Once He Loves E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 483

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A PROUD KNIGHT FALLS… Renowned English knight Ivo de Vessey officiates at a concert for his liege lord in the nobleman's great hall, but he is barely able to keep his mind on his task. He can't take his eyes off of the stunning singer with dark hair, mysterious eyes, and a voice like honey. Who is this angelic creature whose voice touches his soul, softens his heart, and fills him with a tender longing he's never felt before? It feels as if she is singing only for him… A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE… Briar Kenton has vowed to take revenge on the man responsible for her family's ruin. She's accepted his invitation to perform, but she has ulterior motives – to seduce the handsome scoundrel and destroy his sworn promise to another. But after a night of passion, she discovers that de Vessey is merely the envoy of her sworn enemy. Now that she has known tenderness and ecstasy of being in his arms, she can't possibly let him go… Can de Vessey's loyalty to his liege vie with his desire to help her right the unforgivable wrongs? Briar herself is undone—torn between retribution and an impossible dream for a forbidden love…

Leseprobe

Once He Loves

Sara Bennett

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Also by Sara Bennett

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Once He Loves

Copyright © 2003 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN: 9781641970686

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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Prologue

York, the north of England Late summer, 1072

Briar lifted aside the heavy tapestry screen and peered cautiously through the narrow gap. The large, well-lit room beyond was filled with smoke and noise. Lord Shelborne’s daughter had made a worthy alliance, and the celebrations were to be stretched over several days. Presently the merry guests were finishing the last course of a sumptuous feast, but soon the trestle tables would be cleared, and the entertainments would begin.

Briar cast her gaze over the crowd. She dismissed the women—Lord Shelborne’s toothy daughter and her ladies, the important wives of the important men, the lowly serving wenches.

The man Briar sought was on his own.

She had hated him for full two years, and now she thought of little else. Without that consuming and single-minded hatred, she sometimes thought she would long ago have died of hunger or cold or simply walked into the sea and let the saltwater take her. In a strange way, her hatred of this man had kept her alive.

Briar’s eyes moved over the room, noting the assembled barons and knights and their servants, as well as the merchants and the clerics and the other important men of York. Some had obviously over-imbibed, and sat with heads nodding, while others pawed drunkenly at the serving wenches who moved between the tables. There were those who huddled together in conversation, or sweated on the fall of the dice, or roared laughter at a bawdy joke. And then there were the men who neither drank too much, nor said too much. The men who watched and listened and waited.

In Briar’s experience, these were the men to be taken seriously, to be feared, the ones who held authority over the rest. And it did not surprise her that it was among them that she found the man she sought.

He was standing beside a rowdy group, half listening to their conversation, and yet he was apart. Alone. He was big, a wolf-skin cloak draped about his broad shoulders, while his wild and tangled dark hair framed a fierce face. There was something lost about him, an air of abandonment. And his eyes, brooding and passionate, were as black as his soul. Aye, mayhap that was it; he had long ago sold his soul to the devil.

Her breath checked in her throat. Her fingers tightened upon the embroidered curtain that separated the chill, dank passageway where she stood from the welcoming warmth of the other room. The candles spun dizzily, the laughter faded, and for a brief moment Briar was catapulted back to Castle Kenton in 1070, a girl bereft, and yet trying to be brave, while the armed men bluntly informed her that now her father was dead her home was no longer hers...

It was but a moment of despair, and then Briar was herself again.

Impatiently, she shook her head. Enough! This was no time for weakness. Tonight of all nights she must be strong. Briar focused her eyes once more, and this time she controlled her reaction, taking her time as she examined the shape of him, the look of him, the essence of him.

Her heart gave a single, hard thump.

It was the man she sought; she couldn’t possibly be mistaken. Jocelyn had said he had been invited here tonight, and there was no one else in the room who drew her eyes like he. So big, so dark, so fierce. It was as if a certain power emanated from him and touched her, surrounded her. Her body tensed and goose bumps rose on her skin. This was the man who had begun that terrible chain of events, which had blighted her young life, her future and all her hopes. Aye, it was he. There was no doubt in her mind.

“Jesu, protect me, and allow me to complete my task,” Briar whispered, and then shuddered uncontrollably.

Strangely, the shudder wasn’t due to fear, or dread, or terror of what was to come. It was a shudder of anticipation, almost of... longing. Her mind was full of all she had plotted for, since her world became this bleak struggle for survival. She wanted to grasp this culminating moment in her hands. And hold on to it.

“Briar?”

A soft voice behind her, the sweet scent of rosemary in fine hair, a warm, gentle hand against her shoulder. Briar turned and faced her younger sister, Mary, trying to school her features into serenity when her heart was thundering and her throat felt tight. Those familiar dark eyes searched her own.

“Briar, what is it?”

Mary had seen at once that something was wrong, and even as Briar prepared to soothe her, she resigned herself to her sister’s empathy. They had been through much together; she would be foolish to think she could dupe Mary easily. Still, Briar gave a reassuring smile as she took Mary’s hand in hers.

“ ‘Tis nothing, sister. I am spying on the company tonight, that is all. What think you, will we sooth these savages with our songs?” And she lifted aside the screen again, to reveal the noise and laughter.

Mary gazed dutifully into the room. “You will have them quiet as mice, Briar, as you well know,” she replied, with an unusual touch of asperity.

Briar smiled a secretive smile. “We shall see.”

Mary gave her a puzzled glance and opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Briar forestalled her. “Remember, sister, that after we have sung you must go to the kitchens and wait with Jocelyn. Sleep by the fire, if you wish. I will come for you when it is time for us to go home. Can you remember that?”

Jocelyn would keep her safe. Jocelyn, some eight years older than Briar, had always been more like a mother than a sister. The cataclysmic events that had caused them all to flee Castle Kenton as outcasts could not change the roles each played within the family.

