Once He Loves

by Sara Bennett

  “Miles will be certain to make Ivo’s time here dangerous and uncomfortable,” Sweyn said with a frown. “I have never known two brothers less similar.”

  Ivo just shook his head. Miles, here! After what had happened in the summer, he had hoped his brother had taken ship to Normandy or perhaps France. Was Miles to follow him about forever, like an evil shadow? He would never be safe while Miles lived, and he had known that for a long time. But knowing something and acting upon it were two different things, particularly when it was his own brother. Hate him or not, Ivo had an aversion to killing members of his own family.

  And yet it may come to that.

  “I will have to find him and make him leave. He will not go, so then I will have to fight him. And if we fight, he will try to kill me, so I will have to kill him.”

  When he looked up, he caught the tail end of the glance Sweyn and Lord Henry had exchanged between them. They thought that Miles might kill him. He could see the fear in their eyes. Aye, he told himself bleakly, mayhap Miles would triumph. He had always triumphed before. But whatever the outcome, Ivo sensed the day of battle was fast approaching.

  “You saw him two days ago?” he asked Lord Henry, while his stomach churned.

  “Aye.”

  “Does Lord Radulf know?”

  “I have told him, but at the moment he has other matters on his mind.”

  Ivo nodded grimly. “Then ’tis up to me to deal with Miles’s evil. I will see to this, Lord Henry. Leave it with me.”

  Henry gave him a searching glance, and then nodded, content that it was so. “Good man!”

  When he had gone, Sweyn said hopefully, “Perhaps Miles has taken fright from York. Perhaps seeing Lord Henry has hurried him onto a ship away from England. Far away.”

  “I pray ’tis so, Sweyn. I pray ’tis so.”

  But Ivo knew it wasn’t. He sensed Miles’s presence, like some foul miasma. Aye, he and his brother would have their day of reckoning, and soon.

  Chapter 6

  Ivo steadied his horse and narrowed his eyes against the glare off the water. The staithes, or landing stages, toward Ouse bridge were busy with boats and their cargoes. More craft moved upon the river, taking advantage of the still, morning air. Voices drifted from the two Norman castles, the shouts of soldiers who had been up since the Angelus bell, preparing for the day.

  But here, where Briar lived, it was an island of solitude. Flotsam had collected in the mud along the shore, and most of the dwellings had fallen into heaps of wood and straw. There was a sense of decay and neglect. Of damp despair.

  Ivo did not like to think of her living here, not without his protection. He knew he had no rights to her, but still he felt as if he did. In his mind she was his, and his knightly duty was clear. ’Twas a pity he was no longer a knight.

  That had been Miles’s doing.

  “We are brothers, after all,” Miles said. “Let us try, this once, to stand side by side as we fight our lord’s enemy.”

  “How can you expect me to forget our sister? How can I fight beside Matilda’s murderer?”

  Miles’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you not think her death lodges in my heart, too, Ivo? I do not need you to remind me of what I caused. She was my sister, too.”

  And Ivo, horrified and suspicious to find Miles in the pay of the same lord as himself, had nevertheless swallowed both in the hope that maybe, just maybe, Miles had changed. That maybe they might be truly brothers, at last.

  But Miles hadn’t been interested in protecting his lord, or fighting his lord’s enemy. He had wanted only to hurt Ivo. At the crucial moment he had struck. He had lulled Ivo into dropping his guard, persuaded him to drink from a poisoned cup—or, at least, wine tainted with a sleeping draft. Ivo had slept deeply, and while he slept, the attack upon the lord had come. Miles had fought well, brilliantly, sending the enemy about, but the lord Ivo had been meant to play bodyguard to had been killed by a stray arrow bolt.

  That was suspicious enough, Ivo later thought, but by then it was too late to prove anything against Miles. No one would have believed him.

