Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

She froze. Her heart began to pound like a hammer. The amusing scene before her shifted, faded. She was looking at a bed of soft furs and cushions, and in it,

a big naked man, who lay back and gazed at her with the most intense black eyes she had ever known. His hands were on her body, his mouth on hers, and she was filled with the wonderful ache of completion.

Jesu, how many times have I woken in the night, dreaming of this? How many times during each day have I found myself thinking of our brief time together? And now, he is here, his mesmerizing voice as smug as a well-fed cat because he has found me…

“Briar, look at me.”

Briar shivered. Her skin felt thin as breath, sensitive to the softest touch, the briefest brush of his gaze. She was aglow, like a lantern with a bright candle inside. Aglow, because he had found her, and he was alive!

Only a brief moment had passed, and her wild emotions were settling. Or so she thought, until she turned, and found the reality of him so much more than she had imagined. She was overwhelmed by the sheer sense of his size, his presence, the brooding beauty of his smile beneath the shadow of his helmet, and his eyes, like black stars gleaming down into hers.

“Ivo de Vessey.” She sounded breathless. At her side, Mary was looking from one to the other with an interest that did not seem entirely guileless.

Ivo’s smile broadened, and there was a satisfied twist to his lips that immediately irritated Briar. “As you see, I am returned to York, demoiselle, just as I promised I would. Are you pleased to see me?”

It was not a question that Briar felt able to answer without giving herself away. Pleased to see him? She had thought of nothing else but Ivo de Vessey since he left! Instead of making plans for Radulf’s fall, for the justice that was long denied her dead father and stepmother, Briar had been dreaming of kisses and cuddles like a lovesick maid. It was madness, and she did not wish to admit it to herself let alone him. He must never know just how deeply he had possessed her. Never.

With difficulty Briar stilled the agitation afflicting her and lifted her chin, examining him with a carefully assumed casualness.

“I am indifferent, de Vessey.”

He snorted his disbelief.

He wore the chain-mail tunic he had gone away in, but now there were rents and tears in it that had not been there before. There was a stain over his thigh the rusty color of dried blood. The familiar wolfpelt cloak was tossed carelessly over one shoulder, giving him that barbarous appearance. His untamed hair was covered by the close-fitting metal helmet with its thick nasal, but Briar could see a bruise, beginning to fade now, on his cheek and jaw—as though someone had struck him a violent blow.

He was alive, but clearly not without some new trophies to mark his participation in this latest battle.

He still looked very dangerous. Was it that, or his sheer size that was making him so very conspicuous here in the market? People were shuffling away from him, or else staring in slack-jawed wonder. And that being so, why had she not noticed him earlier? Curse the acrobats for distracting her. If she had seen him approaching, she would have been much better prepared.

Those brooding black eyes were fixed on her, trying to read her thoughts. Again, as if to mock her own lack of self-control, memories of their cleaved bodies and fused mouths swam in her head. Angrily, she thrust them away. There was no time for make-believe—this was real, this was here and now, and she needed all her wits about her.

“I said I would return,” he told her. “And as you see, I am not cut into pieces, although ’tis not from lack of the Scots trying. Tell me, were your prayers answered, demoiselle? What did you pray for, I wonder?”

“I did not pray at all. I forgot.”

He didn’t believe her, the arrogant brute. She could see it in his smile.

“How do you know I did not find someone else, while you were away?”

That stung. His gaze narrowed. Then, with an impatient sigh, Ivo de Vessey reached up and removed his helmet.

Briar’s mouth fell open. “You have cut your hair!” she cried out in dismay.

Where had they gone? The wonderful, wild curls that she remembered, that dark aureole about his fierce face? They had been chopped into submission. Now his hair lay shorter about his skull, hardly a curl in it, like a true Norman knight. The change accentuated even more the angles and planes of his face.

“Aye. It needed to be cut.” He gave her a puzzled frown, no doubt questioning her sanity.

Of course he had cut his hair! Annoyed, Briar clamped down on her shocked dismay. He was a soldier, a warrior, and anything that might interfere with his fighting, with his ability to do his job and to stay alive, would have to be dealt with. His hair had grown long, it would be uncomfortable under his tight-fitting helmet, therefore he had cut it short.

“Sister?”

Mary stood protectively at her side. Her dark eyes were worried, and a line creased the smooth skin between her brows.

“Briar, who is this man?”

Briar blinked. Protectively? It was always Briar who protected Mary, never the other way around. What was happening to her? With an effort, Briar pulled herself together, burying her confusion of thoughts for later examination.

“Mary, this is Ivo de Vessey. Mary is my sister.”