Chapter 1 #3
Now, as Briar tightened her grip, her small hand in his, Jocelyn’s warnings rang in her head.
She had refused to listen to Jocelyn then, and she did not want to remember her words now.
They made her feel uneasy, edgy. Radulf must suffer, just as they had suffered.
Aye, Briar was right and Jocelyn was wrong, and she must damp down all doubts within her, be cold as winter on the moors about her home at Castle Kenton.
That was why she had not said another word to Jocelyn about tonight, why she had turned instead to Grisel, one of the maidservants.
It was simple enough to spin Grisel a tale about a man for whom Briar was lovesick, to beg her to prepare her a room, to swear her to silence.
The chamber that Grisel had found for her was at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house.
Quickly Briar pulled her enemy inside the chamber after her, and closed the door.
Her gaze darted about the room, assuring herself that everything was in place.
Grisel had left a single candle on a wooden chest, and its flame shivered in the draft, sending shadows dancing upon the low-beamed ceiling.
The bed was large and thick with sumptuous furs and soft cushions.
It looked most inviting, as it was meant to.
Grisel had made a tempting trap, with Briar herself as the bait.
“This is your room?”
He was watching her, those gleaming black eyes piercing her own.
She had never seen such eyes, so expressive, so wounded, so ancient.
As if he had seen things she could only dream of.
.. Again Briar shook herself. She could read desire in them, and that was all she needed to see.
Aye, he wanted her. She had known it from the moment they exchanged glances across Lord Shelborne’s hall.
So much for Radulf’s famed fidelity to the Lady Lily! And yet...
Something struck her amiss, like a sour note on Mary’s harp.
Breathless, Briar struggled with her doubt and fear.
Not now. She pressed the emotions down inside herself, deep, deep down.
She could not allow her feelings to sway her now, not when vengeance was within her grasp.
This was the time for a cool, clear head and a cold heart.
If Radulf was willing to betray his wife, then Briar told herself she was more than willing to help him do it.
“Wine?” she asked calmly, moving to pour some into a goblet from the jug Grisel had placed earlier.
“Aye, demoiselle.” He reached out his hand.
When she saw the black glove upon it, Briar hesitated. “One glove?” she asked, with a breathy laugh. “Is this an affectation, my lord?”
He shook his head, the humorless smile barely curling the edges of his wide mouth. “No affectation, demoiselle. My hand is injured and I wear the glove so that it will not frighten pretty ladies like yourself. That is all.”
Briar shrugged, but her gaze was curious. Had Radulf hurt himself? She had not heard of any serious injury, and she always had her ears open for talk of the King’s Sword. “ ‘Twould take more than that to frighten me, my lord,” she said grimly, without thinking.
His gaze sharpened at her tone. “Oh?” he asked. “Are you not the fearful sort?”
But Briar had control of herself, and she laughed again, her deceit once more firmly in place.
She poured some wine for herself and drank deeply, letting the slightly sour, heady brew relax her.
He moved closer. His fingers brushed against her neck, lifting a lock of hair and feeling its texture.
His touch made her shiver, but it was not from fear or revulsion.
This was something more, something new, something unexpected.
Startled, she lifted her head and met his gaze.
His eyes were mesmerizing.
“You are very beautiful,” he murmured, and stepped so close that her body was almost touching his.
She felt his heat, smelled his scent, saw the flicker deep in his eyes.
He smiled then, his wide mouth curling up and completely transforming the fierce angles of his face.
His was a face made for smiling, and yet she could see by the lines upon it that such moments were rare.
Briar could not look away. Not even when he set both their goblets upon the chest and leaned down and kissed her, his lips smooth and unhurried against hers.
“Demoiselle,” he whispered, and rubbed his rough cheek against hers, before capturing her lips once more with his.
His mouth was hot and seductive, and Briar went still, confused by the sensations that were cudgeling her mind and body.
This was not how she had imagined it! She had meant to seduce him, playing at feelings she could not possibly feel, disguising her distaste and bitter triumph beneath the soft cries of a woman enjoying her man.
