by Sara Bennett
With difficulty Briar stilled the agitation afflicting her and lifted her chin, examining him with a carefully assumed casualness.
“I am indifferent, de Vessey.”
He snorted his disbelief.
He wore the chain-mail tunic he had gone away in, but now there were rents and tears in it that had not been there before. There was a stain over his thigh the rusty color of dried blood. The familiar wolfpelt cloak was tossed carelessly over one shoulder, giving him that barbarous appearance. His untamed hair was covered by the close-fitting metal helmet with its thick nasal, but Briar could see a bruise, beginning to fade now, on his cheek and jaw—as though someone had struck him a violent blow.
He was alive, but clearly not without some new trophies to mark his participation in this latest battle.
He still looked very dangerous. Was it that, or his sheer size that was making him so very conspicuous here in the market? People were shuffling away from him, or else staring in slack-jawed wonder. And that being so, why had she not noticed him earlier? Curse the acrobats for distracting her. If she had seen him approaching, she would have been much better prepared.
Those brooding black eyes were fixed on her, trying to read her thoughts. Again, as if to mock her own lack of self-control, memories of their cleaved bodies and fused mouths swam in her head. Angrily, she thrust them away. There was no time for make-believe—this was real, this was here and now, and she needed all her wits about her.
“I said I would return,” he told her. “And as you see, I am not cut into pieces, although ’tis not from lack of the Scots trying. Tell me, were your prayers answered, demoiselle? What did you pray for, I wonder?”
“I did not pray at all. I forgot.”
He didn’t believe her, the arrogant brute. She could see it in his smile.
“How do you know I did not find someone else, while you were away?”
That stung. His gaze narrowed. Then, with an impatient sigh, Ivo de Vessey reached up and removed his helmet.
Briar’s mouth fell open. “You have cut your hair!” she cried out in dismay.
Where had they gone? The wonderful, wild curls that she remembered, that dark aureole about his fierce face? They had been chopped into submission. Now his hair lay shorter about his skull, hardly a curl in it, like a true Norman knight. The change accentuated even more the angles and planes of his face.
“Aye. It needed to be cut.” He gave her a puzzled frown, no doubt questioning her sanity.
Of course he had cut his hair! Annoyed, Briar clamped down on her shocked dismay. He was a soldier, a warrior, and anything that might interfere with his fighting, with his ability to do his job and to stay alive, would have to be dealt with. His hair had grown long, it would be uncomfortable under his tight-fitting helmet, therefore he had cut it short.
“Sister?”
Mary stood protectively at her side. Her dark eyes were worried, and a line creased the smooth skin between her brows.
“Briar, who is this man?”
Briar blinked. Protectively? It was always Briar who protected Mary, never the other way around. What was happening to her? With an effort, Briar pulled herself together, burying her confusion of thoughts for later examination.
“Mary, this is Ivo de Vessey. Mary is my sister.”
Ivo shot one of his searching glances at Mary, and then he smiled. It was the sort of nonthreatening, courtly smile that a knight might bestow upon a fragile creature, and therefore nothing like the smile he gave Briar. His bow to Mary was equally courtly. “I am enchanted, demoiselle. I have heard your playing upon the harp and admire it very much.”
Mary flushed pink with pleasure. “Oh! I thank you, sir. I am not very good, not really, but I practice.”
“Then your practice has been well rewarded, lady.”
“I,” Mary glanced at Briar, momentarily tongue-tied, “I am not a lady, sir.”
“And I am not a sir. Call me Ivo and I will call you Mary.”
Mary gave him her shy smile, clearly captivated by his manner. “Very well, Ivo.”
Briar couldn’t bear it any longer. His easy conquest of her sister was almost a betrayal, and certainly very irritating. Her voice was tart and somewhat shrewish, but she could not stop the words.
“You may have lost your knighthood, de Vessey, but your tongue remembers well that tradition of flattery.”
