Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“Go then,” Radulf said brusquely, although he was clearly not happy. “Take the singing sisters home.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ivo and Sweyn replied in unison.

“But Ivo,” Radulf stopped him in mid-stride, and transfixed him with a look. “I will have words with you, when you return.”

Ivo nodded, resigned. He had a fairly good idea what Radulf’s words would be about.

Chapter 9

Briar, Mary, and Jocelyn had been waiting at the stables for only a short while when the two mercenaries appeared. It took only a moment for the grooms to prepare the horses, Odo fumbling at the harnesses slowly, clumsily. Briar could never look at him without remembering him as he used to be. Brash and confident, with his big laugh. Women had adored him, but Odo had only ever had eyes for Jocelyn.

His horse ready, Sweyn reached for Mary without a word and lifted her up before him. Ivo turned to Briar. He appeared overwhelming in this dark place, the flare of the torches accentuating his size and looks. His black eyes gleamed red from the flame. Her own face must be strained and white—it had been a long day and she was weary, though thankfully the nausea had passed. Her head was thudding a little, like a distant curfew drum, but Briar knew her bed would cure that.

“Will you ride with me, demoiselle?”

That deep, soft voice. Briar knew she would hear it in her dreams, years away from now. And it would still send tremors of delight over her skin.

“Aye, of course I will.”

He seemed surprised, but the next moment he had reached out and fitted his big hands about her narrow waist, lifting her easily onto the saddle. Then he swung himself up, steadying his mount, arranging her comfortably before him. At Ivo’s signal, he and Sweyn set their horses to traverse the narrow laneway, and rode out into Stonegate. Behind them, Jocelyn raised a hand in farewell.

Cold mist lay milky upon the ground. It drifted across their path in long tendrils of white, and stirred at the movement of the animals’ hooves.

He was so warm, surrounding her, protecting her. Briar rested her head contentedly against his chest, and sighed. “I did not mean to cut you with my tongue,” she murmured sleepily.

“Did you not?” He sounded as if he doubted her.

Briar didn’t like that. “No, I did not.”

“And I suppose the thought of my missing fingers did not make your stomach turn inside out.”

There was hurt in his voice, but he had made it into a joke. Surprised, Briar lifted her head to peer up at him. She could see the shape of his jaw, the jut of his nose, and the gleam of his eyes as he glanced down at her.

“Nay,” she breathed, stammering in her need to reassure him ’twas not so. “That is nothing to me. ’Tis only that I imagined how you must feel, how it must have hurt you. But it did not make me sick. I was already sick. ’Twas the mead, Ivo, that is what turned my stomach inside out.”

He stared steadily down at her. Judging her. Suddenly it seemed desperately important that she convince him.

Briar turned slightly and reached up. Her fingers brushed over his firm, shaven jaw until she touched his smooth lips. She let herself explore the texture of them, the shape of them, the warmth of his breath through them.

She felt him smile.

“Lady, you are distracting me,” he murmured against her fingers, gently admonishing.

“Am I? By doing this? Interesting.” She stretched up, turning her body more fully into his. “What if I were to do this?” Her lips made contact with his neck, tasting his warm flesh. “Or this?” Now she nipped at the lobe of his ear, gently, but hard enough to let him feel her sharp little teeth. His breath quickened.

A great wave of heat swept through Briar.

Am I mad, to do this? What does it gain me?

Nothing was the answer, apart from the moment’s pleasure and Ivo’s delight. Never once, in the two years since her life ended, had Briar done anything that did not gain her some foothold further up the ladder of survival. But now she wanted to touch him, to kiss him, simply because it made her feel so good.

He turned his face, and claimed her mouth with his.

He tasted of wine and man. She wanted to get closer, she needed to get closer. Her hands crept about his neck, into the springy hair that was growing back at his nape, while her lips clung to his.

“Which of you is the real Briar?” he murmured teasingly, his breath warm against her cheek. “Is it this one here, now, in my arms, or the other with her cutting tongue?”

“They are both me,” she whispered, and pressed yet closer. “Is it not possible for me to be two women in one?”