Jocelyn had always been the one who saw to details like hot food and warm clothing, who could turn a bare dwelling into a home, and now she stood like a rock of constancy in this sea of change.

Briar had always been the leader, the fighter, the strong one, and now she was the sister who swore vengeance against the powerful man who had taken all that was theirs.

Mary, at seventeen, had always been the gentle one, the youngest, and so the one who must be looked after, and the need to protect and shelter her had only grown in her sisters as their situation deteriorated.

Mary lifted an eyebrow. “I am not a lackwit, sister, I remember. But you have not told me where you are going. Why will you not tell me?”

“ ‘Tis something I must do, that is all. I will come to you when I can, and then we will go home together.”

She could never tell Mary what she was planning, that she had persuaded one of the servants to secretly prepare her a chamber at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house, and that Briar meant to share that chamber with the man in the other room. Give him false kisses and caresses, and coldly cleave her body to his. Tonight, she would use her womanhood to tempt him. As her only weapon, it would serve her well.

‘Tis just, she thought. A woman began this calamity, and now a woman will end it.

Mary was hovering, obviously wanting to ask more. But at heart she had always been a biddable girl, and now, with a sigh, she acquiesced.

“Very well, Briar. I will wait in the kitchen with Jocelyn. It is warm there, and Odo will be in the stables, helping with the horses. She is lonely without him. Do you think, Briar, that I will ever find a man to love as Jocelyn loves her Odo?”

Jocelyn loved Odo, it was true, even though he was not the strong husband he had once been. Something had broken him, and without Jocelyn to care for him, Briar doubted Odo would live a week. And yet without Odo to care for, Jocelyn would be lost and alone. They were bound together by ties of need as strong as any marriage vows.

Briar shook her head at Mary’s wistful question— she did not want to think of love. Not when her whole being was consumed with hate. Tonight was the culmination of two years of blind rage, smoldering and fermenting inside her, hot and angry. Briar had lived her need for vengeance, worn it like a heavy dark cloak about her shoulders. It had subjugated all other emotions, until she had rarely thought of anything else.

Tonight would end it.

Out in the other room the level of noise was rising, like a tide flooding up through the floor and walls, all the way to the ceiling beams. The guests were growing impatient. They had eaten and drunk, and now they were expecting to be entertained. And Briar and Mary were the entertainment.

A vision filled Briar’s mind, so strong and real she physically flinched. That pale, angular face, too fierce and too intense to be handsome, and those brooding black eyes: He was not to be taken lightly, her enemy. She did not underestimate him, but nor did she underestimate herself. She did not accept the tales that would have her believe he was more than flesh and blood. He was but a man, the same as any other. And tonight she would wind her carnal spell about him, binding him so fast, so tight that he would not escape.

And then she would destroy him.

Chapter 1

Ivo de Vessey half smiled as Sweyn murmured a joke in his ear. A serving girl paused before them, filling their tankards with more warm ale, and returned Sweyn’s grin. Outside the late summer evening was fading into darkness, drawing shadows down upon the city of York, but here in Lord Shelborne’s hall the company was jolly and the food good, and Ivo had drunk far too much.

Ivo had come north with Lord Radulf, in response to yet another skirmish within the northern lands of Radulf’s wife, the Lady Lily. The north of England seethed with subversion like a many-headed monster, and despite King William’s brutality in putting down each rebellion, no matter how small, there was always another to take its place.

Sweyn, a fellow mercenary, had accompanied Ivo, and along with a large troop of Radulf’s men, they had readied York as the bells for Vespers began to toll. Lord Radulf, missing his wife and best left to his own company, had retired, but Ivo had been in favor of going at once to the castle and asking the garrison for information on this latest act of lawlessness. Before he could set out, a messenger had arrived at the door with a request for Lord Radulf and his men to come and feast at the hall of Lord Shelborne. Sweyn had promptly set about persuading Ivo to bathe and change his travel- stained clothing, and attend Lord Shelborne’s hall instead of the possibly dubious repast they would find among the soldiers of the garrison.

“The invitation is for Lord Radulf,” Ivo had argued.

“Aye, but he is like a surly bear tonight and best left undisturbed. A warning, my friend, never let a woman make her home in your heart.”

“I need no warning,” Ivo had retorted. “But will this Lord Shelborne not think it strange that we have left Lord Radulf behind?”

“Not if he saw him, Ivo. He would be grateful we had not brought him.” Sweyn strode impatiently to the door. “Come, there will be time enough for talk of rebellions tomorrow! Enjoy yourself tonight, my friend. Lord Shelborne’s messenger says there will be dancing and singing, and one of the women has the voice of an angel. An angel, he says, who can heal a sick man, and make a broken man whole. And there will be dice, Ivo! I am desperate to replenish my coin.”

Ivo had snorted. “Do you think of nothing but women and dice, Sweyn?”

Sweyn had stopped and pretended to consider. “No.”

So Ivo had laughed, and allowed himself to be bullied into going to Lord Shelborne’s hall. And Sweyn had been right, Ivo admitted it now. There was such a thing as being too dedicated to one’s tasks, too serious, too willing to forgo pleasure for the sake of duty. Tomorrow would be soon enough to apply themselves to Radulf’s problems in the north. Surely even a disgraced knight was allowed an occasional evening of leisure.

Ivo had been sipping his ale, deep in his thoughts, and it was a moment before he became aware that all had gone quiet. An expectant hush. He glanced up, and as he did he heard the voice.

