by Sara Bennett
Miles was bowing his acknowledgment of Briar’s correction. “My own mother was not Ivo’s,” he said with a smile. “We have that in common, lady.”
Ivo shook his head, and his voice came out like that of a stranger. “You have nothing in common with her, Miles. Come Briar, ’tis time to go.”
Briar looked as if something had just occurred to her, and she ignored Ivo, turning again to Miles. “You say you were in Lord Fitzmorton’s service, Sir Miles? I have heard he was very fond of Anna—her death must have upset him greatly.”
Miles nodded, his gray eyes fixed on her face. “I believe they were close. Is that what you wished to know, lady?”
Briar looked chagrined that he had so easily seen through her question. Miles’s smile broadened—pleased, predatory. Ivo felt the hairs rise on his neck. He spoke without thought, attempting to draw Miles’s eyes away from Briar.
“And what of you, Miles? Were you close to Anna, too?”
“I do not tell tales, brother. You should know that.”
“Aye, brother, you are too busy telling lies.”
Miles laughed. “As you will, but it is you who is disgraced, Ivo.”
That made him angry. So angry that there was no way to conceal the flare of pure rage in his eyes, or the iron-hardening of his body. How could Miles do this to him with mere words, after all this time? To his utter frustration, he knew that nothing had changed after all. Despite all that lay between them, he still felt like a child.
“You would know better than I why that is so,” he managed, but his voice sounded choked, ineffectual.
“You must try not to blame others for your own shortcomings, Ivo. ’Tis a fault you should have grown out of long since.”
Briar’s eyes widened. She was clearly fascinated by their bitter exchange. Perhaps she mistook it for brotherly bantering. Miles turned his smile at her, his gaze cold and possessive, as if she were a strange and interesting object that he coveted. But not to love, thought Ivo wildly. Miles could not love; it was an ability he had always lacked.
Ivo felt fear run through him, like a fire in dry grass catching and leaping and burning, unstoppable. He knew better than anyone of what Miles was capable. The thought of his brother with Briar in his hands was enough to make him want to retch.
“Ivo may no longer be a knight, but he has not stopped rescuing damsels in distress.” She glanced at him as she said it, her slanting eyes flirtatious, warm. We are together in this, she seemed to be saying. And did not know it was the last thing he wanted her to do.
Miles, too, glanced at Ivo, slyly, knowingly. “My brother was always one for rescuing those in distress. It is just a pity he does not always arrive in time.”
The world went red. Ivo’s rage swallowed him up, and he lost the ability to reason. His words spewed from his mouth.
“You talk as if all that means nothing to you! As if it were a forgotten joke. Why are you here! To torment me again; to make my life a living hell? Go away, Miles! Find a corner and curl up in it and die!”
His voice echoed, raw and shocking. Briar looked astonished at his outburst, her eyes huge in her pale face, her lips apart. And throughout it all, Miles watched him. And then he sighed.
It was the sigh of a man who had suffered, who was deeply wounded by what he had just heard. If Ivo had not known Miles through and through, he would almost have believed it was the sigh of a man who despaired of his beloved younger brother.
“That is what you want me to do, Ivo? To die?”
“Aye!” Ivo managed. His voice was hoarse, his fingers white as he clenched them on his sword. “That is what I want, Miles, above all things. Jesu, you deserve nothing less.”
“You disappoint me,” Miles said quietly. He looked to Briar, his gray eyes brimming with sorrow. “Lady, Ivo has always been the black sheep of the de Vessey family, but he is still my brother. Forgive him.”
Briar frowned from one to the other. “I—I do not…Ivo?”
Ivo ignored her, concentrated on his brother. Telling himself that as long as he kept his eyes on Miles, he could not harm Briar.
“If I see you again I will kill you. This time I will not let anything stop me. Do you understand?”
Miles made a face. “How can I not understand such blunt speech, brother? So be it. We will part now.”
