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Her furious little face glowered up at him as she stood up straight in her worn chemise, her fists clenched by her sides.
Ivo’s mouth twisted. “I do not kill women, demoiselle.”
“But you are a disgraced knight, de Vessey, surely they kill anyone?”
Fury roared into him, like floodwaters through an open sluice. Somehow he controlled it. He had grown better at self-control since he met Briar. He had had no choice. One of them must display some maturity, he told himself self-righteously.
Slowly, Ivo slid his sword back into its scabbard, never once taking his gaze from hers. She didn’t look away but he could tell she wanted to. Aye, she was hasty and impetuous, arrogant and stubborn. But he understood why she was striking out at him. It was because she felt so helpless and impotent, because of the need to do something in her own defense.
Briar was not used to feeling helpless.
He wanted to tell her that there was no need for her to feel like that. He would fight her battles for her; he would stand strong at her side.
“Can you not speak?” she demanded.
Her eyes shot darts into his. But her body was warm and scented through her thin undergarment, the skin of her legs and arms smooth and rosy in the firelight, her breasts heaving from emotion and exertion. Her chestnut hair had almost dried, curling thickly about her. Her mouth was lush and full…
He wanted her. More than any woman he had ever known, he wanted her. Desire hardened his body.
“I can speak,” he said, his voice husky with need, “but do you want to hear my words?”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, the thick dark lashes sweeping down. She must have read his intentions in his gaze, because she made to turn and run. But it was too late. Ivo reached out and caught her about the waist, hauling her in against his body. The feel of all that soft flesh was almost his undoing, and Ivo bit back a groan. She pushed her palms against his chest, twisting away, but he was too strong for her and they both knew it.
Ivo leaned closer, breathing in the scent of her newly washed hair. His hands tightened on her waist, sliding around to her back, feeling the pull of flesh and muscle. He knew the moment she felt his desire, hard against her stomach, for she went still. Her eyes widened and flew to his.
“You make me want you,” he whispered, slowly and deliberately, for her ears only. “I know you are as hot on the inside as you are on the outside. Send your sister away, demoiselle, and we will spend the morning in your bed.”
She considered it! Just for a moment, he saw the indecision in her face, a flash of hot need to match his own. His heart jolted in anticipation. But then she had conquered it, and the brief weakness vanished beneath a new wave of her ever-present temper.
“Burn in hell, de Vessey!”
“I fear, Briar, that is something I may well do.”
He sighed. There was a world of regret in that sigh; it was the sound of a man who wanted what he could not have. He let her go, and moved to open the door, then paused, outlined by the light. His voice had turned cold and brusque.
“Get dressed, demoiselle. I will wait outside for you. But do not make me wait too long.”
“Curse him!” Briar gasped, swinging about, pulling at her hair like one demented.
One moment she was so furious with him for his arrogant confidence that she longed to scratch out his eyes, and then the next she could weep and rail with disappointment because he had given up t
oo easily. What was wrong with her?
Briar knew now, when it was too late, that she should have softened sooner. Wasn’t she supposed to be winning him to her side? Spitting at him and daring him to fight her was hardly the way to a man’s heart…Was it? And yet, sometimes, she wondered if it might be the way to Ivo’s. When she had raised her sword and challenged him to do battle with her, he had looked at her in such a way. As though his lust for her was so great, he wanted to have her there and then.
Aye, he lusted after her. She was not mistaken in that. But she had best take care she did not play too hard to catch—if she ran too fast and too hard, she might outrun him altogether.
Slowly Briar became aware that Mary was staring at her with big, dark eyes. As if Briar had grown an extra head.
“You deliberately made him angry,” her sister said, with a mingling of fear and amazement. “Aren’t you afraid of what he will do, Briar, if you make him angry?”
Briar shrugged as if she didn’t care. “He is all bluff, Mary. He will not hurt me.”
Mary frowned. “But how do you know for certain?”
Briar began to pull on her gown with impatient fingers. “I just do.” She tied the girdle with sharp, angry jerks, and then drew on her cloak. The garment was still warm despite its hard wear; it had served her well, though the Lincoln green wool had faded almost to gray.
How do I know for certain?