It was low and slightly husky; deeper than that of the women he was accustomed to hearing sing. The timbre of it brushed over his skin, soft as fur, warm as blood, making him instantly aware. His body tightened, hardened, as if he were preparing for battle, every sense alerted. Ivo narrowed his eyes and turned his head, searching for the singer in a room made smoky from ill-drawing fires and shadowy from candles that flickered in the many drafts.

And found her.

She sat upon a small dais, and as he stared, the vapor in the hall seemed to clear from before his eyes.

Long chestnut hair lay smooth and heavy over her back and shoulders. Too heavy for her pale and piquant face and wide, slanting eyes. She was a small woman, slender, but with a voice at once powerful and moving. The notes she sang vibrated through him, caught like a small fist in his chest, and made his heart ache.

Dear God, what was this?

Ivo blinked, and stared at her, and realized then that the woman was gazing directly back at him. As if she were singing for him, and him alone. He took a shaky breath.

Beside him, Sweyn leaned over to whisper in his ear. “The messenger had it aright, Ivo. She is an angel.”

“Aye,” Ivo said, wondering if he sounded as bemused as he felt.

Was he sick, to be healed?

Mayhap, but he doubted even she could heal him. As that voice soared and dipped, filling the quiet room, permeating it like rich, heady wine, Ivo wondered if he was alone in his abstraction, or whether every man and woman here felt the same. Her voice was drawing emotions from him that he had thought—hoped—forgotten. Love and happiness, sorrow and pain, inextricably mixed. Emotions, memories, he had long ago put aside. For how could a disgraced knight and a mercenary lay claim to such luxuries as feelings?

How could he dare?

Ivo gritted his teeth, forcing the rapid beating inside his chest to calm, forcing the heat in his blood to cool. Look again, he told himself. ‘Tis but a woman, singing. A small woman in a dark gown with her chestnut hair loose about her and her pale hands clasped in her lap. ‘Twas nothing amazing.

He realized, as he fought off the spell, that there was a harpist accompanying her. He stared at the instrument, as if that would help rebuild his barricades, and saw ‘twas one of the small harps used by the Welsh. The harp was being played by a girl with hair of a darker hue and a taller figure than the songstress, and her expression was utterly serious as she concentrated upon her notes. Despite their differences, the two looked similar enough to be sisters.

Aye, singing sisters, Ivo thought, with relief. No magic there! He had dreamed the sensation of that small hand inside his chest, squeezing his heart, of course he had. Perhaps something in her song had unconsciously reminded him of the past, enough to slice through his usually reliable protective walls.

It would not happen again.

But even as he made his vow, the woman’s voice soared one last time, and the poignancy of that single, pure note brought tears stinging to Ivo’s eyes. He blinked angrily, wondering why he, who should know better, could be so weak. A grown man toughened by battle and despair, a soldier who had not wept since he was a boy of eleven. How could this stranger so easily unlock his burdened heart with her key?

As if the songstress had read his thoughts, the woman’s gaze settled upon him once more. Her eyes were large and dark, and with very little effort he feared he could drown in them. And then she smiled—a small, secretive smile—and smoothed her plain gown over her hips with a slow, sensual movement.

Ivo’s hand closed hard on the tankard, so hard that he felt the metal ease beneath his strong fingers. There was no mistaking the woman’s look, or the smile that went with it—he had too many years and too much experience behind him to do that. She had just issued him an invitation.

Ivo was not in the habit of attracting his women this way, but just for a moment all he felt was another rush of relief. There had been no magic here after all, nothing bizarre or bewildering. Just a flesh and blood woman, who, for whatever reason, was desirous of his company. He let his gaze linger on the curves of her body beneath the drab gown, the way her hair caught fire in the sputtering candlelight. Ivo’s body stirred, hardened. It had been many a long month since he had last lain with a woman, and even longer since he had been fortunate enough to find one so comely as this songstress.

“She likes you,” Sweyn said with a laugh. “Tell me now that you would have preferred an evening in the castle garrison, with the stench of unwashed soldiers to accompany your meal.”

Ivo shrugged, and set his tankard down carefully. “Tonight she smiles at me. Tomorrow it might be you.” His voice was dry and noncommittal, but desire beat like a pulse within him.

“You underrate yourself,” Sweyn retorted. “If you get the chance to enjoy her, my friend, think not of the morning. The garrison will still be there.” He gave Ivo a none-too-gentle push, and went off to find himself a game of dice.

Ivo was crossing the room before he knew it. He hadn’t realized until he started walking how light-headed he was—it must be the ale. His boots seemed barely to touch the rush-strewn floor. The dais was before him and he vaguely noted that the girl with the harp had gone.

But the angel was there, waiting.

“You sing wondrously well, demoiselle.” He heard his own voice, deep and quiet, as if it were that of a stranger. “I am bewitched.”

She laughed, and cast him a flirtatious glance.

Her eyes were not brown as he had drought, but hazel. Watchful and secretive, and framed with thick dark lashes, they were set wide apart and slanted upward like a cat’s eyes. There was something familiar in those eyes, something distant and yet part remembered. I know her, but from where... Even as his mind was turning, his gaze moved on. Her mouth was small and lush, her chin a point for her heart-shaped face, and her skin was smooth and unmarked apart from a small scar on her right cheekbone. That long chestnut-colored hair fell about her, curling at the ends, rippling over her shoulders like a smooth waterfall.

There is something about her eyes, and the scar on her right cheekbone. Something about the scar...

Why had he drunk so much? His mind must be fogged with ale fumes.

“You like my songs, sir?” Her French was flawless—this was no English peasant.

Ivo blinked, brought his thoughts back to the here and now. “Aye, demoiselle, I like them very much.”

Her eyes smiled up at him, like the brown and green shadows in a forest, tempting him onward into places he had never been before. She reached out a slender hand and rested it upon his arm. Her hand looked pale and fragile against his dark sleeve, and he hesitated to cover it with his own.

