Chapter 3 #4
“Do you think you would have been happy with Filby?” Jocelyn asked her curiously. “Mayhap you would have had the good fortune never to have learned what he really was.”
“How could I not have? I would have grown to hate him, I think.”
“Well, at least you discovered the truth about him, before it was too late.”
“Not quite too late.”
Jocelyn looked stricken, but before she could answer, another of the maidservants came hurrying into the kitchen. It was young Grisel, her small round face almost wild. Her voice burst out in a high-pitched whine.
“Thereisaman.”
The sisters looked to each other, startled. Mary giggled, and covered her mouth with her hand. Jocelyn frowned. “Speak more slowly, Grisel.”
The maid took a deep breath. “There is a man.”
“And?”
“He demands to speak with Briar, with the songstress.”
“He wants to speak to me?” Briar ran nervous hands over her hair, still uncombed and hanging tangled down her back. “Did you tell him I was not here?”
The girl shifted from foot to foot. “I tried to tell him you were not within, but he said you were. He was so big and so stern... I was frightened to say him nay! And he had such eyes... I think he could read inside my head, lady.”
Briar felt the floor tip beneath her own feet.
“So you told him she was here.” Jocelyn answered for her, with evident disgust.
“Aye.” The girl mumbled it apologetically.
“And has he a name, this frightening man?” Jocelyn asked, glancing sharply at Briar.
Grisel nodded. “He says he is Ivo de Vessey, of Lord Radulf’s household.”
Briar feared her face betrayed her. He had come to see her!
She felt very peculiar, as if she were made of colored glass—that precious stuff that some of York’s newly built churches displayed in their windows.
It was beautiful, there was no doubt, but so easily broken.
Briar wondered if she too might shatter with disappointment, if it turned out that Ivo de Vessey was here for some other, more prosaic purpose.
“Grisel, go and tell this man the songstress will see him. And then take him to the alcove off the hall. And bring him some wine.”
Grisel ducked a curtsy, and reluctantly retreated.
Briar snatched the comb from Mary and began to work on her hair, tugging through the painful knots with her usual stubborn determination. But her hands were trembling, and that made her angry.
“He has returned very quickly,” Jocelyn said. “Why do you think that is?”
“How should I know?” Briar retorted.
Jocelyn gave her a little, knowing smile. “Mayhap he is caught in your spell already, Briar.”
“Is this the man you sang to last night?” Mary asked the question with such studied innocence that it gave Briar pause. There was a cunning gleam in Mary’s eyes.
For a brief moment, Briar wondered if her young sister was really as naive as she seemed. And then she dismissed the doubt as ridiculous, and took Mary’s hands in hers. “I will go and see. Stay here and have something to break your fast. When I return, we can go home.”
Mary nodded, but Briar sensed her suspicion.
“Take care,” Jocelyn warned.
“Do not worry. I know what I am about.”
“Do you?” Jocelyn replied softly. “Every vixen will meet her match one day, Briar. Mayhap you have met your fox...”
Ivo paced back and forth in the alcove, his boots scattering wine-soaked straw left over from last night’s revelries.
Where was she? He knew she was somewhere within this household, for last night he had put a guard on Lord Shelborne’s house to follow the singing sisters.
Only they had never left. And so he had told the maidservant, who had tried to pretend she had never heard of Briar.
The girl, already terrified at the sight of him, had crumbled like stale cheese before his determined questioning.
Where was she? Had she sneaked out through a back way? Was she even now running down York’s narrow lanes, trying to escape him? Didn’t she realize yet that she couldn’t? Ivo smiled to himself. She was his.
A slight sound outside the alcove drew his attention.
Ivo turned to face her, the wolf-pelt cloak settling about his shoulders.
She was coming toward him, rumpled, her big hazel eyes sleepy and wary at the same time, her face pale and strained, her hair unbound about her shoulders.
Something in his chest clenched, hard and painful, and he took a sharp breath.
The childhood memory was there, blurring the edges of the present.
The little girl falling, cutting her cheek on the hound’s half-chewed bone, her family running in response to her cries.
