Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  The first song was well received. Lord Shelborne’s guests cheered until the hall shook with their approbation. They sang again, and again. And then one last time, especially for Lord Shelborne’s daughter. The girl flushed with pleasure, and Lord Shelborne looked grateful. As Briar and Mary rose to leave the dais, Shelborne came forward and took their hands in his.

  Ivo frowned as Briar stiffened, and then gradually relaxed. But her smile was forced, and she seemed relieved when he released her and took a step back. Once more her eyes searched for, and found, Ivo, this time beseechingly.

  Ivo pushed away from the wall, and strode across the hall to her rescue.

  “…remember Lord Richard with fondness.”

  Lord Shelborne was beaming at Briar. Mary, close by, twisted her fingers around her harp, clearly nervous and upset. What, thought Ivo, is the man saying to them?

  “My father was a good man.” Briar’s chin was up, her back straight. “He did not deserve to be treated so.”

  Now Lord Shelborne looked a little uncomfortable, perhaps wondering if her words had a personal slant. Ivo prayed Briar was not so foolish as to insult so important a personage, especially when he had just done her great honor by acknowledging her.

  “He was loyal to those he loved,” he said at last.

  Briar opened her mouth. Her eyes slid past Shelborne and found Ivo’s. He shook his head once. She hesitated a breath, and then forced a polite smile.

  “’Tis a fair assessment of him, my lord, thank you.”

  “You have pleased my daughter very much, ladies. I thank you for it.”

  Briar and Mary curtsyed and did not rise until Lord Shelborne had gone. Mary looked frightened, her dark eyes flicking to Briar and back to Ivo. Briar looked angry, her cheeks flushed, her hazel eyes glittering.

  “Did you hear him patronizing us?” she said to Ivo, but he was thankful she kept her voice low.

  “Briar—”

  “As if he had never done anything so despicable as cuckold my father—”

  “Briar.”

  She stopped, gave him a wary glance. “’Tis true.”

  “Sometimes ’tis wiser and safer to keep one’s thoughts to one’s self, demoiselle.”

  She searched his face, and then shrugged one shoulder with pretended indifference. “Very well, I will say no more.”

  “You would be wise not to, lady. At least, not until you have left this place.”

  “Very well, de Vessey.”

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  “What do you here anyway? Is your lord in attendance?” She looked past him briefly, searching for Lord Radulf. Then, as if a new idea had struck her, she frowned at Ivo. “Who told Lord Shelborne our secret?”

  Ivo grimaced. “He had already guessed, demoiselle, as had Lord Radulf. They recalled your name—’tis unusual. A prickly name for such a sweet woman.”

  She paled, then looked down and said no more. Her hands twisted in her gown.

  Ivo reached out and covered her hands with his own. Her fingers stilled, and then relaxed beneath his warm, strong grip. “I am come to take you home, demoiselle,” he murmured. “Are you ready to go now?”

  “Aye,” she breathed, and cast him a secretive glance from beneath her long dark lashes. “Aye, Ivo, I am.”

  He had known she needed him, and he had come. Briar understood it had been so ever since he returned from fighting in the north. Whenever she was in danger or need, Ivo had been there.

  And, oh, she needed him now, in this moment, more than any other.

  But did she dare to take what he was offering her?

  Briar shivered, leaning back into his warm body as they made their way through the dark streets toward the river. Instinctively, his arms tightened, and he drew her cloak closer to her, and added his own as well. So safe, she thought with a sigh. She had never looked for safety before—she had not thought to need a man in such a way. Briar strongly believed in her own ability to protect herself and her sisters, but nevertheless it was pleasant to have a man like Ivo de Vessey standing behind her. One look at his big body and rugged features, and most people backed away, eager not to draw his ire.

  But he was not like that, not really.

  They did not know Ivo as she did.

  He was honorable and chivalrous, thoughtful and passionate—aye, he was all those things and more. A mixture of impatient hot-bloodedness and loyal self-sacrifice. It did not matter that he was a mercenary and a disgraced knight.

