Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  At the sound of her husky voice, a great wave of emotion swelled Ivo’s heart. It felt almost too big for his chest. He tried to disguise his feelings, standing tense and still, but her voice, her words, pierced him like a lance. How was it possible to feel so painfully shattered, and yet so wonderfully released?

  “Who is the girl?”

  Lord Radulf’s voice.

  Lord Shelborne answered. “Her name is Briar. She and the harpist are sisters, and they have become quite famous in York, my lord.”

  Ivo felt himself bristle, knew it was stupid and still could not help it. The tightness in his chest increased. He did not like their interest in Briar; he did not like their casual discussion of her. She was his, and he felt an urgent need to guard his property.

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, not to do anything foolish. Ivo leaned back against the wall and swallowed down his ire. Had anyone noticed his moment of madness? he wondered, glancing uneasily about him. That was when he saw that Sweyn had moved to stand further around the hall, where he had a better view of the two women. His friend’s blond head rose above the crowd; his blue gaze was fixed on Mary, and it was clear that for Sweyn, the rest of the audience had ceased to exist.

  Ivo forgot his own problems.

  Sweyn, in love?

  Surely such a thing was as unlikely as horses taking to the sky? Sweyn was the sort of man who found it impossible to take anything too seriously—everything was a joke to him. He liked women, he enjoyed them often, but if a woman asked more of him than a smile and a good time, then he was gone. There was no harm in Sweyn; he did not hurt anyone apurpose. But he was definitely not the man for a woman to set her sights on if she wanted a husband who came home to only her.

  And now there he was, gazing lovestruck at Mary, the youngest daughter of the traitor Lord Kenton. Although Sweyn did not know that, he still thought that the “important man” who was their father was some sort of merchant or tradesman. Perhaps Ivo should warn him? And then again, he thought with a smile, perhaps he would not. Not yet, anyway. The cold harsh reality of Mary’s past might give him an excuse to turn and run. Poor Sweyn, how would he deal with falling in love? Run as far and as fast as his legs could carry him? Or simply refuse to accept it?

  His smile faded. ’Twas all very well to scoff at Sweyn, but was he not in much the same boat? Briar had crept under his skin like a tick and now he had a constant itch that could not be scratched. He wanted her, aye, but it was more than that. Ivo wanted to look after her, to protect her, to fight for her. Do those things he had been trained to do from boyhood.

  Aye, admit it, I want to be a knight again.

  For her.

  Briar had started another song. This one was livelier than the last, and the noise level increased. One of the more merry guests clasped the arm of a serving wench, and started a jig. Ivo could see that Briar was enjoying herself, her eyes shone and her skin was flushed.

  She was beautiful. There had been someone else, once, who exuded the same inner radiance. Although Matilda had not had Briar’s temper, she had been gentler, more trusting. She had trusted her brother Ivo above all other men.

  And Ivo failed her.

  Ivo felt his stomach clench. He ran his gloved hand over the beads of sweat that had sprung out on his brow. I am no knight! A knight saved the ones he loved most, he did not leave them to die miserably, screaming out his name. How did he expect to protect Briar, even should she wish him to do so?

  And she didn’t, Ivo reminded himself with a grimace of a smile. She considered herself perfectly capable of protecting herself. Ivo remembered again the sword she had held this morning, and the competent manner in which she had handled it. Unlike Matilda, she was fiery and independent, and considered his protection as an interference in her life.

  ’Twas as well, Ivo told himself bleakly, for she couldn’t rely on him. No one could. For a time he had forgotten that. Pushed the pain deep. Briar’s reawakening of his heart had made him believe for a while that all things were possible, that all broken pieces could be healed…Well, this was one broken shard that would remain lodged inside his heart, forever.

  Briar finished her song, well pleased with the response. After they had made their bows, it was clear the guests in Lord Shelborne’s hall would not be content until they sang another. Mary, catching her sister’s glance, nodded, and ran her fingers over the harp’s strings, plucking forth a series of plaintive notes. Once more Briar began to sing. A sad song this, the tale of a lost maiden and her dead knight. She did not sing it often, but for some reason it seemed appropriate tonight.

