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But it hadn’t, Henry insisted to himself. Nothing had changed. It had been a momentary aberration, and now it had passed. He glanced at her over his shoulder, noting her wet, straggling hair and cold, pinched face. See, not a flicker of desire, he told himself proudly.
And then he looked at her again.
She really was soggy. Her gown was soaked and clinging to her, her arms were wrapped about her body with her fingers tucked under her arms, as if seeking warmth. Her feet in their damp stockings were as close to the fire as she could bear them.
“You need to take off your wet clothes,” he said matter-of-factly. “My cloak is almost dry now. You can use that to cover yourself until your own dries.”
Something deep in his mind was jumping about, waving its arms and shouting, but he didn’t heed it. A warning? What warning? He needed no warning. This was Jenova, remember? Jenova needed his help, and he had never failed her before.
Jenova cocked her head to one side, as if she heard the warning too. “I don’t know, Henry….”
“You will freeze to death, Jenova. You do want to get home to Gunlinghorn, and eventually wed your Alfric, do you not?”
Perhaps it was mention of her bridegroom that did it, or perhaps it was the matter-of-factness in Henry’s tone. Jenova felt herself relax as her fears receded. Henry was right. Of course he was. Jenova knew it. It was just that, after that kiss, she felt a little uneasy with him. Another sensation she had never experienced in Henry’s presence before.
Don’t be silly. This is Henry. I need to get warm or I really will get ill. It is foolish to be prudish with a man I have known most of my life.
With a shrug, she reached under her cloak and began to unfasten the damp laces at the neck of her gown with stiff, uncooperative fingers. Henry watched her sideways, pretending he wasn’t. When he could bear her fumblings no longer, he sighed loudly and, crawling across to her, pushed her fingers aside and quickly unknotted the laces. He undid the cloak, too, and pulled it from her shoulders.
“There. Now take your things off, and I will fetch my cloak for you.” But again he hesitated, eyeing her damp feet, then he began briskly to remove her stockings from where they were tied above her knees. He pretended the legs he was uncovering were not slim and very attractive; he sensed that if he stopped for a moment to consider what he was doing he might well be in trouble.
“Now,” he said, as she thanked him gravely, “take off the rest.”
He went to fetch his cloak, bringing it to her before laying out her own cloak and stockings on the woodpile. Then he returned to the fire and sat with his back to her. Very soon a bare arm stretched out and dropped the remainder of her garments beside him. He noted them. Her gown and a warm woollen chemise and another, silken one, to be worn close to her skin. Henry proceeded to deal with them as matter-of-factly as the rest. If his fingers noted that the last chemise was soft and clinging, and retained the scent of her skin, he told himself not to dwell upon it. And if his head felt a little dizzy, as if he were becoming intoxicated, he told himself it was the smoke.
When at last he had finished his task, and found the courage to turn again to Jenova, she was sitting on her side of the fire, small within the folds of his much
larger cloak, her hair spread over her back and shoulders to dry. Her side of the fire? When had it become necessary to separate them like this? When had he needed to put distance between them? This was Jenova, his friend, his sweeting…and her hands were shaking as she held them to the flames.
And yet he hesitated. He played for time.
“We are still like children,” he said, and smiled. “Too busy playing our games to notice the weather closing in.”
“We always were a b-bad influence on each other.” Jenova’s teeth were chattering now, though she strove to keep them still. “R-remember how my mother was always trying to s-separate us?”
“She never could. We always found a way to sneak past her watchful eyes.” His smile turned grim at the memories—perhaps his recollections were different from Jenova’s. It was true, her mother had never liked him, she’d had a way of pursing her mouth when she’d looked at him, as if he’d reeked of some odor only she could smell. But Jenova had been indifferent to her mother’s threats and warnings, preferring to make up her own mind. In those days she’d believed Henry could do no wrong, and in repayment for her loyalty he had led her into much mischief. He would not have blamed her if she had abandoned him to his own company, but she never had. Jenova had remained his loyal friend.
“You were always very kind to me, Jenova. Probably far kinder than I deserved.”
She looked at him in the firelight, and her green eyes glowed with golden lights. “Oh Henry,” she said softly, “you were such a sweet little boy. I could no more have given you up than…than my best pony.”
He chuckled at the comparison, but his heart swelled. She had loved him, and he her, there was no denying it, but time had moved on and they had grown. He had done things he would not wish her to know about, lived a life far beyond her world, while she had in turn become a wife and a mother to Mortred’s son, and the Lady of Gunlinghorn. They were as far apart as the moon and the sun, but still that long-ago bond remained, tying them together.
She was his lodestone, he realized, his center. He needed her to remind him of his origins, of who he really was. He needed to see the warmth and admiration in her eyes to continue to believe in himself.
With lithe grace, Henry stood and moved back to her side of the fire. It was fate, he told himself, what happened next. It was not up to him, or her. Perhaps it was this place, this Uther’s Tower. He slipped his arm about her, and drew her in against his body and his warmth. She was shaking, and he murmured in sympathy, and put his other arm about her, so that he could hold her tight against his chest. When she still shook, he lifted her onto his lap, and held her there, curled within his arms. Her damp hair tickled his nose and he burrowed into it, enjoying her fragrance.
“Am I still sweet?” he asked her at last, more for something to ease the awkward moment than because he needed to know.
Jenova managed a giggle, and he felt her icy fingertips creep up and flutter against his cheek. “Of course, dear Henry. You will always be s-sweet. To m-me.”
He looked down at her with a raised brow.
She smiled, her face pale and naked within the heavy mass of her hair. Young. Vulnerable. Defenseless. And yet her body was so soft curled against his; he could feel her breasts through the cloak, where they pressed against the arm he had wrapped about her. The nipples were hard little nubs from the cold. He wanted to warm them with his mouth.
He closed his eyes, but that was no good either. He could feel the soft roundedness of her bottom resting upon his groin. In a moment she would feel him growing hard. But he couldn’t help it. He should move away from her, but he didn’t want to. She felt so good, and he didn’t want to.
“Henry?”
