Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“Wife,” Ivo murmured into her ear, “are you awake?”

His hands slid around her, to cup her breasts, his body aroused against hers. Briar lay half asleep in the warm, soft bed and smiled. She was perfectly content to allow Ivo to wake her.

His hand slid over her belly, pausing briefly, as if he thought of the child growing there, and down to the soft place where her thighs joined. Briar bit her lip on a groan. She was ready for him, and he knew it now. The game was over.

He turned her onto her back and gazed down with hot black eyes into her own loving ones.

“You are awake, wife.”

“I cannot be. ’Tis too wonderful to be real, and I do not want to wake and find it has been nothing but a dream.”

He kissed her mouth, his hands caressing her pliant body. “This no dream, Briar. Never fear you will awake and find me gone. I intend for us to grow old together.”

She arched against him as he delved deep inside her with his finger, clinging to his shoulders, her eyes closed. He lifted his big body over her, opening her legs with his hard-muscled thigh. She eased herself against him, enjoying the rough feel of his skin on that most sensitive part of her.

“Ivo,” she gasped, and reached down to take him in her hand.

He shuddered, suddenly on the verge of losing control, and settled himself more fully between her thighs. She guided him, urging him to complete their joining. But Ivo didn’t need urging. He thrust inside her, deeply, feeling the tremors of her body as she adjusted to him.

“Wife,” he whispered, and thrust again.

Briar gasped, and gently slipped over the edge into the warm, wonderful sea of completion. A short time later Ivo joined her, and together they lay entwined, dreaming of a life together.

“My love?”

Ivo blinked, too happy to speak.

Briar came up on one elbow, gazing down into his face, her hair tickling his skin. One breast brushed his shoulder and he reached to fondle it, thinking, This is mine. She is mine. Truly mine. Miles will never hurt her, not while I live.

She gasped as he found her nipple, gently tugging at the swollen flesh with his gloved fingers. Suddenly he did not feel like sleep, and reached to pull her on top of him. But she held her palms against his chest, firm and unyielding, and surprised, Ivo stared up at her.

Her face was uncertain, the smile curving her lips a little strained. As though she did not know how to say what she wanted to say.

“Briar? Is something amiss, my angel?”

She shook her head, but her lips trembled.

“Briar,” he said, more loudly, “you are frightening me. Tell me, what is wrong?”

She put a finger against his cheek, smoothing the stubble that grew dark against his skin. “Nothing is wrong, Ivo. I want…I want to see your hand now. We are wed. Nothing will make me love you less. You must take off your glove.”

Shocked, he said nothing, just stared up at her. Take off his glove? Show her what Miles had done to his hand? It would be like bearing his soul. And then he remembered that he had already done that; she knew the worst of him already. What did one more thing matter?

“’Tis not a pretty sight.”

She laughed and then bit her lip. “I don’t care about that, Ivo,” she assured him, reaching to take his glove in her own warm fingers. “I love you for what you are, and your hand, and all it means to you, is part of that.”

Love. She loved him. Aye, the love was there in her eyes. His Briar loved him, and she had wormed her way into his heart and his life, until she was his life. He could deny her nothing, and she knew it.

Keeping his eyes on hers, Ivo began briskly to unlace the glove, tugging hard on the leather ties. When that was done, he peeled back the leather, loosening it, and then pulling it from his hand.

Her eyes were still on his, as if despite her brave words she didn’t quite dare look down. And then her gaze slid away, toward his naked hand and the scarred, ugly mess that Miles had made of it. And Ivo realized he couldn’t bear to watch her, in case he saw the horrified rejection there.

There was silence. He felt dizzy with doubts, and turned away. “Jesu, Briar, say something!” he cried, his anguish plain in every word.

“Ivo,” she whispered, and her lips brushed soft and healing against his hurt flesh. “My love, my dearest love. Look at me.”

Slowly, he did so. She held his hand in hers, but he looked into her eyes. They were smiling, and there was no disgust in them, no horror and no pity. It was Briar and she was unafraid. He should have known she would accept his hand, just as she had accepted his past.