  When she had sung this song in the past, Briar’s thoughts had turned to her father and Anna, of their great love cut tragically short by the jealous Radulf. Tonight those familiar images of them would not come. She had taken a step back from her obsession, and the image she had now of her father and Anna was clearer, sharper, more real. Ivo de Vessey had opened her eyes and her mind to the truth, but in the process he had left her floundering in unknown country.

  If she was no longer able to spend her time hating Radulf and swearing vengeance, what was she meant to do?

  Her gaze sought out that tall, dark-haired figure who was becoming very familiar to her. She had noted his position as soon as she walked into the hall. How could this man have become so necessary to her, so quickly? He was holding his hand up to his face, but as she watched, he straightened to his full intimidating height and took a deep breath. Ivo looked pale and grave. As if he were thinking unhappy thoughts.

  Briar faltered on her lyrics.

  She caught herself, substituting different ones, stumbling through the next verse to the chorus. Color stained her face, and she felt Mary’s eyes boring into her, but she did not turn. Concentrating fiercely now, Briar sang on. But after a moment, as if she could no longer order her own actions, she found her eyes fixed once more upon Ivo de Vessey.

  This time he was watching her, too. His gaze was black, brooding, suffering. Delving into her mind, interfering in her life, making her weak and vulnerable…Her throat closed up, and she fumbled the words again.

  Resentment rolled away, and in its place came a terrible urge to go to him, to put her arms around him. To comfort him.

  Dear God, what is happening to me?

  Ivo de Vessey did not need comforting! He was big and strong and battle-scarred, and perfectly capable of looking after himself. Why then did she have this terrible urge to lock her arms about him and whisper, ’Tis all right? Why then did she sense some appalling hurt within him, that she alone must heal?

  “Sister!”

  Mary’s hissed admonition brought her back to herself. Briar soared into the last note of the song. The applause was thunderous. No one grasped how many errors she had made, or perhaps they were too drunk to care. With a relieved smile, she rose and bowed low, holding tight to Mary’s hand, and then the two girls made their way out of the hall.

  “What ails you tonight, sister?” Mary demanded. Worried dark eyes examined Briar’s for signs of illness or fever. “I have never known you to take so many wrong turns in a song!”

  “’Twas nothing. I was simply distracted.” Briar pushed by the tapestry screen into the cool darkness of the passageway.

  “Distracted?” Mary would not be put off. “Was the hall too noisy? Too crowded? They were more than pleased with us tonight, so what was—”

  “Ladies.”

  That familiar deep voice stopped them. Mary glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. Briar closed her eyes, briefly, gathering her tattered defenses about her. It would never do for him to find out just how much he affected her. Since Filby, Briar had been careful never to rely upon a man, nor had she wanted to. She must not show her weakness to him. That way lay more hurt, and Briar had had enough of hurt. Her emotional defense had always been to attack first, and that is what she did now.

  “’Tis the disgraced knight,” she said, her voice light and cruel as she turned to confront him.
She saw his face go tight with anger, but would not let herself feel. “And his friend who is no knight,” she added, as Sweyn also pushed through the arras.

  Sweyn ignored her, his eyes shifting to Mary as he examined her flushed face and bright eyes, as if he were satisfying himself of her well-being.

  Ivo’s expression was hidden now by the shadows and his own force of will. “You have sharpened your tongue, lady. Does it cut deeply enough for your liking?”

  “If you didn’t feel it, then clearly it is not sharp enough,” she replied sweetly.

  “Oh, I felt it. ’Tis just that I can think of more pleasurable things to do with it.”

  Sweyn snorted a laugh at the coarse jest. “She is a shrew! Find yourself a sweet girl, Ivo, who will be grateful for your consideration. Not one who fights your every kindness as if you were binding her with ropes.”

  Mayhap Briar deserved it, but the words stung her far more than she would admit. She flashed them both a look of disgust, and marched off. Mary, after a quick glance at Sweyn, hurried after her, calling for her to wait.

