Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  Briar wondered if she was going to scream. She could feel the sound building up inside her, like a roaring tempest in a small room, whirling around and around in the tiny space, and threatening to destroy all within.

  I have given myself to the wrong man! She felt little, vulnerable, as she had not felt in two years. Her hatred, her plots, had helped keep her safe from the full extent of her grief and loss, and suddenly, now, she was back in that pit.

  I have given myself to the wrong man!

  It could not be so. She had been so positive this man was Radulf…so positive she had recognized him in some elemental way. She had not even thought to ask anyone! This man was Radulf! The dark hair and eyes, the impressive size, his warlike air. Who else could it have been?

  Shadows drew in from the corners of the room, fluttering at the edges of her vision. Briar felt close to fainting.

  He is not Radulf!

  So much plotting and planning, all her dreams of vengeance, all that had kept her going through the long, long weeks and months. She felt herself beginning to crumble, turning to nothing but fine, choking dust. Ashes. She had built herself protective walls of hatred and revenge, keeping herself safe with dreams of what she would do to Radulf when she found him. And now they were falling down, blowing away in the hot wind of disaster.

  Sweet Jesu, she had given herself to the wrong man!

  Briar was distraught, more shaken than she could ever remember. The grief she had felt when her father died and all was taken from her, when Filby used her and then heartlessly discarded her to her fate, came sweeping over her, fresh and raw as ever. The single-minded dream of vengeance had helped to keep her living and breathing, and now for it to go so terribly, terribly wrong…

  It was beyond bearing.

  Hot and angry tears sprang from her eyes. Forgetting her nakedness, forgetting what they had just done together, Briar rose up on her knees, her hair streaming about her body, and shook her clenched fists in his face.

  “No, no! It cannot be, I do not believe it! You are Radulf, say you are! I wanted Radulf in my bed, Radulf’s body in mine. ’Tis a trick, a lie, yes, yes, it must be a lie!”

  He looked shocked, but almost at once he was reaching for her, trying to subdue her. Briar would not be subdued. She struck out at him, screaming wildly and struggling, until he covered her mouth with his hand and held her fast against his big body. Still she squirmed and wriggled and cried, but now her sounds were muffled and her movements were hampered by his great strength.

  “Demoiselle,” he said, trying to penetrate the fit that had come upon her. There was agony in her cries, a pain that went deep. Ivo knew pain, he understood it, and he wanted to understand what was happening with Briar. “Tell me what ails you, lady! Hush, you are safe, you are safe with me…”

  And then, as the meaning of her words finally became clear, he frowned down at her and said more sharply, “Did you seek to lure Radulf to your bed? Lady, he would never come. He is in thrall to his wife, how could you not know that? Everyone knows that! Come, come, compose yourself. What is Lord Radulf to you? Will I not do instead? For truly, my angel, I am more than willing to lie with you again. We two were made to be one.”

  It was true. Never had Ivo lain with a woman who gave him more pleasure, who had so easily found a place in his mind and his senses. Already Ivo felt the desire stir anew at the thought of having her, even though his angel had turned into a wildcat. Strangely, he was not jealous. What they had experienced together was too remarkable. Whatever this nonsense with Radulf meant, he would untangle it to his own advantage.

  She had stilled, suddenly, and now lay limp in his embrace. Carefully, watching for signs of a renewal of her mad struggles, Ivo removed his hand from over her mouth and, when she said not a word, eased his grip on her. She was unmoving in his arms, shuddering off and on, as if she were very cold. And yet she did not feel cold.

  Musingly, Ivo gazed down at her. Here was a woman who had been hurt in some way—mayhap not physically, but nevertheless she had been injured. He sensed it, tasted it, recognized it. Gently, he smoothed back her hair, so that he could better see her face. It was white and drawn, and tears leaked through the spiky clumps of her dark lashes, oozing down her cheeks. Ah, such pain, such anguish, was etched into her sweet features! Ivo felt his heart squeeze with tender feelings he had long thought beyond him.