  He would make a fine father.

  If he stayed.

  Briar’s heart pounded. Jesu, how can I tell him? What will he do? Say?

  What if he abandoned her?

  Would Ivo do such a thing? She could not imagine it, but then she really did not know him. Was she going to put her hope and trust, her future and that of her child, into the hands of a man who was almost a stranger?

  “Lord Shelborne meant well,” Ivo said now, oblivious to her agitation.

  Briar laughed bitterly, as she was thrust from her new concerns into the old. “He seeks to soothe his conscience, like Sir Anthony, that is all.”

  “Isn’t that something we all do, from time to time?”

  “I have never cuckolded anyone.”

  “Oh? Was not that why you wanted me to be Radulf? So that you could pay him back in similar fashion?”

  “That was different!”

  “Was it? Well, think hard before you cut Shelborne with that sharp tongue of yours. You will not sing in his hall again if you insult him in front of his family and friends, and he will probably see to it that you do not sing anywhere else in York.”

  I don’t care, at least my father will be revenged!

  She opened her mouth to say the words just as she had meant to accuse Lord Shelborne when he came up to her on the dais. And did not. Ivo was right. She could not ruin their lives for the pleasure of insulting Lord Shelborne, much as she might want to. She could not afford to be chased from York. She had more than herself to think of now.

  “Someone should pay for what happened to us,” she said plaintively. “When my sisters and I were outcast from Castle Kenton, we went to our village, to beg help from our people there, the people whom we had cared for and loved. They would not let us into their houses. They were afraid of Filby and what he would do to them if he discovered they had given us shelter.”

  “Filby?” Ivo looked down at her; she saw the gleam of his eyes. “You mean Lord Filby?”

  “Aye. My betrothed.” The word slid over her tongue like barbs of glass. “When my father was declared a traitor and took his life, Filby refused to have me to wife. He took our land instead.”

  “Not a man of honor, then,” Ivo said lightly, but his voice quivered with anger.

  “No, de Vessey, he was not like you.”

  She felt his eyes on her again, curious, searching, but he said only, “Does Filby still hold Castle Kenton?”

  “Nay, that is the joke, if your humor is of a grim bent. Filby was killed in an uprising soon after we had gone—his peasants and serfs rose up and murdered him. So perhaps they missed us a little, after all.”

  Ivo smiled. “Perhaps they did. How did you survive in such a situation?”

  How did they survive? Cunning, determination, luck…there were many reasons. They had been stronger than they knew, even Mary.

  “Each day brought new tests for us. To find food, to find warmth, to find somewhere to sleep. And somehow, most days, we managed. When we were separated from Jocelyn and Odo, it grew harder.”

  “You were separated?”

  “Soldiers came into the village where we were singing, and Jocelyn took Odo to safety one way while Mary and I ran another. We were afraid if we were seen, the men would take us and lock us up. We were the daughters of a traitor, remember, and we did not expect kind treatment.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mary and I dressed up in men’s clothing. We strode about like men—we would practice the walk until we fell int
o fits of laughter. We were a little crazy, I think, in those days. When we reached York, we were safer. We began to sing in the market, and that was where Jocelyn found us. She and Odo had been given work with Lord Shelborne, mainly because Jocelyn cooks so well. Odo would never have been allowed to stay if not for Jocelyn.”

  “Odo was your father’s strong arm?”

  “Aye. Odo stood by my father, always. He fell ill at the time Anna was murdered, struck down with an apoplexy the very morning her body was found. He could not advise or protect us. My sister was with him day and night, and eventually he regained the use if his body, if not his mind. But by then it was too late for my father, and for us. And he is no longer Odo, not really, but Jocelyn clings to him because she cannot bear to let him go.”

  “’Tis hard to let go of those we love.”

  He said it as if he understood, but before she could ask questions, he went on.