  Briar hoped she could reach the safety of the kitchen, and Jocelyn, without further hindrance. In truth, she felt less than her tough self tonight. Her tongue might be sharp, as Ivo had said, and clearly she had cut him, but there was a shakiness in her belly, and a tightening in her throat, as if she might very well weep. And Briar never wept.

  Well, she had not done so until she met Ivo de Vessey. Now it was as if her world had turned to tears, for she had sobbed her heart out twice in his presence. And he had comforted her. She remembered again how he had bathed her face, and fed her tiny pieces of food and tiny sips of wine.

  Heat coiled in her belly, ousting the sick feeling that had begun to gather there. She had wanted him so badly, as they kissed and touched upon that narrow bed. She had been willing to give herself to him. Life had surged through her, and Ivo had been part of that desperate need to experience all that her body could feel. All that it had lacked in the past two years.

  She had given herself away, mayhap. Dangerous. He must not know that he was important to her. That she needed him by her side. That she was beginning to think she could not do without him…No! His importance to her lay only in what he could do to help her discover the truth about Anna’s death. Nothing else. I dare not trust or believe in a man, ever again.

  Briar repeated it to herself, feverishly, stubbornly, blindly.

  As if by doing so she might begin to believe.

  Behind them, heavy steps rang out on the floor, and Sweyn’s stifled chuckle echoed against the walls. The two men were following them, Briar acknowledged, grinding her teeth, her hopes of respite crushed. Although, by the look of the soft smile on Mary’s face, she felt the exact opposite.

  “He will use you and then leave you,” Briar said sharply, for her sister’s ears only. “All men do.”

  Mary turned to her with big, hurt eyes.

  Briar groaned silently. She had meant the warning as a kindness, to save Mary unnecessary pain, but in her turmoil she had been less than subtle. Mary was young, and she had had little enough in her life that gave her pleasure. Sweyn was not a suitable recipient for her warm glances and romantic dreams.

  But it was too late now to take the words back, and there was no time for soothing or explanations. The warm smells of the kitchen were wafting toward them, and the next moment they were within the well-lit room, with Jocelyn’s presence as warm as her oven.

  “Sisters!” she cried, pleasure lighting her face. “You played and sang tonight like angels in heaven. Come, sit yourselves down and I will fetch you something to eat. I have eel pie and cold ham. And to drink I have mead. Sweet, honey mead, so that you can float home to your beds.”

  And then her eyes lifted and fixed on a point above and behind them. For a moment she looked comically startled. “What do you here in my kitchen?” she asked blankly.

  Mary glanced nervously back and forth between the men and Jocelyn, waiting for Briar to introduce them, or at least insult them. But Briar was busy with her own problems, and when she did not speak, Mary had to.

  “Jocelyn, these men are in service with Lord Radulf. This is Ivo de Vessey and this is Sweyn. Jocelyn is our elder sister.”

  Briar had sat down by the oven to warm her cold hands. She had not made introductions, or insults, because something had just occurred to her. Something that made her heart turn to ice.

  Jocelyn must know who Ivo was.

  She had been eight years older than Briar at the time he was squire to their father—she must remember him. The day he found her at the market, he had been here to Lord Shelborne’s first, and spoken to Jocelyn. Her sister had set him onto her. What had she said to Briar, that memorable night when she had accidentally taken Ivo to her bed? Every vixen will meet her match? Well, Jocelyn had made certain of it!

  “You know him, don’t you?” Her voice shook with her effort to check her anger.

  Jocelyn didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Of course.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  Now her hurt and anger were plain in her voice, as well as bewilderment. Why had Jocelyn not warned her that Ivo knew more than he was saying? She could have saved Briar from making even more of a fool of herself than she had already, she could have stopped her from sinking into this pit.

  “I thought ’twas best to keep it to myself, Briar. I—”

  “I asked her to stay quiet.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Briar looked up into that dark, intense gaze. Ivo de Vessey still seemed a little paler than usual, his wonderful eyes shadowed.

  “You have no right to interfere between my sister and me.”

  “Not yet, perhaps.”

