by Sara Bennett
Until now.
Ivo tried not to groan aloud. What was wrong with him that he coveted Briar, with her big hurt eyes and hot needy mouth? When he had every reason to be suspicious and wary of her? Why did he have this terrible, intense desire to play the chivalrous knight for her? When he knew, better than anyone, that his days as a knight were long dead.
Chapter 3
“Briar?”
Briar blinked. Her body felt heavy, and she didn’t want to move from the soft furs that cradled her. She had been dreaming of hard, strong arms and sharp pleasures, and the images lingered in her mind. With a sigh, she opened her eyes.
The room was dark, apart from the wavering light of a candle at the door. The shapes and spaces around her were unfamiliar. She sat up, her body protesting, and looked about her. Where am I? And then she remembered. Jesu! She was in one of Lord Shelborne’s chambers! A moment, that was all it had taken. She had closed her eyes, briefly, readying herself to go and find Mary and take her home, and…
I must have fallen asleep.
“Briar?”
She peered through her tangled hair, her eyes still tender from crying. The bleary candlelight by the door flared, showing Jocelyn’s face and, behind her, the young maid, Grisel.
Jocelyn spoke over her shoulder. “You may go now, Grisel.”
Grisel, eyes huge in the trickle of light, bobbed a shaky curtsy and scuttled away into the darkness.
The silence was profound.
Briar brushed her hair out of her face and smoothed her gown down. Her mind was working again, but slowly, creakily, like an old waterwheel. She set her shoulders in preparation for a scene.
Jocelyn moved forward, the candle wavering before her. A tall and stately woman, she looked very much the daughter of Lord Kenton and a very unlikely cook. Briar knew her sister, although normally even-tempered, did have a temper. Perhaps not the fiery, quick temper that was Briar’s, but a temper nevertheless.
“When you didn’t come to fetch Mary I realized what you had done. Grisel was behaving so guiltily, ’twas a simple matter to make her tell me.”
She didn’t sound angry, yet, but it was difficult to tell with Jocelyn—she held her emotions inside. Unlike Briar, who sparked with them like steel striking stone.
“I will come now. I—I fell asleep—”
Jocelyn was beside the bed now, the candle flame reflected in her blue eyes. Briar could see the knowledge, as if it were written there.
She knew.
Briar told herself she should stand up hotly for what she had done—wasn’t she seeking vengeance for them all, not just herself? But right now she was simply too beaten, too exhausted to justify herself to her sister. In truth, Briar, who was usually so independent and so headstrong, felt as if something vital inside her had shattered.
As if sensing her weakness, Jocelyn pressed her advantage, her voice trembling now with anger.
“I have learned that you gave a private audience to a man, Briar. Are you going to tell me about it? I know ’twas not Radulf. He did not come to the hall tonight. Rumor has it he was missing his wife, and stayed away.”
“Please, do not—”
“Aye, please do! You brought a man here, sister. You tricked Grisel into preparing this chamber for you, telling the simple wench some lying tale! And all the time you meant to bring Radulf here—it was Radulf you had set your sights on, wasn’t it? You asked after him so many times, I cannot be mistaken in that. I was a fool not to realize you had not given up your foolish plot, Briar. Who was here with you? Tell me!”
Resigned, Briar said, “He was one of Radulf’s men. His name was Ivo de Vessey. He was tall and dark-haired, and I thought…I thought I recognized him.” Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I thought he was Radulf.”
Jocelyn made a sound like a groan. “I told you to take care, Briar. I warned you to leave well alone. ’Tis Filby all over again.”
Briar shook her head slowly, back and forth.
Her blue eyes wide now with worry, Jocelyn caught her sister’s chin to hold her still, the candle dipping wildly in her other hand. “You destroy yourself with your own hatred, Briar! Now what have you done? This man, did he hurt you?”
Briar swallowed. “No, he did not hurt me.”
Jocelyn stared at her a moment, blankly. Under her gaze, the color crept slowly, tellingly, into Briar’s face. Jocelyn frowned, then stepped back awkwardly. “I do not understand you.”