Ivo raised his eyebrows, and anger glittered in his eyes. He held it at bay, but Briar was pleased to think she had struck home with her barb. Unmasked the real Ivo from beneath the polite pretense. Somehow she did not think him a man made for calm conversation and measured argument. One glance at Ivo de Vessey was enough to tell her he was either passion or anger, joy or sadness, one thing or the other. There would be no middle ground with him. He was a man who would love you or hate you, and maybe both.
He pinned her with his gaze, like an insect against a wall, and then leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek.
“I have been seeking answers to my questions about you, Briar,” he said, and it was almost a threat. “I would know what kind of woman barters her body to strangers, and yet speaks the French tongue like a lady born.”
He had asked about her! Pried into her past? Perhaps even laughed with his friends about her passion, describing in detail what they had done. Suddenly, Briar felt ill and frightened, and more. The only way to deal with the pain was to replace it with something hotter, and Briar allowed her anger to engulf her.
Ivo had the satisfaction of seeing rage cloud those lovely eyes, before her dark lashes swept down and hid them. She had lit his temper, so he had repaid her in kind. They both had secrets. Proud areas of flesh they would rather not have prodded. She best remember that, next time she wanted to wound him.
And yet…Ivo’s gaze slid over her, and he felt his anger melting before the picture she made. Plum juice had stained her chin, and her hair, loose about her shoulders, was windblown and untidy. She wore an old darned gown and no shoes upon her feet. And she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He was filled with an aching longing. How could he miss someone so much, when he had only held her in his arms so briefly? They had joined bodies, but her mind was still very much a mystery. And her motives…Well, he had still to clarify them, although he was moving closer.
When Ivo had first reached the market, and spotted Briar, he had sat upon his horse for a long moment, just watching her go from stall to stall, hand in hand with her sister. Like two children. The sight had delighted and puzzled him. When he had remembered Briar it had been her body in his arms, or her sobs, or her stubborn refusal to admit what was between them.
Certainly not this sweet innocence she was displaying now.
There was much he did not know about her. While Ivo had fought in the north, taking on the grim task of subduing rebels, he had spent his few spare moments dreaming of Briar. While he lay, soaked by rain and muddy from fighting, trying to sleep, he had warmed himself with the memory of her voice as she sang. While he rode hard through rugged country, searching for the straggling remains of the rebel force, he had remembered her eyes, blurred with passion, as he joined his body with hers.
She was in his blood. Whether he willed it or not, she was now a part of him. And he needed to understand what secret game she played, so that he could save her from the consequences. And mayhap save himself, too.
Immediately upon his return to York, Ivo had gone to Lord Shelborne’s house to inquire of the singing sisters. After a time, and much whispering beyond the curtained doorway, a tall woman with blue eyes and dark hair had come to speak with him. She had looked long at him, without any shyness or fear.
“You are Ivo de Vessey,” she had said at last, with satisfaction.
“Aye, lady. I seek the songstress, Briar. Do you know where I can find her?”
The woman had smiled a little smile and nodded, a gleam in her eyes. “It is market day. She will be there with her sister.”
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nbsp; The information had been gained so easily—Ivo had felt puzzled and a little suspicious. “I do not mean to hurt her.” He had meant to reassure and instead had blurted it out.
That smile again. “I can see that, Ivo de Vessey.” Then, a frown had creased her brow, and she had said, “Your name is familiar to me. Why is that?”
“I am a soldier in Lord Radulf’s household.”
“And before that?”
Her questions had been sharp, impertinent, but Ivo had not thought to refuse her her answers. There had been something in her manner—the same sense he had had with Briar—that it was her right to ask such questions, and his duty to reply to them. This woman was no ordinary servant, and his wits had sharpened.
“I was a knight, once. And long ago, when I was a young boy, I was a squire in the household of Richard Kenton.”
She had blinked. “Aye. Now I remember it. My sister was your shadow for one whole summer. Does she know that yet?”
