by Sara Bennett
Briar stared at him in wonder. “Of all those who have known me in the past, no one has remembered who I really am. Until now. How can that be? Why are you the only one?”
He shrugged, observing her as if he did not quite know what she would do.
“And you knew from the very first night? When we…I…when we sated our lust together?” She forced the words out, purposely made them as blunt and unfeeling as she could.
He laughed softly, deliberately. “Aye, almost from that first moment. I had a sensation of knowing you, of having met you before. Mayhap you had it, too?”
Had she? Was that what had set her on her wrong course, when she peered through the smoke and noise of Lord Shelborne’s hall? Had she seen Ivo de Vessey, and recognized that long ago boy in him, and taken that sense of recognition for the certainty that he was Radulf?
It sounded plausible, but Briar was not convinced. If she was honest, she knew that it had not been familiarity that drew her to Ivo de Vessey, but something far more basic. She had seen him and desired him. ’Twas as blunt and as frightening as that.
“Have you told your master?” She spoke quickly, breathlessly, to stop the rogue thoughts in her head.
He hesitated. “Not yet.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed, and blessed anger filled her. “Tell him! Tell him I hate him! In my eyes he stands forever accused of my father’s death, and all that has befallen us since. Aye, tell him that!”
Her voice cracked, and horrified, she stopped. Tears were close, but she held them back. She would not cry before him, not now, not again…
Ivo touched her shoulder. His hand closed on it, warm and strong, before she could shrug him off.
“Radulf loves Lily,” he said gently, as if she were a child again and he the young squire. “He would never betray her, demoiselle. It would be like lopping off his own hand. You must understand that.”
“But I don’t,” she said bitterly.
The hand tightened, and then before she knew it, he had moved to sit down on the mattress beside her, and drawn her into his arms. She should pull away, and she knew it. She should strike at him with her fists and demand a proper explanation. But she was so weary, so very tired. And he knew her, he was someone from the old days. That fact more than any other halted her struggles.
With a shuddering breath, Briar gave way.
“I remember your father well.” Ivo murmured the words she had longed to hear, as if he already knew what would please her most.
“Do you?” she breathed.
“Aye, Briar. He was a man to be proud of, a kind man and a good one. He was patient with young Ivo de Vessey. He understood the secret longing of a green boy for his home, and the need not to speak of such weaknesses aloud. He did not deserve to die in such a way, demoiselle. But when I heard of it, I regretted more than the manner of his death. I mourned him because of the man he was.”
What had remained of the dark, smoldering fire inside Briar went out. The pain was intense. Sobs rose up from somewhere deep, deep in her chest. Two years of repressed grief spilled out, and with it all her bitterness and rage. Briar’s whole body shook and shuddered, and she clung on to Ivo as if she would drown without him. He held her, murmuring comfort, the feel of his arms so comforting. Probably he had held her thus as a child, when she had cut her cheek. That thought set her off again.
When at last the storm had begun to abate, Briar realized that at some point he had drawn her onto his lap, where she lay warm in the curve of his arms. Gasping, catching her breath, she moved only to hide her swollen, bleary eyes as their host returned with a tray of food and wine.
The man and Ivo exchanged words, and although Briar did not listen it seemed to go on for some time. When they were once more alone, Briar began to use her sleeve to mop her face, but Ivo stopped her. Lifting her chin with his gloved hand, he dipped a soft handcloth into a bowl of scented water. She realized then that that was what he had been asking for. Water to wash away her tears.
The cloth was cool against her heated skin, and soothing beyond anything she had ever known. Briar kept her eyes closed, letting him minister to her, too weak and drained to do otherwise. She had sworn not to shed tears before him again, after that first night when she had howled in his arms, and now here she was again, ugly with weeping. And worse than that, she had exposed her terrible vulnerability to the man from whom she most wished to hide it.
“Demoiselle?”
