by Sara Bennett
“I thought you wanted private words with me,” Briar replied airily, and turned a face to him that she knew was pale and a little wild. This was the very spot where Anna, her stepmama, was murdered, but Ivo de Vessey could not know that. It seemed to Briar somehow apt that her seduction of him should begin here. How could she possibly lose sight of her real objective, in this place? How could she feel any pleasure in it, while such a memory was raw at her feet?
“Your choice of scene lacks something, Briar.” He spoke dryly, but he took his hand from his sword.
She shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
A chill breeze drifted up the snickleway, a reminder that they were well into autumn. Briar shivered. Or mayhap it was the spirit of Anna? Beautiful Anna, who, it was said, broke men’s hearts with impunity—although that, Briar reminded herself, had been before she married Richard Kenton. Still, if anyone could give Briar lessons in making a man crazed with lust, then surely it was Anna?
Ivo made an impatient sound and, taking her by surprise, grabbed up her hand and led her firmly out of the snickleway, and into Goodram-gate. Abruptly, at the same moment, the sun shone, throwing aside its covering of clouds. Briar closed her eyes, feeling its welcome warmth against her skin. When she opened them again, she could see beyond the uneven rooftops, to where ladders and scaffolding had been thrown up by the men usually hard at work reroofing and rebuilding York’s Saxon Minster.
The Minster had stood upon that spot for over three hundred years. During the most recent rebellion in the north, King William’s men had burned much of the city, including the Minster, to prevent the rebels from overtaking it. Aye, York had suffered much from the wars between men, and the new Norman Archbishop of York, Thomas of Bayeux, was determined to restore the Minster to God’s glory.
Ivo hurried her along, closer to the great church. The precincts were still much in ruin and deserted. An arched section of wall stood alone, warmed by the sun, and a barrier against the cold breezes.
“This is better.” Ivo stopped, and promptly pulled her into his arms.
Briar started to struggle, before she remembered she was supposed to be compliant. Though not too compliant, not too easily won, she reminded herself. Men appreciated the hunt, the chase, and the capture, in that order. Briar rested her hands against Ivo’s mailed chest, feeling his heat even through the layers of clothing and the woven iron rings of his armor. He seemed almost a stranger. It was his hair, she told herself. She had dreamed so often of that wild hair, and her fingers in it, that its lack unsettled her.
“You spoke of my bruised face, demoiselle. A man struck me with the flat of his sword. If it had been the edge I would not be standing here now.”
The sun was no longer warm enough; somehow the chill wind had seeped through the wall. Briar stared up at him, and knew her own face was white. “But he did not,” she said, and her voice shook only slightly. “You are whole.”
“Your prayers kept me safe, Briar,” he said softly, and stroked his rough finger down her soft cheek.
“Then I am glad, Ivo.” She meant it. Slowly, carefully, as if such a thing were entirely foreign to her nature, Briar leaned into him and rested her cheek against his heart. It beat hard and strong. The sound calmed her, and she did not protest as he tightened his own hold about her.
He desired her. That part of him she remembered so well was nudging her belly. She ignored it. She had never realized before just how comforting a man’s arms could be.
And yet Ivo de Vessey is a man, the same as any other. Why should he be different?
His breath fanned her temple, his lips brushed her skin, gentle but promising more. Instinctively, Briar lifted her face to him, and his mouth closed on hers.
He stilled, as if taken by surprise, and then with a low groan he returned her kiss, his mouth no longer tender, but eager and hot. Ah, here was something she understood! Lust, desire, these things she could deal with. Relieved, Briar met his eagerness with enthusiasm. Her tongue tangled with his, and when he slid his hands down to cup her bottom, bringing her closer to the point of his need, she did not demur, but wriggled against him.
It was Ivo who broke the kiss. His breath was warm against her cheek; he was panting as if he had run a race.
“I will not take you against the wall, Briar. Is that what you want?”