Briar felt her cheeks burn even hotter. “This man, this Ivo de Vessey, he was not like Filby.”
Jocelyn continued to gaze at her as if she were mad, and then realization made her catch her breath. “You liked what he did to you.”
“Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant—”
“You liked it! Dear God, I should be horrified, but instead I am strangely glad. You are safe and unharmed, and this man…But what is it, Briar? You are different. Something in you has changed.”
Briar turned away. “It was the wrong man,” she whispered in anguish. “I meant to punish Radulf for all he has done to us, and instead…I failed us all.”
“You mistake me,” Jocelyn said, more gently. “I am not angry with you, well…I was. Sister, I have always regretted not stopping you from going to Filby. He was callous and unfeeling, and he wounded you deeply. I never did like him. If Odo had not been so ill, and I had not had other thoughts to fill my head, I would have stopped you. Instead you went off in your own headstrong way, certain you could change the mind of such a man. Briar, we cannot always change the way of the world, just because we wish to. Surely tonight has shown you that, if nothing else?”
“I admit I have made a mistake,” Briar replied bluntly. Tears tightened her throat, but she tried to swallow them back down. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
The admission sapped her limited strength, and she slumped down upon the bed, covering her face with trembling hands. “I don’t know what to do,” she repeated with all the bewilderment of a wounded child. “I thought it would feel so good that I had succeeded at last, but I felt…empty. I had stolen Radulf from his wife, just as he stole Anna from our father, and it was right and just. But instead I felt tainted. And then I learned the man I had lain with was not even Radulf! I had let the wrong man use my body. I had given myself to the wrong man and achieved nothing!”
“Oh Briar—”
“No, no, you were right. Even though it was not Radulf, and I realized my ridiculous mistake, I knew then that I had wanted Radulf to be this man because I was…he was…Jocelyn, you were right. I did like what we did. He made me feel such things! He was like no other man. But then I realized that, being with him, had ruined everything. I cannot even think of…of…with Radulf. Not now. And my plot, my vengeance, is all broken up and confused in my mind. What will I do? I feel such pain, such emptiness and loss. Jocelyn, if I cannot honor my father by defeating his enemy, what am I to do?”
Jocelyn wrapped her arms around Briar and held her tightly as she wept. The sobs were painful to hear, but Jocelyn felt only relief. Briar had held herself aloof for so long, ever since they left Castle Kenton. She had professed her hatred and sought her revenge, but it had been a barricade behind which she hid from the stark truth—that nothing could ever be the same again. And now that barricade seemed to have suffered some major damage.
Was that the doing of this man? This Ivo de Vessey? Had he breached her sister’s defenses when all else had failed? Or was it simply that, now that Briar’s plot had fallen in a heap, she found herself at a crossroads she had never faced before? To go on hating, as she had for two years, or to strike out in a new direction.
Whatever the case, Jocelyn felt that Ivo de Vessey deserved her gratitude.
“Will you see him again?” she asked quietly.
Her sister lifted her ravaged face and gave her a wild look. “Nay, I must not! I must never see him again!”
Jocelyn hugged her closer, her mind working. Clearly Briar was suff
ering, but if this Ivo de Vessey had wrought one miracle, he may be able to perform another.
“Tell me about him,” she said coaxingly. “Humor me. What was he like? I worry, Briar, that this man had not seen a woman for some time. You are fair; he probably could not believe his good luck. Was that all there was to it?”
Briar snuggled down against her sister’s shoulder. She had not been held like this since she was a child, and it felt good. Was Jocelyn right? she wondered. Was it that Ivo had merely been eager for a woman, and any woman would do? But if that were the case, would he have held her so tenderly? Would he have kissed her mouth as if it were all he had ever wanted? Called her his angel? And, come to think of it, he had not looked like the sort of man who would have any trouble finding a woman for his bed. Nay, he had not thrown himself onto her like a starving man a loaf of bread! He had held back, kept his passion in check until she had reached her own peak. Were they the actions of an oaf who cared nothing for the needs of women?