And he, young and gentle, yet to learn the harsh realities of being Miles’s brother, lifting her up.
Earning her gratitude and her childish love.
She had followed him about, to the amusement of all, until the day he left the Kenton household.
And he had allowed it, perhaps because he missed his mother and his sister, and perhaps because he was a little in love with her himself.
She was still beautiful.
But now she was a grown woman, and he was a man.
The innocence had gone. Aye, she was indeed a woman.
Ivo almost groaned aloud, and his groin tightened instantly with lust, while his blood began to heat.
It didn’t matter. Whatever she wanted from him, he would find some way to give it to her, without compromising his loyalty to Radulf and his integrity as a de Vessey.
He would do it. And at the same time he would protect her from Lord Radulf, from the enemies of her father, even from herself.
Silently, Ivo swore it.
She had reached him. There were shadows under her eyes and her mouth was closed tight, but he could see a pulse jumping in her throat.
“Briar.”
Her name was like honey in his mouth.
Her gaze slid warily over his chain-mail tunic, the wolf-pelt cloak tied over it, and the big sword strapped at his side. He had removed his helmet, leaving his head bare.
“You surprise me, de Vessey.” Her voice sounded cool and distant. “I thought never to see you again.”
“Why? Because you mistook me for another?”
She came even closer—unwillingly, he thought, but she was clearly determined not to let him know she was afraid. Her scent caught in his nostrils, adding to his yearning, and he had to force himself not to reach out and pull her against him, although his body throbbed with his need.
“I know you have secrets, Briar.”
Questions sped through her eyes. “My secrets are my concern.”
Now was the time to tell her, but while Ivo hesitated, she moved yet closer, and lifting one hand, rested it lightly upon his shoulder. Now what? When he simply stared down at her, she lifted her other hand and slid it behind his head, tugging. He bent lower, to accommodate her.
“Briar,” he tried again, but now it was a groan.
She pressed her mouth to his, her lips soft and warm.
Ivo drew her into his arms, lifting her so that her feet came off the floor and her entire body was pressed against his.
His tongue slid between her Ups, his mouth almost rough in his passion.
She clung to him, kissing him back, clearly enjoying being in his arms as much as he liked having her there.
Then she drew back, and pressed her hot face against his neck. “Do you want me?” she murmured into his skin.
He half laughed, half groaned, as he lowered her back to her feet. “What do you think?”
“Is that why you came, de Vessey, because you couldn’t stay away from me?”
Ivo wondered what the questions were for.
Wasn’t it clear enough to her that he was burning up with desire for her?
That he would do almost anything for a brush of her fingers on his fevered brow, a smile from her lush mouth?
But mayhap not. She had seemed innocent in many ways, mayhap she was innocent in this, too.
Or was she just cautious? Needing him to tell her that he really did care for her.
She had been hurt—he had felt it last night, and felt their kinship because of it.
Ivo wondered, grimly, just what lessons she had learned since her father had died. And how they had been taught to her.
“I cannot keep away from you, Briar,” he said, looking with quiet intensity into her face.
“You are right in that. I desire you. I do not think that will change until I have had you many, many times, and even then... But I get ahead of myself. There is another reason why I have come here to speak with you.”
Instantly she was watchful, the heat fading from her eyes.
That was good, he told himself. She was no fool, his songstress, and in her tenuous position she needed all her wits about her. He wanted her to listen to him, and listen well.
“I go north with Lord Radulf, to fight the Scots and their friends.”
She surprised him with an, “Oh?” before she looked away, shrugging her shoulders as if she did not care.
As if she was wondering to herself why he would feel the need to tell her such a thing.
Even after their passionate embrace, Ivo could not help but experience a moment of doubt.
Had he been mistaken? Was he as much of a fool as Sweyn had thought?
Had he allowed feeling back into his poor, wounded heart, only to be struck a fatal blow?
And then she glanced up at him through her dark lashes. A quick look, secretive, but full of doubt and uncertainty. And loss.
Ivo knew then that he had not been mistaken. He grinned, and watched the temper flare in her. Color climbed into her cheeks, anger flashed in those slanting eyes, until it seemed that at any moment she would claw him like an angry little cat.