Her eyes fluttered open. Something brushed her lips, a fragrant piece of pastry wrapped vegetables. Obediently, she opened her mouth and chewed. The flavors burst upon her, spreading through her body, a pleasure so simple and yet so wonderful. She had not even known she was hungry! Next he lifted the goblet of wine, and placed that against her lips. Briar sipped and swallowed with a sigh, allowing the slightly sour wine to warm its way down her throat. She tingled.
With great care, Ivo continued to feed her, giving her sips of wine between mouthfuls. And Briar let him. His gaze was tender and yet intent, his fingers gentle and yet sensual. It was a heady experience, as if every mouthful he gave her only increased her awareness of him and the world around them. As if she had come alive again, after two years of something very much like death.
She felt raw and new, and very, very confused.
Gradually, Briar grew aware that Ivo was not as untouched by the situation as he pretended. His servile pose was just that, for evidence to the contrary pressed full and hard against her hip.
He desired her.
With a bump of her heart, Briar knew that she desired him, too. Needed him with a feverish urgency. The knowledge frightened her, but excited her, too. This was Ivo de Vessey, her squire, her knight. Her man. And suddenly to desire him did not seem foolish or wrong, just very, very right.
When he placed the last piece of pastry within her mouth, Briar let her tongue dart against his finger. His breath hissed in, his body immediately tensing. Slowly, Briar looked up into his eyes. He searched her face, and she saw the moment when he read her own need. And yet he hesitated.
Waited.
Gently, Briar touched his lips with her fingers, lingering, tracing the texture and shape. He closed his eyes with a groan. And yet still he did not respond with his own fingers. Why did he not respond? Slowly the reason came to her…
He is awaiting my lead.
The knowledge thrilled her. No man had let her lead before. To be in charge of such a situation gave her a feeling of power. She paused, enjoying it, but her urgency was too great. Briar leaned closer, searching that stark, fierce face. With his eyes closed she could see him as he must have been before his hard life began to mold him into the warrior he now was. It was Ivo’s eyes that were so full of ancient pain.
Briar brushed fingertips lightly over his closed lids, then down over the harsh planes of his cheekbones, to the rough stubble on his jaw.
She felt lightheaded.
Her body tingled and ached. Suddenly it wasn’t enough just to touch. Briar wanted to taste him, too.
She stretched up and pressed her lips to his.
Without hesitation he kissed her back, tenderly, brushing his lips slowly back and forth against hers, content to play at innocence. Again waiting for her lead. It was Briar who opened her mouth. With a groan, Ivo followed, deepened his kiss, his tongue finding hers. His hands slid up into her hair, teasing out her braid, shaking the tresses so that they spilled down her back and around her shoulders.
Briar moved closer, her arms circling his neck, her mouth drinking from his. Her breasts ached, and she leaned harder against his broad chest, enjoying the friction between them. His hands caressed her back, moving down, closing briefly on her hips, and then curving to the shape of her bottom through the coarse stuff of her gown.
Briar wriggled around, helping him to lift her, turn her, until she straddled his thighs with hers. They were both in the place they wanted now, the bulge between his legs stroking the sweet, swollen ache between hers. Briar rose up on
her knees with a gasp, pressing closer, moving against him, seeking the pleasure she knew he could give.
“Let me inside you, demoiselle.” He groaned the words against her mouth. “Let me ease your sore heart.”
Briar did not know if he would ease her sore heart, but he would certainly ease something else. And why not? ’Twas only what they had done before. And she needed him now. Just as she had not comprehended how hungry she was for food and wine, before he fed her, neither had she imagined how much she hungered for Ivo.
Should she be doing this?
The questioning voice in her head was faint but audible. Somehow she pulled back. Both of them were breathing quickly, hovering on the brink. He looked dazed with need, but still he restrained himself, waiting, making it her decision whether they took that next step or not. Once again the knowledge that she was in charge soothed Briar’s doubts, and gave her the courage to follow her body’s urging.