“He was a knight, once,” she said at last, softly, as if she were confiding something rare and sweet. “He is no unlearned fool, Jocelyn. He speaks well, and his mind is sharp and clever. He acts like a noble, although now he is disgraced and fights for coin to feed himself—even so, much of his past remains.”
“I see. Do you think he is smitten with you? Or is he weak-minded? Aye, why else did he fall into disgrace. Mayhap he is easily corrupted?”
Briar shook her head. “I don’t know if he is smitten or not. He…he enjoyed what we did. He said he had found me and I think he will not easily let me go. And weak-minded or easily corrupted? Nay, I think not.”
“Better and better.”
The satisfaction in Jocelyn’s voice made Briar search her face. Her sister’s eyes were gleaming in a manner rare these days.
“You lay with the wrong man,” Jocelyn explained patiently, “but you may turn that to your advantage.”
“What do you mean? I told you, I must never see him again.”
“You say this Ivo de Vessey is one of Radulf’s men? Isn’t that what you want? A way into Radulf’s camp. Mayhap you can bend this Ivo de Vessey to your will?”
Briar frowned, remembering how he had subdued her with his great strength and kissed her into passion. Bend him to her will? Could she resist him? Could she gain the upper hand? And even if she could, did the determination to fulfil her vow still exist within her?
“You mean I could use him to get at Radulf?” Briar asked suspiciously. This did not make sense; Jocelyn was always trying to talk her out of her plots, not into new ones.
Jocelyn was nodding enthusiastically. “But he would need to be very enamored of you. So desirous of your body that he would be willing to do anything for you. Do you believe you could make this man so crazed with lust that he would be your willing slave, Briar?”
Did she? The thought of trying caused a treacherous warmth to curl in the pit of her stomach. Guiltily, Briar glanced at Jocelyn, in time to see her sister’s half smile of satisfaction.
“I do not understand why you are trying to help me now, when all along you have tried to stop me taking revenge on Radulf.”
Jocelyn looked innocent. “Mayhap I think your mind needs to take a new direction, sister.”
Briar did not feel convinced. The idea was a good one; it was the motive behind it that concerned her.
“You liked him,” Jocelyn said. “I can see it in your face when you speak of him. You talk of plots and vengeance, but I wonder if your liking for this man will overcome your obsession for what is over and done, and now cannot be undone. I pray ’tis so, Briar, for your sake.”
“My obsession? I plotted for us all, sister. We all deserve justice. You, Mary, our father, and Anna.”
“Aye, Anna.” Jocelyn looked away, watching as wax rolled down the stub of candle. “Mayhap justice has been done, Briar, and you just cannot see it. I want to forget what happened. I am not like you.”
This time when the silence stretched on, neither of them broke it.
Briar took a deep breath. She was beginning to throw off her depression; she was never one to allow her mind to remain stagnant for long. ’Twas true, she told herself now, her original plan to hurt Radulf was ruined, but Jocelyn’s idea had merit, no matter what her hidden motive may be. Mayhap it was possible, after all, to pick up those shattered pieces…
Briar remembered again the sensation of his warm, strong arms about her, and his mouth seeming to steal her very soul as he kissed her. There had been an intensity between them, a clashing and melding of minds and bodies. If he had felt the same as she, then he would seek her out again.
And then all I have to do is make him so crazed with lust, he will turn traitor for me.
And then what? Steal up on Radulf with an assassin’s dagger? Briar shuddered at the thought. Well, she would think of something when the time came. She always did.
The structure appeared sound, but the foundations needed some work. Briar had been fully prepared to martyr herself, to suffer to achieve her revenge. Indeed, suffering and martyrdom had been an integral part of her plan. This new Jocelyn-inspired plot seemed far too much like pleasure-seeking. Where was the pain in making Ivo de Vessey desire her? The very thought of it sent shivers of anticipation through her.
