The knock was repeated, louder this time. Not a servant then, thought Briar. A servant would never pound upon a door so vigorously. No, this fist sounded masculine, and large.
“Ivo?” A deep voice, muffled by the wood. “Ivo de Vessey!”
Briar had opened her mouth to reply that there was no Ivo de Vessey in here, when Radulf sat up. He ran his fingers down her arm, and then cupped her breast in a possessive fashion she wasn’t at all sure she liked, especially when her nipple perked up in instant response.
“Aye, Sweyn?” shouted her tormentor. “What do you want? I warn you, you have chosen a most inconvenient time.”
The door opened and the owner of the voice peered in. He was tall and fair, a handsome man Briar vaguely remembered seeing standing in the group beside Radulf, in the hall. Sweyn—was that his name?—raised a blond eyebrow as he took in the scene before him. Belatedly Briar ducked behind her lover, using him as a cover for her nakedness.
Ivo smiled, enjoying feeling her warm body and her warm breath upon his bare back. A strand of her hair lay upon his hip, the curled end tickling his thigh. He twined it lazily about his finger, examining the smooth fineness of it.
Sweyn was grinning at him, but Ivo was in no mood to put up with his friend’s humor.
“Well?” he demanded in a surly tone.
Ivo had no intention of leaving Briar just yet. Aye, his body was insatiable where she was concerned, but it was the manner in which he satisfied it that surprised him. Not just with a selfish need to take her, although he had enjoyed the taking very much. There was more to it. He had wanted it to last forever, and had brought her again and again to her fulfillment. He had found pleasure and pride in gazing into her hazel eyes as they darkened with desire, flared with surprise, then blurred with ecstasy.
Aye, and she was as surprised by the situation as he. If Ivo was not mistaken, here was a woman who had not known much joy. Her unhappiness made a bond between them, more so than he had felt with any woman for a great many years. He didn’t know why she had brought him here, allowed him the use of her inexperienced body and showed him her passion, but he felt a longing to protect her, to keep her from harm, to be her knight. Ivo was not one to believe in fate, but it seemed to him, as he lay with Briar in his arms, that their lives had come together for a reason, a purpose. And before this night was through, he meant to discover what it was.
Unfortunately, Sweyn had other plans.
“We are needed,” he said, the humor subdued to a spark in his blue eyes. “You know I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise, Ivo.”
Ivo gave a sullen grunt, followed by a resigned nod of his head. “Aye, ‘tis clear you are most upset, Sweyn. Go. I will meet you in the hall.”
Sweyn chuckled at his Mend’s display of bad humor, and closed the door.
During his conversation, Ivo had been aware of Briar’s warm presence at his back. Now she was clinging to his shoulders, and her fingers dug into his flesh so hard that her nails were surely drawing blood. Was she so upset that he must leave her? The thought pleased him, and he was gentle as he eased himself away from her nails, and shifted his body on the bed, the better to see her.
She was white, her hazel eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face, and her breasts were rising and falling deliciously fast. Ivo frowned; this was more than a small upset, far more.
“Demoiselle,” he said carefully, “I must go. I am called away by my lord. But I swear to you that I will return—”
“What did he call you? What is your name?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
He frowned, puzzled, and reached to touch her cheek. She shook her head desperately, scooting away from him on the rumpled cushions and furs. What was wrong with her? This was beyond strange. The niggling sense of doubt grew within him, and Ivo’s frown blackened. ‘Twas time they cut through this nonsense, and got to the heart of the matter—he had never been one for prevarication.
He pushed aside the wild tangle of his hair with his black leather glove. “I am Ivo de Vessey,” he said with barely concealed impatience. “I am here in the service of Lord Radulf, to put down the skirmish on his northern borders. I was once a Norman knight, demoiselle, but am one no longer. Disgrace has tainted me. Now I fight for coin instead of glory. Is that introduction enough? If you require one after what has taken place in this bed tonight!”
Briar wondered if she was going to scream. She could feel the sound building up inside her, like a roaring tempest in a small room, whirling around and around in the tiny space, and threatening to destroy all within.
I have given myself to the wrong man! She felt little, vulnerable, as she had not felt in two years. Her hatred, her plots, had helped keep her safe from the full extent of her grief and loss, and suddenly, now, she was back in that pit.
I have given myself to the wrong man!
It could not be so. She had been so positive this man was Radulf... so positive she had recognized him in some elemental way. She had not even thought to ask anyone! This man was Radulf! The dark hair and eyes, the impressive size, his war-like air. Who else could it have been?
Shadows drew in from the corners of the room, fluttering at the edges of her vision. Briar felt close to fainting.
He is not Radulf!
So much plotting and planning, all her dreams of vengeance, all that had kept her going through the long, long weeks and months. She felt herself beginning to crumble, turning to nothing but fine, choking dust. Ashes. She had built herself protective walls of hatred and revenge, keeping herself safe with dreams of what she would do to Radulf when she found him. And now they were falling down, blowing away in the hot wind of disaster.
Sweet Jesu, she had given herself to the wrong man!
Briar was distraught, more shaken than she could ever remember. The grief she had felt when her father died and all was taken from her, when Filby used her and then heartlessly discarded her to her fate, came sweeping over her, fresh and raw as ever. The single-minded dream of vengeance had helped to keep her living and breathing, and now for it to go so terribly, terribly wrong ...
It was beyond bearing.
