by Sara Bennett
“She likes you,” Sweyn said with a laugh. “Tell me now that you would have preferred an evening in the castle garrison, with the stench of unwashed soldiers to accompany your meal.”
Ivo shrugged, and set his tankard down carefully. “Tonight she smiles at me. Tomorrow it might be you.” His voice was dry and noncommittal, but desire beat like a pulse within him.
“You underrate yourself,” Sweyn retorted. “If you get the chance to enjoy her, my friend, think not of the morning. The garrison will still be there.” He gave Ivo a none-too-gentle push, and went off to find himself a game of dice.
Ivo was crossing the room before he knew it. He hadn’t realized until he started walking how light-headed he was—it must be the ale. His boots seemed barely to touch the rush-strewn floor. The dais was before him and he vaguely noted that the girl with the harp had gone.
But the angel was there, waiting.
“You sing wondrously well, demoiselle.” He heard his own voice, deep and quiet, as if it were that of a stranger. “I am bewitched.”
She laughed, and cast him a flirtatious glance.
Her eyes were not brown as he had thought, but hazel. Watchful and secretive, and framed with thick dark lashes, they were set wide apart and slanted upward like a cat’s eyes. There was something familiar in those eyes, something distant and yet part remembered. I know her, but from where… Even as his mind was turning, his gaze moved on. Her mouth was small and lush, her chin a point for her heart-shaped face, and her skin was smooth and unmarked apart from a small scar on her right cheekbone. That long chestnut-colored hair fell about her, curling at the ends, rippling over her shoulders like a smooth waterfall.
There is something about her eyes, and the scar on her right cheekbone. Something about the scar…
Why had he drunk so much? His mind must be fogged with ale fumes.
“You like my songs, sir?” Her French was flawless—this was no English peasant.
Ivo blinked, brought his thoughts back to the here and now. “Aye, demoiselle, I like them very much.”
Her eyes smiled up at him, like the brown and green shadows in a forest, tempting him onward into places he had never been before. She reached out a slender hand and rested it upon his arm. Her hand looked pale and fragile against his dark sleeve, and he hesitated to cover it with his own.
“Mayhap you would like a private audience?”
Were the words truly spoken? Or had he dreamed them because they were so much what he wanted to hear?
Ivo knew he was sobering up fast.
He gazed down intently into her face, and saw her lick her lips nervously with the tip of her pink tongue. There was a flicker of doubt in her eyes, as though she feared he would say her nay. He wanted to laugh—nay was the last thing he would say her right now! She was beautiful, and her song still held him in its spell. And if he wasn’t either mad, or badly mistaken, she was offering herself to him.
All of herself.
Lust soared through him, tightening every muscle. To his surprise, his manhood began to thicken—he had thought he had better control than that. Ivo was no brutish soldier, willing to forgo all niceties for a hasty roll in the hay. He had been taught courtesy and respect, and although he may not always have abided by them, he knew the right from the wrong. To suddenly feel so totally out of control, like a lusty stallion in a paddock of mares, confused him.
But there was more than lust here. Ivo felt a poignancy that was in one part the suppressed emotions she had stirred up with her song, and in the other part a memory of his past. It was as if this angel really would in some way heal him, repair the broken man.
Make him whole again.
He clenched the fist he had kept hidden in the wolfpelt cloak at his side, his maimed flesh warm inside the leather-and-steel glove he always wore in the company of others. He had learned to use his damaged hand as well as any man whose hand was whole—he had had no choice. Still he was proud of the accomplishment. Miles had thought to cripple him and render him useless, but he had failed.
“You are a stranger here.”
The woman interrupted his introspection. Her voice was as low and husky as it had been when she sang, and again he felt the shiver of its touch on his skin. Like the brush of velvet, soft and sensual.
“I am come from the south.”
No need to tell her more, thought Ivo. Indeed, he was wary to open his mouth in case all that he was, and hoped and dreamed, gushed out. His mind felt wide open and echoey, his body hummed with desire. And atop that he had the sensation of familiarity—as if he had known her before.
Ivo held out his hand to her, the good one—no need to frighten her with his deformity just yet. The touch of her soft skin made him even more crazy to have her—images of her naked body in his arms sliced his brain like a red-hot blade—and his voice came out sharper than he had intended.
“To answer your question, demoiselle, I would very much like a private audience. Do you have a room?”
He could have bitten off his tongue. Do you have a room? What sort of enticing lovetalk was that for a man who was once a knight? He needed his friend Gunnar Olafson here, with his smooth ways and magic smile. Why could Ivo not be more like Gunnar, wooing her delicately into his arms, instead of his usual blunt and impatient self?
She was gazing up at him—she barely came to his shoulder. She smiled a little smile, mayhap reading the anguish in his eyes, but she was not angry and not insulted. If anything, she looked pleased. Before Ivo could consider what might be the reasons for this, she spoke again.
