by Sara Bennett
“Drink,” she urged him softly, pouring more wine into his goblet and handing it to him.
He took the vessel from her, but did not drink. Perhaps he no longer trusted her enough to do so. The shadows played games with his face, making him more handsome than he really was, smoothing out the irregular features and straightening the broken nose. His hair grew in wild, untrimmed curls about his face, and the wolfskin cloak added to his barbaric appearance. This was not a man who played games, and if she did this thing now—and later betrayed him to his lady—then he might very well kill her.
Despite herself, Briar shivered.
“You are cold.”
That deep, quiet murmur; the voice of a Norman knight of breeding and education. Such was Radulf. A great man.
And yet do not be deceived, she reminded herself. Do not fall under his spell. Remember the injury he has done you. Remember and take your vengeance and find your justice, even if it is two years too late. Do not lose sight of what you have set out to do here tonight.
“What is your name, demoiselle?”
“Briar,” she said, knowing he would not recognize it. Why should he? She was nothing to him, and two years ago she had been but a girl, kept safe on her father’s estate, content with her present and her future, not realizing that soon her world would be destroyed. Again the memory sobered her, strengthened her.
He was still watching her through the shadows; his eyes so intent, it felt as if they were inside her head.
“Briar. ’Tis a prickly name, demoiselle. Are you thorny like the wild briar?”
Briar smiled, hoping he would not read its falseness. She reached down with a trembling hand and began to unknot her girdle.
“I am tough like the briar, sir. Even when my enemies think me vanquished, I can spring up again in the most unlikely of places.”
She had amused him, mayhap even delighted him—she read it in his eyes.
“And yet you sing like a nightingale.”
“You are kind.” She disposed of the compliment, suddenly impatient. They were wasting time. The sooner he had bedded her, the sooner this thing would be done.
The girdle was unknotted, and Briar put it aside. Her gown was loose enough to slide down over her shoulder, displaying smooth, rounded flesh. He went still, watching her as she brought her arm out of the gown, and then slowly repeated the action with her other shoulder and arm. Grasping firmly the worn, brown cloth, she held it up against her breasts.
His rapt attention pleased her. A moment ago she had felt as if she had lost control of the situation; now she had it back again. That black, brooding gaze moved slowly upward, to her face, examining her lips, her tumbling hair, before his eyes fastened on hers. The silence in the chamber stretched out. Something in the tension of his body, the crackle in the air about him, told Briar that if she wanted to turn back then she should do it now. Before it was too late.
Slowly, her eyes on his, she let the gown fall.
Had he groaned aloud? Ivo would not have been surprised if he had. He had never seen a woman so beautiful.
Her long chestnut hair curled over her pale shoulders and down over the curve of her back. It made a pretty screen for her small, rounded breasts with their tawny nipples. Her hazel eyes took on a secretive slant, as she watched him through her dark lashes, and her pink lips tilted enigmatically at the corners.
Ivo still didn’t understand why of all the men in the hall she had chosen him, but it was often so with women. Sweyn laughed and said they were intrigued by his warriorlike looks coupled with his nobleman’s voice. He no longer cared. The elusive thought that he knew her from somewhere still tugged at him, but he cared not for that, either. His body was hard and ready, the wench was lovely and very desirable, and he was not fool enough to question his good fortune.
He felt its touch rarely enough these days.
Ivo took a step closer. The color of her eyes deepened. With lust? Or was it something else that ran swiftly through the green and brown? Surely not fear? For if she were afraid of him, why would she be here, now?
Still, it was with a cautious gentleness that Ivo reached out his good hand, instinctively keeping the other one hidden at his side. He touched her cheek, feeling the soft smoothness of her skin, the slight indentation of her scar. He cupped her chin, his thumb tracing the shape of her lips, memorizing the feel of them.
Her lips parted and she sighed and swayed a little, eyes shutting. Ivo smiled, pleased by the faint blush staining her skin, the tightening of her nipples into hard little cherries, begging for the comfort of his tongue. Aye, there was desire here, and she felt it as much as he.