  Ivo still clearly remembered the moment he had awoken. Head pounding and mouth dry, he had stumbled out into the bailey, only to realize what had happened. The rest of the garrison had turned to him, silently condemning. And then Miles, quiet, restrained, but unable to hide from Ivo the evil gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  “Shame upon you, Ivo. You were drunk, and now you have let us all down. I have forgiven your cowardice before, but I will not do so again. From this moment, you are no longer my brother.”

  Ivo had been stripped of his knighthood and sent out into the world, disgraced. At first he had been too bitter to care what became of him. He had lived with outlaws in the forest and fully expected to be hanged. Then, after robbing a cart belonging to a bishop, he had had the good fortune to be pursued and captured by Gunnar Olafson. Gunnar had been paid by the bishop to return his goods, and this he had done.

  Ivo he had kept.

  Ivo never understood why. What redeeming feature had Gunnar seen in the wild-haired, black-bearded creature he had become? Whatever it was, Gunnar had never swerved in his belief in Ivo, and Ivo knew he owed him his life. He had fought at Gunnar’s side up and down the country, and at some stage during that time, he had fought his way out of the abyss. Ivo had been with Gunnar Olafson’s little band of misfits ever since. In a way, it had been his home—the only home he had.

  But now Gunnar had wed Lady Rose of Somerford Manor, and no longer called himself a mercenary. He had given his men a choice—they could remain at Somerford with him or take what was owed them and go their own ways.

  One of Gunnar’s five mercenaries, Alfred, had remained at Somerford, mainly because of the miller’s pretty daughter. Reynard and Ethelred were still deciding, and were currently at Crevitch with Lady Lily, and Ivo and Sweyn had opted to continue as mercenaries in the employ of Lord Radulf.

  Ivo could not see himself getting fat at Somerford Manor, although he would miss Gunnar. Miss him far more than he had ever missed Miles.

  He still did not understand why Miles hated him so. They had different mothers, but Miles had always been the favored elder son in his father’s eyes. Ivo knew he had done nothing to his brother—apart from observe his evil actions. Perhaps that had been enough. Perhaps Miles did not want any witnesses. Would Miles live more easily with himself once Ivo was dead?

  It was a puzzle to Ivo. And now Miles was in York, and it seemed as if the end to their bitter story might be fast approaching. Could he defeat his brother? Each and every other time they had met in anger, Miles had won. Would this time be different?

  He would know that soon enough.

  With a grim smile, Ivo urged his horse forward, toward the dilapidated dwelling that was the home of Briar, songstress and second daughter of Lord Richard Kenton.

  Briar had washed her hair. She was seated, drying it by the fire and running her fingers through the long, chestnut strands. There were times, after she was outcast, when she had been tempted to cut her hair. Especially when she and Mary had been on their own, and had had to dress as men for their own protection. There was a freedom in being a man, and one time Briar held a knife blade to her long locks. What was the use in having such hair when she was a lady no more? she had asked herself. She had no servants to help her care for it. Hair such as hers was for admiration and homage, and Briar had lost both.

  But an inner stubbornness had prevented her. If she cut her hair, she had reasoned, then they would have won. And that would never do.

  Briar was wearing her old linen chemise—why get her clothes all wet? Mary was dressed, however, and was busy setting out their bowls, about to serve up the mess of boiled grain and water and the few crumbled pieces of goat’s cheese that was their breakfast. The smell of the steaming pot in the warm room was not unpleasant. Briar ran her fingers through her hair again, relaxed, unprepared.

  The loud knock against their door made bo
th women look up, startled.

  “Is it Jocelyn?” Wide-eyed, Mary turned to Briar for confirmation.

  But Briar shook her head. “Jocelyn does not knock like that.”

  “Then who…?”

  Fumbling down beside her stool, Briar searched until her fingers found, and gripped, the sword. Her sword. The weapon was only half the size of the swords worn by fighting men, and very much lighter. When, as a girl, Briar had shown an interest in learning the skill of defending herself with a sword, it had amused her father to have one made especially for her. Briar had been delighted with it, and spent many hours practicing. When Mary had smuggled her harp from Castle Kenton, Briar had taken her sword. The detail said something about each of them.