“Mayhap you would like a private audience?”

Were the words truly spoken? Or had he dreamed them because they were so much what he wanted to hear?

Ivo knew he was sobering up fast.

He gazed down intently into her face, and saw her lick her lips nervously with the tip of her pink tongue. There was a flicker of doubt in her eyes, as though she feared he would say her nay. He wanted to laugh—nay was the last thing he would say her right now! She was beautiful, and her song still held him in its spell. And if he wasn’t either mad, or badly mistaken, she was offering herself to him.

All of herself.

Lust soared through him, tightening every muscle. To his surprise, his manhood began to thicken—he had thought he had better control than that. Ivo was no brutish soldier, willing to forgo all niceties for a hasty roll In the hay. He had been taught courtesy and respect, and although he may not always have abided by them, he knew the right from the wrong. To suddenly feel so totally out of control, like a lusty stallion in a paddock of mares, confused him.

But there was more than lust here. Ivo felt a poignancy that was in one part the suppressed emotions she had stirred up with her song, and in the other part a memory of his past. It was as if this angel really would in some way heal him, repair the broken man.

Make him whole again.

He clenched the fist he had kept hidden in the wolf-pelt cloak at his side, his maimed flesh warm inside the leather-and-steel glove he always wore in the company of others. He had learned to use his damaged hand as well as any man whose hand was whole—he had had no choice. Still he was proud of the accomplishment. Miles had thought to cripple him and render him useless, but he had failed.

“You are a stranger here.”

The woman interrupted his introspection. Her voice was as low and husky as it had been when she sang, and again he felt the shiver of its touch on his skin. Like the brush of velvet, soft and sensual.

“I am come from the south.”

No need to tell her more, thought Ivo. Indeed, he was wary to open his mouth in case all that he was, and hoped and dreamed, gushed out. His mind felt wide open and echoey, his body hummed with desire. And atop that he had the sensation of familiarity—as if he had known her before.

Ivo held out his hand to her, the good one—no need to frighten her with his deformity just yet. The touch of her soft skin made him even more crazy to have her—images of her naked body in his arms sliced his brain like a red-hot blade—and his voice came out sharper than he had intended.

“To answer your question, demoiselle, I would very much like a private audience. Do you have a room?”

He could have bitten off his tongue. Do you have a room? What sort of enticing love talk was that for a man who was once a knight? He needed his friend Gunnar Olafson here, with his smooth ways and magic smile. Why could Ivo not be more like Gunnar, wooing her delicately into his arms, instead of his usual blunt and impatient self?

She was gazing up at him—she barely came to his shoulder. She smiled a little smile, mayhap reading the anguish in his eyes, but she was not angry and not insulted. If anything, she looked pleased. Before Ivo could consider what might be the reasons for this, she spoke again.

“Aye, I have a room.”

She was not even pretending to misunderstand him. Then, just as he was again doubting the whole business, she gave a soft, reckless laugh, and held out her hand. “Come and we will sing together, my lord.”

He wanted to tell her he was not anyone’s lord, that he did not know her at all, that this was not wise. But when had Ivo ever cared about wise? Tonight his body had a will of its own. He lifted his hand and she caught his fingers tightly in her own cold ones, then she led him through an arras-covered doorway. Into the shadows.

It was chill here, and the sounds from the hall were abruptly muted. Ivo knew from long experience that he should be wary, and yet still he went with her, as though entranced. Deep inside him, there lay mistrust—the years of living in his brother’s dark shadow had made him cautious— but he did not mistrust her enough to deny himself the pleasure of her. She had offered, and Ivo meant to take.

‘Twas as simple and as brutal as that.

Briar felt dizzy, as if this were not real at all. How could it have been so simple? So easy? Not even Briar at her most optimistic had believed her enemy would fall so willingly into the net she cast. But he had, and now she held him in the palm of her hand. Literally. Briar’s fingers tightened their grasp about that warm, broad hand, feeling the ridges of calluses and scars that told of many years of battle.

His hand.

The great Lord Radulf, the King’s Sword.

Before he died, Briar’s father had cursed Radulf, blaming him for the death of Anna, Briar’s stepmother, whose murder was still unsolved. Anna’s murder had precipitated the destruction of the Kenton family. Thus, in Briar’s mind, Radulf had begun this terrible calamity. Aye, he had destroyed her family, taken from her her home and wealth, her life and all she had taken for granted. Until it was no more.

“Radulf did this,” she had said dully, the day they were cast out from Castle Kenton because their father was branded a traitor. They had trudged into the tiny village, but no one there had dared to help them or shelter them—they were all too afraid of the consequences. So they had walked on, with nowhere to go.

“Radulf did this!” She had screamed it out the second time, her voice echoing across the moors. Radulf. Her feverish mind had found a focus, a thing to hate and blame for all that had befallen them. A way to keep her alive.

Her elder sister, Jocelyn, had looked at her while Odo ambled along to the side like a great, mindless bear. Jocelyn’s blue eyes were reddened and swollen, her face puffy and blotched from crying. “ ‘Tis over and done. We must make our way as best we can, Briar, and not look backward.”

“ ‘Tis not over and done! Father swore to take vengeance, and now I swear to fulfill his wish.”

Jocelyn had gazed back at her, her thin face intent. “Put this behind you, Briar. It is wrong to seek to heal evil with more evil. I beg you, put this behind you.”

Briar had shaken her head angrily. How could she put such things behind her, forget what had happened to their father and to them? Go on as if nothing had happened? She was not like Jocelyn—her anger could not be dampened with a trickle of water.

Briar had meant what she had said that day, but in the meantime they had wandered far, eventually all the way to York, living like peasants. And no one came to their aid. They were Richard Kenton’s daughters, the traitor’s children, and therefore safer forgotten.

