Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  Jocelyn nodded. “But it does not prevent you from your profession?”

  “Nay, I am as able to fight and defend myself as well as any other man. I have learned to compensate for the missing fingers.”

  Suddenly Briar looked up at him with wide eyes. She had not realized, when he said he was hurt, that he meant…Sweet Jesu, that he should have lost his fingers in a fight. Fierce, beautiful Ivo! Nausea and pain sliced through her.

  With a gasp, she stood up and flung herself toward the slop bucket. The mead and all else she had had at supper this night came back out. Noisily.

  Jocelyn’s mouth dropped open, but in another moment she had hurried to her sister’s side, making soothing noises. Mary started to follow, but Sweyn grasped her arm, murmuring, “Leave her be, she is in good hands.”

  Ivo did not move at all. He was stunned, and the misery inside him burned like a brand. She was repulsed by the thought of his hand. What else could it be? Indeed, she was so revolted that she had cast up the contents of her stomach into a bucket. He turned on his heel and left the room.

  Briar took several gulps of air, allowing Jocelyn to mop at her hot, damp face with a cool cloth. It was not squeamishness that had made her ill—she was never squeamish. The thought of Ivo’s pain had jolted her, aye, but never enough to make her physically ill. Mayhap she had a fever—that would explain her odd thoughts during the song, her lack of concentration, her wild fears.

  She was not herself.

  “I am not myself,” she said the thought aloud.

  “She kept forgetting the words to the song,” Mary piped in worriedly.

  Jocelyn nodded, smoothing Briar’s hair out of her eyes. “Stay here tonight.”

  Briar shook her head. “I want to go home. I need to go home.” Her voice had an edge to it that she didn’t like. Briar took a deep breath, meeting Jocelyn’s worried eyes. “I’m sorry…for before. I know you mean well, Jocelyn…”

  “But you saw it as betrayal,” Jocelyn replied evenly. “I wasn’t taking sides against you, Briar. Not everything is about taking sides.”

  “Is it not?” Briar’s reply was bleak.

  Jocelyn squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “You need to be home in bed. I will wash your face and make up a hot posset for you while you are here, and then you can take another dose before you sleep.”

  Briar nodded, not even bothering to argue further. Sweyn glanced from one to the other, and then spoke to Jocelyn. “I will see that they reach home safely.”

  Jocelyn smiled her relief. “Thank you, Sweyn.” She leaned close to Briar, kissing her pink cheek. “You are still feeling ill?”

  Wearily, Briar shook her head. “I am well now,” she said huskily. “Just tired.”

  “Then let the Dane take you home. You will be well in the morning.”

  Briar rose and looked about her properly for the first time since her rush for the bucket. “Where is de Vessey?”

  Her sisters exchanged a puzzling glance. “He left when you were ill,” Jocelyn said carefully.

  “Mayhap he is one of those men who can not bear to see a woman being ill,” Mary added.

  It seemed a strange affliction for a mercenary, but Briar let it pass.

  Sweyn moved toward the door. “I must first tell my lord where I am going. I will meet you both at the stables.”

  “He is a kindly man,” Jocelyn ventured, when he had gone.

  “Aye.” Mary smiled with pride.

  As if the man’s character were entirely her doing, Briar thought crossly.

  “You like him,” Jocelyn went on, with a pleased nod. “Aye, Mary, ’tis about time you found a sweetheart.”

  Briar stared at her elder sister with disbelief. “She is a child! How can you push her in the direction of such a man as that? A Danish mercenary? Jocelyn, Mary is innocent and gently bred—”

  “She is a harpist, Briar, with no money and no prospects.” Jocelyn’s retort was brutal. “You are a songstress and I am a cook. We no longer live at Castle Kenton.”

  Briar shook her head stubbornly, but her throat was too tight for her to argue. Tears, again? Jesu! What was wrong with her?

  “I am not a child.” Mary spoke up softly and with a determination Briar had not seen in her before. “I know my own mind, Briar. I do not need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. Sometimes you make me feel as if I can’t breathe!”