  She had brought them back to life again. After all these years, she had jolted his frozen heart into a response. Ivo did not know whether to be furious with her, or grateful. In truth, he was bewildered, and feared he would soon be more so. Was it true what they had said, then, that this woman could heal a sick man and make a broken man whole?

  Time to think of that later. Just now it was clear that there was something very wrong with the lady Briar, and Ivo must do his best to discover what it was.

  “Demoiselle,” he said gently, “do not grieve. Whatever saddens you so, I will help you to overcome it.”

  He meant it, more than he had ever meant anything in his life, but she shook her head and her mouth turned down.

  “You cannot,” she said. “No one can. I am truly lost.”

  “No, angel, you are not lost. I have found you and you are not lost.” He bent and kissed her lips, tasting the salt of her tears.

  Slowly she responded, her lips opening on a sigh, the heat coursing through her. He deepened the kiss; he could not help it. Her body pressed against him and he groaned, his hand sliding down her soft belly to the juncture of her thighs. In response, her arms tightened around his waist, drawing him closer. He moved over her, the head of his manhood probing her entrance.

  “You are not lost,” he whispered again, running quick hot kisses across her breasts, before drawing her nipple deep into his mouth.

  She arched with a moan of sheer pleasure. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but her pain had been forgotten, or at least put aside, by her need for him. Ivo looked down at her in wonder, amazed he had turned her so easily from agony to ecstasy. With a practiced thrust, he entered her, smoothly and fully.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  “Briar,” he murmured, and smiled.

  Dazed, she smiled back at him, gasping as he thrust again, deeper this time, but slowly, carefully. Her fingers crept up his arms, clinging to him as his muscles shifted and tightened, feeling the tension in him as he held himself back, moving so tenderly, so gently.

  Time stood still, as he drowned in her eyes.

  And then passion caught them unawares, and she cried out, her mouth hot against his throat as his hips pumped harder and faster, seeking oblivion. Afterward, he wrapped his arms about her, tucking her safely to his side, as the tremors eased.

  The hound barked. The child cried. “Briar! Sweet Jesu, she is hurt!” The boy reached the little girl first, bending to help her back onto her uncertain feet. Blood trickled down one side of her plump, baby face, mingling with hot, angry tears. The child gazed up at him with a trembling lip, hazel eyes deep and solemn. And in that instant Ivo, himself only nine years old, lost his heart.

  The memory was there, fully formed in his head. Amazed, Ivo stared down at the sated woman in his arms.

  “Briar,” he breathed. “’Tis Briar.”

  It was as if her name in his mouth pulled her from her voluptuous exhaustion. Briar’s dark lashes lifted, her hazel eyes opened very wide. She stared at him blankly, and then with a small scream, she sat up. A knee in his side, an elbow in his chest, and she had launched herself across the bed, away from him, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth as if he were foul.

  “Go, go!” she screamed, and pointed to the door. She dragged herself to the very end of the bed, her body trembling, her face still swollen and tear-streaked. “I do not want you to touch me again! I…I cannot think when you touch me. Go now! And never return, Ivo de Vessey. Never!”

  Ivo hesitated. He had been about to tell her what he had remembered, but short of holding her physically captive…And
he did not think she would look upon him kindly if he pinned her down and shouted at her. Nay, it was plain she was not to be reasoned with, not now, not in this state. Whatever had upset her, it was not something she would confide to him, not tonight.

  Now that Ivo knew who she was, there was time to consider. Aye, he must think hard on this before he took any further steps. Better that he go, as she demanded. He would think on what he had learned, and resume this business later. Besides, Sweyn had said they were wanted, and Ivo knew he had neglected his duty as long as he dared.

  With a little shrug, he began to dress, hastily pulling up his breeches and slipping his shirt and tunic over his head. All the while she crouched upon the bed, shaking, her face turned so far from him that he could see the strained cords of her neck. As if the sight of him was acutely painful to her. Or repulsive.