Before Ivo could do more than draw breath, Miles had taken Briar’s hand, raised it to his lips, and released it. All in a heartbeat. Too late, Ivo grabbed Briar’s arm and pulled her away, causing her to stumble on the rubble. Miles’s gray eyes gleamed, amused by Ivo’s tardiness, but his face maintained the expression of sad courage he had affected for Briar’s benefit.
He has turned me into a clumsy fool. A vindictive oaf. Just as he intended…
Briar struggled in his grip, but Ivo would not let her go. He pulled her after him by force, marching her from the building and out onto the street. There they stood, Ivo still feeling dizzy and ill, Briar glaring at him like an angry little cat.
“What is wrong with you, de Vessey?”
I wanted to get you away from him, Ivo thought. He is evil, and he will hurt you. He will hurt you because he destroys anything I love…Aye, he loved her. The truth shone like a torch in a dark hall.
Ivo blinked and turned away. No time for that now. And he could not discuss Miles, either, not with her. His lips were stiff with all the terrible memories aching to spill out, as he prepared to mount his horse.
Briar’s voice followed him. “You are a disappointment, Ivo, just as your brother said. Why can you not be as charming as he?”
Ivo started, and then he threw back his head and laughed. But it was a wild laugh, without any humor. “Like Miles? Oh, demoiselle, you would not like me if I were like Miles.”
Annoyed at his strange, secretive behavior, Briar sniffed and tossed her head. “Well there you are wrong, for I would like you very much better!”
Does she mean it?
Ivo flinched, and felt the pain of her words go deep, tearing and ripping like an arrow bolt through soft flesh. She could not have hurt him more had she tried.
She doesn’t understand, he told himself. You must explain to her.
But he couldn’t. The words would choke him. And more than that, when she learned how he had failed his sister, she would look at him with new eyes. She would no longer think him capable of daring feats, she would no longer nestle so confidently into his arms. She would know he deserved to suffer, as Miles was making him suffer now.
So she preferred Miles?
Then God help her.
God help them both…
“Come with me, Briar,” he said, and his voice had turned dead and cold. He felt both. Miles had come to York to destroy him, and this time Ivo had more to lose than ever.
After a brief hesitation, Briar gave him her hand with a shrug of impatience, and he helped her up onto the horse. She cast him a sideways glance, puzzled, uneasy.
“Are you angry with me, Ivo?”
He didn’t answer her.
“Are you angry with Miles?”
“My feelings are my own business, Briar. Leave them be.”
She gave a noisy sigh, and subsided into silence. As she settled herself, Ivo found himself remembering what else Miles had said. He had been too enraged at the time to give it any weight, but now he recalled Briar’s question about Anna Kenton. Lord Fitzmorton had known her, but they had already heard that from Sir Anthony. It had not previously occurred to Ivo that, if Fitzmorton knew Anna, then Miles would know her, too. And if Miles was involved with Anna, then there was more than a possibility that it was he who had killed her. Miles would not think twice about killing a woman who had displeased him or had made him feel less than adequate.
Death seemed to follow Miles about.
“Sweyn?”
He looked up on hearing Mary’s voice, pretending surprise. Upon their return to the dwelling, Sweyn had stayed to guard her. Now the wind from the river blew her long dark hai
r about her serious face, stinging color into her cheeks. So she had finally gained the courage to come outside and speak to him.
From the corners of his eyes, he had seen her open the door, had felt her gaze upon him. As she drew closer, he had smelt her scent. Aye, he had been as aware of her as if she had run her hands down his body.
Sweyn took a sharp breath at the image, every muscle and sinew tightening with his desire and need.
“Sweyn?”
She was closer now, and he forced himself to relax. He smiled, made it casual and friendly. Nothing too intense, nothing too meaningful.
“Lady?” he said.
Who was he fooling? What he really wanted was to lean down and plunder her soft lips. He wanted to pull her to him, lift her against the wall so that he could better press his male hardness against her soft womanhood.
Madness!
