Chapter 10 #4
“Since Jocelyn told me, before I sang tonight.” She clung even harder, as if afraid that now he knew he would push her away.
Or ask her if it was his. He had every right to do so.
She had lured him to her bed, a stranger.
How could he be certain she did not do that with others?
Jesu, she had pretended she did, just to annoy him!
“Ivo,” she whispered, “the babe is—”
“Mine.”
She leaned back to look at him, laughing and crying at the same time. He gave her a serious smile in return, but something bleak chilled his warm dark eyes.
“Do you still want me?” she asked uncertainly, reining in her wild emotions.
He nodded without hesitation. “You and the babe.”
“But—” What was that look in his eyes, what did it mean?
He pulled her close again, so that she could not read him.
“Tonight I will stay here with you. I will send Sweyn back to Lord Shelborne’s with Mary. Do you think Lady Jocelyn will mind?”
She hesitated, a tiny spark of rebellion catching heat at the ordering note in his voice. But she quenched it.
“Jocelyn will not mind, Ivo.”
He didn’t seem to notice her uncharacteristic compliance as he rose to his feet and went out to give Sweyn his new orders.
Sweyn didn’t argue, although Mary insisted on speaking to her sister. When she returned she looked a little dazed, and her glances at Ivo were suspicious. Shortly afterward they were gone.
Ivo stood and stared at the river. The shock of Briar’s confession was wearing off.
He knew he wouldn’t turn away from her. It was not in his character to do so.
He would care for and protect her until death.
That was what he had been trained to do.
But even if it were not, even had he been one of the boatmen out on the river, he would have remained by her side, whether she wanted him or not.
Briar was carrying his babe and suddenly his life’s choices had narrowed down to one.
Ivo had loved before, and it was not the thought of loving a woman and being responsible for her that worried him. It was the fear that she might be taken from him. And that he might be unable to stop it happening, that he might fail her in some way.
As he had failed Matilda. He hadn’t been able to save her, had he? No matter how much he had loved her, his love had not stopped her death at Miles’s hands. And it still hurt just as much as it always did, for Ivo’s love had not died with his sister. Once Ivo loved it was forever.
To his cost.
He tipped back his head and gazed at the stars, like tiny molten balls in the black furnace of the sky.
A babe. His and Briar’s. A de Vessey. Ivo did not doubt the babe was his.
Did that make him as arrogant as Briar was always accusing him?
He thought now that he had known, from the moment his seed spilled into her, he had known that this was meant to be.
They were meant to be. Struggle though they both might, the fates had already decided.
Briar was Ivo’s, and Ivo was Briar’s, and there was an end to it.
The door opened behind him. He felt the warmth spill out, and the sweet scent of Briar. The stars swam before his eyes, and Ivo turned to her.
Her face was pale from crying, and she looked uncertain, though trying to hide it with an indifferent mask. Sheltering her heart in case he shattered it, even after he had sworn to stay with her. His brave, beautiful love who had been so wounded by others.
He took a step forward, looking down into her eyes, and deliberately bent his head and kissed her. Captured her lips. Passion surged into him, and he felt the answering heat in her.
“Ivo,” she gasped, arms clinging, pressing closer.
He lifted her and carried her into the dwelling, closing the door behind them.
Briar felt herself slip into a warm, heady waking-dream. Ivo’s lips closed on hers, tenderly, but with a hint of urgency. He had said he wanted her, and she could feel the truth of it in his kisses.
His hands stroked her shoulders, her back, as his mouth drew her deeper into the dream.
Briar’s breasts felt heavy, achy, and she moved against him, enjoying the sensation of her soft flesh against his hard-muscled chest. He turned and slid his thigh between hers, lifting her with his hands about her waist, bringing her closer.
“Ivo,” she murmured. She ran her hands over his shoulders, tugging her fingers through his hair. He bent, pressing his face to her breasts through her gown. It was not enough. She needed his mouth on her bare skin, she needed to feel his tongue on her.
Ivo must have felt the same, for he began hastily pulling at ties and knots, drawing the garment over her head and tossing it aside, leaving her in her chemise, stockings, and shoes.
He stood and looked at her, his eyes hot.
Then gently, he knelt down and began to undress her.
Briar closed her eyes, her mind full of the sensation of his calloused fingers on her feet as her shoes were removed.
Warm, determined, his hands caressed her ankles, her calves, her knees, rolling each stocking down the curving slope of her leg. She opened her eyes and gazed into his.
He smiled up at her, and suddenly dizzy, she placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. The other she used to touch his jaw where the bruise still showed, his cheek, his mouth. His gloved fingers fondled her thigh, and she ached with wanting.
Ivo stood, lifting her with him, and carried her to the bed.
Briar lay back and watched as he removed his wolf-pelt cloak, and then his tunic and shirt.
His skin shone bronze in the firelight, while his face was all shadows.
