Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

Briar frowned, remembering how he had subdued her with his great strength and kissed her into passion. Bend him to her will? Could she resist him? Could she gain the upper hand? And even if she could, did the determination to fulfil her vow still exist within her?

“You mean I could use him to get at Radulf?” Briar asked suspiciously. This did not make sense; Jocelyn was always trying to talk her out of her plots, not into new ones.

Jocelyn was nodding enthusiastically. “But he would need to be very enamored of you. So desirous of your body that he would be willing to do anything for you. Do you believe you could make this man so crazed with lust that he would be your willing slave, Briar?”

Did she? The thought of trying caused a treacherous warmth to curl in the pit of her stomach. Guiltily, Briar glanced at Jocelyn, in time to see her sister’s half smile of satisfaction.

“I do not understand why you are trying to help me now, when all along you have tried to stop me taking revenge on Radulf.”

Jocelyn looked innocent. “Mayhap I think your mind needs to take a new direction, sister.”

Briar did not feel convinced. The idea was a good one; it was the motive behind it that concerned her.

“You liked him,” Jocelyn said. “I can see it in your face when you speak of him. You talk of plots and vengeance, but I wonder if your liking for this man will overcome your obsession for what is over and done, and now cannot be undone. I pray ’tis so, Briar, for your sake.”

“My obsession? I plotted for us all, sister. We all deserve justice. You, Mary, our father, and Anna.”

“Aye, Anna.” Jocelyn looked away, watching as wax rolled down the stub of candle. “Mayhap justice has been done, Briar, and you just cannot see it. I want to forget what happened. I am not like you.”

This time when the silence stretched on, neither of them broke it.

Briar took a deep breath. She was beginning to throw off her depression; she was never one to allow her mind to remain stagnant for long. ’Twas true, she told herself now, her original plan to hurt Radulf was ruined, but Jocelyn’s idea had merit, no matter what her hidden motive may be. Mayhap it was possible, after all, to pick up those shattered pieces…

Briar remembered again the sensation of his warm, strong arms about her, and his mouth seeming to steal her very soul as he kissed her. There had been an intensity between them, a clashing and melding of minds and bodies. If he had felt the same as she, then he would seek her out again.

And then all I have to do is make him so crazed with lust, he will turn traitor for me.

And then what? Steal up on Radulf with an assassin’s dagger? Briar shuddered at the thought. Well, she would think of something when the time came. She always did.

The structure appeared sound, but the foundations needed some work. Briar had been fully prepared to martyr herself, to suffer to achieve her revenge. Indeed, suffering and martyrdom had been an integral part of her plan. This new Jocelyn-inspired plot seemed far too much like pleasure-seeking. Where was the pain in making Ivo de Vessey desire her? The very thought of it sent shivers of anticipation through her.

Jocelyn was watching her again, her eyes sharp, but when she spoke her voice was gentle. “You are tired. Sleep in my bed tonight, there is room enough for Mary, too. I will go to the stables with Odo—it will be like old times.”

Briar wanted to protest, but weariness was stealing her ability to argue. She allowed Jocelyn to lead her from the chamber and down the dark, cold passage toward the kitchen.

When Briar and Mary were settled, Jocelyn stood a moment and gazed upon them.

They are young, despite all their hardship. I feel old in comparison. My burdens are so heavy, my back feels bowed, but I do not begrudge them. How can I? Sometimes love is the heaviest burden of all.

She smiled. Briar had looked so woebegone, so bereft. She had needed a new scheme to see her through her anguish, and Jocelyn had found it for her. Briar could not know that it was her happiness that Jocelyn was really plotting. This man, this Ivo de Vessey, had spun her sister like a top. If Jocelyn could throw them together, grow that tiny spark into something more lasting, mayhap Briar could finally put away her destructive dreams of revenge.

For all their sakes.

Ivo woke to Sweyn’s snores and a chorus of dawn birdsong. He had only had a couple of hours’ sleep, and they had been restless, but still he rose and began to dress. Sweyn would think him scrambled in the head when he knew where he was going.

Ivo and Sweyn and the rest of Radulf’s men had spent much of the night discussing the situation in the north. Matters were grim, according to one of Lady Lily’s vassals, who had ridden hard to reach York when he had learned Lord Radulf was coming. The vassal informed them that a large band of Scots had crossed the border to join with the rebels. They were ravaging the land—already much depleted by previous rebellions—to feed themselves, and seemed intent upon carnage. Plans had to be made to fight them, support had to be gained from other barons and vassals, and all as swiftly as possible. This small skirmish now had the capacity to expand into another full-blown war in the north.

Ivo had listened to the talk of fighting and death, and all the while he was aware of the ache in his heart. The heart Briar had stripped bare of its shield, made vulnerable again. And he knew, foolish as it was, that he could not go north without saying farewell to her.

“We are leaving as soon as Radulf has broken his fast and written a letter to his lady.”

It was Sweyn, sitting up on his mattress, his bare chest gleaming in the pale light. He was eyeing Ivo with weary amusement.

“You must be here when we go, Ivo.”

“I will be. I need to speak with her. To tell her.”

“To tell her what? That you bedded her and enjoyed her? What else is there to say? ’Twas o