  “You are arrogant!” Briar’s hands trembled as she folded them about herself. The nausea within her was growing, but she held it back. Such bodily weaknesses would not get the best of her, or stop her from doing as she wished. Briar would simply not allow it.

  “I wanted to tell you in my own time, demoiselle, and so I did.”

  “Oh! You—you—”

  “Briar, enough!” Now Jocelyn was glaring at her. “I knew him, but I said nothing because I felt it best he tell you. What is wrong in that? Is it a crime to have known you when you were a babe? Or mayhap you are simply embarrassed to recall the manner in which you followed him about like a lovelorn little puppy.”

  Mary, who had been watching and listening with great interest, giggled, and quickly covered her mouth. Ivo smiled at her, changing the brooding angles of his face into beauty. For some reason that made Briar angrier than ever.

  “I worry for you, Briar,” Jocelyn said softly. “I want to see you smile again, laugh again. I want to see you as you used to be.”

  “Nothing is as it used to be,” Briar retorted stubbornly.

  “I want to see you happy.”

  “How can I be happy! After all that has happened?”

  “Briar, we must move on. We must.”

  “Aye, go ahead, if you can. I have not finished yet with the past.”

  Jocelyn threw up her hands with an exasperated sigh. She turned to the two men, determinedly ignoring her sullen, fuming sister.

  “’Tis not often I have such visitors in my kitchen. Next Lord Radulf himself will appear and demand to sit by my oven.” She spoke the name deliberately.

  Sweyn laughed, ignoring the undercurrents. “You would be sorry if he did, lady. He is foul-tempered these days. He misses his wife,” he explained, when Jocelyn looked quizzical.

  “Ah!” Jocelyn nodded, as if she understood. And she probably did, Briar supposed reluctantly. If Odo were gone, Jocelyn would feel as if part of herself were missing. That was what loving someone meant—not that Briar was willing to admit for a moment that Radulf was innocent of Anna’s death. Not yet. But she could accept that he loved Lily, his wife. As her father, Richard, had loved Anna. Love was cruel. Briar knew she would rather bury her heart deep in the ground before she allowed herse
lf to love a man like that.

  Jocelyn served the mead in small wooden bowls, and Briar took hers with a stiff thank-you, and ignored the surreptitious glances her sister was sending between Ivo and herself. ’Twas none of her business. Especially now, when Jocelyn had been caught out in her deceit. Briar told herself bleakly that she would never trust her again.

  Instead, Briar watched Mary and Sweyn. They stood close, and murmured quiet words to each other. It was as she feared, Briar thought bleakly. Mary was enamored of the handsome Dane, but worse, he was smitten with her, too. How could anyone mistake that dazed smile, that startled expression in his eyes. And Mary, coloring for no reason when he looked at her, or gazing up at him with adoring eyes.

  Aye, love glowed about them like a candle flame.

  Briar sipped at her mead as though it were poison. This was wrong. Mary was too young. She needed Briar to look after her. What had happened to her world? All she had thought solid and real, had begun to shiver and twist like the leaves that were even now falling from the trees. How could she see her way clear? If she no longer knew what lay ahead of her?

  This was Ivo de Vessey’s fault. ’Twas all because of him! Until he had come to York, all had been well, and now…Briar clenched her hands tighter about her bowl.

  He was standing beside her. She could feel his presence without having to turn her head and look. The warmth of his body, the scent of him, the sheer dark presence of him. She could have been locked in a night-black dungeon and still have known when he came through the door.

  This new understanding gave her no pleasure.

  “Briar?”

  She schooled her features, and turned to look up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, then reading her mulish expression, frowned and changed his mind. With an exasperated breath, he reached up and ran his fingers through his black hair.

  Jocelyn, who had stopped to watch the byplay, seemed to notice the glove for the first time. “You are prepared to do battle even here?” she asked, nodding to his hand.

  Ivo glanced at his leather encased fingers as if he had forgotten them, and then his face turned hard as granite. “My hand was hurt in a fight, once, long ago, Lady Jocelyn. I wear the glove because it is unsightly.”