by Sara Bennett
That deep voice murmured in her ear.
“I have enough bruises for now, demoiselle. I beg you will not hurt me.”
He was laughing at her! But Briar had felt his strength, and knew in her fury that he was barely exerting himself, while she was pushing against him with all her might. Time for another approach.
With a shrug of her shoulder, Briar let herself relax, the sword loose in her fingers.
“I did not want to hurt you,” she retorted.
He grinned at her like a boy, and she saw in his eyes that he really was enjoying himself. But not in the manner she had expected. He wanted to kiss her. And more. I want you. She could see it in his eyes. The need thrummed in him, making his body hard, and starting an answering need in her. Her skin heated, her breasts tightened, and that place between her legs ached. And all that from just being close to him! Warily, for her own protection, Briar backed away from him…and put her bare foot into a bowl of breakfast.
The mushy grain squished up between her toes, like warm, soft mud. With a gasp of disgust, Briar leapt forward, and straight into his arms. Ivo caught hold of her, his surprised gaze meeting hers. And then surprise turned to laughter as he realized what had happened, and the laughter burst from him.
Angry and embarrassed, Briar pulled away.
“You are an oaf,” she hissed furiously. “Fight me, you coward! We will see who is the winner here.”
Ivo wiped his eyes. He shouldn’t have laughed. He knew it. But she had looked so funny, standing there with her foot in the bowl. So sweetly funny. Laughter threatened again, but he held it back, and cleared his throat. When he looked up, the younger sister, Mary, was watching him, face slack in amazement. Did men not laugh in her life? Or had the humor simply been beaten out of the Kenton sisters?
Abruptly Ivo lost the urge to laugh. “Briar,” he began, trying for patience, “dress yourself, or do you wish me to carry you off in your shift?”
“I wish nothing of the sort!” she told him furiously. She had that small sword in her hands, and Ivo silently cursed himself for not removing it from her when he had the chance. And she was thrusting it at him, as if she fully intended to fight him.
The blade did look sharp and well polished, despite its lack of size. She had obviously been taught to use it, but would she? Even when she was in a temper, like now? Would she really hurt him? Ivo did not think so, but as his own temper flared up, he decided that if she wanted to play at soldier, then he would oblige.
Slowly, watching her eyes, he drew his own sword from its scabbard.
A flicker of unease lit the hazel of her eyes, a moment of doubt, but she subdued it, adjusting and tightening her grip on her weapon. Aye, she was brave. Foolish, mayhap, but no coward, he would give her that. Did she really think to best a man like him, who had been fighting mock battles since he was eight? And with that puny weapon? He was a big man, and his weapon reflected it. With intimidating ease, he raised his own sword in front of him, and the firelight caused the green stone eyes of the griffin to gleam and the mighty blade to catch fire.
Briar held her ground, but now he could see the tremor in her hands. Slowly, giving her plenty of time, he brought his blade down in a sweeping arc, and she stopped him. He could have sliced right through her blocking movement—he was bigger and heavier—but he didn’t, instead swinging his blade to her other side and allowing her to block him there, too.
She smiled, pleased with her small victories. Quickly, she swung at his right, stepping in close. Ivo blocked now, needing to retreat so that he could wield his larger weapon in the small space. The clang of steel was loud. Briar came on, striking out at him again and again. Ivo defended, and with each stroke his admiration for her tactics and her skill grew. Aye, she was good, but not good enough to best him.
Time she realized it.
So quickly she had no chance to stop him, Ivo brought his sword up with a numbing blow, knocking her blade away from him. He reached out, and snatched her weapon from her. He had tossed it aside, far into the shadows, before she could even catch her breath.
She was shocked and dismayed, and mayhap a little humiliated. He had won. But to his surprise, Ivo did not enjoy a sense of victory. He did not like to see her beaten, despite knowing it had needed to be done. Aye, he preferred to allow her her victories over him. But in this matter he could not give way, not even in a mock battle. If Ivo was to be Briar’s protector, then she must trust in his ability to fight for her. And win.
