Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  Ivo wondered, grimly, just what lessons she had learned since her father had died. And how they had been taught to her.

  “I cannot keep away from you, Briar,” he said, looking with quiet intensity into her face. “You are right in that. I desire you. I do not think that will change until I have had you many, many times, and even then…But I get ahead of myself. There is another reason why I have come here to speak with you.”

  Instantly she was watchful, the heat fading from her eyes.

  That was good, he told himself. She was no fool, his songstress, and in her tenuous position she needed all her wits about her. He wanted her to listen to him, and listen well.

  “I go north with Lord Radulf, to fight the Scots and their friends.”

  She surprised him with an, “Oh?” before she looked away, shrugging her shoulders as if she did not care. As if she was wondering to herself why he would feel the need to tell her such a thing. Even after their passionate embrace, Ivo could not help but experience a moment of doubt. Had he been mistaken? Was he as much of a fool as Sweyn had thought? Had he allowed feeling back into his poor, wounded heart, only to be struck a fatal blow?

  And then she glanced up at him through her dark lashes. A quick look, secretive, but full of doubt and uncertainty. And loss.

  Ivo knew then that he had not been mistaken. He grinned, and watched the temper flare in her. Color climbed into her cheeks, anger flashed in those slanting eyes, until it seemed that at any moment she would claw him like an angry little cat.

  “Why do you tell me this?” she asked him, and tossed her untidy hair like the pampered and spoiled child she had probably once been. “Men come and go; I forget them in a week.”

  Ivo’s smile broadened. “But you will not forget me, demoiselle.”

  “How can you be so sure?” The look dared him, and yet she was wary. She did not believe herself untouchable then. Whatever lesson she had learned had been well taught.

  Ivo reached out and captured her chin in strong but gentle fingers. She glared up at him, daring him to do more. He did, brushing his thumb back and forth against her lips. They were reddened and swollen from their kisses of moments before, and suddenly his thumb wasn’t nearly enough. Ivo bent his head and claimed her mouth once more with his.

  The spark caught, and began quickly to burn. She clung to him, her fingers tugging painfully in his hair. Their mouths fused and melded, wanting more and yet knowing that this was not the time nor the place. Ivo enjoyed the feel of her, the knowledge that she was no longer holding back. He had pushed beyond her wariness, beyond whatever plans were seething in that hot little head of hers, to the place where nothing existed but him and her, together.

  “I will come back.”

  She blinked, and for a moment stared up at him blindly. And then, gradually, the knowledge returned. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she stepped back. The silence between them was painful, but he did not break it.

  “Is that a vow?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

  “Do you want it to be?”

  She shrugged with pretended indifference, suddenly cooling. “I did not expect you to plight your troth to me, not because of a single night. I gave you my body, and you gave me yours. Was it so special? Surely it happens all the time between men and women?”

  Impatience gripped him, but Ivo held it down. This was no time to lose his temper with her. She was playing games, but he did not have to join in.

  “I will come back, Briar, because I am so hot for you that I burn. Just as you burn for me. Why pretend it is not so? In time the flames may well turn cold, but for now we can warm ourselves with their heat.”

  She looked up at him, paler than ever, and he felt her trembling. “Good. As long as you do not think it is forever. Love is for fools, de Vessey.”

  “Aye, demoiselle,” he said in agreement.

  “Good,” she said again, but she did not look as if she thought it was good.

  “I will return when the fighting is over. Wait for me.” She looked so lost and miserable, Ivo sought for something else to say, to rekindle the coals of her anger. He allowed his expression to grow stern. “And do not think to take any other strangers to your bed, no matter who you believe them to be.”

  Instantly she was glaring up at him, bristling like a wildcat. “Oh, and why not? You cannot stop me taking the whole garrison to my bed, if I wished it!”

  He had spoken the words on purpose, to bring some life back into her beautiful face, but still jealousy washed over him. “I will know, lady,” he growled. “You are mine.”

