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She must be cold; she was blowing warm breath on her fingertips. Without thinking, he took her hands in his and held her cold fingers to his own mouth. She went still, her lips parted, and gazed up at him in wonder as he gently warmed each rosy finger with his own breath.
“You are a lady to me,” he said, and wondered if she could read the confusion in his face, matching her own. He could see an image of himself in the mirror of her dark eyes. Big and fair, his tanned face gone a little sallow from the cold, his blue eyes bright in color but dull with tiredness. He was so much older than she, in years as well as experience. How could she look at a man like him with such longing? With such wanting? He could give her nothing; he was nothing. Didn’t she understand that?
She wants a husband and children.
“Mary—”
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Do not say anything,” she whispered. “Do not try to make sense of it.”
He hesitated, on the edge of the abyss, and then he closed his eyes—telling himself that what he could not see did not count—and slipped over.
Sweyn kissed her fingers. It was so easy now, to enjoy the feel of her, the warmth of her, the sweet scent of her. Mary slipped into his arms and rested her body against his, as if she too were savoring those very things.
“Don’t trust me,” he breathed into her hair. “I do not trust myself. I will hurt you, Mary. I have never been faithful to one woman in my life.”
For a moment she stiffened, and he thought her hurt by his honesty, but when she spoke again he could hear the smile in her voice, and with it a steel certainty that awed him.
“I do not know if you can trust me, either, Sweyn. I have been a child for so long, it will be difficult for me to be a woman. I am trying, but…” She sighed and cuddled closer. “I don’t want to be a child anymore, Sweyn. I think you can help me to become a woman. Even if you do not stay with me forever, I want you to be the first.”
What was she asking him to do? Sweyn opened his eyes and met hers. The invitation was there, unmistakable. Sweyn swallowed. Great Odin, she was asking him to…! His rod grew even harder, though a moment ago he had considered that impossible. He imagined bending and devouring her soft lips, plunging his hands into her hair, plunging his body into hers. He imagined sating his need on her, and the vivid images in his head were all wonderful.
And then, just as abruptly, the desire leached out of him.
How could he take her in such a way? Steal her innocence? He was not a man to stay with her, or any woman. He would use her and leave her, and then what? She would be hurt, she would suffer, she would look at him with pain in her eyes. He could not bear that, and Sweyn knew suddenly that for the first time in his whole selfish life, he would rather deny his desires than suffer the consequences.
Cautiously, amazed at his own self-denial, and feeling almost saintlike because of it, Sweyn shook his head. “Nay, Mary,” he said gently. “I am not the man for you. You will find someone else, someone who cares for you and will stay with you, always. Someone who is deserving of you. Now go back inside, ’tis far too cold out here.”
And then he stepped away from her. Although releasing her was like cutting off his hand, he still managed to do it. Pride at his self-sacrifice surged through him, mingling with his savage pain of loss.
Mary stared up at him a moment, bewildered, tears sparkling in her eyes, and then she turned and walked back to the cottage. When the door finally closed, Sweyn was sure that it sliced his heart in two.
You did a fine thing. You were a knight, like Ivo. Be proud. She will be much happier with a better man.
“Aye, but can I stand the thought of it?” Sweyn muttered, and then cursed and kicked savagely at a pile of debris. “If I’ve done such an honorable thing, why am I feeling so bloody miserable?”
Chapter 12
Briar had enjoyed the journey to the old house, even though it had stirred up painful memories. But now the pleasure was gone. Ivo had spoiled it with his strange behavior toward his brother, his wild manner inside the abandoned building, and now his frozen, icy politeness.
His silence irritated her beyond bearing, and in the end she had to remind herself of the vow she had made to herself, in case she sought to stir him into response, any response, by baiting him.
But still Ivo had said nothing. The raging temper that had afflicted him was gone, turned to frigid ice, and no matter how patient and forbearing she was, he simply gazed at her with dark, tormented eyes.
“Ivo!” she cried at last, beyond caution. “You must tell me what is wrong, for I cannot bear it any longer.”
“There is nothing wrong with me that you need concern yourself with.” He looked away, toward the Ouse, and his mouth firmed. “My problems are my own, demoiselle. I will handle them in my own way.”
“Ivo—”
“You are home.” He slid from the saddle, and reached to help her down. “I have matters to attend, so I will bid you farewell for now.”
His voice was stilted and emotionally bereft. How could that be, when before he had been so warm, so real? Briar wanted the other Ivo back; she already hated this icy man. She stamped her foot in frustration. “Ivo!” But he simply ignored her, climbed back on his horse, and rode away.
Briar did not understand it, and it worried her. She did not like the Ivo she had seen today, he frightened her. They were to be wed. This man was to be her husband, the father of her babe. What chance did they have at a life if she did not like or understand him?
She had not even known Ivo had a brother, he never spoke of him. Miles’s face filled her mind, that expression of sad resignation in his eyes. As if he had long ago given up on reclaiming his brother. What had Ivo done that was so terrible? Why had he been disgraced? Why did he hate his brother so? Was it because Miles was still a knight? That Miles was a better man?
Nay, I don’t believe it. Ivo is a good man. I trust him with my life, with my babe’s life.