  “Who is it?” Briar called out loudly, with all the bravado she could muster.

  “Ivo de Vessey!”

  The two women stilled. “What does he want?” Mary whispered.

  Briar had a good idea what Ivo wanted. Her question was, “How did he know we live here?”

  Mary flushed bright red. “Oh, Briar! I did not think. When Sweyn asked me, I did not think to deny him.”

  Briar frowned. She did not blame her sister—she was young and innocent—but it seemed that Ivo de Vessey was encroaching upon her private life more and more, and that had no part in her plan.

  “’Tis too late now,” she told Mary with wary eyes. “If we do not let him in, I fear he will break down our door.”

  Mary nodded and went to the door. She heaved up the heavy bar that held it fast shut, and set it aside. Light spilled in, although the half-open door gave some shelter.

  Briar held her breath.

  “Lady Mary, I beg pardon for my early visit. Is your sister here?”

  His voice, quiet and deep, sent shivers across Briar’s skin, and started a burning in the pit of her stomach. The attraction was almost too strong to resist, and she shivered. Why was it this one man seemed so easily able to stir the fire in her blood?

  “Briar?”

  Mary, half blinded by the sunlight, had her hand still resting on the door as she awaited Briar’s signal to say him yay or nay. But before Briar was able to decide to give her either, the door was inexorably forced wide open, causing Mary to take a hasty step backward. Ivo was a big, dark shadow against the early light.

  Briar did not need to see the details of him to know he stared directly at her. His body seemed to go very still…

  Jesu, she wore only her old chemise!

  Briar took a shaky breath, and berated herself for being too fazed by his arrival to remember to cover herself. Could he see her skin through the thin cloth? And her hair was half wet and loose all about her. If it were any other man, Briar would have been embarrassed and appalled to be seen in such a state. But it was Ivo, and she was oddly excited. She wanted him to see her, she wanted him to desire her.

  Jesu, what is happening to me? Have I turned into a whore after just one night with him?

  Nay, she thought wryly, just a fool who yearned for Ivo de Vessey’s attention. Well, she certainly seemed to have it now. Her face felt flushed by the heat of the fire, but in contrast her voice was frozen with reproof. Lady Briar at her best.

  “Your manners are wanting, de Vessey.”

  Mary hovered closeby. “Is your friend with you, Ivo?”

  Ivo took his eyes from Briar with an effort. Tall and slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed, Mary was pretty enough in a timid and unassuming manner. She had none of the fire of her sister, and she was nothing like Sweyn’s usual doves. The fact that he had given Mary more than a single glance was astounding, for Sweyn liked his women buxom with come-hither eyes and easy smiles. He was not a man for hard work when it came to women, and Mary looked like a lot of hard work to Ivo.

  He smiled at her kindly—people, he thought, would always be kind to Mary. “Sweyn is here. We thought ’twas best for someone to stay with you, while your sister and I are away. But Sweyn will not come inside—he asked me to tell you that he is quite happy to remain on guard outside.”

  In fact Sweyn had been adamant, and the expression in his eyes had turned almost hunted.

  The girl looked thoughtful, and a little disappointed. Ah, thought Ivo, does the wind blow that way then?

  “Then I will leave him there, if that is what he wishes.”

  Ivo smiled. “You will be safe, Mary. Sweyn is good at protecting pretty ladies.”

  Briar’s sharp tongue sliced at him.

  “Do not think to beguile my sister. She is far too fine for a disgraced knight.”

  Ivo’s body stiffened as he felt the wound reopen. Disgraced, aye, that was what he was. She had cut him in the reminding, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing it. Briar, the firebrand, spat flame at all about her, but Ivo was determined to make her burn for another reason entirely.

  He took a stride into the room, ducking his head beneath the lintel, and closed the door behind him. Inside, the dwelling was bigger than he had imagined, and the ceiling was not pressing down upon his head.

  With the light quenched, Briar was able to see him.

  Her heart flopped like a fresh-caught fish.

  The bruise on his jaw was fading, but if anything he appeared even more dangerous. There was an added gravity to him today, as if he had come bearing bad news.