  She was startled, mayhap even a little confused, by his answer. But as he watched she swallowed both down, then narrowed her eyes at him. Anger flashed again in the flecks of brown and green, and color stung her white cheeks. “Yours? I am no man’s, and certainly not the belongings of a disgraced knight. Go! Go and fight, and I hope the Scots cut you into pieces!”

  As soon as she had spoken she caught her breath, like a child who expects to be punished. But Ivo did not find her words insulting or painful—he admired courage, and it was clear his woman had plenty, no matter what had been done to her. Aye, she was brave, but someone, at some time, had hurt her. The flinch she gave betrayed her as he reached up to smooth back a long curl of her hair.

  “Ah, demoiselle,” he said quietly, gazing deep into her eyes. “We both know that your prayers will keep me safe until I return to you.”

  When he bent his head for another kiss, she tried to pull away from him, cursing him beneath her breath. But as soon as his mouth closed on hers, all fight was forgotten. She responded desperately, clinging and hot, her body pressed hard to his. All too soon, he had to set her away, his eyes sweeping one last time over her face and figure, planting her image firmly in his mind.

  And then he was gone, his boots ringing out on the wooden floor. The door banged hollowly, the sound echoing down the hall to where Briar still stood in the entrance to the alcove, staring after him.

  Alone.

  “I did not mean it,” she whispered, her trembling fingers digging into her palms, her nails drawing blood. “I did not mean what I said. Jesu, do not let him die…do not let him die…”

  Chapter 4

  Several weeks later

  York’s Sunday market was an organized muddle beneath a cloudswept sky. Vendors raucously called out their wares, children squealed, buyers bargained, and farmers’ animals lowed, squawked, and squealed. Stalls and tables, some sheltered by canvas, jostled for space with penned animals and pushing, gaping townsfolk. Two fellows, who had obviously overimbibed at the aleseller’s stall, were shouting insults at each other. An enterprising housewife was selling hot broth to keep out the cold, and the cabbagy smell of it mingled with that of bread baking and meat roasting, and the underlying earthy odor of livestock.

  The market opened every Sunday, selling the necessaries of life to the townsfolk and those who had traveled in from the countryside. For a time after William’s harrowing of the north, the market had been a sorry place indeed, but gradually, like York itself, it was rebuilding.

  When Briar and Mary first arrived in York, they were two of the many performers who came here every Sunday to sing and play, and hopefully be thrown enough coins to buy their supper.

  Briar smiled now at the memory, and felt her spirits lift for the first time in weeks. She had been like a ghost, knowing she was worrying Mary and Jocelyn with her wane state, but refusing to discuss with them what ailed her. Her pride prevented her, as well as the knowledge that she was being foolish. And the niggling doubt that she may have imagined the whole thing.

  He was in the north, fighting the Scots.

  But at least he was alive!

  Briar had overheard a conversation while performing in a York merchant’s home the night before.

  “Radulf has put to flight the rebels who thought to make merry on his land,” one large and important-looking man announced, “and without the loss of even one of his own me
n!”

  “The rebels were mainly Scots,” put in another, not willing to be thought less well informed.

  “Then these Scots are either very brave or very foolish!”

  Laughter erupted, but the merriment was soured by envy. Radulf was a great man, but not everyone liked a man who was greater than they.

  Briar had not cared to dwell on the problems of being a great man. She was too elated by what she had heard. Ivo had told her he would return—she remembered his mouth on hers with an ache in her heart—but her experience with Filby had made her doubt him, and as time passed, she had doubted her memories of him more.

  Besides, her hasty words as they parted had weighed heavily upon her. There were nights since, when she had woken from bloody, fearsome dreams, where Ivo de Vessey lay dead upon the ground, his wonderful eyes dulled, his smile gone, his voice silent. And then, her heart pounding, Briar would stare wide-eyed into the darkness, until dawn came to comfort her. How could he have gotten into her mind so quickly, and yet so completely?