He unlaced his breeches, and she reached out to touch him.
He felt hard and hot, and at the brush of her fingers he groaned.
“Briar.”
But when she would have gone further, he eased back and hurriedly stripped off his boots and breeches. He stood before her now, naked, apart from his glove.
“Will you take that off for me, too?” Briar asked, with surprising shyness.
Ivo hesitated, and then shook his head. “Not now, demoiselle.”
Briar did not insist. In truth, she was a little afraid of what she would see, and mayhap this was not the time for such things. He was watching her, suddenly uncertain.
“Do you think our friend at the hostelry will knock on the door tonight?” Briar teased nervously, to lighten the moment.
Ivo bent and slid his fingers along her thigh, seeking her center. He smiled. “He WLQ be sorry if he does.”
She laughed and then gasped as he leaned forward and found her nipple through the thin chemise, biting very gently. The bud swelled, went hard, and she clutched at his shoulders, feeling the muscles move beneath his skin.
“Take me, de Vessey,” she commanded. “I need you now.”
He looked down into her eyes, his own half closed, blurred with desire. “You are very bossy, my lady. Do you always instruct your lovers so?”
She arched as his fingers moved in her again, her reply ragged. “Only you, Ivo.”
He smiled, and it transformed him into a younger, more carefree man. Her handsome, lusty warrior. Briar reached up and took that mouth with hers, and at the same time he slid himself into her, claiming her as his.
“Ivo,” she gasped.
He groaned and withdrew, thrusting again, deeper this time. Briar lifted her hips, eager for more, quickly spiraling out of control. Could any other man give her this, this sense of completeness? There was no other man...
Briar cried out her joy as Ivo pushed her beyond pleasure, and followed after.
Briar lay content by Ivo, her body throbbing still from their passion. Ivo stroked her arm, where it lay across him beneath his wolfpelt cloak, which he had pulled over their cooling flesh.
“Will you wed me, Briar?”
Surprised, Briar viewed the request hungrily. I want this, she realized. I want to wed him and be his wife, have his child, make him happy and be happy myself.
Happiness had not had much to do with any plans she had made over the past two years. Briar was not sure if she trusted it.
“Is that what you want, Ivo?”
She half sat up, to see his face, but it was closed. Reminding her that he, too, had his secrets.
“I want you. A marriage between us will give me the right to protect you and the child, to care for you. It will bind us together, Briar.”
She shook her head, her hair spilling about them. “No more than we are already bound,” she said seriously.
He touched her cheek. “There are reasons why being a de Vessey may not be such a good idea,” he said, as if to himself. “And yet I would call you wife, Briar. I would that our child takes my name.”
Warmth flooded her at his answer. “Very well,” she whispered. “I will wed you, Ivo. I will be your wife.”
He took her in his arms, and his mouth grew hot and eager on hers. They had made a new pledge, thought Briar, as desire built between them once more. And it had nothing to do with vengeance or hate. This was a vow to each other, and it was built upon trust and responsibility and caring. And hope.
Sweyn drew Mary closer to him, the darkness itself like a cloak about them. Their horse moved cautiously through the silent streets of York.
“Will my sister wed Ivo?” she asked him, her voice soft and uncertain. Mary had been deep in thought until now, and Sweyn had left her undisturbed.
“Did she say that?”
Mary rested against his chest, trusting, comfortable. And he allowed it because it felt so good.
“Nay. She told me she was with child, and the father is Ivo.”
Sweyn was silent, almost as surprised as Mary. Almost. Ivo, a father? Well, it happened to most men. But most men weren’t Ivo. Sweyn knew his friend would not abandon this girl, even if he was not besotted with her. To leave her in such a plight was not in his nature.
“And your sister is happy about this?”
Mary considered. “I think so, or she would be, but she fears the future. You see she has been betrayed before.”
“Ivo would never betray her, Mary.”
She glanced around at him, trying to see his face.
“She will be well taken care of,” Sweyn added reassuringly.
He could see Ivo now, several years into the future, with Briar and a gaggle of children. Aye, his life was like a tale, already told. If, that was, Ivo could best his brother, Miles. If he could do that, then the story would end well. If not...
Sweyn turned the horse into the lane off Stonegate.
The future was not so clear for him. He supposed he would go on doing as he had always done.
Moving from place to place, from woman to woman.
As if in rejection of his thoughts, he tightened his hold on Mary’s pliant form, and the sweet scent of her hair made him dizzy.
“My sister thinks I am still a child.” Her gentle voice came to him from the darkness. “But I am not.”
“No, you are not,” he retorted. He knew well enough, from the feel of her in his arms, that she was all woman.
Mary seemed pleased with his answer.
“I would like a husband one day, and a babe,” she said, her voice carefully, painfully casual.
“Aye,” Sweyn replied bleakly, “I feared that you might.”