Slowly, still gazing into his face, Briar moved her hips against him, blatantly. Ivo groaned, completely enraptured by the sensation, his head falling back to expose the long masculine line of his throat. Briar leaned forward to run her tongue over his salty skin, down to the hollow there, just as she had been longing to do.
Ivo drew another ragged breath. “Ah, lady, I am about to burst.”
She laughed softly and nipped his skin.
He adjusted his grip on her bottom, his fingers digging into her firm flesh, lifting her, changing the contact between them until it was even more urgent. This time it was Briar who moaned, her mouth pressed in a hot, open kiss to his throat. She reached down to fumble with the laces of his breeches, unable to wait any longer. Needing him inside her. Now.
Just as the owner of the hostelry cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Briar leaned back against Ivo’s chest, warm beneath the folds of her cloak, while the horse moved smoothly beneath them. Her body was unfulfilled, but the ache had faded somewhat. Ivo had been grumpy when they left, glaring at the man as if he would like to run him through. His display of bad temper had eased Briar’s, and she smiled.
“Next time you must find a private chamber that is not so popular, de Vessey.”
Ivo grunted and gave her a cross look. “I did not know it was popular when I reserved it, demoiselle. I thought you would need a place to recover yourself, that was all.”
“Was it?” she mocked, not quite so amused now. “So you arranged with the innkeeper to bring me there? Well, it seems others were also keen to avail themselves of his chamber. There was a queue outside the door, de Vessey. The host had no choice but to hurry us along.”
“Curse him.”
Briar laughed in delight. The sound surprised her; she had not laughed like that in a long time. She wondered if she should force a frown, suppress her high spirits. ’Twas not wise to feel so alive, not safe—if she had learned one thing in the past two years, then ’twas that. But she did not want to lose this lightness inside her, this new sense of optimism.
Deliberately, she leaned back into Ivo’s chest, ignoring his restless shiftings, and put her palm on his thigh.
He jumped as if she had been red hot, and removed her hand.
“Demoiselle,” he said through gritted teeth, “it is not safe for you to touch me yet.”
“Taking me to Sir Anthony has not altered my mind, you know,” she said. “I still believe Radulf arranged Anna’s death because she was inconvenient to him. Nothing else makes sense.”
“She was inconvenient to many,” Ivo muttered, shifting about again. “What of the others? You need to discover who her lovers were, near to the time of her death.”
Briar snuggled against him, returning her hand to his hard thigh. She loved the movement of muscle under his skin, but she would never tell him that.
“You are right,” she said, surprising herself and him. “Aye, I would know how matters lay between my father and Anna in those last days. I need to know for my own sake as much as theirs.”
He was silent a moment, and she pretended to gaze about her at the busy, narrow street, pretended that she was not totally aware of him, close behind her.
“I will help you.”
Briar tilted her head back so that she could see him properly. He glanced down at her, gave her a faint, knowing smile, and then concentrated on the road ahead.
“Why will you help me?” she demanded, not sure herself why his offer was so important to her. “Is it because you believe Radulf to be innocent?”
“There is that, aye,” he said thoughtfully, and removed her hand from his thigh. “But that is not really why I want to help, lady. It is because you need to be free of this burden you have placed upon yourself. ’Tis a heavy weight for you to bear.”
“’Tis not so heavy.” Briar knew that was the truth. ’Twas only her vow that held her to her task now. The dark, tattered cloak of hatred she had worn for two years was gone. How had he done that? She didn’t know, only that when Ivo had come into her life, it had begun to change.
“But you are right,” she went on, slipping her hand back onto his leg, smoothing the tight stuff of his breeches. “I do need to know the truth. Anna’s murderer must be found and punished. Only then can I and my sisters make a new life, without pain.”
“Then that is what we will do.”
“You have no doubts, do you, Ivo?” she asked curiously. He sounded so certain, so confident.
“Demoiselle, I have many doubts, but they will not stop me from finding your stepmother’s killer.” He smiled without humor, taking her hand firmly in his and holding it captive. “I want you, Briar, and until the past is dealt with, until you are free of it, you will never be able to give yourself fully to any man.”