  “’Tis truly a long journey you and your sisters have undertaken, Briar. I honor you for your courage. Do not squander all you have gained with one hasty, vengeful act.”

  “Even if he deserves it?”

  “Even then.”

  At that moment they reached the dwelling by the Ouse.

  She was admirable and brave. What other woman in her position, coming from her privileged background, could have survived such travails? And yet Ivo wished he had been there, that he could have lightened her terrible load, protected her, made her difficult life just a little bit easier.

  “You do not have to live in such hard times again,” he said at last, halting his horse and tilting his head so that he could see her. “While I am here, I will look after you.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when she fired up like dry tinder.

  “While you are here? What use is that to me! Mayhap you would stay if I paid you.”

  “I do not ask for payment,” he replied stiffly. Was she willfully misunderstanding him? What had he said to make her so angry so quickly?

  “I do not want your care if you have no intention of letting me keep it longer than a week…a month…”

  Surprised, he tried to read her face in the shadows, but she pulled away. “I will not leave you in danger, Briar,” he insisted. “I will see that you are safe.”

  He could hear her spluttering with anger and frustration. “I have never asked for anything of you, de Vessey—”

  Ivo closed his eyes and said, loudly, “I want you.”

  She stopped, breathing fast.

  “I want you,” he said again, and opened his eyes. She was staring back at him, and her eyes shone with tears.

  “You want me,” Briar whispered, “but is that enough?”

  “Then what is enough, demoiselle?” Ivo retorted, his voice harsh with his own sense of frustration.

  Briar didn’t know. She was frightened and confused, and now she had the prospect of a child to care for, to feed, to clothe…And all Ivo could say was, I want you. It wasn’t enough.

  “Do not come back here again.” Her voice shook. “I do not want a disgraced knight following me about. I do not want you, de Vessey.”

  “If you say that often enough, I will begin to believe you mean it, Briar.”

  “I do, I do mean it!”

  “Briar.” Mary was staring at her sister in dismay. “Ivo and Sweyn have been so kind, and this is how you thank them? You are making me ashamed.”

  Briar stared at her, mouth open. Mary had never spoken to her in such a way before, never. Ashamed? After all she had done? The threatening tears choked her. She ran for the cottage and slammed the door behind her.

  She flung herself onto her bed, head in her arms, wishing she could cry. The sobs were there, in her throat, but now when she wanted to weep, they would not come forth. Trapped, cornered, that was how she felt. Her life had slipped beyond her control, and it had happened the night she first saw Ivo de Vessey.

  When she felt the touch on her hair she told herself it was Mary. But it was not Mary’s touch. Big, gentle fingers, stroking. He caressed her back, and then lifted her, turning her into his shoulder. She clung there like a burr, a terrified creature, her arms locked about his neck.

  “I am with child.”

  She felt the heavy thud of his heart, his silence, and wished she could read his expression.

  “How long have you known?” he said, not quite evenly.

  “Since Jocelyn told me, before I sang tonight.” She clung even harder, as if afraid that now he knew he would push her away. Or ask her if it was his. He had every right to do so. She had lured him to her bed, a stranger. How could he be certain she did not do that with others? Jesu, she had pretended she did, just to annoy him!

  “Ivo,” she whispered, “the babe is—”

  “Mine.”

  She leaned back to look at him, laughing and crying at the same time. He gave her a serious smile in return, but something bleak chilled his warm dark eyes.

  “Do you still want me?” she asked uncertainly, reining in her wild emotions.

  He nodded without hesitation. “You and the babe.”

  “But—” What was that look in his eyes, what did it mean?

  He pulled her close again, so that she could not read him.

  “Tonight I will stay here with you. I will send Sweyn back to Lord Shelborne’s with Mary. Do you think Lady Jocelyn will mind?”

  She hesitated, a tiny spark of rebellion catching heat at the ordering note in his voice. But she quenched it.

  “Jocelyn will not mind, Ivo.”