Surprised, she looked up at him, and was at once captured by that dark, brooding gaze. She licked her lips, and watched him follow the movement with rapt attention. Confidence returned to her, and Briar smiled.
“I do not know whether such a thing would be flattering or not, Ivo. But you are right, ’tis not what I want.”
“Then you had best not push me too far, demoiselle. I think you are not accustomed to the ways of men, though you pretend.”
Annoyed, she tried to pull away from him, but he held her easily, allowing her only to lean back in his arms. Laughter warmed his smile and his eyes, as if he thought her struggles comical. Briar wanted to slap him and demand he release her, but she knew to do either would be to undo all the magic she had worked so far.
“And you think you are accustomed to the ways of women, de Vessey? You could no more see into a woman’s head than weave a stocking!”
To her surprise he didn’t bristle, he laughed. “I can read some women, but you are different, Briar. Have you ever loved a man, demoiselle?”
The blunt question gave her pause. Briar hesitated, and then decided upon honesty. “Nay, apart from my father, I have loved no man.”
Ivo’s laughter was gone. “I will be the first, then.”
“Jesu! You are arrogant, Sir Disgraced Knight. I do not love you, why should I? What do you have, that would tempt me to love such as you?”
He ran his hand gently through her hair, his gloved fingers strangely stiff and unresponsive. “I can give you safety, Briar. A place to come and know you will not be harmed or hurt, where you no longer need to be the brave one. A place where you need not be alone.”
She went cold, suddenly afraid of his words, and the feelings they caused to well up within her. What he had described was a place she longed for with all her heart, but she had not known it, until now. How could he know? Was he truly able to see into her mind?
And what if he abandons you once he has had his fill of you? Be very careful how much you give him. Step back. Keep your distance. He might sink deep but you must not.
Briar made herself smile—one of Anna’s teasing smiles.
“I ask only one thing of you, Ivo.”
He was watching her intently. “And what is that, demoiselle?”
“That you do not cut your hair again. I prefer it the way it was.”
He stared at her a moment, totally blank, and then he threw back his head and laughed loudly.
“I will grow my hair to my toes, then, Briar, before I cut it again.” He spoke at last, humor gleaming in his eyes. “Does that please you?”
She smiled. “Aye, it does. Do you seek to please me, Ivo?”
“Always, demoiselle.”
The moment stretched. His fierce black gaze almost undid her, but she held on. Her voice was breathless. “Tell me why you were disgraced?”
A door closed within him; she saw it happen. His eyes went blank, cold, distant. He shut her out as effectively as if he really had stepped inside a room. “I, too, have my secrets,” he said.
She was tempted to push him further, to try and learn that which he did not want her to know. But then she remembered it was none of her business—nor did she want it to be. Better he keep his hurts to himself. She was not interested in his past, was she? She did not want to know him too well; she dared not begin to care for him. Ivo de Vessey was to be a means to an end. Nothing more.
“Very well. We will share our bodies but keep our feelings removed.”
The statement sounded so cold.
Ivo was watching her closely, but then he spoke the words she had been waiting to hear.
“It will all be
just as you wish, demoiselle.”
Chapter 5
Mary watched with relief her sister and the big, dark man make their way toward her. It was cold. The sunshine had vanished, and dark clouds loomed over York. The thinning crowds were in a hurry to be home before the storm came, and Mary didn’t blame them.
“Their reunion does not appear to have been a happy one.” Sweyn had dismounted, and was standing beside Mary.
She agreed—Briar’s expression was guarded, while Ivo de Vessey looked grim. “My sister is cautious where men are concerned, and with reason.”
Sweyn seemed amused by her answer. “Ivo is careful of women,” he explained. “With reason.”
“Oh. Then mayhap they are well matched.” She sounded prim and self-conscious.
“Aye. Love makes the strangest bedfellows…” The humor seemed to have gone from him and they stood side by side, both longing, Mary was sure, for the other to be gone.
It had not been like this a moment ago.