He caught her long hair in his hand, using it to tilt her face back for his mouth. The kiss was long and hot, and while he kissed her his hand sought her breasts and caressed them. She shuddered, moaning into his mouth. Her dark lashes fluttered wildly and she drew back a little, hands clasping his forearm, as if she sought to steady herself.
He bent and kissed her again, opening her mouth with his, probing with his tongue. She was hot inside, and needy. She, too, felt the fire burning between them. He sensed it, knew it, and suddenly it no longer mattered to him what her reasons might be. This was a moment out of time; the drab and brutal world he lived in had been left behind. There was only the disgraced knight and the songstress, and together they would make the stars burn.
Ivo slid to his knees before her, and took her nipple in his mouth.
She arched back with a gasping cry, hands tangling in his hair and tugging painfully. He didn’t care. He pulled the gown down from her hips, knowing he was rough but the need to see her naked drove him beyond gentleness. Here was more pale, smooth flesh—the swell of her belly and buttocks, the white length of her thighs and the tawny hair between.
She was small, but most definitely a woman. A little thin, mayhap, a little delicate, but the curves were in their rightful places. For a moment Ivo just looked, feeling like a blind man who has suddenly begun to see. And then he slid his hands down over her thighs, and bending forward placed a kiss on the soft hair at their juncture.
She started and stepped back, forgetting perhaps that the bed was so close, for with a squeak she fell back upon it. Helpless, hampered by her long hair, she struggled to sit up. And then, as he firmly gripped and parted her legs with his strong hands, she stiffened anxiously.
But he only wanted to look. Amused, he met her eyes, sensing her uncertainty beneath the headiness of her passion. And then shocked surprise, as he grinned at her and stooped to run his tongue along her inner thigh. Until he found the hot core of her.
“Oh!” She jerked as if he had shot her with an arrow, and then groaned in her husky, sensual voice.
Ivo decided he liked this song the best of any she had sung tonight.
“Sing to me, demoiselle,” he murmured wickedly, and used his tongue again, seeking out the places that gave her the most enjoyment. She tried to tense, to pull away, but he would have none of it. With another groan, she gave herself up to pleasure.
Briar felt the passion rippling over her, washing away all her thoughts of vengeance, of the past, of her so-carefully constructed plan. She was left with only one thing—the need for release. Briar gasped, her eyes blind to the dim, candle-lit room as that questing tongue set off a myriad of sparks within her.
Why could she not remember Filby, who had hurt her when he took her, his only interest finding his own pleasure upon her, before he had risen and straightened his clothing. He had stared down at her then, with cold eyes, with a look she would never, ever forget. As though she were not the daughter of a great man, and the woman that until this moment he had courted and pretended to cherish.
Why could she not remember Filby?
Because the ripples of passion were turning into pounding waves. All control gone, Briar cried out, arching against him, dimly aware of the surging undertow within her own body.
Jesu, she had not meant it to be like this! She had wanted to be cold,
to feel discomfort, even pain, and most of all she had wanted to hate him as he deserved. Instead she lay upon the sumptuous bed, weak and tumbled, her whole body throbbing from the pleasure he had just given her. Why could this man not have been cruel like Filby? And why could Filby not have lavished the same care upon her as this man?
To Briar, dazed and bewildered, the world seemed all turned about.
When the warm wash of pleasure had finally faded a little, Briar opened her eyes. He was grinning at her again, his chin resting familiarly against her belly. With an effort Briar bestirred herself.
“You…” She swallowed, tried again. “You are very good at what you do, my lord.”
“Aye, ’tis my one true vocation.”
She giggled. God help her, she giggled like a silly maid!
He smiled back, and then proceeded to crawl up onto the bed beside her, slipping and sliding on the furs, and then rolling her into his arms. Before she could think to protest, his mouth was on hers, hot and tasting of her, something she found shocking and yet curiously exciting. The heat of his lips and tongue were stirring the tide within her again. How could that be, when he had only just sated her?