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked him, and tossed her untidy hair like the pampered and spoiled child she had probably once been. “Men come and go; I forget them in a week.”
Ivo’s smile broadened. “But you will not forget me, demoiselle.”
“How can you be so sure?” The look dared him, and yet she was wary. She did not believe herself untouchable then. Whatever lesson she had learned had been well taught.
Ivo reached out and captured her chin in strong but gentle fingers.
She glared up at him, daring him to do more.
He did, brushing his thumb back and forth against her lips.
They were reddened and swollen from their kisses of moments before, and suddenly his thumb wasn’t nearly enough.
Ivo bent his head and claimed her mouth once more with his.
The spark caught, and began quickly to burn.
She clung to him, her fingers tugging painfully in his hair.
Their mouths fused and melded, wanting more and yet knowing that this was not the time nor the place.
Ivo enjoyed the feel of her, the knowledge that she was no longer holding back.
He had pushed beyond her wariness, beyond whatever plans were seething in that hot little head of hers, to the place where nothing existed but him and her, together.
“I will come back.”
She blinked, and for a moment stared up at him blindly. And then, gradually, the knowledge returned. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she stepped back. The silence between them was painful, but he did not break it.
“Is that a vow?” she asked, her voice low and husky.
“Do you want it to be?”
She shrugged with pretended indifference, suddenly cooling. “I did not expect you to plight your troth to me, not because of a single night. I gave you my body, and you gave me yours. Was it so special? Surely it happens all the time between men and women?”
Impatience gripped him, but Ivo held it down. This was no time to lose his temper with her. She was playing games, but he did not have to join in.
“I will come back, Briar, because I am so hot for you that I burn. Just as you burn for me. Why pretend it is not so? In time the flames may well turn cold, but for now we can warm ourselves with their heat.”
She looked up at him, paler than ever, and he felt her trembling. “Good. As long as you do not think it is forever. Love is for fools, de Vessey.”
“Aye, demoiselle,” he said in agreement.
“Good,” she said again, but she did not look as if she thought it was good.
“I will return when the fighting is over. Wait for me.” She looked so lost and miserable, Ivo sought for something else to say, to rekindle the coals of her anger.
He allowed his expression to grow stern.
“And do not think to take any other strangers to your bed, no matter who you believe them to be.”
Instantly she was glaring up at him, bristling like a wildcat. “Oh, and why not? You cannot stop me taking the whole garrison to my bed, if I wished it!”
He had spoken the words on purpose, to bring some life back into her beautiful face, but still jealousy washed over him. “I will know, lady,” he growled. “You are mine.”
She was startled, mayhap even a little confused, by his answer.
But as he watched she swallowed both down, then narrowed her eyes at him.
Anger flashed again in the flecks of brown and green, and color stung her white cheeks.
“Yours? I am no man’s, and certainly not the belongings of a disgraced knight.
Go! Go and fight, and I hope the Scots cut you into pieces! ”
As soon as she had spoken she caught her breath, like a child who expects to be punished.
But Ivo did not find her words insulting or painful—he admired courage, and it was clear his woman had plenty, no matter what had been done to her.
Aye, she was brave, but someone, at some time, had hurt her.
The flinch she gave betrayed her as he reached up to smooth back a long curl of her hair.
“Ah, demoiselle,” he said quietly, gazing deep into her eyes. “We both know that your prayers will keep me safe until I return to you.”
When he bent his head for another kiss, she tried to pull away from him, cursing him beneath her breath.
But as soon as his mouth closed on hers, all fight was forgotten.
She responded desperately, clinging and hot, her body pressed hard to his.
All too soon, he had to set her away, his eyes sweeping one last time over her face and figure, planting her image firmly in his mind.
And then he was gone, his boots ringing out on the wooden floor. The door banged hollowly, the sound echoing down the hall to where Briar still stood in the entrance to the alcove, staring after him.
Alone.
“I did not mean it,” she whispered, her trembling fingers digging into her palms, her nails drawing blood. “I did not mean what I said. Jesu, do not let him die ... do not let him die...”