  You are mine.

  Even while she fought against such an arrogant belief on his part, Briar wondered whether it was not, in some way, so. Perhaps the pleasure she had felt in the joining of their bodies, that hot, burning, bone-deep pleasure, had given him a special power over her? A power that no other man had ever had.

  She wanted him back. It was an endless, aching yearning. And Briar knew she would do almost anything to see him again.

  He had been right in that, too.

  Her prayers since he left had been all for his safe return.

  Briar and Mary wandered freely through the busy, noisy crowd, enjoying the fact that they had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Sometimes, thought Briar, ’twas a blessing to be poor. Because you didn’t matter, you became almost invisible, and being invisible certainly had its uses.

  A nearby table was set out with leather goods, each carefully tooled. A villainous-looking woman fixed her eyes on them, and instinctively Briar moved closer to her sister and urged her on to a fruit vendor’s stall. Always a shy and timid girl, Mary had naturally leaned heavily upon Briar since their father’s death and their fall from grace. Briar had gotten used to the role of Mary’s protector, of standing between her youngest sister and a harsh world.

  She never complained of the burden. She loved her sister, and she did not for a moment consider Mary should do more to lighten the load. Without Mary, and the need to care for her, Briar was not sure she would have survived, even with her dark dream of vengeance.

  Briar frowned and fingered a basket of very ripe wild plums, lifted a skeptical brow when the vendor named his price. “They are rotten,” she said flatly.

  Five minutes later, she had haggled the price down considerably, and the two girls moved off with their bounty. Briar bit into one of the plums, and the juice spurted out and ran down her chin. With a giggle, Mary did the same.

  “You drove a hard bargain with that man,” she ventured, but her dark eyes were sparkling.

  “He was a badling. I gave him a fair price.”

  Mary finished the plum and fastidiously licked her sticky fingers, drying them off on her worn kirtle. “You call every male a badling these days, Briar. There are some good men among the bad.”

  “Pooh! They are all badlings and fleshmongers. Name one who is not, sister.”

  Mary wrinkled her brow. “Odo. He is…was a good man.”

  Briar laughed. “That was because Jocelyn would not allow him to be otherwise. Name me another.”

  “What of the man who came to see you at Lord Shelborne’s? The man you sang to, Briar. Was he a badling and a fleshmonger?”

  Briar blinked, wondering for a surprised moment whether her sister’s expression was really as innocent as it appeared. The doubt shocked her. What was she thinking? Mary was a child.

  “He is the worst badling and fleshmonger I have ever met,” she said uncomfortably.

  But Mary did not hear her; her fickle attention had been captured by something far more interesting. “Look, sister!”

  Briar looked, while the dark, sweet syrup from the plum trickled down her pointed chin and stained the front of her coarse brown gown. With her chestnut hair loose about her shoulders, and her feet bare, Briar felt like a young girl. Gone was the world-weary woman who often dwelt in her heart. A sense of optimism filled her, and she smiled when she saw the direction of Mary’s interest.

  Her younger sister was gazing in rapture at a clothseller’s stall. The man was clearly no York native, but one of the foreign merchants who had taken the journey to England in the hope of making a fortune. Bolts of beautiful materials spilled over the wooden board, some so exquisite they were surely only fit for the highest in the land—or the highest in York, anyway. The rolls of cloth were complemented by trays of ribbons, beads, and other trimmings. York’s matrons were already gathering, like crows at a feast, eagerly discussing styles and colors, shouldering out the dreamers.

  Briar followed after her sister. In her opinion, ’twas not always good sense to wish for luxuries it was no longer in their power to obtain, but Mary was so entranced. And besides, Briar reminded herself, he was alive and she was happy. Why not pretend, just this once?

  And then a length of green wool caught her eye, and it was no longer pretense.

