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She narrowed her eyes at him. “I do not like surprises, de Vessey.”
“Come,” he said impatiently, and held out his linked hands for her foot, to throw her into the saddle.
Briar glanced behind her. “What of my sister? Where is the Dane? I cannot leave her here, alone.”
Ivo’s expression turned superior. “You think you are strong enough to stand between her and any cutthroats who lurk here? Briar, you delude yourself. You are a small woman, and although I am sure you would fight to the death, you would soon be overcome if the man were determined.”
“I do well enough,” she replied, refusing to be drawn.
After giving her another long look, he nodded his head in the direction of one of the fallen cottages. The big blond man leaned against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, as still as if he were asleep. He did not appear to be keeping watch, thought Briar, and yet something in his very stillness made her think of a hawk hovering, waiting to dive upon its prey.
Mary was in good hands, then.
Briar hitched up her skirt to sh
ow her darned stockings and old shoes, and was amused at the blind expression that came into Ivo’s eyes. He was good at protecting his feelings—or was he protecting hers? With a mental shrug, she set her foot in his hands, and he threw her up into the saddle as easily as if she had been a feather.
As he prepared to mount behind her, Briar looked down, into his upturned face. Their eyes met and locked.
To her surprise, he smiled.
As if he was pleased simply to be in her company.
Ivo rode through the quiet streets of York, with Briar tucked securely into his arms. At first she had tried to hold herself apart, her body stiff and ungiving, but gradually she had relaxed and slipped further into the curve of his body. It was more comfortable for her, but not so much for him. Her haughty demeanor did little to alleviate his desire for her.
His body ached.
When he had seen her before the fire, her long hair glowing, her body near enough to naked, he had felt as raw as a youth with his first wench. If Mary hadn’t been there, Ivo doubted he would have been able to stop himself from grabbing her up, carrying her to her bed, and making her his again. And again.
The memories of their night together were as fresh and new in his mind as if they had just happened. She might resist him at every turn—he smiled to himself as he remembered her attempts to fight him with her puny sword—but it made no difference to how he felt. He wanted her. More than that—he wanted to protect her, defend her, carry the memory of her kisses into battle, and win for her sake.
Why wouldn’t she see that?
But of course she could not, he reminded himself bitterly. What woman would want the services of a disgraced knight? No wonder she thought it best to protect herself. She did not trust him, and who could blame her?
The king’s castle rose high and solemn above the newly constructed rooftops, while a flag flapped wildly in the breeze. During the last siege of York all the buildings surrounding the castle had been burned by William’s men, so that the rebels should have no protection on their approach. Now that there was peace again, the area was gradually being reestablished.
The woman in his arms shifted. Ivo felt all the softness leave her body as she realized where they were going. Like a wild creature scenting danger, Briar stiffened.
“You are safe,” he said firmly, slowing his horse as they made the approach. “There is a man I want you to see. He is a prisoner here. He knows you.”
“He knows me?”
“’Twas he who gave me this fine bruise upon my face.”
“And you want me to congratulate him?” she asked cautiously, her eyes gleaming.
He laughed. Jesu, he admired her. She was making jokes, when he well knew she was terrified. The king was her enemy and this was his castle—how could she not think the worst?
“Aye, you can do that if you wish.”
They had been admitted through the gate and into the bailey without any problems. Now Ivo dismounted and, reaching up, grasped Briar’s waist, bringing her down beside him. She stepped closer and he hid a smile. Now he was her protector, disgraced or not.
Without asking first, he took her cool fingers in his and led her toward the place where the prisoners were held.
It was cold and forbidding here, but little different to most dungeons. Ivo had seen many, though rarely from the inside. Briar, he suspected, had seen none; indeed, it appeared she did not like the look of this one at all. Perhaps she was imagining herself in here, imagining what it would be like if she were locked up by the king’s order.
“’Tis a dreary place,” she murmured.