  He didn’t seem to notice her uncharacteristic compliance as he rose to his feet and went out to give Sweyn his new orders.

  Sweyn didn’t argue, although Mary insisted on speaking to her sister. When she returned she looked a little dazed, and her glances at Ivo were suspicious. Shortly afterward they were gone.

  Ivo stood and stared at the river. The shock of Briar’s confession was wearing off. He knew he wouldn’t turn away from her. It was not in his character to do so. He would care for and protect her until death. That was what he had been trained to do. But even if it were not, even had he been one of the boatmen out on the river, he would have remained by her side, whether she wanted him or not. Briar was carrying his babe and suddenly his life’s choices had narrowed down to one.

  Ivo had loved before, and it was not the thought of loving a woman and being responsible for her that worried him. It was the fear that she might be taken from him. And that he might be unable to stop it happening, that he might fail her in some way.

  As he had failed Matilda. He hadn’t been able to save her, had he? No matter how much he had loved her, his love had not stopped her death at Miles’s hands. And it still hurt just as much as it always did, for Ivo’s love had not died with his sister. Once Ivo loved it was forever.

  To his cost.

  He tipped back his head and gazed at the stars, like tiny molten balls in the black furnace of the sky. A babe. His and Briar’s. A de Vessey. Ivo did not doubt the babe was his. Did that make him as arrogant as Briar was always accusing him? He thought now that he had known, from the moment his seed spilled into her, he had known that this was meant to be. They were meant to be. Struggle though they both might, the fates had already decided. Briar was Ivo’s, and Ivo was Briar’s, and there was an end to it.

  The door opened behind him. He felt the warmth spill out, and the sweet scent of Briar. The stars swam before his eyes, and Ivo turned to her.

  Her face was pale from crying, and she looked uncertain, though trying to hide it with an indifferent mask. Sheltering her heart in case he shattered it, even after he had sworn to stay with her. His brave, beautiful love who had been so wounded by others.

  He took a step forward, looking down into her eyes, and deliberately bent his head and kissed her. Captured her lips. Passion surged into him, and he felt the answering heat in her.

  “Ivo,” she gasped, arms clinging, pressing closer.

  He lifted her and carried her int
o the dwelling, closing the door behind them.

  Briar felt herself slip into a warm, heady waking-dream. Ivo’s lips closed on hers, tenderly, but with a hint of urgency. He had said he wanted her, and she could feel the truth of it in his kisses.

  His hands stroked her shoulders, her back, as his mouth drew her deeper into the dream. Briar’s breasts felt heavy, achy, and she moved against him, enjoying the sensation of her soft flesh against his hard-muscled chest. He turned and slid his thigh between hers, lifting her with his hands about her waist, bringing her closer.

  “Ivo,” she murmured. She ran her hands over his shoulders, tugging her fingers through his hair. He bent, pressing his face to her breasts through her gown. It was not enough. She needed his mouth on her bare skin, she needed to feel his tongue on her.

  Ivo must have felt the same, for he began hastily pulling at ties and knots, drawing the garment over her head and tossing it aside, leaving her in her chemise, stockings, and shoes.

  He stood and looked at her, his eyes hot. Then gently, he knelt down and began to undress her. Briar closed her eyes, her mind full of the sensation of his calloused fingers on her feet as her shoes were removed. Warm, determined, his hands caressed her ankles, her calves, her knees, rolling each stocking down the curving slope of her leg. She opened her eyes and gazed into his.

  He smiled up at her, and suddenly dizzy, she placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. The other she used to touch his jaw where the bruise still showed, his cheek, his mouth. His gloved fingers fondled her thigh, and she ached with wanting.

  Ivo stood, lifting her with him, and carried her to the bed. Briar lay back and watched as he removed his wolfpelt cloak, and then his tunic and shirt. His skin shone bronze in the firelight, while his face was all shadows. He unlaced his breeches, and she reached out to touch him. He felt hard and hot, and at the brush of her fingers he groaned.

  “Briar.”