And what was even more crazy, more bizarre, more frightening, he wanted to cradle her in his arms and sleep with her every night. He wanted to gaze deep into her dark, serious eyes every morning.
How could he, the famous jokester, the easygoing womanizer, have come to such a pass as this? Sweyn felt completely bemused and dismayed. As if he had wandered into a familiar forest, only to discover the trees had all changed and he could not find his way out again.
“I am no lady,” Mary said.
She must be cold; she was blowing warm breath on her fingertips. Without thinking, he took her hands in his and held her cold fingers to his own mouth. She went still, her lips parted, and gazed up at him in wonder as he gently warmed each rosy finger with his own breath.
“You are a lady to me,” he said, and wondered if she could read the confusion in his face, matching her own. He could see an image of himself in the mirror of her dark eyes. Big and fair, his tanned face gone a little sallow from the cold, his blue eyes bright in color but dull with tiredness. He was so much older than she, in years as well as experience. How could she look at a man like him with such longing? With such wanting? He could give her nothing; he was nothing. Didn’t she understand that?
She wants a husband and children.
“Mary—”
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Do not say anything,” she whispered. “Do not try to make sense of it.”
He hesitated, on the edge of the abyss, and then he closed his eyes—telling himself that what he could not see did not count—and slipped over.
Sweyn kissed her fingers. It was so easy now, to enjoy the feel of her, the warmth of her, the sweet scent of her. Mary slipped into his arms and rested her body against his, as if she too were savoring those very things.
“Don’t trust me,” he breathed into her hair. “I do not trust myself. I will hurt you, Mary. I have never been faithful to one woman in my life.”
For a moment she stiffened, and he thought her hurt by his honesty, but when she spoke again he could hear the smile in her voice, and with it a steel certainty that awed him.
“I do not know if you can trust me, either, Sweyn. I have been a child for so long, it will be difficult for me to be a woman. I am trying, but…” She sighed and cuddled closer. “I don’t want to be a child anymore, Sweyn. I think you can help me to become a woman. Even if you do not stay with me forever, I want you to be the first.”
What was she asking him to do? Sweyn opened his eyes and met hers. The invitation was there, unmistakable. Sweyn swallowed. Great Odin, she was asking him to…! His rod grew even harder, though a moment ago he had considered that impossible. He imagined bending and devouring her soft lips, plunging his hands into her hair, plunging his body into hers. He imagined sating his need on her, and the vivid images in his head were all wonderful.
And then, just as abruptly, the desire leached out of him.
How could he take her in such a way? Steal her innocence? He was not a man to stay with her, or any woman. He would use her and leave her, and then what? She would be hurt, she would suffer, she would look at him with pain in her eyes. He could not bear that, and Sweyn knew suddenly that for the first time in his whole selfish life, he would rather deny his desires than suffer the consequences.
Cautiously, amazed at his own self-denial, and feeling almost saintlike because of it, Sweyn shook his head. “Nay, Mary,” he said gently. “I am not the man for you. You will find someone else, someone who cares for you and will stay with you, always. Someone who is deserving of you. Now go back inside, ’tis far too cold out here.”
And then he stepped away from her. Although releasing her was like cutting off his hand, he still managed to do it. Pride at his self-sacrifice surged through him, mingling with his savage pain of loss.
Mary stared up at him a moment, bewildered, tears sparkling in her eyes, and then she turned and walked back to the cottage. When the door finally closed, Sweyn was sure that it sliced his heart in two.
You did a fine thing. You were a knight, like Ivo. Be proud. She will be much happier with a better man.
“Aye, but can I stand the thought of it?” Sweyn muttered, and then cursed and kicked savagely at a pile of debris. “If I’ve done such an honorable thing, why am I feeling so bloody miserable?”
Chapter 12
Briar had enjoyed the journey to the old house, even though it had stirred up painful memories. But now the pleasure was gone. Ivo had spoiled it with his strange behavior toward his brother, his wild manner inside the abandoned building, and now his frozen, icy politeness.