  Mary stopped and the silence was heavy. Briar knew she looked hurt and shocked. She felt hurt and shocked. Mary was a child, her little sister—wasn’t she?

  Warm fingers grasped her own. Briar looked up into Mary’s kind, dark eyes. “Come and let me wash your face.”

  Jocelyn raised an eyebrow as they passed, but she was smiling.

  “I hope you’re enjoying this,” Briar murmured darkly as Mary led the way. “You’ll be sorry when Mary is abandoned and ruined. It will be too late then.”

  “Life is never certain, Briar.” Jocelyn held her gaze. “We cannot always wait to have all our questions answered. There is not always time to wait. Sometimes we have to leap, and pray we land safely.”

  Ivo watched Sweyn make his way back into the hall. The Dane’s eyes fixed upon Lord Radulf, and he only seemed to notice Ivo as he drew closer. Clearly Sweyn was a man on a mission.

  Ivo still felt empty. Like a large vessel unloaded of its cargo, echoing with a forlorn silence. Briar’s reaction had cut him so deep he was light-headed with loss. He knew his hand was ugly—that was why he made sure to always keep it covered—and aye, in his heart, he was ashamed of it, too. But it had never yet made a woman vomit. And that it should be this woman, in particular…

  He shook his head angrily.

  Maybe ’tis for the best.

  He squeezed his gloved hand into a fist. He should never have let Briar open his heart again.

  “The songstress is ill, my lord.” Sweyn’s voice drifted into Ivo’s consciousness. “I beg permission to take her, and her sister, safely home. They are alone and they live by the river. ’Tis not safe for them to walk.”

  “Near the river?” Radulf replied.

  “The songstress is ill?” Lord Shelborne was looking concerned, despite a tendency to sway back and forth, the legacy of too much of his own wine.

  “Aye, my lord.” Sweyn turned politely to Shelborne, concealing his impatience to be gone. “Have I your permission to escort her and her sister home?” Now Sweyn was looking to Lord Radulf, waiting.

  “I will do it! I have men aplenty.” Lord Shelborne swayed more violently and had to flop down upon a nearby stool.

  “Thank you, my lord, but they have asked for me,” Sweyn replied, all smiles and respectful steel.

  Ivo straightened and paid more attention. Sweyn was an easy going man, but a man used to getting his own way. Would he get his own way with Mary? And what exactly was it that he wanted?

  “You are in a hurry to play the gallant knight, Sweyn.” Radulf was no fool. He had seen there was more to this than Sweyn was saying. He grinned, planting a playful blow on Sweyn’s shoulder that made him stumble and almost lose his balance. “You are lovesick,” he announced. “I well know the signs. Which one is it that you covet? The smaller one who sings so sweetly, or the tall one with the dark eyes?”

  “I covet neither Briar nor Mary, my lord,” with a betraying gaucheness.

  Radulf chuckled at the wary, almost scared expression in Sweyn’s blue eyes. “Aye, I believe you, but the heart is not always as obedient as a man would like.” His own eyes narrowed, all humor fleeing his face. “What did you say their names were?”

  Ivo sensed trouble. He stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sweyn. His friend sent him a relieved and grateful glance. Radulf raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “My lord,” Ivo said, “they are called Briar and Mary. Two simple girls who sing and play like angels.”

  Radulf raised the other black brow. “What, are you being poetic now, de Vessey? You have never struck me as the type. Which one
of these sisters do you covet? Briar or Mary?”

  Ivo hesitated. ’Twould be easy for him to deny it, to swear he had no interest in either of them. A moment ago he would have done it—mayhap. But now, suddenly, he couldn’t. It would be a lie, and Ivo did not want to lie about Briar. He did want her, despite all that stood between them now and in the past. Perhaps it was time she and everyone else knew it.

  “I want Briar,” he said bluntly. “My lord.”

  Radulf gave a soft laugh. “Aye, I believe you, Ivo. You have the look of a man who’s been struck down by love.”

  Lord Shelborne was turning his head from one to the other, making an effort to follow the conversation with an obviously wine-soaked mind. “Briar and Mary? Aye, Radulf, their names are f-f-famil…familiar to me, too.”