Briar gazed ahead, knowing that he spoke the truth.
I want you too, Ivo.
The words sounded in her head, but unlike Ivo she was not yet ready to say them aloud.
Chapter 8
Lord Shelborne’s hall was the same as it had been the first night he saw her. The night he took her in his arms, and made her his. The frustrated ache in his body reminded Ivo of their moments together at the hostelry, and her willingness. He had been so, so close to losing himself once again in her sweet body. And she had wanted him, too. He felt her soft mouth on his skin, her trembling hands within moments of taking hold of him and…
And then that lackwit had interrupted them!
Ivo had looked like a fool.
Briar had laughed at him, and set aside her own passion as easily as stale bread. Were her feelings for him so shallow? Or was she just better able to disguise them? Aye, that was probably it. She had been playing a part since Castle Kenton was taken from her, and she had learned well to dissemble.
It had become clear now to Ivo that she had sought revenge upon Lord Radulf because her father had cursed Radulf and blamed him for all their troubles. Briar had taken up the quest in his name. She had planned to punish Radulf and revenge her father, and thought all would be well afterward. Or had she simply failed to consider afterward?
It was a simpleton’s way of looking at things, but Ivo did not think Briar a simpleton. She had a clear, concise view of the world; she saw things in simple terms. In her eyes Radulf was to blame, therefore Radulf should suffer, and she looked no further than that.
Sir Anthony had given her another story to mull over, one she had not heard before, and it had confused her and hurt her. But Ivo thought the knowledge, no matter how distressing, was important to her. Ivo was well aware that Radulf would never have forsaken Lily for Anna, and neither was he responsible for Anna’s death. So Briar needed to look elsewhere, and she appeared to have already accepted that possibility.
And what if she begins to ask questions of men who do not want to answer?
Ivo well knew that the past could be a murky and dangerous pond, one that was sometimes best left undisturbed.
She needs to resolve this matter or she will never be free. She needs to know the trut
h, even if it is dangerous. And I will protect her.
Sir Anthony had mentioned Lord Fitzmorton’s name. Ivo knew Fitzmorton was presently in the south, licking his wounds after his castigation by the king on Radulf’s behalf. Anthony had also made mention of Lord Shelborne, and he was right here.
Ivo glanced over to where Shelborne was speaking with Radulf. A large, robust man with a ruddy face and sparse gray hair, his host smiled often. But Ivo had noticed that his pale eyes remained watchful.
’Twas sensible to be watchful, and Ivo did not think any less of Shelborne for keeping a close eye on his guests. Only a fool trusted all men. And women. Was Shelborne really Lady Anna’s lover? Would such a reputably beautiful woman really have been interested in such an ugly man? Mayhap it was not beauty that attracted Anna, but power. To have a strong man like Lord Shelborne, and an evil one like Lord Fitzmorton in thrall to her must have given her an intoxicating sensation, better than any wine.
The idle thoughts continued to spill through Ivo’s head, but they were really only a distraction. He was not here in Lord Shelborne’s hall to decide what made a woman like Lady Anna what she was. He was here for quite another reason.
Briar.
Ivo’s sense of anticipation grew—his skin tingled, his chest tightened, his heart began to pound. He was waiting for Briar to appear upon the little dais. For her voice to once again open wide his wounded heart.
And set him free.
It was madness, and he knew it. To give in to his vulnerability, to strip himself bare in these dangerous times! But he could not help it. Briar was his redemption…and mayhap she would be his destruction.
The crowd began to cheer and applaud. Ivo’s head came up. Briar and Mary had come into the hall, plainly dressed and with their hair loose about their shoulders. And yet they seemed to glow. Ivo watched as they settled themselves upon the small dais. There was a hush, a sense of waiting, and then Mary’s clever fingers brought the harp to life, and Briar began to sing.