Leading her enemy further and further into the maze until it was too late, until he was utterly lost in its tangled paths, and willingly hers.
I am Briar, she would tell him then. The daughter of Lord Richard Kenton. I am here to avenge my father and stepmother.
Or maybe she would simply arrange to have someone discover them in bed, someone who would report back to Lily. Radulf would be shattered by his guilt and her pain, aye, destroyed.
That was the problem with loving someone. Love could so easily become a weapon...
Dear God, his mouth was hot! He gripped her upper arms, pulling her closer against his hard body.
Briar found that she was leaning into him, her own hands slipping about his waist beneath the wolf-pelt cloak.
His body was big and strong, and his touch was as perfect as it was startling.
As was the realization that she wanted this.
Where was the distaste for what she was doing? Where was the resignation? She should be grimly suffering even as she triumphed over this man, her enemy. She had plotted so long to punish him; she had never expected to enjoy it!
Nay, this was not how it was meant to be. This was her moment, and if anyone should grow weak from their kisses, then it should be he.
Briar stepped away from him, taking a breath, watching him warily now. He smiled again, coming after her, backing her toward the bed. “We will sing together,” he said softly. “An old song, demoiselle, but a good one.”
“I know many old songs,” she replied, and he laughed, a low seductive sound. For a brief, shaken moment Briar wondered if she could go through with it.
Have you waited so long just to turn tail now?
she asked herself angrily, first because something in his looks tugs at your womanly emotions, just because his kisses are not as repulsive as you expected.
Remember, this is the man who stole from you the life you loved.
He deserves to be punished. Whether you enjoy the punishment or not is immaterial.
But these were things Briar had never expected to feel in such circumstances—pleasure, desire, need.
She had lain with a man. Once. Two years ago.
There had been no pleasure then. The memory was a montage of pain and sorrow, and she fully expected this night to be similar.
That so far it was not had unsettled her, momentarily distracted her, but now she stiffened her resolve and set doubts aside. She would do this, she would...
But he must have seen something in her face. When she met his eyes again, they were even more intense than before. And there was a new reserve about him, as if he no longer quite believed in her.
“Drink,” she urged him softly, pouring more wine into his goblet and handing it to him.
He took the vessel from her, but did not drink.
Perhaps he no longer trusted her enough to do so.
The shadows played games with his face, making him more handsome than he really was, smoothing out the irregular features and straightening the broken nose.
His hair grew in wild, untrimmed curls about his face, and the wolf-skin cloak added to his barbaric appearance.
This was not a man who played games, and if she did this thing now—and later betrayed him to his lady—then he might very well kill her.
Despite herself, Briar shivered.
“You are cold.”
That deep, quiet murmur; the voice of a Norman knight of breeding and education. Such was Radulf. A great man.
And yet do not be deceived, she reminded herself. Do not fall under his spell. Remember the injury he has done you. Remember and take your vengeance and find your justice, even if it is two years too late. Do not lose sight of what you have set out to do here tonight.
“What is your name, demoiselle?”
“Briar,” she said, knowing he would not recognize it.
Why should he? She was nothing to him, and two years ago she had been but a girl, kept safe on her father’s estate, content with her present and her future, not realizing that soon her world would be destroyed.
Again the memory sobered her, strengthened her.
He was still watching her through the shadows; his eyes so intent, it felt as if they were inside her head.
“Briar. ‘Tis a prickly name, demoiselle. Are you thorny like the wild briar?”
Briar smiled, hoping he would not read its falseness. She reached down with a trembling hand and began to unknot her girdle.
“I am tough like the briar, sir. Even when my enemies think me vanquished, I can spring up again in the most unlikely of places.”
She had amused him, mayhap even delighted him—she read it in his eyes.
“And yet you sing like a nightingale.”
“You are kind.” She disposed of the compliment, suddenly impatient. They were wasting time. The sooner he had bedded her, the sooner this thing would be done.