  Radulf nodded, frowning. “I know them from somewhere.”

  Shelborne hauled himself up by grasping on to Radulf and using him as a ladder, ignoring the latter’s sigh. “Kenton had a daughter named Briar,” he muttered drunkenly. He wagged his head back and forth. “Poor Kenton. We all take some blame in his death.”

  Radulf was staring at Ivo, but Ivo refused to meet his eyes. Now was not the time for such confidences, and he prayed God Radulf had the wit to realize it…

  “Go then,” Radulf said brusquely, although he was clearly not happy. “Take the singing sisters home.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Ivo and Sweyn replied in unison.

  “But Ivo,” Radulf stopped him in mid-stride, and transfixed him with a look. “I will have words with you, when you return.”

  Ivo nodded, resigned. He had a fairly good idea what Radulf’s words would be about.

  Chapter 9

  Briar, Mary, and Jocelyn had been waiting at the stables for only a short while when the two mercenaries appeared. It took only a moment for the grooms to prepare the horses, Odo fumbling at the harnesses slowly, clumsily. Briar could never look at him without remembering him as he used to be. Brash and confident, with his big laugh. Women had adored him, but Odo had only ever had eyes for Jocelyn.

  His horse ready, Sweyn reached for Mary without a word and lifted her up before him. Ivo turned to Briar. He appeared overwhelming in this dark place, the flare of the torches accentuating his size and looks. His black eyes gleamed red from the flame. Her own face must be strained and white—it had been a long day and she was weary, though thankfully the nausea had passed. Her head was thudding a little, like a distant curfew drum, but Briar knew her bed would cure that.

  “Will you ride with me, demoiselle?”

  That deep, soft voice. Briar knew she would hear it in her dreams, years away from now. And it would still send tremors of delight over her skin.

  “Aye, of course I will.”

  He seemed surprised, but the next moment he had reached out and fitted his big hands about her narrow waist, lifting her easily onto the saddle. Then he swung himself up, steadying his mount, arranging her comfortably before him. At Ivo’s signal, he and Sweyn set their horses to traverse the narrow laneway, and rode out into Stonegate. Behind them, Jocelyn raised a hand in farewell.

  Cold mist lay milky upon the ground. It drifted across their path in long tendrils of white, and stirred at the movement of the animals’ hooves.

  He was so warm, surrounding her, protecting her. Briar rested her head contentedly against his chest, and sighed. “I did not mean to cut you with my tongue,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Did you not?” He sounded as if he doubted her.

  Briar didn’t like that. “No, I did not.”

  “And I suppose the thought of my missing fingers did not make your stomach turn inside out.”

  There was hurt in his voice, but he had made it into a joke. Surprised, Briar lifted her head to peer up at him. She could see the shape of his jaw, the jut of his nose, and the gleam of his eyes as he glanced down at her.

  “Nay,” she breathed, stammering in her need to reassure him ’twas not so. “That is nothing to me. ’Tis only that I imagined how you must feel, how it must have hurt you. But it did not make me sick. I was already sick. ’Twas the mead, Ivo, that is what turned my stomach inside out.”

  He stared steadily down at her. Judging her. Suddenly it seemed desperately important that she convince him.

  Briar turned slightly and reached up. Her fingers brushed over his firm, shaven jaw until she touched his smooth lips. She let herself explore the texture of them, the shape of them, the warmth of his breath through them.

  She felt him smile.

  “Lady, you are distracting me,” he murmured against her fingers, gently admonishing.

  “Am I? By doing this? Interesting.” She stretched up, turning her body more fully into his. “What if I were to do this?” Her lips made contact with his neck, tasting his warm flesh. “Or this?” Now she nipped at the lobe of his ear, gently, but hard enough to let him feel her sharp little teeth. His breath quickened.

  A great wave of heat swept through Briar.

  Am I mad, to do this? What does it gain me?

  Nothing was the answer, apart from the moment’s pleasure and Ivo’s delight. Never once, in the two years since her life ended, had Briar done anything that did not gain her some foothold further up the ladder of survival. But now she wanted to touch him, to kiss him, simply because it made her feel so good.