  He is leaving again.

  The words froze her, and she stared at him, waiting for the pain to ease.

  But all he said was, “My name is Ivo. Why do you not use it?”

  Briar felt relief pour through her, making her dizzy. He was not going away. He had not come to tell her that.

  Ivo seemed unaware of her inner turmoil, as his gaze wandered over her in a leisurely way. He took in her skimpy chemise, only coming to her knees, and her bare legs showing below it, and her bare arms, and her long, damp hair. More quickly, he took note of the pot bubbling over the coals, and the clothing, wet from yesterday, steaming to the side. It was a very domestic scene, a place of women, and safe for a man like him. Or so he would think.

  Briar actually saw him relax. His shoulders loosened, his hand dropped away from the hilt of his sword, and his serious air vanished as his wide mouth curled into a smile. Aye, she thought, annoyed now, he has set aside his vigilance because he sees no need for it here. Two women, alone and undefended? He would think himself far the superior if it came to a fight.

  The urge to shake that male arrogance was too strong to resist, and Briar did not even try.

  She tightened her grasp on her sword hilt, and lifted it into clear view. From the corner of her eye she saw him pause. Slowly, enjoying the moment, she turned the blade, admiring the manner in which the firelight glinted upon it.

  “You are armed?”

  Briar glanced at him, saw his brows lifted in surprise. “Aye,” she retorted smugly, “and I know how to use it.”

  His surprise didn’t turn to instant terror, as she had hoped. At least, not yet. “You would defend yourself with that?”

  “To the death.”

  He laughed, his face turning handsome. “Whose death, that is the question. You are bloodthirsty for a wench. I will not fight you today. Today, I have other plans for you.”

  Briar didn’t even try to hide her annoyance. Why could he not behave as she wanted? “I am not going anywhere with you, de Vessey! Mary and I must play and sing tonight at Lord Shelborne’s hall. ’Tis important I rest my voice,” she added, and used one hand to stroke her throat.

  For a moment he simply watched the movements of her long fingers against her smooth flesh, as if he found it impossible to look away. His voice sounded hoarse. “You can rest your voice later, demoiselle. Dress yourself, for I have something to show you.”

  His arrogance was really beyond bearing! “I don’t want to see anything you have to show me.”

  “Ah, but you will. Do as I say.”

  Briar stood up to her full height—which unfortunately was not terribly tall. The hem of the chemise brushed he
r knees, and she shook back her hair, until it hung out of the way, down her back. She took up a fighting stance, gripping her sword in both hands in the manner in which she had been taught.

  “Nay, de Vessey. I do no man’s bidding!”

  Something shifted in his eyes. Amusement, certainly, and confidence in his own abilities to best her, but something else, too. Before she could decide what it was, Ivo took the two steps needed to reach her, neatly avoiding the drying clothing strung out near the fire.

  Jesu, he was tall. And big. He looked down at her with a flicker of a smile, as if he found her determination to defend herself a pleasant diversion on an otherwise dull morning. And there again was that other thing in his black eyes…

  Briar realized then that it was interest, excitement. He found her behavior curious, but he was enjoying it. Well she would show him!

  Briar made a lunge at him, never intending to connect. He froze, eyes widening with surprise.

  “You are bold, demoiselle.”

  “I will fight you if I must.” She waved the sword blade in front of his nose, but he didn’t even flinch.

  “You will not hurt me.”

  He said it with such surety her temper boiled.

  “You are wrong! I am more than happy to slice you end to end, de Vessey!”

  He grinned. His eyes gleamed. There was no hiding their expression now. She was challenging his male strength and superiority, and he liked it. Jesu! He liked it…

  Her concentration slipped, and before she knew it he had snaked out his hand and covered hers; they gripped the sword hilt together. His grip was relentless. He smiled into her eyes and slowly, with little effort, he pushed the sword away and down. Briar’s muscles strained against him, arms shaking, but it was no use. The blade tilted until it pointed harmlessly to the ground.