Chapter 9
Briar, Mary, and Jocelyn had been waiting at the stables for only a short while when the two mercenaries appeared.
It took only a moment for the grooms to prepare the horses, Odo fumbling at the harnesses slowly, clumsily.
Briar could never look at him without remembering him as he used to be.
Brash and confident, with his big laugh.
Women had adored him, but Odo had only ever had eyes for Jocelyn.
His horse ready, Sweyn reached for Mary without a word and lifted her up before him.
Ivo turned to Briar. He appeared overwhelming in this dark place, the flare of the torches accentuating his size and looks.
His black eyes gleamed red from the flame.
Her own face must be strained and white—it had been a long day and she was weary, though thankfully the nausea had passed.
Her head was thudding a little, like a distant curfew drum, but Briar knew her bed would cure that.
“Will you ride with me, demoiselle?”
That deep, soft voice. Briar knew she would hear it in her dreams, years away from now. And it would still send tremors of delight over her skin.
“Aye, of course I will.”
He seemed surprised, but the next moment he had reached out and fitted his big hands about her narrow waist, lifting her easily onto the saddle.
Then he swung himself up, steadying his mount, arranging her comfortably before him.
At Ivo’s signal, he and Sweyn set their horses to traverse the narrow laneway, and rode out into Stonegate.
Behind them, Jocelyn raised a hand in farewell.
Cold mist lay milky upon the ground. It drifted across their path in long tendrils of white, and stirred at the movement of the animals’ hooves.
He was so warm, surrounding her, protecting her. Briar rested her head contentedly against his chest, and sighed. “I did not mean to cut you with my tongue,” she murmured sleepily.
“Did you not?” He sounded as if he doubted her.
Briar didn’t like that. “No, I did not.”
“And I suppose the thought of my missing fingers did not make your stomach turn inside out.”
There was hurt in his voice, but he had made it into a joke. Surprised, Briar lifted her head to peer up at him. She could see the shape of his jaw, the jut of his nose, and the gleam of his eyes as he glanced down at her.
“Nay,” she breathed, stammering in her need to reassure him ‘twas not so. “That is nothing to me. “Iis only that I imagined how you must feel, how it must have hurt you. But it did not make me sick. I was already sick. ‘Twas the mead, Ivo, that is what turned my stomach inside out.”
He stared steadily down at her. Judging her. Suddenly it seemed desperately important that she convince him.
Briar turned slightly and reached up. Her fingers brushed over his firm, shaven jaw until she touched his smooth lips. She let herself explore the texture of them, the shape of them, the warmth of his breath through them.
She felt him smile.
“Lady, you are distracting me,” he murmured against her fingers, gently admonishing.
“Am I? By doing this? Interesting.” She stretched up, turning her body more fully into his.
“What if I were to do this?” Her lips made contact with his neck, tasting his warm flesh.
“Or this?” Now she nipped at the lobe of his ear, gently, but hard enough to let him feel her sharp little teeth. His breath quickened.
A great wave of heat swept through Briar.
Am I mad, to do this? What does it gain me?
Nothing was the answer, apart from the moment’s pleasure and Ivo’s delight.
Never once, in the two years since her life ended, had Briar done anything that did not gain her some foothold further up the ladder of survival.
But now she wanted to touch him, to kiss him, simply because it made her feel so good.
He turned his face, and claimed her mouth with his.
He tasted of wine and man. She wanted to get closer, she needed to get closer. Her hands crept about his neck, into the springy hair that was growing back at his nape, while her lips clung to his.
“Which of you is the real Briar?” he murmured teasingly, his breath warm against her cheek. “Is it this one here, now, in my arms, or the other with her cutting tongue?”
“They are both me,” she whispered, and pressed yet closer. “Is it not possible for me to be two women in one?”
He bent again, hungrily, but his mouth paused just before it touched hers. “I like this one better,” he growled, and claimed his kiss.
Briar clung to him, returning his passion, her body straining hard against his.
Heat poured over her, sizzling her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
This was what she wanted, she thought dizzily.
This sense of being part of another, this belonging.
Jocelyn was right. Sometimes you had to leap and just pray you landed safely.
“Beware!”
Sweyn’s voice, loud and frantic, cut through her heated passion like a sliver of ice.