  He turned his face, and claimed her mouth with his.

  He tasted of wine and man. She wanted to get closer, she needed to get closer. Her hands crept about his neck, into the springy hair that was growing back at his nape, while her lips clung to his.

  “Which of you is the real Briar?” he murmured teasingly, his breath warm against her cheek. “Is it this one here, now, in my arms, or the other with her cutting tongue?”

  “They are both me,” she whispered, and pressed yet closer. “Is it not possible for me to be two women in one?”

  He bent again, hungrily, but his mouth paused just before it touched hers. “I like this one better,” he growled, and claimed his kiss.

  Briar clung to him, returning his passion, her body straining hard against his. Heat poured over her, sizzling her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. This was what she wanted, she thought dizzily. This sense of being part of another, this belonging. Jocelyn was right. Sometimes you had to leap and just pray you landed safely.

  “Beware!”

  Sweyn’s voice, loud and frantic, cut through her heated passion like a sliver of ice.

  Instantly Ivo had tucked her in against his chest, in the safety of his arms. His body was rigid and alert, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was prepared to fight, and Briar was still struggling to catch her breath. Ivo wheeled his horse around, facing the direction of Sweyn’s raised arm. Not that he needed to, thought Briar, for she was certain that he too could hear the heavy thud and rattle. An armed troop of men were approaching. Danger, bearing down upon them, leaving them only two options.

  Turn and ride as fast as they could and hope to outrun them. Or stand and fight.

  Ivo drew his sword.

  At his side, Sweyn did the same. The two of them waited, weapons ready, as five armed men rode into Stonegate in front of them. They wore chain-mail tunics and full-face helmets, their identities completely hidden by steel and shadows. One of the men urged his mount forward a little, as if to claim the role of leader. The horse shifted nervously and snorted, the plume of hot breath turning the cold air to white.

  They all waited, and although it seemed to Briar an interminable time, it was only a couple of heartbeats. The man stared at them, his body rigid with the effort to control his horse, while his men were as silent and frightening as he.

  “Jesu.”

  It was Ivo’s murmur, his voice hoarse and strange. Briar felt his hard body grow even more hard.

  And then, without a word, the leader dug his spurs into his mount and came at them.

  Briar gasped and tried to make herself as small as possible, curling against
Ivo, intent on not getting in the way of the swing of his sword. Her heartbeat was as loud as the galloping horse. Ivo’s own heart sounded so solid against her cheek, and she felt his muscles stretch and harden as he twisted his body to protect her, and fight off their attacker. The leader of the troop drew his sword and shouted a long, wordless cry of rage. The hairs on Briar’s neck stood up at the sound.

  Ivo lifted his sword and drove forward.

  Steel connected with steel with a hideous clang. The dull clash echoed about them. Ivo hissed with pain. And then the galloping horse had passed them, moving on.

  Ivo cursed and swung around, shouting orders to Sweyn. Briar peered between her fingers. Their faceless attacker had already been swallowed up in the darkness, his men close behind. They had not even unsheathed their weapons, and had given Ivo and Sweyn a wide berth.

  Swords still drawn, faces blank with confusion, the two mercenaries stared after them.

  “Are they gone?” asked Sweyn in a whisper.

  “Aye.”

  “What did you make of it?”

  “I know not,” said Ivo, and yet…There was something in his voice that made Briar wonder.

  Sweyn appeared not to notice. “Who would play such games? Why make a threat, and then fail to follow it through? What does a man gain from it?”

  “Our fear.”

  “He wanted to unsettle us? Why?”

  Ivo shifted on his mount, not answering. Briar decided then that he did have some idea what this was all about. He simply wasn’t sharing it with them.

  Abruptly Ivo sheathed his sword. Apart from that single clash of blades there had been no fight. Had the sight of two big, armed men been enough to frighten off the attackers? Was it that simple? Had this been some foolish dare?

  Ivo reached down and rubbed his thigh, and winced.

  Briar’s mind froze. Speculation was forgotten and she was suddenly dizzy with terror. “You are hurt?” She ran frantic hands over him, searching for possible wounds.