He was pressed against her from shoulder to hip, and she realized she could feel him, big and hard inside his breeches. Without thought, as naturally as if his body was as familiar to her as her own, Briar stretched down her hand and stroked him. He groaned, burying his face against her warm throat. She cupped the bulge of his manhood, trying again to remind herself of Filby, trying to bring forth the old, bitter memories of their mating.
“We are not finished yet,” she said firmly. Her vengeance could not be complete until he had lain with her, inside her, and proved himself as faithless to his wife as he had been to her stepmama.
The thought chilled Briar, enough to cool the desire building within her.
“No, demoiselle, we are not finished yet.” Evidently he did not sense the change within her. Rising up onto his knees on the bed, he began swiftly to disrobe, pulling his tunic and shirt over his head.
He was a big man, in all ways, and Briar watched him with reluctant admiration. Sun-browned skin, a body broad and hard-muscled, the body of a warrior. Her eyes moved of their own accord, over the wondrous planes and curves and hollows. Numerous scars covered him, testimony to the many battles in which he had fought. He had been hurt many times, mayhap faced death many times. Briar touched a long white scar on his ribs, testing the puckered flesh.
Aye, she told herself with satisfaction, many have tried to take his life, but they have used the wrong weapons. Sharpened wood and iron and steel are of no use—he is too wily a warrior. No, the way to harm him is from within. To find the weakness in him. To slay him by breaking his heart.
Almost unwillingly, uneasy from what he was making her feel, Briar ran her fingertips up the hard muscles of his stomach to his chest, rough with a dusting of dark hair. His nipples were hidden there, and she found them, feeling them tighten with her touch. More eagerly now, she folded her hands over the heavy curves of his shoulders, aware of their breadth and strength, before she slid them down, over his sizeable upper arms. He was indeed a creature of myth and legend. She could enjoy the sight and touch and feel of him, no matter what emotions lay in her heart.
He tugged his breeches down over his narrow hips, stripping them quickly from his strong legs. He was naked now, every curving muscle, every scar, every wonderful inch of him. Briar had never felt desire like this before—it was new and heady and completely unexpected. Her fascinated gaze followed the line of dark hair from his belly, down to his groin. His manhood jutted out, big and bold; he could not pretend indifference, even had he wanted to. And Briar could not resist stretching out her hand and grasping him, closing her hand gently upon him. So potent, so male. Beneath the velvet softness of his skin there was a hot, steely strength.
He had gone very still.
Drawn at last from her preoccupation of his magnificent body, Briar looked up at him. His eyes flared with burning desire, and yet he did not move. Clearly a battle was going on within him while he fought to subdue his lust. He was, she realized in surprise, trying to be careful, trying not to frighten her. He wanted her, and the same lustful beast she had seen in Filby was there, lurking inside his tense face and brooding gaze, but he was, unlike Filby, trying to rein it in. ’Twas the man in control of the beast and not the other way around.
And as she watched him struggle, Briar realized something more.
She wanted him.
Wanted him inside her, as she could never remember wanting any man. She wanted to take the beast she saw in his eyes, that fierce, wild wanting, and tame it. Make it her own.
I feel this way because I am so close to taking the vengeance I have dreamed of for so long, she tried to tell herself.
But it was a lie.
Even as she repeated the words to herself, she knew she was avoiding the truth. Briar wanted him. Her body craved his. What had begun as playacting, a cold-blooded pretense, was now real desire, real lust. And explain it to herself in whatever manner she may, it was unexplainable.
As if he had sensed her need, he had begun to kiss her. Long, passionate kisses that made her mindless. Briar pressed against him, her arms about his neck, her fingers tangled in his black hair. As he kissed her, he was caressing her breasts, plucking at the taut nipples, causing her body to burn and ache. The cleft between her legs was swollen and hot, and when his manhood prodded at the juncture of her thighs, instinctively she opened them, giving him access. She should be frightened, or at least wary, because he was so big—but she was not.