Instantly Ivo had tucked her in against his chest, in the safety of his arms. His body was rigid and alert, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
He was prepared to fight, and Briar was still struggling to catch her breath.
Ivo wheeled his horse around, facing the direction of Sweyn’s raised arm.
Not that he needed to, thought Briar, for she was certain that he too could hear the heavy thud and rattle.
An armed troop of men were approaching. Danger, bearing down upon them, leaving them only two options.
Turn and ride as fast as they could and hope to outrun them. Or stand and fight.
Ivo drew his sword.
At his side, Sweyn did the same. The two of them waited, weapons ready, as five armed men rode into Stonegate in front of them.
They wore chain-mail tunics and full-face helmets, their identities completely hidden by steel and shad?ows.
One of the men urged his mount forward a little, as if to claim the role of leader.
The horse shifted nervously and snorted, the plume of hot breath turning the cold air to white.
They all waited, and although it seemed to Briar an interminable time, it was only a couple of heartbeats. The man stared at them, his body rigid with the effort to control his horse, while his men were as silent and frightening as he.
“Jesu.”
It was Ivo’s murmur, his voice hoarse and strange. Briar felt his hard body grow even more hard.
And then, without a word, the leader dug his spurs into his mount and came at them.
Briar gasped and tried to make herself as small as possible, curling against Ivo, intent on not get?ting in the way of the swing of his sword.
Her heartbeat was as loud as the galloping horse.
Ivo’s own heart sounded so solid against her cheek, and she felt his muscles stretch and harden as he twisted his body to protect her, and fight off their attacker.
The leader of the troop drew his sword and shouted a long, wordless cry of rage.
The hairs on Briar’s neck stood up at the sound.
Ivo lifted his sword and drove forward.
Steel connected with steel with a hideous clang. The dull clash echoed about them. Ivo hissed with pain. And then the galloping horse had passed them, moving on.
Ivo cursed and swung around, shouting orders to Sweyn. Briar peered between her fingers. Their faceless attacker had already been swallowed up in the darkness, his men close behind. They had not even unsheathed their weapons, and had given Ivo and Sweyn a wide berth.
Swords still drawn, faces blank with confusion, the two mercenaries stared after them.
“Are they gone?” asked Sweyn in a whisper.
“Aye.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I know not,” said Ivo, and yet... There was something in his voice that made Briar wonder.
Sweyn appeared not to notice. “Who would play such games? Why make a threat, and then fail to follow it through? What does a man gain from it?”
“Our fear.”
“He wanted to unsettle us? Why?”
Ivo shifted on his mount, not answering. Briar decided then that he did have some idea what this was all about. He simply wasn’t sharing it with them.
Abruptly Ivo sheathed his sword. Apart from that single clash of blades there had been no fight. Had the sight of two big, armed men been enough to frighten off the attackers? Was it that simple? Had this been some foolish dare?
Ivo reached down and rubbed his thigh, and winced.
Briar’s mind froze. Speculation was forgotten and she was suddenly dizzy with terror. “You are hurt?” She ran frantic hands over him, searching for possible wounds.
For a moment he allowed her to do so, confused by her desperation, and then Ivo caught her hands in his, stilling her. “Nay, Briar, stop. I am unharmed.” His voice was gentle. “ ‘Tis an old injury, and sometimes the muscle pulls again.”
Briar nodded, feeling foolish. He was still gazing down at her, and when she flicked her own eyes up to his, she read warmth and admiration in his gaze.
“You are brave, demoiselle. You did not swoon, like your sister.”
“Swoon!”
Startled, Briar swung around to Sweyn and noticed that Mary had fainted in his arms. Sweyn looked as if he would faint himself, touching Mary’s cheek, her shoulder, whispering in her ear. “Sweet Jesu, Mary,” Briar gasped, wriggling to escape Ivo’s grip.
“She is not hurt.” He would not release her. “She swooned when she knew we were safe. ‘Twas better than had she done it in the midst of a fight.”
“I am glad that pleases you,” Briar said sharply, her concern for him forgotten. But she gave up her struggle, content that Mary was in good hands.
“Who were they?” she asked, watching him curiously.
Ivo’s mouth went hard and straight. “Friends of the rebels who would take Lord Radulf’s lands? Thieves intent on our purses? Enemies of mine?”
“What enemies do you have?” she demanded.