Chapter 4 #4
They had reached one of the many snickleways that linked the streets of York.
Shadowed and narrow, the lane was suitably private.
Briar walked ahead and Ivo followed her through, uncomplaining, but clearly prepared for trouble.
His free hand closed on the decorated hilt of his sword, and he turned his head from side to side, carefully examining each doorway and each shadow.
Briar smiled secretly to herself.
He was suspicious of her, and yet he still came with her. He was willing to put himself at risk, to be with her. Surely that boded well?
Briar had never tried to ensnare a man before; she had not believed it in her nature.
There were some women who found such things enjoyable, to whom the capture of a man’s mind and heart was a pleasant day’s sport.
Briar had never been one of their number.
She had been betrothed to Filby, and thought to wed him and eventually be his wife, but there had been no attempt on her part to ensnare him.
No talk of desire or love, not by her, although Filby had played at being the besotted bridegroom once or twice, more to her amusement than her delight.
A woman in Briar’s position took the husband her family chose for her.
Filby had suited because his estates abutted hers, and he was a Norman of some wealth and power.
He was not as wealthy or as powerful as Richard Kenton, but Briar’s fattier had thought to keep her close and make her happy, and for that he had been willing to forgo a brilliant marriage.
She would not marry now.
Who in her old world would want her? And she could not see herself wed to a fleshmonger in the Shambles, or a beltmaker in Girdlergate.
She walked among these people as if she were one of them, but Briar knew deep in her heart that she was not, and never could be.
Nay, she was neither one thing nor the other.
They had reached a particularly dark spot in the snickleway. Briar stopped, and Ivo paused a little way behind her, wary, watchful. Instinctively he loosened his sword in its scabbard, glancing around, searching for enemies.
“What do we here?” he asked her. “ ‘Tis the sort of place where men’s throats are slit.”
He wondered if it were a trap, if she intended to do harm to him. He might desire her, she thought, but he was not a fool.
“I thought you wanted private words with me,” Briar replied airily, and turned a face to him that she knew was pale and a little wild.
This was the very spot where Anna, her stepmama, was murdered, but Ivo de Vessey could not know that.
It seemed to Briar somehow apt that her seduction of him should begin here.
How could she possibly lose sight of her real objective, in this place?
How could she feel any pleasure in it, while such a memory was raw at her feet?
“Your choice of scene lacks something, Briar.” He spoke dryly, but he took his hand from his sword.
She shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
A chill breeze drifted up the snickleway, a reminder that they were well into autumn.
Briar shivered. Or mayhap it was the spirit of Anna?
Beautiful Anna, who, it was said, broke men’s hearts with impunity—although that, Briar reminded herself, had been before she married Richard Kenton.
Still, if anyone could give Briar lessons in making a man crazed with lust, then surely it was Anna?
Ivo made an impatient sound and, taking her by surprise, grabbed up her hand and led her firmly out of the snickleway, and into Goodramgate.
Abruptly, at the same moment, the sun shone, throwing aside its covering of clouds.
Briar closed her eyes, feeling its welcome warmth against her skin.
When she opened them again, she could see beyond the uneven rooftops, to where ladders and scaffolding had been thrown up by the men usually hard at work reroofing and rebuilding York’s Saxon Minster.
The Minster had stood upon that spot for over three hundred years.
During the most recent rebellion in the north, King William’s men had burned much of the city, including the Minster, to prevent the rebels from overtaking it.
Aye, York had suffered much from the wars between men, and the new Norman Archbishop of York, Thomas of Bayeux, was determined to restore the Minster to God’s glory.
Ivo hurried her along, closer to the great church. The precincts were still much in ruin and deserted. An arched section of wall stood alone, warmed by the sun, and a barrier against the cold breezes.
“This is better.” Ivo stopped, and promptly pulled her into his arms.
Briar started to struggle, before she remembered she was supposed to be compliant.
Though not too compliant, not too easily won, she reminded herself.
Men appreciated the hunt, the chase, and the capture, in that order.
Briar rested her hands against Ivo’s mailed chest, feeling his heat even through the layers of clothing and the woven iron rings of his armor.
He seemed almost a stranger. It was his hair, she told herself.
She had dreamed so often of that wild hair, and her fingers in it, that its lack unsettled her.
“You spoke of my bruised face, demoiselle. A man struck me with the flat of his sword. If it had been the edge I would not be standing here now.”
