Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“Somewhere safe, and quiet, where we can get to know each other better.”

I won’t think of that, Briar told herself, gritting her teeth. I won’t let my imagination take me down that narrow road. He has not hurt me yet, and if I am strong and clever, then he will never hurt me.

Her eyes slid away, down to the floor, and she saw the dull curve of the hilt of her sword edging out from beneath her bed. Quickly she looked away. Odo had been staring blankly into the fire, but now Briar noticed that he had lifted his head and was staring instead at Miles.

For a moment Briar thought she read intelligence there, understanding, but it must have been a trick of the light. As she peered closer, she saw his eyes were just the same as always, that empty blue Briar had grown used to. No help there, then.

If she wanted to be saved from Miles, then it was up to herself.

“Why do you hate Ivo?” she asked him, as if she were really interested.

He smiled, but there was nothing of laughter or warmth in it. “When Ivo came into the world he made it brighter. Everyone seemed drawn to him, as if he were a lantern in a dark place. I felt myself disappearing into the shadows when he was nearby. So you see, lady, it was a matter of life or death, me or Ivo. And naturally I chose me.”

She sank down on the bed, as if her legs had suddenly given way, aware that he was watching her like a hawk a field mouse. Her heel brushed the sword hilt and carefully, praying he could not see her movements beneath the hem of her drab gown, she edged it closer.

“Why didn’t you just kill Ivo years ago, Miles? Why draw it out like this? Was he too clever for you? Aye, that must be it, he was just too clever for you—”

“Because he has to suffer,” Miles cut in, and something sparkled in his pale eyes. “I want to break him, I want him to beg and grovel and accept I am his better. Only he never does. He just keeps coming back, stronger than before.” He leaned toward her, breathing quickly, a faint flush in his lean cheeks. “Why does he do that? Why doesn’t he break?”

Briar shifted the sword closer, close enough that if she reached down she could clasp it in her hand. And once she had done that, it was up to her.

“He is better than you,” she said coldly. “That is why, Miles. He is the better man, and he always will be.”

It was a mistake.

With a growl, he stalked toward her. Too soon. Briar fumbled for her sword, snatching it up, but not fast enough. He had grabbed at her arm, twisting it, hurting it. But she would not drop her weapon, though the pain made her feel faint. They struggled together, grimly, making hardly any sound in their battle of life and death.

The sword fell from her fingers.

“Oh, I will enjoy killing you,” he whispered into her ear, and she knew it was so. Briar felt sickness building in her throat.

She tried to pull free, but he caught her hair and jerked hard. Briar spun around, slapping at him, trying to make him let go. But he laughed and began to reel her in by her hair like a fish on a line. And then Briar’s gaze moved beyond him, and widened.

Odo.

Odo was standing there. The big man had risen up to tower over Miles. Briar cried out, just as Odo slipped his meaty arms around Miles’s waist, lifted him, and began to squeeze.

Miles went still, his face slack with shock. And then he began to writhe and struggle, pushing with desperate hands at those powerful arms. Briar stumbled away backward, tripping over a stool. As she fell to the floor, she noticed her sword lying on the ground nearby. Half crawling, she made her way to the weapon and snatched it up, at the same time turning to see what was happening with Miles and Odo.

“You brainsick oaf!” Miles’s face was flushed and furious. He had managed to get one arm out of the death grip, and now he swung his elbow around, into Odo’s face. Blood gushed from the big man’s nose. Odo let him go and sank to his knees, clutching at his face with his hands and making a soft keening sound.

Miles stumbled and half fell onto the bed. Immediately he rolled and stood up, looking around and finding her crouched on the floor. His gray eyes glittered with triumph.

“You have proved surprisingly hard to capture, lady,” he said, a little breathless from his struggle with Odo. “But the game is over now.”

Briar straightened, her sword held before her, and tried to keep her hands steady. “Ivo is going to kill you,” she said, her voice strong and unwavering. “But only if I don’t do it first.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, and then grinned as he reached to his side and unsheathed his own sword. Briar stared blankly at the length of sharp steel. She could fight him, and perhaps keep him busy for a short while, but he would beat her and likely kill her in the end. She was no match for a trained fighting man—Ivo had taught her that, and she was grateful now.

But she could run.

Briar lifted her sword and flung it at him like an oversized dagger, then turned and fled through the open door.

She had taken three steps into the open air when he caught her. It wasn’t far enough. She screamed, and some birds flew up from the river, echoing her cry. Again Miles twisted his hand in her hair and pulled her back against his body. Briar felt the cold, heavy blade of his sword come to rest against her tender throat.

“Perhaps I’ll kill you here,” he said through gritted teeth, and she knew she had made him angry. “Then Ivo will find your body when he finally comes to save you. Poor Ivo. He is always too late. Did he tell you that? If you are pinning your hopes on Ivo, lady, then you will be disappointed.”

“Will she, brother?”