Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“Aye, but he is like a surly bear tonight and best left undisturbed. Awarning, my friend, never let a woman make her home in your heart.”

“I need no warning,” Ivo had retorted. “But will this Lord Shelborne not think it strange that we have left Lord Radulf behind?”

“Not if he saw him, Ivo. He would be grateful we had not brought him.” Sweyn strode impatiently to the door. “Come, there will be time enough for talk of rebellions tomorrow! Enjoy yourself tonight, my friend. Lord Shelborne’s messenger says there will be dancing and singing, and one of the women has the voice of an angel. An angel, he says, who can heal a sick man, and make a broken man whole. And there will be dice, Ivo! I am desperate to replenish my coin.”

Ivo had snorted. “Do you think of nothing but women and dice, Sweyn?”

Sweyn had stopped and pretended to consider. “No.”

So Ivo had laughed, and allowed himself to be bullied into going to Lord Shelborne’s hall. And Sweyn had been right, Ivo admitted it now. There was such a thing as being too dedicated to one’s tasks, too serious, too willing to forgo pleasure for the sake of duty. Tomorrow would be soon enough to apply themselves to Radulf’s problems in the north. Surely even a disgraced knight was allowed an occasional evening of leisure.

Ivo had been sipping his ale, deep in his thoughts, and it was a moment before he became aware that all had gone quiet. An expectant hush. He glanced up, and as he did he heard the voice.

It was low and slightly husky; deeper than that of the women he was accustomed to hearing sing. The timbre of it brushed over his skin, soft as fur, warm as blood, making him instantly aware. His body tightened, hardened, as if he were preparing for battle, every sense alerted. Ivo narrowed his eyes and turned his head, searching for the singer in a room made smoky from ill-drawing fires and shadowy from candles that flickered in the many drafts.

And found her.

She sat upon a small dais, and as he stared, the vapor in the hall seemed to clear from before his eyes.

Long chestnut hair lay smooth and heavy over her back and shoulders. Too heavy for her pale and piquant face and wide, slanting eyes. She was a small woman, slender, but with a voice at once powerful and moving. The notes she sang vibrated through him, caught like a small fist in his chest, and made his heart ache.

Dear God, what was this?

Ivo blinked, and stared at her, and realized then that the woman was gazing directly back at him. As if she were singing for him, and him alone. He took a shaky breath.

Beside him, Sweyn leaned over to whisper in his ear. “The messenger had it aright, Ivo. She is an angel.”

“Aye,” Ivo said, wondering if he sounded as bemused as he felt.

Was he sick, to be healed?

Mayhap, but he doubted even she could heal him. As that voice soared and dipped, filling the quiet room, permeating it like rich, heady wine, Ivo wondered if he was alone in his abstraction, or whether every man and woman here felt the same. Her voice was drawing emotions from him that he had thought—hoped—forgotten. Love and happiness, sorrow and pain, inextricably mixed. Emotions, memories, he had long ago put aside. For how could a disgraced knight and a mercenary lay claim to such luxuries as feelings?

How could he dare?

Ivo gritted his teeth, forcing the rapid beating inside his chest to calm, forcing the heat in his blood to cool. Look again, he told himself. ’Tis but a woman, singing. A small woman in a dark gown with her chestnut hair loose about her and her pale hands clasped in her lap. ’Twas nothing amazing.

He realized, as he fought off the spell, that there was a harpist accompanying her. He stared at the instrument, as if that would help rebuild his barricades, and saw ’twas one of the small harps used by the Welsh. The harp was being played by a girl with hair of a darker hue and a taller figure than the

songstress, and her expression was utterly serious as she concentrated upon her notes. Despite their differences, the two looked similar enough to be sisters.

Aye, singing sisters, Ivo thought, with relief. No magic there! He had dreamed the sensation of that small hand inside his chest, squeezing his heart, of course he had. Perhaps something in her song had unconsciously reminded him of the past, enough to slice through his usually reliable protective walls.

It would not happen again.

But even as he made his vow, the woman’s voice soared one last time, and the poignancy of that single, pure note brought tears stinging to Ivo’s eyes. He blinked angrily, wondering why he, who should know better, could be so weak. A grown man toughened by battle and despair, a soldier who had not wept since he was a boy of eleven. How could this stranger so easily unlock his burdened heart with her key?

As if the songstress had read his thoughts, the woman’s gaze settled upon him once more. Her eyes were large and dark, and with very little effort he feared he could drown in them. And then she smiled—a small, secretive smile—and smoothed her plain gown over her hips with a slow, sensual movement.

Ivo’s hand closed hard on the tankard, so hard that he felt the metal ease beneath his strong fingers. There was no mistaking the woman’s look, or the smile that went with it—he had too many years and too much experience behind him to do that. She had just issued him an invitation.

Ivo was not in the habit of attracting his women this way, but just for a moment all he felt was another rush of relief. There had been no magic here after all, nothing bizarre or bewildering. Just a flesh and blood woman, who, for whatever reason, was desirous of his company. He let his gaze linger on the curves of her body beneath the drab gown, the way her hair caught fire in the sputtering candlelight. Ivo’s body stirred, hardened. It had been many a long month since he had last lain with a woman, and even longer since he had been fortunate enough to find one so comely as this songstress.

“She likes you,” Sweyn said with a laugh. “Tell me now that you would have preferred an evening in the castle garrison, with the stench of unwashed soldiers to accompany your meal.”

Ivo shrugged, and set his tankard down carefully. “Tonight she smiles at me. Tomorrow it might be you.” His voice was dry and noncommittal, but desire beat like a pulse within him.

“You underrate yourself,” Sweyn retorted. “If you get the chance to enjoy her, my friend, think not of the morning. The garrison will still be there.” He gave Ivo a none-too-gentle push, and went off to find himself a game of dice.