Nevertheless, Briar braced herself.
But instead of thrusting himself brutally inside her, as Filby had done, he began to play with her. He ran his tongue slowly down one side of her throat, tasting her, enjoying her as if she were one of Jocelyn’s honey cakes.
The comparison made her giggle, and then quickly gasp in shocked surprise. “Ouch!” Briar pressed back into the furs, so that she could look at him, her face slack with amazement. “You bit me!”
“Just a little,” he admitted, with an unrepentant smile. “You taste so good, demoiselle.”
“I do?”
“Aye,” he mocked. “Inside and out.” And, sliding his hands beneath her, he raised his body over hers, lifted her, and with a thrust of his hips, entered into her slippery depths.
Briar’s eyes grew wider as she stared up at him.
Ivo felt the little movements inside her, the adjustments to his size, the grasp of her body about his. She was tight, though no virgin. But neither was she much used—Ivo knew the signs. In truth he cared not what she was, only that at this moment she was his. Ivo threw his head back with a groan of ecstasy, thrusting himself into her a little more, and a little further, unashamedly enjoying her. He withdrew, and thrust again, deep this time, and she quivered from her head to her toes.
“Oh, demoiselle,” he whispered hoarsely, gazing down at her with blurred black eyes, his hair a dark aureole in the candlelight. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”
And just like that, a wild storm of pleasure swept through her. Briar cried out and arched against him. He held her firm, allowing her to ride the tempest, content to let her have her moment while he kept his own pleasure in check. When she was still again, gasping, a sheen of perspiration covering her body, her hair sticky against his skin, he gently kissed her face. Little, light kisses across her cheeks and nose and brow; soft kisses against her eyelids, and the tiny scar.
A child’s cry. The bark of a hound. Voices raised in consternation.
The memory was there and gone, too quick for him to grasp it. Besides, his senses were clamoring for release, to take what she offered so freely. Whomever she was.
Ivo gazed down at her, at her mouth, reddened now, lush and swollen from his kisses. He nibbled it with his teeth while thrusting slowly between her thighs, feeling the tight sheath grasping him, holding him. It felt so good and yet he was w
ild to finish it—the two longings tugged him in opposing directions, an agony that was like ecstasy.
This wasn’t going at all as Briar had imagined it.
She had thought he would take her brutally, guiltily, and then toss her aside. She had thought to find joy in it, yes, but only because it was a culmination of two years of yearning and plotting. She had certainly not expected to be thrown into such a wild, passionate storm by his embrace. And she had not imagined to feel such delight in the joining of his body to hers.
More than that.
Such a sense of rightness, as if she had been born to be here.
Sweet Jesu, how could that be?
Briar’s anxious thoughts scattered as he moved again, stroking her deep inside each time he moved his hips. Oh, it felt so good when he did that. Felt so wonderful. Caught up again in her own rising passion, and completely in thrall to his tender teasing, Briar lifted her own hips to meet him. She could feel his entire body rigid with his need to let go, and yet he did not. Incredibly he held himself back, he waited, and Briar knew instinctively he was waiting for her to soar once more, before he would allow himself to join her.
“Sing, demoiselle.” His husky breath stirred the damp curls on her brow. “Sing our song.”
No, she thought, no, I must not, I will not…But it was already too late. Briar heard her own voice, harsh with pleasure and longing, as he tipped her over the edge once more. And this time, as she reached completion, he drove hard, once, twice, and followed, shouting his joy to the shadows, planting his seed deep within her, and shuddering his contentment in her enfolding arms.
Chapter 2
Briar lay quiet, her head rested upon his chest, with her hair spilling about them both. She could feel the steady thud of his heart, as well as every breath. He was stroking her back, his fingers gentle against her heated skin, while his gloved hand rested, relaxed, upon his hard-muscled stomach. She gazed at the black leather, idly wondering what was so terrible about the hand that he must keep it covered even at such a time as this.
