Chapter 7 #3
“Of course, of course.” The man winked, broadly and unmistakably. “This way.”
The private chamber was small, barely large enough for the table and stool and narrow bed that filled it.
Ivo had to stoop his head beneath the ceiling beams. Briar held herself still, hands clenched at her sides, impatience making her skin twitch.
Ivo kept one watchful eye on her as he instructed the host to bring food and drink, and then at last they were alone.
Briar barely waited until the door was closed.
“Tell me now, de Vessey,” she said, and her voice was husky with the strain of being calm.
“I will. But first, come and sit down.”
She sighed, but did as she was told. ‘Twould save time, she reasoned, if she didn’t argue.
And besides, her legs were weak and shaky, and it was a relief to sink down onto the bed.
The straw mattress rustled under her, and Briar drew her warm cloak more closely about her, as if the woollen cloth could protect her from what was to come.
Ivo de Vessey seemed concerned for her welfare, but Briar wasn’t deceived.
He was Radulf’s man.
Did that mean he had told Radulf who she was, too? Briar did not expect a great man like Radulf to be afraid of her, but she did not want him warned of her presence. Vengeance, justice—how could she extract them if Radulf were forewarned?
Vengeance?
Anna’s beautiful face appeared before her, smiling, always smiling. Her stepmother had hidden her black heart behind her smiles, and Briar had been too blind to see it.
She covered her lips with her fingers, but whether to stop herself laughing or crying, she did not know. At this moment, either seemed possible.
“I do know you, demoiselle. But I knew you before I met Sir Anthony in the north.”
His voice was so reluctant that she turned to look up at him, where he stood with head and shoulders bowed beneath the roof that was too low. His black eyes were glittering with emotion.
“How is that so?” she asked, and held her breath.
He pulled the stool closer to the bed, and sat down on it, ignoring the ominous creak as it took his weight.
Now he was closer, she could see the black stubble on his jaw, the darker centers of his dark eyes, the firm fullness of his lips.
Something coiled in her belly, and this time it was not nausea.
He smiled, as if he had read her mind. “I knew you by this, demoiselle,” he said, and reached out and brushed the tiny scar on her cheek with his rough fingertip. “Briar, I was there when it was made.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but could not speak. She could not think. What did he mean? There when it was made? She did not understand. Her quick mind seemed to have slowed to a crawl.
He recognized her confusion, and leaned closer. He smelled of soap and sweat, man and horse. She liked it. She wanted to run her tongue along the crease of his neck, into the hollow there. Her nails dug hard into her palms beneath the Lincoln green cloak.
“You were a child,” he explained slowly, as if he realized her wits were befuddled.
“I was a young squire in your father’s household.
One of the hounds knocked you over and you cut your cheek.
There was much blood, and you screamed very loud.
” He gave her a reminiscent smile, but his eyes remained watchful of hers.
“I came to your rescue like the knight I meant to be. You followed me about afterward, and others laughed, but it pleased me and I did not stop you. A short time later my father died, and I returned home. The next time I saw you, you were singing like an angel in Lord Shelborne’s hall. ”
Briar stared at him in wonder. “Of all those who have known me in the past, no one has remembered who I really am. Until now. How can that be? Why are you the only one?”
He shrugged, observing her as if he did not quite know what she would do.
“And you knew from the very first night? When we ... I... when we sated our lust together?” She forced the words out, purposely made them as blunt and unfeeling as she could.
He laughed softly, deliberately. “Aye, almost from that first moment. I had a sensation of knowing you, of having met you before. Mayhap you had it, too?”
Had she? Was that what had set her on her wrong course, when she peered through the smoke and noise of Lord Shelborne’s hall? Had she seen Ivo de Vessey, and recognized that long ago boy in him, and taken that sense of recognition for the certainty that he was Radulf?
It sounded plausible, but Briar was not convinced. If she was honest, she knew that it had not been familiarity that drew her to Ivo de Vessey, but something far more basic. She had seen him and desired him. ‘Twas as blunt and as frightening as that.
“Have you told your master?” She spoke quickly, breathlessly, to stop the rogue thoughts in her head.