But Briar had not forgotten, and the need for vengeance had grown; a blind, desperate need that gave her no rest. Nor would it, until it was satisfied. The answer to her prayers came when she had heard Radulf was traveling into the north to deal with a rebellion on his wife’s lands. By then, Briar had known much of the King’s Sword, and his love for his wife. And she had known exactly how she would repay him for what he had done to her and her family.

“And what will happen then? When you have lain with Radulf, and soured Lily’s love for him? Will that content you, Briar?”

Jocelyn had been less than impressed when Briar had divulged her intended plan to her sister some weeks past. Her blue eyes had been hard and watchful as she demanded answers. Jocelyn had still not given up trying to persuade Briar to put the past behind her, and Jocelyn was no gentle flower, unlike Mary.

These days Jocelyn was employed as Lord Shelborne’s cook, and he treasured her for her fine pastries and bread, and the succulent dishes she placed before him. It was Jocelyn who had given Briar the important news that Radulf was to be invited to the marriage celebrations at Lord Shelborne’s hall.

“I don’t know if I will be content, sister,” Briar had said in answer to Jocelyn’s questions. “But at least I will have fulfilled our father’s last wish.”

Jocelyn had shaken her head impatiently. “You have thought only of the moment, Briar, as usual. I know you well. You are headstrong and brave and determined, but you fail to think beyond the moment. What do you believe Radulf will do with you when you tell him who you are? Think carefully, Briar, before you act. Remember, morning always follows night.”

“So you will not help me?”

“No, I will not help you! You go to your own destruction by such behavior. Briar, I, too, have many reasons to hate Radulf. But will that bring our father back? Or our lands and wealth and the joy we knew? Will it bring my Odo back to the man he used to be? What do you hope to achieve by making Radulf suffer, Briar? Methinks it will only increase your own suffering...”

Now, as Briar tightened her grip, her small hand in his, Jocelyn’s warnings rang in her head. She had refused to listen to Jocelyn then, and she did not want to remember her words now. They made her feel uneasy, edgy. Radulf must suffer, just as they had suffered. Aye, Briar was right and Jocelyn was wrong, and she must damp down all doubts within her, be cold as winter on the moors about her home at Castle Kenton. That was why she had not said another word to Jocelyn about tonight, why she had turned instead to Grisel, one of the maidservants. It was simple enough to spin Grisel a tale about a man for whom Briar was lovesick, to beg her to prepare her a room, to swear her to silence.

The chamber that Grisel had found for her was at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house. Quickly Briar pulled her enemy inside the chamber after her, and closed the door. Her gaze darted about the room, assuring herself that everything was in place. Grisel had left a single candle on a wooden chest, and its flame shivered in the draft, sending shadows dancing upon the low-beamed ceiling. The bed was large and thick with sumptuous furs and soft cushions. It looked most inviting, as it was meant to.

Grisel had made a tempting trap, with Briar herself as the bait.

“This is your room?”

He was watching her, those gleaming black eyes piercing her own. She had never seen such eyes, so expressive, so wounded, so ancient. As if he had seen things she could only dream of... Again Briar shook herself. She could read desire in them, and that was all she needed to see. Aye, he wanted her. She had known it from the moment they exchanged glances across Lord Shelborne’s hall. So much for Radulf’s famed fidelity to the Lady Lily! And yet...

Something struck her amiss, like a sour note on Mary’s harp.

Breathless, Briar struggled with her doubt and fear. Not now. She pressed the emotions down inside herself, deep, deep down. She could not allow her feelings to sway her now, not when vengeance was within her grasp. This was the time for a cool, clear head and a cold heart. If Radulf was willing to betray his wife, then Briar told herself she was more than willing to help him do it.

“Wine?” she asked calmly, moving to pour some into a goblet from the jug Grisel had placed earlier.

“Aye, demoiselle.” He reached out his hand.

When she saw the black glove upon it, Briar hesitated. “One glove?” she asked, with a breathy laugh. “Is this an affectation, my lord?”

He shook his head, the humorless smile barely curling the edges of his wide mouth. “No affectation, demoiselle. My hand is injured and I wear the glove so that it will not frighten pretty ladies like yourself. That is all.”

Briar shrugged, but her gaze was curious. Had Radulf hurt himself? She had not heard of any serious injury, and she always had her ears open for talk of the King’s Sword. “ ‘Twould take more than that to frighten me, my lord,” she said grimly, without thinking.

His gaze sharpened at her tone. “Oh?” he asked. “Are you not the fearful sort?”

But Briar had control of herself, and she laughed again, her deceit once more firmly in place. She poured some wine for herself and drank deeply, letting the slightly sour, heady brew relax her. He moved closer. His fingers brushed against her neck, lifting a lock of hair and feeling its texture. His touch made her shiver, but it was not from fear or revulsion. This was something more, something new, something unexpected. Startled, she lifted her head and met his gaze.

His eyes were mesmerizing.

“You are very beautiful,” he murmured, and stepped so close that her body was almost touching his. She felt his heat, smelled his scent, saw the flicker deep in his eyes. He smiled then, his wide mouth curling up and completely transforming the fierce angles of his face. His was a face made for smiling, and yet she could see by the lines upon it that such moments were rare.

Briar could not look away. Not even when he set both their goblets upon the chest and leaned down and kissed her, his lips smooth and unhurried against hers.

“Demoiselle,” he whispered, and rubbed his rough cheek against hers, before capturing her lips once more with his. His mouth was hot and seductive, and Briar went still, confused by the sensations that were cudgeling her mind and body. This was not how she had imagined it! She had meant to seduce him, playing at feelings she could not possibly feel, disguising her distaste and bitter triumph beneath the soft cries of a woman enjoying her man. Leading her enemy further and further into the maze until it was too late, until he was utterly lost in its tangled paths, and willingly hers.