“I suppose you will run me through now, de Vessey.”
Her furious little face glowered up at him as she stood up straight in her worn chemise, her fists clenched by her sides.
Ivo’s mouth twisted. “I do not kill women, demoiselle.”
“But you are a disgraced knight, de Vessey, surely they kill anyone?”
Fury roared into him, like floodwaters through an open sluice. Somehow he controlled it. He had grown better at self-control since he met Briar. He had had no choice. One of them must display some maturity, he told himself self-righteously.
Slowly, Ivo slid his sword back into its scabbard, never once taking his gaze from hers. She didn’t look away but he could tell she wanted to. Aye, she was hasty and impetuous, arrogant and stubborn. But he understood why she was striking out at him. It was because she felt so helpless and impotent, because of the need to do something in her own defense.
Briar was not used to feeling helpless.
He wanted to tell her that there was no need for her to feel like that. He would fight her battles for her; he would stand strong at her side.
“Can you not speak?” she demanded.
Her eyes shot darts into his. But her body was warm and scented through her thin undergarment, the skin of her legs and arms smooth and rosy in the firelight, her breasts heaving from emotion and exertion. Her chestnut hair had almost dried, curling thickly about her. Her mouth was lush and full…
He wanted her. More than any woman he had ever known, he wanted her. Desire hardened his body.
“I can speak,” he said, his voice husky with need, “but do you want to hear my words?”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, the thick dark lashes sweeping down. She must have read his intentions in his gaze, because she made to turn and run. But it was too late. Ivo reached out and caught her about the waist, hauling her in against his body. The feel of all that soft flesh was almost his undoing, and Ivo bit back a groan. She pushed her palms against his chest, twisting away, but he was too strong for her and they both knew it.
Ivo leaned closer, breathing in the scent of her newly washed hair. His hands tightened on her waist, sliding around to her back, feeling the pull of flesh and muscle. He knew the moment she felt his desire, hard against her stomach, for she went still. Her eyes widened and flew to his.
“You make me want you,” he whispered, slowly and deliberately, for her ears only. “I know you are as hot on the inside as you are on the outside. Send your sister away, demoiselle, and we will spend the morning in your bed.”
She considered it! Just for a moment, he saw the indecision in her face, a flash of hot need to match his own. His heart jolted in anticipation. But then she had conquered it, and the brief weakness vanished beneath a new wave of her ever-present temper.
“Burn in hell, de Vessey!”
“I fear, Briar, that is something I may well do.”
He sighed. There was a world of regret in that sigh; it was the sound of a man who wanted what he could not have. He let her go, and moved to open the door, then paused, outlined by the light. His voice had turned cold and brusque.
“Get dressed, demoiselle. I will wait outside for you. But do not make me wait too long.”
“Curse him!” Briar gasped, swinging about, pulling at her hair like one demented.
One moment she was so furious with him for his arrogant confidence that she longed to scratch out his eyes, and then the next she could weep and rail with disappointment because he had given up t
oo easily. What was wrong with her?
Briar knew now, when it was too late, that she should have softened sooner. Wasn’t she supposed to be winning him to her side? Spitting at him and daring him to fight her was hardly the way to a man’s heart…Was it? And yet, sometimes, she wondered if it might be the way to Ivo’s. When she had raised her sword and challenged him to do battle with her, he had looked at her in such a way. As though his lust for her was so great, he wanted to have her there and then.
Aye, he lusted after her. She was not mistaken in that. But she had best take care she did not play too hard to catch—if she ran too fast and too hard, she might outrun him altogether.
Slowly Briar became aware that Mary was staring at her with big, dark eyes. As if Briar had grown an extra head.
“You deliberately made him angry,” her sister said, with a mingling of fear and amazement. “Aren’t you afraid of what he will do, Briar, if you make him angry?”
