until now. Home was Raf, with his trusting smile, and Jenova, warm and pliant in his arms. Home was this place and its people. Aye, Gunlinghorn had become his home.

But instead of basking in the joy of his new discovery, Henry was facing the possibility of losing it all.

“Who are you, Jean-Paul?” he asked himself aloud, sending Lamb galloping down the slope toward the castle. “Why do you want to destroy me?”

All these years he had tried to forget. He had put the past behind a door in his mind and kept it shut fast. Sometimes at night he would dream, but during the day he had made a different life for himself. Risen up anew from the dreadful ashes. Now all that was under threat, and he had no idea how to stop it.

Perhaps Reynard would find out for him today, when he met with Lady Rhona? Surely there was some clue, some whisper, something! He must discover who Jean-Paul was. Although how that would help him, Henry did not know. Maybe it was just that knowing his enemy would make him seem less threatening, more beatable, than the faceless priest he had met upon the seafront.

Souris.

The name was a whisper in his head. Souris, clever and bright, his friend, and companion. Souris had saved him more than once, Henry admitted that. At the time he had been grateful. But Souris had not been trustable, he had had his own agenda. Henry had always known that Souris would never have helped him escape le château de Nuit. The château had been Souris’ home, and he had had no intention of leaving it.

Souris would have seen Henry’s leaving as a betrayal.

It would fester in him, it would become hate. Souris, damaged and yet fiercely intelligent, would find an especially cruel way to make Henry suffer.

Aye, that made sense.

If anyone had the ability to torture, to torment, to shut off any remaining spark of love or compassion, then it was Souris.

The Mouse.

The midday meal was being served. As Jenova passed through the great hall, toward the kitchen, the noise made her head ache. She ignored it. Just as she had ignored Agetha’s worried and accusing glances. The girl had not given up on Alfric, but Jenova had refused to hear another word from her on the subject. Thankfully, Agetha had known when to stop, at least for the moment.

Henry, it seemed, was not so intuitive.

Jenova knew he was watching her. Ever since she had come downstairs, his gaze had followed her. She had the uneasy feeling he was like a wolf, just waiting for the right moment to pounce and pin her to the ground.

But, she told herself, she was ready for him. He would not take her by surprise again. If necessary, she would refuse to see him. Her heart was still too sore from their last encounter….

A hand came out of the shadows and caught her arm. Henry! The entrance to a storeroom was close beside her, and as Jenova gasped and tried to pull free, she realized that Henry had been lurking in there, waiting for her. Lord Henry of Montevoy among last year’s dried apples. It might have been amusing if it had not been so infuriating.

“Jenova.”

“Go away, Henry.” Her teeth were gritted, her fists clenched.