Her sister! Ivo had examined her more carefully and memory gave him his answer—a girl of ten, a vague remembrance of her kindness. The older sister, Jocelyn. “No,” he had said at last, “she does not know. I would ask you not to tell her, lady, not yet. I need time.”
Jocelyn had laughed. “Aye, I’m sure you do. I will not tell her, sir. I wish you well, truly I do. Now go to the market or you will miss her.”
A strange conversation, but as he rode to do her bidding, Ivo had felt as if he had a friend in Briar’s camp.
“You dress like a ragamuffin, but you are far from that.”
He spoke so abruptly that Mary jumped, but Briar just glared at him like an angry she-cat, her eyes more green than hazel.
“You are impertinent.”
He laughed out loud, for those words, more than anything else, had given her away. No simple songstress would say such a thing to a knight, even if he were a disgraced knight. Briar had more layers than an onion, and Ivo would enjoy unpeeling each one.
She was watching him suspiciously, as if she was aware she had betrayed herself but did not know how. “I do not like your look, de Vessey. You are altogether too pleased with yourself.”
“I am trying to work you out, demoiselle, ’tis all. Are you the Queen of Norway, in hiding here in York?”
Briar scowled at him. “You are being foolish, I am no queen!”
“Ah, then a Princess of Scotland, fleeing from your father and seeking love in England.”
Mary giggled, and earned herself a warning glare from her sister.
“Then you must be a noblewoman, wronged and seeking redress.”
It was too close to the mark, and both girls paled. Briar began to turn away, but Ivo’s gloved hand snaked out and caught her arm, holding her with ease. Anger colored Briar’s face red and her eyes shone with fury, but before she could utter the demand that he release her, a deep and friendly voice called from nearby.
“Ivo? I had thought you lost among the cabbages and cattle!”
It was Sweyn, his fair head bright in the gloom, sitting bestride his horse and leading Ivo’s. He edged closer to the small group, scattering onlookers. His blue gaze slid curiously over Briar and Ivo, and rested momentarily upon Mary. The girl was looking up at the Dane upon his horse, like a Norse god against the cloudy sky, and her dark eyes were wide and grave, her cheeks still flushed from feeling Briar’s displeasure. Ivo thought he saw something pass over Sweyn’s face, something he had never seen there before, but the next moment the Dane was smiling his usual lazy smile, ready to be amused.
“Sweyn, you are here just in time to make yourself useful. I would speak privately with this lady. Will you remain here with her sister, Mary?”
Sweyn glanced again at Mary, now with her head bowed, fingers nervously fiddling with her girdle, and raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend. But his voice was amiable enough. “Aye, if you wish it, Ivo. Lady, are you agreeable to that?”
Mary murmured something incomprehensible, which Ivo chose to take as consent.
He held out his hand to Briar. “Demoiselle?”
Briar hesitated. There had been a formality in his gesture, as if he meant to have more than a simple conversation with her, and she seemed to recognize it. One moment Ivo read refusal in her eyes, mixed with a flash of fear, but the next she had placed her hand reluctantly in his.
He wasted no time in leading her away through the busy market.
For a time they walked in silence. Briar pretended an interest in the passing stalls she no longer felt, and ignored the curious and sometimes nervous glances of their fellows. At some time during his absence, she had convinced herself that Ivo de Vessey was the one and only path to Radulf, and therefore she had no choice but to bind him to her. It was a sacrifice she must make if she still wanted vengeance.
If she still had the will and the courage to seek an end to this calamity that had befallen the Kenton family.
The fire that had possessed her before the night spent in Ivo’s arms had cooled. ’Twas true. No matter how she tried to fan it into life again, it did not seem to want to burn as brightly. But it could not have gone out, not completely. There was still a glow deep inside her—there must be!—and mayhap in time Briar could rekindle it.
Ivo would supply that spark.
That was why she was going with him. For the purposes of her dark plot. Not because she had missed him and yearned for him. No, no, never that. She had wanted to tell Mary these very things, but the girl had not looked at her, not once. Again, worry for Mary clouded her thoughts, before the memory of Jocelyn’s voice pushed it out.