Briar shrugged as if she didn’t care. “He is all bluff, Mary. He will not hurt me.”
Mary frowned. “But how do you know for certain?”
Briar began to pull on her gown with impatient fingers. “I just do.” She tied the girdle with sharp, angry jerks, and then drew on her cloak. The garment was still warm despite its hard wear; it had served her well, though the Lincoln green wool had faded almost to gray.
How do I know for certain?
Briar didn’t know how she knew, she just…knew. Mayhap she was stupid to believe as she did—her past had shown her that men were not to be trusted. And yet there was a solid core of certainty inside her, that told her Ivo de Vessey would never hurt her. A moment ago she had been in a temper with him, she had fought him, but it was not a real fight. Instead, there had been a kind of excitement in it, as if she were testing her mettle, setting the limits she could go with him. And he had been willing to let her have her way…for a time. When he had had enough, he had put an end to it.
He indulged me.
The realization should irritate her. Instead Briar felt warm and comfortable, a sensation very like the feelings she had had when she was safe and secure at Castle Kenton.
He wants me, she reminded herself brusquely, and while he wants me, I am safe from him. She could manipulate him to her will, take what she wanted, use him for her own ends. And he would allow it.
And then? What will happen once it is over? Will he let me walk away from him so easily? And will I want to go?
Aye, there was a question!
Briar couldn’t answer it, and thought it best not to try. She firmed her lips, and set about the task of binding her hair into one long braid before she twisted it up under the fur-lined hood of her cloak. Then she sat down on the stool to pull on her woollen, oft-darned stockings and cast-off shoes.
Mary watched her dress, clearly still not satisfied. “You don’t even know this man,” she reminded Briar, “and yet you trust him with your life. Why is that, sister?”
“That is no concern of yours, Mary.”
“But it is, Briar. What if he had killed you just now with his sword? What would have become of me then?”
“Killed me?” Briar spluttered. “Ivo de Vessey will not kill me. Nay, ’tis not my death he wants from me. You are too young to understand—”
“But I am not too young!” Mary cried, and she looked flushed and cross. “I am seventeen, Briar. I am a woman. Why will you not speak to me like one?”
Her words gave Briar pause, but there was no time now for long discussions with Mary on what it was and was not good for her to hear. She sighed, and made her voice gentler, calmer. “We will speak of it later.”
Mary groaned and threw up her hands. “Now you talk to me as if I were a lackwit! Go then, Briar. I can see you are like a mare at the stallion’s gate. Go to your stallion. In truth, I would welcome some time on my own.”
Briar had stopped, her hand on the door. She was shocked at her sister’s earthy words. What did Mary know of mares and stallions? Clearly she needed to sit down with her young sister and have a serious talk.
But not now.
Ivo de Vessey was waiting, and the tingle up and down her spine made her wonder if there was some truth in Mary’s fanciful observations after all.
Mary was standing with her back to Briar, arms folded tight about herself, almost as if she were keeping her emotions from spilling out. Briar could read the tension in her rigid shoulders and back.
“I do not know where I am going, but I will try not to take too long.” Her voice sounded almost pleading, as if she were asking Mary’s permission. Briar cleared her throat, and tried for a firmer tone. “Do not fret, Mary. The Dane is outside, on watch. You will be safe until I return.”
“As you say, sister.” Mary did not turn around, but she sounded softer, more her usual self. “I will be quite safe with Sweyn.”
“Good.” Briar hesitated a moment longer, knowing her disgraced knight awaited her. She admitted to herself that she was curious to see where he meant to take her, and her blood ran hotter at the thought of spending time alone with him. But Mary was her sister…
Mary glanced over her shoulder, her face pale. “Go, Briar,” she said impatiently. “I do not need you.”
Briar smiled, relief conquering the guilt in her heart. She opened the door and went outside.