The sun was no longer warm enough; somehow the chill wind had seeped through the wall. Briar stared up at him, and knew her own face was white. “But he did not,” she said, and her voice shook only slightly. “You are whole.”
“Your prayers kept me safe, Briar,” he said softly, and stroked his rough finger down her soft cheek.
“Then I am glad, Ivo.” She meant it. Slowly, carefully, as if such a thing were entirely foreign to her nature, Briar leaned into him and rested her cheek against his heart. It beat hard and strong. The sound calmed her, and she did not protest as he tightened his own hold about her.
He desired her. That part of him she remembered so well was nudging her belly. She ignored it. She had never realized before just how comforting a man’s arms could be.
And yet Ivo de Vessey is a man, the same as any other. Why should he be different?
His breath fanned her temple, his lips brushed her skin, gentle but promising more. Instinctively, Briar lifted her face to him, and his mouth closed on hers.
He stilled, as if taken by surprise, and then with a low groan he returned her kiss, his mouth no longer tender, but eager and hot.
Ah, here was something she understood! Lust, desire, these things she could deal with.
Relieved, Briar met his eagerness with enthusiasm.
Her tongue tangled with his, and when he slid his hands down to cup her bottom, bringing her closer to the point of his need, she did not demur, but wriggled against him.
It was Ivo who broke the kiss. His breath was warm against her cheek; he was panting as if he had run a race.
“I will not take you against the wall, Briar. Is that what you want?”
Surprised, she looked up at him, and was at once captured by that dark, brooding gaze. She licked her lips, and watched him follow the movement with rapt attention. Confidence returned to her, and Briar smiled.
“I do not know whether such a thing would be flattering or not, Ivo. But you are right, ‘tis not what I want.”
“Then you had best not push me too far, demoiselle. I think you are not accustomed to the ways of men, though you pretend.”
Annoyed, she tried to pull away from him, but he held her easily, allowing her only to lean back in his arms. Laughter warmed his smile and his eyes, as if he thought her struggles comical.
Briar wanted to slap him and demand he release her, but she knew to do either would be to undo all the magic she had worked so far.
“And you think you are accustomed to the ways of women, de Vessey? You could no more see into a woman’s head than weave a stocking!”
To her surprise he didn’t bristle, he laughed. “I can read some women, but you are different, Briar. Have you ever loved a man, demoiselle?”
The blunt question gave her pause. Briar hesitated, and then decided upon honesty. “Nay, apart from my father, I have loved no man.”
Ivo’s laughter was gone. “I will be the first, then.”
“Jesu! You are arrogant, Sir Disgraced Knight. I do not love you, why should I? What do you have, that would tempt me to love such as you?”
He ran his hand gently through her hair, his gloved fingers strangely stiff and unresponsive. “I can give you safety, Briar. A place to come and know you will not be harmed or hurt, where you no longer need to be the brave one. A place where you need not be alone.”
She went cold, suddenly afraid of his words, and the feelings they caused to well up within her. What he had described was a place she longed for with all her heart, but she had not known it, until now. How could he know? Was he truly able to see into her mind?
And what if he abandons you once he has had his fill of you? Be very careful how much you give him. Step back. Keep your distance. He might sink deep but you must not.
Briar made herself smile—one of Anna’s teasing smiles.
“I ask only one thing of you, Ivo.”
He was watching her intently. “And what is that, demoiselle?”
“That you do not cut your hair again. I prefer it the way it was.”
He stared at her a moment, totally blank, and then he threw back his head and laughed loudly.
“I will grow my hair to my toes, then, Briar, before I cut it again.” He spoke at last, humor gleaming in his eyes. “Does that please you?”
She smiled. “Aye, it does. Do you seek to please me, Ivo?”
“Always, demoiselle.”
The moment stretched. His fierce black gaze almost undid her, but she held on. Her voice was breathless. “Tell me why you were disgraced?”
A door closed within him; she saw it happen. His eyes went blank, cold, distant. He shut her out as effectively as if he really had stepped inside a room. “I, too, have my secrets,” he said.
She was tempted to push him further, to try and learn that which he did not want her to know.
But then she remembered it was none of her business—nor did she want it to be.
Better he keep his hurts to himself. She was not interested in his past, was she?
She did not want to know him too well; she dared not begin to care for him.
Ivo de Vessey was to be a means to an end. Nothing more.
“Very well. We will share our bodies but keep our feelings removed.”
The statement sounded so cold.
Ivo was watching her closely, but then he spoke the words she had been waiting to hear.
“It will all be just as you wish, demoiselle.”