“Aye, I have a room.”
She was not even pretending to misunderstand him. Then, just as he was again doubting the whole business, she gave a soft, reckless laugh, and held out her hand. “Come and we will sing together, my lord.”
He wanted to tell her he was not anyone’s lord, that he did not know her at all, that this was not wise. But when had Ivo ever cared about wise? Tonight his body had a will of its own. He lifted his hand and she caught his fingers tightly in her own cold ones, then she led him through an arras-covered doorway. Into the shadows.
It was chill here, and the sounds from the hall were abruptly muted. Ivo knew from long experience that he should be wary, and yet still he went with her, as though entranced. Deep inside him, there lay mistrust—the years of living in his brother’s dark shadow had made him cautious—but he did not mistrust her enough to deny himself the pleasure of her. She had offered, and Ivo meant to take.
’Twas as simple and as brutal as that.
Briar felt dizzy, as if this were not real at all. How could it have been so simple? So easy? Not even Briar at her most optimistic had believed her enemy would fall so willingly into the net she cast. But he had, and now she held him in the palm of her hand. Literally. Briar’s fingers tightened their grasp about that warm, broad hand, feeling the ridges of calluses and scars that told of many years of battle.
His hand.
The great Lord Radulf, the King’s Sword.
Before he died, Briar’s father had cursed Radulf, blaming him for the death of Anna, Briar’s stepmother, whose murder was still unsolved. Anna’s murder had precipitated the destruction of the Kenton family. Thus, in Briar’s mind, Radulf had begun this terrible calamity. Aye, he had destroyed her family, taken from her her home and wealth, her life and all she had taken for granted. Until it was no more.
“Radulf did this,” she had said dully, the day they were cast out from Castle Kenton because their father was branded a traitor. They had trudged into the tiny village, but no one there had dared to help them or shelter them—they were all too afraid of the consequences. So they had walked on, with nowhere to go.
“Radulf did this!” She had screamed it out the second time, her voice echoing across the moors. Radulf. Her feverish mind had found a focus, a thing to hate and blame for all that had befallen them. A way to keep her alive.
Her elder sister, Jocelyn, had looked at her while Odo ambled alo
ng to the side like a great, mindless bear. Jocelyn’s blue eyes were reddened and swollen, her face puffy and blotched from crying. “’Tis over and done. We must make our way as best we can, Briar, and not look backward.”
“’Tis not over and done! Father swore to take vengeance, and now I swear to fulfill his wish.”
Jocelyn had gazed back at her, her thin face intent. “Put this behind you, Briar. It is wrong to seek to heal evil with more evil. I beg you, put this behind you.”
Briar had shaken her head angrily. How could she put such things behind her, forget what had happened to their father and to them? Go on as if nothing had happened? She was not like Jocelyn—her anger could not be dampened with a trickle of water.
Briar had meant what she had said that day, but in the meantime they had wandered far, eventually all the way to York, living like peasants. And no one came to their aid. They were Richard Kenton’s daughters, the traitor’s children, and therefore safer forgotten.
But Briar had not forgotten, and the need for vengeance had grown; a blind, desperate need that gave her no rest. Nor would it, until it was satisfied. The answer to her prayers came when she had heard Radulf was traveling into the north to deal with a rebellion on his wife’s lands. By then, Briar had known much of the King’s Sword, and his love for his wife. And she had known exactly how she would repay him for what he had done to her and her family.
“And what will happen then? When you have lain with Radulf, and soured Lily’s love for him? Will that content you, Briar?”
Jocelyn had been less than impressed when Briar had divulged her intended plan to her sister some weeks past. Her blue eyes had been hard and watchful as she demanded answers. Jocelyn had still not given up trying to persuade Briar to put the past behind her, and Jocelyn was no gentle flower, unlike Mary.
These days Jocelyn was employed as Lord Shelborne’s cook, and he treasured her for her fine pastries and bread, and the succulent dishes she placed before him. It was Jocelyn who had given Briar the important news that Radulf was to be invited to the marriage celebrations at Lord Shelborne’s hall.
“I don’t know if I will be content, sister,” Briar had said in answer to Jocelyn’s questions. “But at least I will have fulfilled our father’s last wish.”
Jocelyn had shaken her head impatiently. “You have thought only of the moment, Briar, as usual. I know you well. You are headstrong and brave and determined, but you fail to think beyond the moment. What do you believe Radulf will do with you when you tell him who you are? Think carefully, Briar, before you act. Remember, morning always follows night.”
“So you will not help me?”
“No, I will not help you! You go to your own destruction by such behavior. Briar, I, too, have many reasons to hate Radulf. But will that bring our father back? Or our lands and wealth and the joy we knew? Will it bring my Odo back to the man he used to be? What do you hope to achieve by making Radulf suffer, Briar? Methinks it will only increase your own suffering…”
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 wolfpelt 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. Just 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.