He hesitated. “Not yet.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed, and blessed anger filled her. “Tell him! Tell him I hate him! In my eyes he stands forever accused of my father’s death, and all that has befallen us since. Aye, tell him that!”
Her voice cracked, and horrified, she stopped. Tears were close, but she held them back. She would not cry before him, not now, not again...
Ivo touched her shoulder. His hand closed on it, warm and strong, before she could shrug him off.
“Radulf loves Lily,” he said gently, as if she were a child again and he the young squire. “He would never betray her, demoiselle. It would be like lopping off his own hand. You must understand that.”
“But I don’t,” she said bitterly.
The hand tightened, and then before she knew it, he had moved to sit down on the mattress beside her, and drawn her into his arms. She should pull away, and she knew it.
She should strike at him with her fists and demand a proper explanation.
But she was so weary, so very tired. And he knew her, he was someone from the old days.
That fact more than any other halted her struggles.
With a shuddering breath, Briar gave way.
“I remember your father well.” Ivo murmured the words she had longed to hear, as if he already knew what would please her most.
“Do you?” she breathed.
“Aye, Briar. He was a man to be proud of, a kind man and a good one. He was patient with young Ivo de Vessey. He understood the secret longing of a green boy for his home, and the need not to speak of such weaknesses aloud. He did not deserve to die in such a way, demoiselle. But when I heard of it, I regretted more than the manner of his death. I mourned him because of the man he was.”
What had remained of the dark, smoldering fire inside Briar went out.
The pain was intense. Sobs rose up from somewhere deep, deep in her chest. Two years of repressed grief spilled out, and with it all her bitterness and rage.
Briar’s whole body shook and shuddered, and she clung on to Ivo as if she would drown without him.
He held her, murmuring comfort, the feel of his arms so comforting.
Probably he had held her thus as a child, when she had cut her cheek. That thought set her off again.
When at last the storm had begun to abate, Briar realized that at some point he had drawn her onto his lap, where she lay warm in the curve of his arms. Gasping, catching her breath, she moved only to hide her swollen, bleary eyes as their host returned with a tray of food and wine.
The man and Ivo exchanged words, and although Briar did not listen it seemed to go on for some time.
When they were once more alone, Briar began to use her sleeve to mop her face, but Ivo stopped her.
Lifting her chin with his gloved hand, he dipped a soft handcloth into a bowl of scented water.
She realized then that that was what he had been asking for. Water to wash away her tears.
The cloth was cool against her heated skin, and soothing beyond anything she had ever known.
Briar kept her eyes closed, letting him minister to her, too weak and drained to do otherwise.
She had sworn not to shed tears before him again, after that first night when she had howled in his arms, and now here she was again, ugly with weeping.
And worse than that, she had exposed her terrible vulnerability to the man from whom she most wished to hide it.
“Demoiselle?”
Her eyes fluttered open. Something brushed her lips, a fragrant piece of pastry wrapped vegetables.
Obediently, she opened her mouth and chewed.
The flavors burst upon her, spreading through her body, a pleasure so simple and yet so wonderful.
She had not even known she was hungry! Next he lifted the goblet of wine, and placed that against her lips.
Briar sipped and swallowed with a sigh, allowing the slightly sour wine to warm its way down her throat. She tingled.
With great care, Ivo continued to feed her, giving her sips of wine between mouthfuls.
And Briar let him. His gaze was tender and yet intent, his fingers gentle and yet sensual.
It was a heady experience, as if every mouthful he gave her only increased her awareness of him and the world around them.
As if she had come alive again, after two years of something very much like death.
She felt raw and new, and very, very confused.
Gradually, Briar grew aware that Ivo was not as untouched by the situation as he pretended. His servile pose was just that, for evidence to the contrary pressed full and hard against her hip.
He desired her.
With a bump of her heart, Briar knew that she desired him, too. Needed him with a feverish urgency. The knowledge frightened her, but excited her, too. This was Ivo de Vessey, her squire, her knight. Her man. And suddenly to desire him did not seem foolish or wrong, just very, very right.