You must make him crazy with lust for you.
Briar wriggled uncomfortably, feeling the warmth trickle through her body. She was prepared to do that. More than prepared, she was eager to do it. And wasn’t that a little worrying? That this particular part of her plot was of more interest to her than any other? Had Ivo worked some sort of spell on her? For she was having great difficulty keeping a clear and cold head…
“If you tell me what secrets burden you, Briar, I can help.”
“Help?” He sounded sincere, but she did not trust him. She did not trust herself. Briar would have pulled her hand from his, but he would not let her go, gripping her fingers more tightly in his calloused ones. “I have no secrets, de Vessey,” she told him sharply. “I do not know what you speak of. I am a simple songstress, that is all.”
He gave a skeptical laugh, and followed her through the jostling, indifferent crowd. “You did not answer my question before, Briar. Did you miss me while I was gone?”
Briar turned her head to glance up at him. His expression was unreadable, but she thought he would not have asked the question had he been as sure of her as he pretended. What should she do? Abuse him further, or play at being indifferent? Neither would gain her the result she was seek ing. To bind him to her, she must give him a part of herself. No matter how grudgingly.
“I missed you, aye, and I prayed for you.”
The words came surprisingly easily—something else to worry her!
He smiled, lips curving, his black gaze slipping from hers to play on her mouth. “What part of me did you miss the most?”
Briar made an impatient sound. “What sort of question is that, de Vessey?”
“A fair one, demoiselle. I will answer the same question for you. I missed your mouth. Your lips are so soft and so sweet, but inside you feel hot and my head spins when your tongue mates with mine. Aye, ’twas your mouth I missed most. And yet…” He examined her face and body, making Briar squirm. “And yet, there are other things about you I missed just as much. Will I list them?”
“No, you will not!” She tossed her head so that her chestnut hair danced in the fitful sunlight. “I was sorry to see that bruise upon your face, but now I think it well deserved.”
“You are cruel, lady. Will you not heal me with a kiss?”
In Briar’s opinion, that didn’t deserve a reply.
They had reached one of the man
y snickleways that linked the streets of York. Shadowed and narrow, the lane was suitably private. Briar walked ahead and Ivo followed her through, uncomplaining, but clearly prepared for trouble. His free hand closed on the decorated hilt of his sword, and he turned his head from side to side, carefully examining each doorway and each shadow.
Briar smiled secretly to herself.
He was suspicious of her, and yet he still came with her. He was willing to put himself at risk, to be with her. Surely that boded well?
Briar had never tried to ensnare a man before; she had not believed it in her nature. There were some women who found such things enjoyable, to whom the capture of a man’s mind and heart was a pleasant day’s sport. Briar had never been one of their number. She had been betrothed to Filby, and thought to wed him and eventually be his wife, but there had been no attempt on her part to ensnare him. No talk of desire or love, not by her, although Filby had played at being the besotted bridegroom once or twice, more to her amusement than her delight. A woman in Briar’s position took the husband her family chose for her. Filby had suited because his estates abutted hers, and he was a Norman of some wealth and power. He was not as wealthy or as powerful as Richard Kenton, but Briar’s father had thought to keep her close and make her happy, and for that he had been willing to forgo a brilliant marriage.
She would not marry now.
Who in her old world would want her? And she could not see herself wed to a fleshmonger in the Shambles, or a beltmaker in Girdlergate. She walked among these people as if she were one of them, but Briar knew deep in her heart that she was not, and never could be. Nay, she was neither one thing nor the other.
They had reached a particularly dark spot in the snickleway. Briar stopped, and Ivo paused a little way behind her, wary, watchful. Instinctively he loosened his sword in its scabbard, glancing around, searching for enemies.
“What do we here?” he asked her. “’Tis the sort of place where men’s throats are slit.”
He wondered if it were a trap, if she intended to do harm to him. He might desire her, she thought, but he was not a fool.