Chapter 7
The river was gray today, a shiny steel-gray that dazzled her eyes. A pair of dippers floated upon its surface, their feathers sleek and wet, while a heron searched among the rubbish along the shore. Ivo waited by his horse, looking stiff and uneasy. Briar knew, as if he had told her, that he did not feel safe in this place. He was wrong; it was safe enough if a person was careful. She and Mary had had only one unpleasant encounter: a man had tried to get inside their home, but had soon fled when Briar came at him with her sword, and he realized they weren’t the helpless women he had thought them. They had not been molested since.
Their dwelling was warm and dry, better than many of the other accommodations they had found since they left Castle Kenton. It would do. And besides, what choice had they? Despite their popularity they were lowly women entertainers, and the money they earned was barely enough for food and clothes. They could not afford to live high. And Jocelyn could not jeopardize her, and above all Odo’s, place in Lord Shelborne’s household by smuggling in her sisters. They had agreed on that. Odo always came first with Jocelyn.
Briar walked up to Ivo and tilted her head to see his face. It was closed, watchful, but he did not move back, not even when the toes of her shoes touched his and her cloak brushed his legs. She realized then that she liked that about him, the fact that he didn’t back down from her.
“What do you want to show me?”
Something moved in his closed face. Pain? Regret? But even as her suspicions were aroused, he had resumed his intent, black stare.
“You will see soon enough, demoiselle.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I do not like surprises, de Vessey.”
“Come,” he said impatiently, and held out his linked hands for her foot, to throw her into the saddle.
Briar glanced behind her. “What of my sister? Where is the Dane? I cannot leave her here, alone.”
Ivo’s expression turned superior. “You think you are strong enough to stand between her and any cutthroats who lurk here? Briar, you delude yourself. You are a small woman, and although I am sure you would fight to the death, you would soon be overcome if the man were determined.”
“I do well enough,” she replied, refusing to be drawn.
After giving her another long look, he nodded his head in the direction of one of the fallen cottages. The big blond man leaned against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, as still as if he were asleep. He did not appear to be keeping watch, thought Briar, and yet something in his very stillness made her think of a hawk hovering, waiting to dive upon its prey.
Mary was in good hands, then.
Briar hitched up her skirt to sh
ow her darned stockings and old shoes, and was amused at the blind expression that came into Ivo’s eyes. He was good at protecting his feelings—or was he protecting hers? With a mental shrug, she set her foot in his hands, and he threw her up into the saddle as easily as if she had been a feather.
As he prepared to mount behind her, Briar looked down, into his upturned face. Their eyes met and locked.
To her surprise, he smiled.
As if he was pleased simply to be in her company.
Ivo rode through the quiet streets of York, with Briar tucked securely into his arms. At first she had tried to hold herself apart, her body stiff and ungiving, but gradually she had relaxed and slipped further into the curve of his body. It was more comfortable for her, but not so much for him. Her haughty demeanor did little to alleviate his desire for her.
His body ached.
When he had seen her before the fire, her long hair glowing, her body near enough to naked, he had felt as raw as a youth with his first wench. If Mary hadn’t been there, Ivo doubted he would have been able to stop himself from grabbing her up, carrying her to her bed, and making her his again. And again.
The memories of their night together were as fresh and new in his mind as if they had just happened. She might resist him at every turn—he smiled to himself as he remembered her attempts to fight him with her puny sword—but it made no difference to how he felt. He wanted her. More than that—he wanted to protect her, defend her, carry the memory of her kisses into battle, and win for her sake.
Why wouldn’t she see that?
But of course she could not, he reminded himself bitterly. What woman would want the services of a disgraced knight? No wonder she thought it best to protect herself. She did not trust him, and who could blame her?
The king’s castle rose high and solemn above the newly constructed rooftops, while a flag flapped wildly in the breeze. During the last siege of York all the buildings surrounding the castle had been burned by William’s men, so that the rebels should have no protection on their approach. Now that there was peace again, the area was gradually being reestablished.