  Ivo was not insulted. He knew she had felt no such thing earlier. She had wanted him; she had enjoyed what he did to her. He had felt her body tremble in release, had tasted her desire. He knew it to the marrow of his bones. Aye, she had wanted him. Whatever was wrong now was not because of that. For some inexplicable reason she had imagined him to be Radulf—he remembered now that she had not asked him for his name. Why was his being Radulf so important to her? He did not believe she was the sort to be fascinated by a man because of his wealth and power, the sort who would give herself to a man just for what he could give her materially.

  Mayhap he was being a fool for trusting a woman he did not know, except for some childhood memory…And yet, he could not, would not, let her go. He remembered again the way she had looked up at him as he took her, the trusting, dreaming expression in her eyes. She had not held back; there had been no deceit in her desire for him, whatever her lips might say. And she had let him take her that last time, even when she knew he was not Radulf.

  Aye, there was much here to think on.

  She had given him back his heart—for better or worse, he did not know yet. Nay, he would not desert her now, just as he had not deserted her on that long ago day when she received her scar. His decision was made, burnt into his flesh, like the remembrance of her touch.

  “Farewell, demoiselle.” He turned to her at last, fully dressed, and strapped his sword about his hips. The two green stones gleamed dully in the sputtering candlelight; they were the eyes of the snarling creature, half beast and half bird, that had been fashioned into the hilt. A griffin. It was his family emblem, and he had received and worn it with great pride when he became a knight.

  Long ago, long gone.

  She may have brought his heart back to life, but she could not give Ivo back that burning sense of self-worth and pride he had felt when he was made a knight. Could she?

  Briar had not answered his farewell. Instead she continued to tremble against the bed where they had just made love. He watched her a moment more, and his newly revived heart ached for her. You are mine, now. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Ivo was too wise to speak them. Women were strange creatures, and sometimes ’twas best just to leave them be.

  Ivo closed the door softly behind him.

  Briar held her breath, but his footsteps moved away, faded into the echoes of music and laughter from the hall. She collapsed into the furs, her body going limp, and sobbed her heartache in hot, scalding tears. The aching silence was filled with her pain. Anger, too. She was angry with herself for making such a blunder, and with Ivo de Vessey for not making her aware of that blunder, and with Radulf for not being where he should be. But most of all she felt despair, because she feared she would never be able to carry out her plan now. She had set her mind to seduce Radulf, and instead had lain with Ivo de Vessey, who by his own tongue was a disgraced knight and a mercenary.

  And she had lain with him again, after he had told her who he was.

  How could she have been so foolish?

  But something about Ivo de Vessey had called to her, drawn her in like a bee to poison nectar. Aye, a willing victim! She had believed he was Radulf. She had wanted to believe it, she realized now, because she had felt an instant attraction to him. More than that—a meeting of flesh and blood, bodies and minds, such as she had only heard of in songs. She had never looked for such a thing to happen to her; her mind had been too full of dark dreams of vengeance. Was that dream over now? How could she seek out Radulf and seduce him after Ivo de Vessey?

  Briar groaned aloud.

  Her tears had stopped, and she swallowed down any lingering sobs. This situation was even graver than she had first thought. It had only just occurred to her how grave. The fact that her joining with Ivo had not been unpleasant, or degrading, or in any way like the brief moments with Filby—that it had been one of the most wondrous nights of her life, rung a desperate warning peal in her mind.

  Briar groaned again and covered her flushed, swollen face with her shaking hands. No, no, no! She needed to be calm and cold and single-minded. She could not lust after a stranger, a man who had no part in her life, or her dreams of vengeance. He was nothing to her, and so it must remain. How could she continue to survive if it were otherwise?

  Impatiently, Briar brushed the tears from her cheeks. Jocelyn had been right, she had not considered the consequences of her action, and now they seemed particularly dire. She had lain with Ivo de Vessey and made a bond with him, and even if she tried to sever that bond, she sensed Ivo would fight to stop her.

  No, angel, you are not lost. I have found you.