After the first awkwardness of two strangers being left alone together, they had found they conversed easily enough. Sweyn’s manner was so easy, so comfortable; shy Mary had blossomed. And Sweyn, too, seemed to be delighted by her. They had been enjoying their brief, unexpected moment, and then something had happened. Sweyn had fallen quiet, and when he tried to recapture something of their previous ease, he had been almost clumsy.
Mary had not thought him a clumsy man, far from it. He was a man who did not take himself too seriously, and he had seemed so tolerant, so indulgent, so truly interested in her. The sort of man any woman would be flattered to be with.
And now this.
Had she done something wrong? Said something very foolish? Why else would the big, handsome Dane lose interest in her? It was as if, she thought bleakly, he had shone a golden light on her and then turned it off.
Anxious, upset, Mary greeted Briar, fully expecting her sister to notice her wounded feelings and comfort her, as she always did.
But for once Briar did not notice her dilemma. Her gaze kept flicking to Ivo de Vessey, almost as if to assure herself he was still there. Ivo looked even graver this close up, but he gave Mary a courtly bow before he swung himself up onto his horse. He was clearly impatient to be gone, but his impatience had the flavor of someone who was being hunted. Chased by his own demons.
Looking at Ivo’s dark, commanding gaze, Mary thought his demons must be great indeed.
Sweyn remounted more slowly, the lines about his blue eyes crinkling as he looked at the sky. Rain was close now; she could smell it in the air. And so, she realized, could he.
“I must go.”
He sent a half smile in Mary’s direction, something far removed from the lazy grin he had worn earlier. Mary nodded, pretending to fiddle with a thread on her sleeve, her heart lodged in her throat as she asked herself again what she had done wrong. Then she heard the clatter of his horse’s hooves as he followed Ivo from the market.
Only then did Mary, her face bright with color, lift her head to watch him go.
The two sisters stood close together, waiting by silent consent until the horses were no longer visible. Mary turned reluctantly to her sister, but Briar remained still, her face pale and set. Strangely, even in her stillness, she seemed to thrum with tension, a little like the strings on Mary’s harp. There was something between Briar and Ivo de Vessey, something serious, but whether it was good or bad, Mary could not guess. Nor did she expect her sister to tell her. Briar still thought of her as a child, and until recently Mary had been content to allow herself to be so treated.
It had been simpler, somehow.
While Briar and Jocelyn had cared for her, she did not have to think. She did not have to take upon herself the burden of finding food and shelter. She played her harp, aye, there was that, but the rest she left to them.
Recently that had begun to change. Now that they were more settled in York, Mary had felt a growing need to take a step away from her sisters. To be herself. It was difficult. Sometimes she wanted nothing more than to creep back into the warm safety of their arms, but with a firm and gentle determination she was persisting. She was not a child, although it pleased them to treat her so. How could she be, after all that had happened? She knew much, and had suffered much; they all had. How could she begin to repay them, unless they would allow her to grow up and take her proper place in their little family?
The handsome blond mercenary with the clear blue eyes, Sweyn, he had not thought her a child. Mary had known it, instinctively, by the manner in which he looked at her. His gaze had slid over her body, and he had smiled into her eyes. He had looked at Mary and seen a woman, and he had even flirted with her, a little. That had been fun. She had enjoyed very much the sensation of being looked upon as a grown woman, and not a helpless child.
And then he had told her a silly joke that made her laugh, and after that the sweet moment had turned sour.
Mayhap she had laughed too long and too hard? Mayhap he had seen her for the pretender she was? The joke had not even been that funny, but she had still laughed, lit up by his attention like a burning coal. By the time she had stopped laughing, it had been too late. He had been staring at her, oddly, as if he had never seen a girl like her before. He had stared at her until she grew uncomfortable.
Mary had not understood the look in his blue eyes, or the way he had seemed to withdraw from her without actually moving. He had not stopped speaking with her, but his words had grown stilted, uncomfortable, clumsy. Strange behavior in such an urbane man.