I am Briar, she would tell him then. The daughter of Lord Richard Kenton. I am here to avenge my father and stepmother.

Or maybe she would simply arrange to have someone discover them in bed, someone who would report back to Lily. Radulf would be shattered by his guilt and her pain, aye, destroyed.

That was the problem with loving someone. Love could so easily become a weapon...

Dear God, his mouth was hot! He gripped her upper arms, pulling her closer against his hard body. Briar found that she was leaning into him, her own hands slipping about his waist beneath the wolf-pelt cloak. His body was big and strong, and his touch was as perfect as it was startling. As was the realization that she wanted this.

Where was the distaste for what she was doing? Where was the resignation? She should be grimly suffering even as she triumphed over this man, her enemy. She had plotted so long to punish him; she had never expected to enjoy it!

Nay, this was not how it was meant to be. This was her moment, and if anyone should grow weak from their kisses, then it should be he.

Briar stepped away from him, taking a breath, watching him warily now. He smiled again, coming after her, backing her toward the bed. “We will sing together,” he said softly. “An old song, demoiselle, but a good one.”

“I know many old songs,” she replied, and he laughed, a low seductive sound. For a brief, shaken moment Briar wondered if she could go through with it.

Have you waited so long just to turn tail now? she asked herself angrily, first because something in his looks tugs at your womanly emotions, just because his kisses are not as repulsive as you expected. Remember, this is the man who stole from you the life you loved. He deserves to be punished. Whether you enjoy the punishment or not is immaterial.

But these were things Briar had never expected to feel in such circumstances—pleasure, desire, need. She had lain with a man. Once. Two years ago. There had been no pleasure then. The memory was a montage of pain and sorrow, and she fully expected this night to be similar. That so far it was not had unsettled her, momentarily distracted her, but now she stiffened her resolve and set doubts aside. She would do this, she would...

But he must have seen something in her face. When she met his eyes again, they were even more intense than before. And there was a new reserve about him, as if he no longer quite believed in her.

“Drink,” she urged him softly, pouring more wine into his goblet and handing it to him.

He took the vessel from her, but did not drink. Perhaps he no longer trusted her enough to do so. The shadows played games with his face, making him more handsome than he really was, smoothing out the irregular features and straightening the broken nose. His hair grew in wild, untrimmed curls about his face, and the wolf-skin cloak added to his barbaric appearance. This was not a man who played games, and if she did this thing now—and later betrayed him to his lady—then he might very well kill her.

Despite herself, Briar shivered.

“You are cold.”

That deep, quiet murmur; the voice of a Norman knight of breeding and education. Such was Radulf. A great man.

And yet do not be deceived, she reminded herself. Do not fall under his spell. Remember the injury he has done you. Remember and take your vengeance and find your justice, even if it is two years too late. Do not lose sight of what you have set out to do here tonight.

“What is your name, demoiselle?”

“Briar,” she said, knowing he would not recognize it. Why should he? She was nothing to him, and two years ago she had been but a girl, kept safe on her father’s estate, content with her present and her future, not realizing that soon her world would be destroyed. Again the memory sobered her, strengthened her.

He was still watching her through the shadows; his eyes so intent, it felt as if they were inside her head.

“Briar. ‘Tis a prickly name, demoiselle. Are you thorny like the wild briar?”

Briar smiled, hoping he would not read its falseness. She reached down with a trembling hand and began to unknot her girdle.

“I am tough like the briar, sir. Even when my enemies think me vanquished, I can spring up again in the most unlikely of places.”

She had amused him, mayhap even delighted him—she read it in his eyes.

“And yet you sing like a nightingale.”

“You are kind.” She disposed of the compliment, suddenly impatient. They were wasting time. The sooner he had bedded her, the sooner this thing would be done.

The girdle was unknotted, and Briar put it aside. Her gown was loose enough to slide down over her shoulder, displaying smooth, rounded flesh. He went still, watching her as she brought her arm out of the gown, and then slowly repeated the action with her other shoulder and arm. Grasping firmly the worn, brown cloth, she held it up against her breasts.

His rapt attention pleased her. A moment ago she had felt as if she had lost control of the situation; now she had it back again. That black, brooding gaze moved slowly upward, to her face, examining her lips, her tumbling hair, before his eyes fastened on hers. The silence in the chamber stretched out. Something in the tension of his body, the crackle in the air about him, told Briar that if she wanted to turn back then she should do it now. Before it was too late.

Slowly, her eyes on his, she let the gown fall.

Had he groaned aloud? Ivo would not have been surprised if he had. He had never seen a woman so beautiful.

Her long chestnut hair curled over her pale shoulders and down over the curve of her bade. It made a pretty screen for her small, rounded breasts with their tawny nipples. Her hazel eyes took on a secretive slant, as she watched him through her dark lashes, and her pink lips tilted enigmatically at the corners.

Ivo still didn’t understand why of all the men in the hall she had chosen him, but it was often so with women. Sweyn laughed and said they were intrigued by his warriorlike looks coupled with his nobleman’s voice. He no longer cared. The elusive thought that he knew her from somewhere still tugged at him, but he cared not for that, either. His body was hard and ready, the wench was lovely and very desirable, and he was not fool enough to question his good fortune.

He felt its touch rarely enough these days.

Ivo took a step closer. The color of her eyes deepened. With lust? Or was it something else that ran swiftly through the green and brown? Surely not fear? For if she were afraid of him, why would she be here, now?