  He had held her with such tenderness, such concern, feelings she would never have imagined such a big, warlike man could possess. And then he had kissed her again, and even after she knew he was not Radulf, she had kissed him back. She had let him touch her. Lie upon her and enter her body with his. Aye, when she should have been cold as rock toward him, she had melted and burned and sobbed with desire.

  Briar’s breath quickened, and she closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists. No, no, she could not think of it now. Her mind was a whirling mass of confusion, and her throat was raw from crying. The grief she had thought long past her had returned, and as for her dreams of vengeance…Because of her wild lovemaking and her wild regrets, Briar had hardly enough strength remaining to dress herself, let alone consider what to do about the ruin of her plan.

  Mary.

  She must fetch Mary, and take her home.

  The thought of her sister stilled the chaos inside her, and helped restore Briar to some semblance of the strong and resilient woman she had believed herself to be. Wearily, she used the bedding to mop at her face, ignoring the signs of passion. A vision of his naked body, lying upon the furs, strong-limbed and hard-muscled, languorous from their lovemaking, filled her mind like a warm breeze on a cold night. She banished it.

  Mary would be worrying. Briar would make up some story—mayhap she had had a private audience for her songs? A widow, grieving for her one true love, who had wished to hear her sing in private. Mary would believe her, and they would go on as they had before.

  Well, not quite. Briar wondered, miserably, if she would ever be as she was before. Ivo de Vessey had changed her, she wasn’t sure just how, but she knew it was so. Like a bolt of dark lightning he had split the old Briar asunder. And she was very much afraid the change was forever.

  “Was she as sweet as she looked?”

  Ivo ignored Sweyn, kicking his horse into a gallop through the still, moonlit streets of York. The sky was clear and starry, a wondrous arc above, and he wished suddenly he could show it to Briar. It had been long since Ivo had wanted to share anything with a woman, and the realization gave him pause.

  “Did she sing to you?” Sweyn would not stop his teasing.

  Ivo made an impatient sound. “What she and I did is private between us. You said we were wanted, what did you mean?” He had not even thought to ask until now, being otherwise occupied.

  “Radulf sent word.”

  Ivo frowned, thinking of this. The King’s Sword had been in a foul mood ever since they left C
revitch. ’Twas rumored he had wanted to bring his wife, Lily, but with her baby son so new she had not felt it wise to come. Ivo did not blame her for preferring the safety and comfort of Crevitch Castle to a horse’s back. But mayhap Radulf did not quite see it that way.

  “Radulf did not say what he wanted?”

  “No, lackwit. That is what we go to find out.”

  Ivo scowled at his friend, but Sweyn only gave him a grin in return. Sweyn was one of the most even-tempered men he knew. Nothing ever rumpled his good humor. Ivo, passionate and with a temper uneven at best, found that being in Sweyn’s company could be extremely difficult at times.

  “I was not supposed to come north,” he grumbled now.

  “Aye, ’twas Gunnar Olafson who was meant to come,” Sweyn pretended to sympathize. “But he got himself wed to Lady Rose of Somerford Manor, and so you came in his stead. Think you he should have left the lady alone in the chapel, to ride up to York? So that you could remain at Crevitch and sulk?”

  “I am not sulking.”

  “No? Then what ails you, Ivo? You should be glad you came to York. If you had not, you wouldn’t have heard the angel sing.”

  That was true. “The angel,” however, was going to be a bigger problem than he had first imagined. Briar, daughter of Lord Richard Kenton, wealthy and powerful baron, traitor, and dead by his own hand.

  He looked up at the sky again. It was a long, long time since he had yearned for a woman. He had learned at an early age that love was not wise, that it could be twisted and mangled, and that sometimes it hurt so unbearably it was like dying inside and yet continuing to breathe. Since then, he had tried not to love. Of course, it could be a difficult task to keep your heart encased in iron, and Ivo was a passionate man. He had made friends, good friends, like Gunnar Olafson and Sweyn. But he had loved no woman, wanted no woman, beyond fulfilling the more basic of his urges. He had needed no woman to make him feel whole.