He had thought her childish and silly. Aye, that must be it. She was childish and silly. Suddenly Mary felt her frustration bitter in her mouth. She didn’t want to be a child any longer—it was well past time she grew up. If she had been a proper woman, confident in herself and her body, then mayhap Sweyn would have wanted to stay with her a little longer.
But then again, he had smiled at her as he rode away.
A smile that was almost a promise…
“You were gone a long time.” Mary broke into her own thoughts, and glanced bright-eyed at Briar.
“Was I?”
“Ivo seemed very pleased to see you, sister.”
“How would you know?” Briar snapped. “I do not want to speak of him.”
She set off at a brisk pace through the market, head held high, as if her gown were not patched and her feet not bare and dusty. Ignoring the demanding calls of the vendors, Mary sighed and hurried after her. Briar had a hot temper, though it was not often that she turned it on Mary. Something must be very wrong for her to do so now.
Mary wanted to remind Briar that she was a grown woman, that there was no need to shelter her from unpalatable truths any longer. That Briar could talk to her about Ivo de Vessey, or anything else. But even as she opened her mouth to do so, one look at Briar’s angry face made her close it again. Perhaps this was not the right time to exert her independence.
They were all so different, the three daughters of Lord Kenton. Jocelyn, sensible and tranquil and loving. Mary, shy and gentle. And Briar, the strong one, the hurt one, the angry one. Briar had burned with her hatred these past two years; she had been determined to revenge their father by punishing Lord Radulf. The terrible events of two years ago had wounded them all, but it was Briar who could not seem to put it behind her. Jocelyn said she wanted the past forgotten—she had Odo to concern her. Mary, coddled and cared for, had missed the privilege that had been hers, but nevertheless would try to make a new life.
But not Briar. She was too hurt by what had happened to her at the hands of those powerful men. It was as if she was unable to look forward, without looking backward.
Would Ivo de Vessey help Briar find a happier future? Would Sweyn help Mary to be a woman? The Dane was very handsome. Mary had found herself wondering, as they stood together in the marketplace, whether he might kiss her.
“Mary?”
Mary blinked. Briar touched her arm, concerned. They were standing in
the entry to one of the many snickleways that crisscrossed York, narrow thoroughfares between the more important streets. Mary flushed bright red, as if she had done something wrong, which surprised Briar. What could an innocent girl like Mary be thinking…to make her blush?
“I am sorry, sister,” Mary spoke breathlessly. “I was woolgathering. Did you say something?”
“’Twas nothing,” Briar replied, eyeing her curiously and a little anxiously. Perhaps, she thought, Mary was unwell. York was not the healthiest of places, with its open drains and mounds of debris in the streets. “Come, let us hurry home. The air grows chill.”
It was chill. Briar glanced up at a sky that was no longer blue but a dark gray, lowering over the city. Quickening her steps, she instinctively reached for her sister’s hand. Mary smiled. She tried to hide it, but Briar noticed.
“What is it? Mary?”
Mary met her eyes wryly. “I am a full head taller than you, Briar.”
“So?”
“’Tis just…The way you hold my hand in yours, ’tis as if I were still a child.”
“It does not matter how tall you grow, Mary,” Briar reminded her brusquely. “That changes nothing. You are still a child to me.”
Mary’s cheeks pinkened and her eyes narrowed. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to say more, a great deal more. And then she sighed, and allowed herself to be tugged along after her sister, past a ruined church, into Copper-gate. The two girls took to their heels and ran as the wind rose and threatened to toss their hems over their heads. Mary shrieked and Briar laughed, holding down her gown as they ran, and the first big raindrops splattered the ground around them.
The image of Ivo de Vessey leaning over her to kiss her, his lips smooth and warm, once more filled Briar’s mind. She gasped and lifted her face to the rain, feeling its cold daggers against her skin. Why did he possess her thoughts so? Always, before, she had been able to order them, keep a part of herself locked away. Now it was as if he had permeated every single inch of her.