Jocelyn was watching her again, her eyes sharp, but when she spoke her voice was gentle. “You are tired. Sleep in my bed tonight, there is room enough for Mary, too. I will go to the stables with Odo—it will be like old times.”
Briar wanted to protest, but weariness was stealing her ability to argue. She allowed Jocelyn to lead her from the chamber and down the dark, cold passage toward the kitchen.
When Briar and Mary were settled, Jocelyn stood a moment and gazed upon them.
They are young, despite all their hardship. I feel old in comparison. My burdens are so heavy, my back feels bowed, but I do not begrudge them. How can I? Sometimes love is the heaviest burden of all.
She smiled. Briar had looked so woebegone, so bereft. She had needed a new scheme to see her through her anguish, and Jocelyn had found it for her. Briar could not know that it was her happiness that Jocelyn was really plotting. This man, this Ivo de Vessey, had spun her sister like a top. If Jocelyn could throw them together, grow that tiny spark into something more lasting, mayhap Briar could finally put away her destructive dreams of revenge.
For all their sakes.
Ivo woke to Sweyn’s snores and a chorus of dawn birdsong. He had only had a couple of hours’ sleep, and they had been restless, but still he rose and began to dress. Sweyn would think him scrambled in the head when he knew where he was going.
Ivo and Sweyn and the rest of Radulf’s men had spent much of the night discussing the situation in the north. Matters were grim, according to one of Lady Lily’s vassals, who had ridden hard to reach York when he had learned Lord Radulf was coming. The vassal informed them that a large band of Scots had crossed the border to join with the rebels. They were ravaging the land—already much depleted by previous rebellions—to feed themselves, and seemed intent upon carnage. Plans had to be made to fight them, support had to be gained from other barons and vassals, and all as swiftly as possible. This small skirmish now had the capacity to expand into another full-blown war in the north.
Ivo had listened to the talk of fighting and death, and all the while he was aware of the ache in his heart. The heart Briar had stripped bare of its shield, made vulnerable again. And he knew, foolish as it was, that he could not go north without saying farewell to her.
“We are leaving as soon as Radulf has broken his fast and written a letter to his lady.”
It was Sweyn, sitting up on his mattress, his bare chest gleaming in the pale light. He was eyeing Ivo with weary amusement.
“You must be here when we go, Ivo.”
“I will be. I need to speak with her. To tell her.”
“To tell her what? That you bedded her and enjoyed her? What else is there to say? ’Twas o
ne night, Ivo. Let it go now. Move on. ’Tis the way of men like us. We do not settle, we do not grow fond of any woman, for we may be dead on the morrow.”
Ivo looked grim. “Do you think I do not know that better than any man, Sweyn?”
“But still you need to speak with her?” Sweyn shook his head, and for once he was not smiling. “Beware, Ivo.”
Ivo knew that Sweyn was right, but being right was not enough to stop him. How could he explain to his friend that the need to see her again was stronger than the clear knowledge that she could hurt him?
Instead of sleeping, he had been remembering the past. Replaying that brief memory over and over again in his mind. And wondering why she had wanted him to be Radulf. Obviously there were reasons for what she had done. And still he could not forget how she had clung to him, given herself to him, after she knew who he really was.
That made all the difference.
Ivo strapped on his sword. The need to see her was twisting inside him, and if he did not give in to it before he left York, he would not have a moment’s peace while he did his work under Radulf’s banner. He had to tell her where he was going and why, he had to make her believe he meant to return. He could not ride away and leave her thinking their moments together were nothing more to him than a soldier’s lust.
And what of the rest? Will you tell her that you know who she is?
That was more difficult.
Ivo was well aware that those tied by blood to Lord Kenton were traitors by association. Bringing her demons into the light might help her. Or she may turn from him. Mayhap ’twas better to wait. He did not want her to push him away—she had seemed so desperate last night, so alone. He didn’t want her to be alone anymore. The chivalrous knight in him—the part of him he had thought dead—would simply not allow it.
I should know better, he thought.
But this new, frightening need to protect, to comfort, to hold Briar outweighed Ivo’s slender stock of caution.