Still, it was with a cautious gentleness that Ivo reached out his good hand, instinctively keeping the other one hidden at his side. He touched her cheek, feeling the soft smoothness of her skin, the slight indentation of her scar. He cupped her chin, his thumb tracing the shape of her Ups, memorizing the feel of them.

Her lips parted and she sighed and swayed a little, eyes shutting. Ivo smiled, pleased by the faint blush staining her skin, the tightening of her nipples into hard little cherries, begging for the comfort of his tongue. Aye, there was desire here, and she felt it as much as he.

He caught her long hair in his hand, using it to tilt her face back for his mouth. The kiss was long and hot, and while he kissed her his hand sought her breasts and caressed them. She shuddered, moaning into his mouth. Her dark lashes fluttered wildly and she drew back a little, hands clasping his forearm, as if she sought to steady herself.

He bent and kissed her again, opening her mouth with his, probing with his tongue. She was hot inside, and needy. She, too, felt the fire burning between them. He sensed it, knew it, and suddenly it no longer mattered to him what her reasons might be. This was a moment out of time; the drab and brutal world he lived in had been left behind. There was only the disgraced knight and the songstress, and together they would make the stars burn.

Ivo slid to his knees before her, and took her nipple in his mouth.

She arched back with a gasping cry, hands tangling in his hair and tugging painfully. He didn’t care. He pulled the gown down from her hips, knowing he was rough but the need to see her naked drove him beyond gentleness. Here was more pale, smooth flesh—the swell of her belly and buttocks, the white length of her thighs and the tawny hair between.

She was small, but most definitely a woman. A little thin, mayhap, a little delicate, but the curves were in their rightful places. For a moment Ivo just looked, feeling like a blind man who has suddenly begun to see. And then he slid his hands down over her thighs, and bending forward placed a kiss on the soft hair at their juncture.

She started and stepped back, forgetting perhaps that the bed was so close, for with a squeak she fell back upon it. Helpless, hampered by her long hair, she struggled to sit up. And then, as he firmly gripped and parted her legs with his strong hands, she stiffened anxiously.

But he only wanted to look. Amused, he met her eyes, sensing her uncertainty beneath the headiness of her passion. And then shocked surprise, as he grinned at her and stooped to run his tongue along her inner thigh. Until he found the hot core of her.

“Oh!” She jerked as if he had shot her with an arrow, and then groaned in her husky, sensual voice.

Ivo decided he liked this song the best of any she had sung tonight.

“Sing to me, demoiselle,” he murmured wickedly, and used his tongue again, seeking out the places that gave her the most enjoyment. She tried to tense, to pull away, but he would have none of it. With another groan, she gave herself up to pleasure.

Briar felt the passion rippling over her, washing away all her thoughts of vengeance, of the past, of her so-carefully constructed plan. She was left with only one thing—the need for release. Briar gasped, her eyes blind to the dim, candle-lit room as that questing tongue set off a myriad of sparks within her.

Why could she not remember Filby, who had hurt her when he took her, his only interest finding his own pleasure upon her, before he had risen and straightened his clothing. He had stared down at her then, with cold eyes, with a look she would never, ever forget. As though she were not the daughter of a great man, and the woman that until this moment he had courted and pretended to cherish.

Why could she not remember Filby?

Because the ripples of passion were turning into pounding waves. All control gone, Briar cried out, arching against him, dimly aware of the surging undertow within her own body.

Jesu, she had not meant it to be like this! She had wanted to be cold, to feel discomfort, even pain, and most of all she had wanted to hate him as he deserved. Instead she lay upon the sumptuous bed, weak and tumbled, her whole body throbbing from the pleasure he had just given her. Why could this man not have been cruel like Filby? And why could Filby not have lavished the same care upon her as this man?

To Briar, dazed and bewildered, the world seemed all turned about.

When the warm wash of pleasure had finally faded a little, Briar opened her eyes. He was grinning at her again, his chin resting familiarly against her belly. With an effort Briar bestirred herself.

“You...” She swallowed, tried again. “You are very good at what you do, my lord.”

“Aye, ‘tis my one true vocation.”

She giggled. God help her, she giggled like a silly maid!

He smiled back, and then proceeded to crawl up onto the bed beside her, slipping and sliding on the furs, and then rolling her into his arms. Before she could think to protest, his mouth was on hers, hot and tasting of her, something she found shocking and yet curiously exciting. The heat of his lips and tongue were stirring the tide within her again. How could that be, when he had only just sated her?

He was pressed against her from shoulder to hip, and she realized she could feel him, big and hard inside his breeches. Without thought, as naturally as if his body was as familiar to her as her own, Briar stretched down her hand and stroked him. He groaned, burying his face against her warm throat. She cupped the bulge of his manhood, trying again to remind herself of Filby, trying to bring forth the old, bitter memories of their mating.

“We are not finished yet,” she said firmly. Her vengeance could not be complete until he had lain with her, inside her, and proved himself as faithless to his wife as he had been to her step mama.

The thought chilled Briar, enough to cool the desire building within her.

“No, demoiselle, we are not finished yet.” Evidently he did not sense the change within her. Rising up onto his knees on the bed, he began swiftly to disrobe, pulling his tunic and shirt over his head.

He was a big man, in all ways, and Briar watched him with reluctant admiration. Sim- browned skin, a body broad and hard-muscled, the body of a warrior. Her eyes moved of their own accord, over the wondrous planes and curves and hollows. Numerous scars covered him, testimony to the many battles in which he had fought. He had been hurt many times, mayhap faced death many times. Briar touched a long white scar on his ribs, testing the puckered flesh.

Aye, she told herself with satisfaction, many have tried to take his life, but they have used the wrong weapons. Sharpened wood and iron and steel are of no use—he is too wily a warrior. No, the way to harm him is from within. To find the weakness in him. To slay him by breaking his heart.

