Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

Anna’s beautiful face appeared before her, smiling, always smiling. Her stepmother had hidden her black heart behind her smiles, and Briar had been too blind to see it.

She covered her lips with her fingers, but whether to stop herself laughing or crying, she did not know. At this moment, either seemed possible.

“I do know you, demoiselle. But I knew you before I met Sir Anthony in the north.”

His voice was so reluctant that she turned to look up at him, where he stood with head and shoulders bowed beneath the roof that was too low. His black eyes were glittering with emotion.

“How is that so?” she asked, and held her breath.

He pulled the stool closer to the bed, and sat down on it, ignoring the ominous creak as it took his weight. Now he was closer, she could see the black stubble on his jaw, the darker centers of his dark eyes, the firm fullness of his lips. Something coiled in her belly, and this time it was not nausea.

He smiled, as if he had read her mind. “I knew you by this, demoiselle,” he said, and reached out and brushed the tiny scar on her cheek with his rough fingertip. “Briar, I was there when it was made.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but could not speak. She could not think. What did he mean? There when it was made? She did not understand. Her quick mind seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

He recognized her confusion, and leaned closer. He smelled of soap and sweat, man and horse. She liked it. She wanted to run her tongue along the crease of his neck, into the hollow there. Her nails dug hard into her palms beneath the Lincoln green cloak.

“You were a child,” he explained slowly, as if he realized her wits were befuddled. “I was a young squire in your father’s household. One of the hounds knocked you over and you cut your cheek. There was much blood, and you screamed very loud.” He gave her a reminiscent smile, but his eyes remained watchful of hers. “I came to your rescue like the knight I meant to be. You followed me about afterward, and others laughed, but it pleased me and I did not stop you. A short time later my father died, and I returned home. The next time I saw you, you were singing like an angel in Lord Shelborne’s hall.”

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.