His silence irritated her beyond bearing, and in the end she had to remind herself of the vow she had made to herself, in case she sought to stir him into response, any response, by baiting him.
But still Ivo had said nothing. The raging temper that had afflicted him was gone, turned to frigid ice, and no matter how patient and forbearing she was, he simply gazed at her with dark, tormented eyes.
“Ivo!” she cried at last, beyond caution. “You must tell me what is wrong, for I cannot bear it any longer.”
“There is nothing wrong with me that you need concern yourself with.” He looked away, toward the Ouse, and his mouth firmed. “My problems are my own, demoiselle. I will handle them in my own way.”
“Ivo—”
“You are home.” He slid from the saddle, and reached to help her down. “I have matters to attend, so I will bid you farewell for now.”
His voice was stilted and emotionally bereft. How could that be, when before he had been so warm, so real? Briar wanted the other Ivo back; she already hated this icy man. She stamped her foot in frustration. “Ivo!” But he simply ignored her, climbed back on his horse, and rode away.
Briar did not understand it, and it worried her. She did not like the Ivo she had seen today, he frightened her. They were to be wed. This man was to be her husband, the father of her babe. What chance did they have at a life if she did not like or understand him?
She had not even known Ivo had a brother, he never spoke of him. Miles’s face filled her mind, that expression of sad resignation in his eyes. As if he had long ago given up on reclaiming his brother. What had Ivo done that was so terrible? Why had he been disgraced? Why did he hate his brother so? Was it because Miles was still a knight? That Miles was a better man?
Nay, I don’t believe it. Ivo is a good man. I trust him with my life, with my babe’s life.
This surprising revelation ousted all her former doubts. She had been wrong when she worried Ivo would leave her—she knew it was not in his nature to abandon those in need. But there were still so many questions Briar did not know the answers to. Ivo had secrets, painful secrets, she accepted that. But so did they all. How could she help him if he did not tell her?
Aye, he was angry, but it was more than that. Something was festering and rotting deep inside him. Something was poisoning him, and preventing him from being the man he could be.
It was up to Briar to find out what it was, and heal him.
“Are all men so infuriating?” she asked Mary, when she had finished glaring aft
er him, and gone inside to find her sister returned.
Mary looked up with a vague smile, her face drawn and pale, her eyes distant. She did not even bother to answer.
What is wrong with everyone? Briar felt like screaming.
To add to her misery, an hour later the sickness returned. Despite it, and with fierce determination, she set about dressing and readying herself for their performance that night. Jocelyn had sent word that they were required at the home of a city merchant. Lord Shelborne had been shouting their praises so hard, others were clamoring for them to perform.
It was not until they reached the venue, that Briar understood how quickly the rumor of their real identity had spread. Instead of the story turning patrons against them, it was having the opposite effect. The wealthy of York appeared to be fascinated by them. Having them perform gave a touch of danger to proceedings, Briar supposed. A brush with the forbidden. She was not foolish enough to think that, if it became too dangerous, these same people would not drop them like hot coals and abandon them to their fate.
As Briar knew all too well, ’twas the way of the world.
The merchant’s house was opulent, the people enthusiastic, and despite her afflictions, Briar sang well. Tonight it was Mary who made the blunders. At one point she lost the tune entirely, and her lip wobbled, as if she might burst into tears, but Briar simply sang louder and they got through it.
They had come to their final song, and a troop of acrobats was waiting impatiently to take their place, when Briar glanced across the heads of the guests and spied Sir Miles de Vessey. He was standing, watching her from the shadows at the very back of the room.
Her heart gave a great thump, almost as if she was afraid. But that was foolish, for why should she be afraid of Miles, who was Ivo’s brother? And then she thought of Ivo, and how cold his behavior had been. Had she not decided she must heal whatever ailed him? If only there was some way to discover just what it was…
She looked up again, searching the faces before her, but this time Miles had gone. Vanished into the shadows, as if he had never been.