Almost unwillingly, uneasy from what he was making her feel, Briar ran her fingertips up the hard muscles of his stomach to his chest, rough with a dusting of dark hair. His nipples were hidden there, and she found them, feeling them tighten with her touch. More eagerly now, she folded her hands over the heavy curves of his shoulders, aware of their breadth and strength, before she slid them down, over his sizeable upper arms. He was indeed a creature of myth and legend. She could enjoy the sight and touch and feel of him, no matter what emotions lay in her heart.

He tugged his breeches down over his narrow hips, stripping them quickly from his strong legs. He was naked now, every curving muscle, every scar, every wonderful inch of him. Briar had never felt desire like this before—it was new and heady and completely unexpected. Her fascinated gaze followed the line of dark hair from his belly, down to his groin. His manhood jutted out, big and bold; he could not pretend indifference, even had he wanted to. And Briar could not resist stretching out her hand and grasping him, closing her hand gently upon him. So potent, so male. Beneath the velvet softness of his skin there was a hot, steely strength.

He had gone very still.

Drawn at last from her preoccupation of his magnificent body, Briar looked up at him. His eyes flared with burning desire, and yet he did not move. Clearly a battle was going on within him while he fought to subdue his lust. He was, she realized in surprise, trying to be careful, trying not to frighten her. He wanted her, and the same lustful beast she had seen in Filby was there, lurking inside his tense face and brooding gaze, but he was, unlike Filby, trying to rein it in. ‘Twas the man in control of the beast and not the other way around.

And as she watched him struggle, Briar realized something more.

She wanted him.

Wanted him inside her, as she could never re-member wanting any man. She wanted to take the beast she saw in his eyes, that fierce, wild wanting, and tame it. Make it her own.

I feel this way because I am so close to taking the vengeance I have dreamed of for so long, she tried to tell herself.

But it was a lie.

Even as she repeated the words to herself, she knew she was avoiding the truth. Briar wanted him. Her body craved his. What had begun as playacting, a cold-blooded pretense, was now real desire, read lust. And explain it to herself in whatever manner she may, it was unexplainable.

As if he had sensed her need, he had begun to kiss her. Long, passionate kisses that made her mindless. Briar pressed against him, her arms about his neck, her fingers tangled in his black hair. As he kissed her, he was caressing her breasts, plucking at the taut nipples, causing her body to burn and ache. The cleft between her legs was swollen and hot, and when his manhood prodded at the juncture of her thighs, instinctively she opened them, giving him access. She should be frightened, or at least wary, because he was so big—but she was not.

Nevertheless, Briar braced herself.

But instead of thrusting himself brutally inside her, as Filby had done, he began to play with her. He ran his tongue slowly down one side of her throat, tasting her, enjoying her as if she were one of Jocelyn’s honey cakes.

The comparison made her giggle, and then quickly gasp in shocked surprise. “Ouch!” Briar pressed back into the furs, so that she could look at him, her face slack with amazement. “You bit me!”

“Just a little,” he admitted, with an unrepentant smile. “You taste so good, demoiselle.”

“I do?”

“Aye,” he mocked. “Inside and out.” And, sliding his hands beneath her, he raised his body over hers, lifted her, and with a thrust of his hips, entered into her slippery depths.

Briar’s eyes grew wider as she stared up at him.

Ivo felt the little movements inside her, the adjustments to his size, the grasp of her body about his. She was tight, though no virgin. But neither was she much used—Ivo knew the signs. In truth he cared not what she was, only that at this moment she was his. Ivo threw his head back with a groan of ecstasy, thrusting himself into her a little more, and a little further, unashamedly enjoying her. He withdrew, and thrust again, deep this time, and she quivered from her head to her toes.

“Oh, demoiselle,” he whispered hoarsely, gazing down at her with blurred black eyes, his hair a dark aureole in the candlelight. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”

And just like that, a wild storm of pleasure swept through her. Briar cried out and arched against him. He held her firm, allowing her to ride the tempest, content to let her have her moment while he kept his own pleasure in check. When she was still again, gasping, a sheen of perspiration covering her body, her hair sticky against his skin, he gently kissed her face. Little, light kisses across her cheeks and nose and brow; soft kisses against her eyelids, and the tiny scar.

A child’s cry. The bark of a hound. Voices raised in consternation.

The memory was there and gone, too quick for him to grasp it. Besides, his senses were clamoring for release, to take what she offered so freely. Whomever she was.

Ivo gazed down at her, at her mouth, reddened now, lush and swollen from his kisses. He nibbled it with his teeth while thrusting slowly between her thighs, feeling the tight sheath grasping him, holding him. It felt so good and yet he was wild to finish it—the two longings tugged him in opposing directions, an agony that was like ecstasy.

This wasn’t going at all as Briar had imagined it.

She had thought he would take her brutally, guiltily, and then toss her aside. She had thought to find joy in it, yes, but only because it was a culmination of two years of yearning and plotting. She had certainly not expected to be thrown into such a wild, passionate storm by his embrace. And she had not imagined to feel such delight in the joining of his body to hers.

More than that.

Such a sense of rightness, as if she had been born to be here.

Sweet Jesu, how could that be?

Briar’s anxious thoughts scattered as he moved again, stroking her deep inside each time he moved his hips. Oh, it felt so good when he did that. Felt so wonderful. Caught up again in her own rising passion, and completely in thrall to his tender teasing, Briar lifted her own hips to meet him. She could feel his entire body rigid with his need to let go, and yet he did not. Incredibly he held himself back, he waited, and Briar knew instinctively he was waiting for her to soar once more, before he would allow himself to join her.

“Sing, demoiselle.” His husky breath stirred the damp curls on her brow. “Sing our song.”

No, she thought, no, I must not, I will not