  The cloth was very dark. The deep, deep green of a pond, when you look into its secret depths. And it was so soft and so fine—her fingers itched to stroke. If she had a gown made of such stuff, Briar told herself, she could do anything. Radulf would beg her pardon, the king would return Castle Kenton, Filby would grovel at her feet. Indeed, the whole of York would be at her feet, bare or otherwise!

  Ivo among them. Aye, especially Ivo!

  Unthinking, Briar stretched out her hand to touch…and caught the baleful eye of the clothseller. He scowled at her. Clearly he thought she had the plague, at the very least! Aye, and so she did, to him. She was poor; what would such a poor creature as she want with fine wool, if it was not to spoil it for others, or steal it to sell? Briar knew that he would not hesitate to shout for help, and she would be fined.

  Her spirits, which had been on the rise, plummeted.

  “Come, sister, we are not wanted here,” she said, more sharply than she meant.

  Mary sighed. “Do you think, one day, Briar, we might wear fine clothes again? I know it is wrong of me to long for such petty nonsense, when our other needs are so great, but sometimes I just cannot help it. If we had not once lived very differently from this, then I would not feel the lack, I am sure. But we did, and I do.”

  There were tears in the younger girl’s eyes and, forgetting her stern demeanor, Briar gave her a quick, fierce hug. “’Tis not wrong, and one day we will dress better than queens, you will see. That clothmonger will be begging us to touch his wares then.”

  Mary smiled, as Briar had meant her to.

  Hand in hand, they continued on through the crowded market, until Mary’s excited cry stopped them once more. “Oh, Briar, look!” A pair of acrobats were performing, twisting and turning their slim bodies into bizarre shapes. “As if they have no bones!” Mary gasped, clapping her hands. They stood and watched, and again Briar put aside their many troubles and lost herself in her sister’s simple joy.

  We are still alive, she told herself, that is the miracle. Despite all Radulf and Filby and the king have done to destroy us, the daughters of Richard Kenton remain.

  And as long as she, Briar, was alive, those great men best beware!

  One of the acrobats bent over backward and peeped at them through his legs. The crowd clapped and laughed. The other acrobat put his feet behind his head, as if they were tied in a knot.

  Laughing, engrossed, Briar was completely unprepared when that quiet, deep voice spoke just behind her.

  “Demoiselle.”

  She froze. Her heart began to pound like a hammer. The amusing scene before her shifted, faded. She was looking at a bed of soft furs and cushions, and in it,
a big naked man, who lay back and gazed at her with the most intense black eyes she had ever known. His hands were on her body, his mouth on hers, and she was filled with the wonderful ache of completion.

  Jesu, how many times have I woken in the night, dreaming of this? How many times during each day have I found myself thinking of our brief time together? And now, he is here, his mesmerizing voice as smug as a well-fed cat because he has found me…

  “Briar, look at me.”

  Briar shivered. Her skin felt thin as breath, sensitive to the softest touch, the briefest brush of his gaze. She was aglow, like a lantern with a bright candle inside. Aglow, because he had found her, and he was alive!

  Only a brief moment had passed, and her wild emotions were settling. Or so she thought, until she turned, and found the reality of him so much more than she had imagined. She was overwhelmed by the sheer sense of his size, his presence, the brooding beauty of his smile beneath the shadow of his helmet, and his eyes, like black stars gleaming down into hers.

  “Ivo de Vessey.” She sounded breathless. At her side, Mary was looking from one to the other with an interest that did not seem entirely guileless.

  Ivo’s smile broadened, and there was a satisfied twist to his lips that immediately irritated Briar. “As you see, I am returned to York, demoiselle, just as I promised I would. Are you pleased to see me?”

  It was not a question that Briar felt able to answer without giving herself away. Pleased to see him? She had thought of nothing else but Ivo de Vessey since he left! Instead of making plans for Radulf’s fall, for the justice that was long denied her dead father and stepmother, Briar had been dreaming of kisses and cuddles like a lovesick maid. It was madness, and she did not wish to admit it to herself let alone him. He must never know just how deeply he had possessed her. Never.