Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“You are arrogant!” Briar’s hands trembled as she folded them about herself. The nausea within her was growing, but she held it back. Such bodily weaknesses would not get the best of her, or stop her from doing as she wished. Briar would simply not allow it.

“I wanted to tell you in my own time, demoiselle, and so I did.”

“Oh! You—you—”

“Briar, enough!” Now Jocelyn was glaring at her. “I knew him, but I said nothing because I felt it best he tell you. What is wrong in that? Is it a crime to have known you when you were a babe? Or mayhap you are simply embarrassed to recall the manner in which you followed him about like a lovelorn little puppy.”

Mary, who had been watching and listening with great interest, giggled, and quickly covered her mouth. Ivo smiled at her, changing the brooding angles of his face into beauty. For some reason that made Briar angrier than ever.

“I worry for you, Briar,” Jocelyn said softly. “I want to see you smile again, laugh again. I want to see you as you used to be.”

“Nothing is as it used to be,” Briar retorted stubbornly.

“I want to see you happy.”

“How can I be happy! After all that has happened?”

“Briar, we must move on. We must.”

“Aye, go ahead, if you can. I have not finished yet with the past.”

Jocelyn threw up her hands with an exasperated sigh. She turned to the two men, determinedly ignoring her sullen, fuming sister.

“’Tis not often I have such visitors in my kitchen. Next Lord Radulf himself will appear and demand to sit by my oven.” She spoke the name deliberately.

Sweyn laughed, ignoring the undercurrents. “You would be sorry if he did, lady. He is foul-tempered these days. He misses his wife,” he explained, when Jocelyn looked quizzical.

“Ah!” Jocelyn nodded, as if she understood. And she probably did, Briar supposed reluctantly. If Odo were gone, Jocelyn would feel as if part of herself were missing. That was what loving someone meant—not that Briar was willing to admit for a moment that Radulf was innocent of Anna’s death. Not yet. But she could accept that he loved Lily, his wife. As her father, Richard, had loved Anna. Love was cruel. Briar knew she would rather bury her heart deep in the ground before she allowed herse

lf to love a man like that.

Jocelyn served the mead in small wooden bowls, and Briar took hers with a stiff thank-you, and ignored the surreptitious glances her sister was sending between Ivo and herself. ’Twas none of her business. Especially now, when Jocelyn had been caught out in her deceit. Briar told herself bleakly that she would never trust her again.

Instead, Briar watched Mary and Sweyn. They stood close, and murmured quiet words to each other. It was as she feared, Briar thought bleakly. Mary was enamored of the handsome Dane, but worse, he was smitten with her, too. How could anyone mistake that dazed smile, that startled expression in his eyes. And Mary, coloring for no reason when he looked at her, or gazing up at him with adoring eyes.

Aye, love glowed about them like a candle flame.

Briar sipped at her mead as though it were poison. This was wrong. Mary was too young. She needed Briar to look after her. What had happened to her world? All she had thought solid and real, had begun to shiver and twist like the leaves that were even now falling from the trees. How could she see her way clear? If she no longer knew what lay ahead of her?

This was Ivo de Vessey’s fault. ’Twas all because of him! Until he had come to York, all had been well, and now…Briar clenched her hands tighter about her bowl.

He was standing beside her. She could feel his presence without having to turn her head and look. The warmth of his body, the scent of him, the sheer dark presence of him. She could have been locked in a night-black dungeon and still have known when he came through the door.

This new understanding gave her no pleasure.

“Briar?”

She schooled her features, and turned to look up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, then reading her mulish expression, frowned and changed his mind. With an exasperated breath, he reached up and ran his fingers through his black hair.

Jocelyn, who had stopped to watch the byplay, seemed to notice the glove for the first time. “You are prepared to do battle even here?” she asked, nodding to his hand.

Ivo glanced at his leather encased fingers as if he had forgotten them, and then his face turned hard as granite. “My hand was hurt in a fight, once, long ago, Lady Jocelyn. I wear the glove because it is unsightly.”

Jocelyn nodded. “But it does not prevent you from your profession?”

“Nay, I am as able to fight and defend myself as well as any other man. I have learned to compensate for the missing fingers.”

Suddenly Briar looked up at him with wide eyes. She had not realized, when he said he was hurt, that he meant…Sweet Jesu, that he should have lost his fingers in a fight. Fierce, beautiful Ivo! Nausea and pain sliced through her.