With a little shrug, he began to dress, hastily pulling up his breeches and slipping his shirt and tunic over his head. All the while she crouched upon the bed, shaking, her face turned so far from him that he could see the strained cords of her neck. As if the sight of him was acutely painful to her. Or repulsive.
Ivo was not insulted. He knew she had felt no such thing earlier. She had wanted him; she had enjoyed what he did to her. He had felt her body tremble in release, had tasted her desire. He knew it to the marrow of his bones. Aye, she had wanted him. Whatever was wrong now was not because of that. For some inexplicable reason she had imagined him to be Radulf—he remembered now that she had not asked him for his name. Why was his being Radulf so important to her? He did not believe she was the sort to be fascinated by a man because of his wealth and power, the sort who would give herself to a man just for what he could give her materially.
Mayhap he was being a fool for trusting a woman he did not know, except for some childhood memory... And yet, he could not, would not, let her go. He remembered again the way she had looked up at him as he took her, the trusting, dreaming expression in her eyes. She had not held back; there had been no deceit in her desire for him, whatever her lips might say. And she had let him take her that last time, even when she knew he was not Radulf.
Aye, there was much here to think on.
She had given him back his heart—for better or worse, he did not know yet. Nay, he would not desert her now, just as he had not deserted her on that long ago day when she received her scar. His decision was made, burnt into his flesh, like the remembrance of her touch.
“Farewell, demoiselle.” He turned to her at last, fully dressed, and strapped his sword about his hips. The two green stones gleamed dully in the sputtering candlelight; they were the eyes of the snarling creature, half beast and half bird, that had been fashioned into the hilt. A griffin. It was his family emblem, and he had received and worn it with great pride when he became a knight.
Long ago, long gone.
She may have brought his heart back to life, but she could not give Ivo back that burning sense of self-worth and pride he had felt when he was made a knight. Could she?
Briar had not answered his farewell. Instead she continued to tremble against the bed where they had just made love. He watched her a moment more, and his newly revived heart ached for her. You are mine, now. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Ivo was too wise to speak them. Women were strange creatures, and sometimes ‘twas best just to leave them be.
Ivo closed the door softly behind him.
Briar held her breath, but his footsteps moved away, faded into the echoes of music and laughter from the hall. She collapsed into the furs, her body going limp, and sobbed her heartache in hot, scalding tears. The aching silence was filled with her pain. Anger, too. She was angry with herself for making such a blunder, and with Ivo de Vessey for not making her aware of that blunder, and with Radulf for not being where he should be. But most of all she felt despair, because she feared she would never be able to carry out her plan now. She had set her mind to seduce Radulf, and instead had lain with Ivo de Vessey, who by his own tongue was a disgraced knight and a mercenary.
And she had lain with him again, after he had told her who he was.
How could she have been so foolish?
But something about Ivo de Vessey had called to her, drawn her in like a bee to poison nectar. Aye, a willing victim! She had believed he was Radulf. She had wanted to believe it, she realized now, because she had felt an instant attraction to him. More than that—a meeting of flesh and blood, bodies and minds, such as she had only heard of in songs. She had never looked for such a thing to happen to her; her mind had been too full of dark dreams of vengeance. Was that dream over now? How could she seek out Radulf and seduce him after Ivo de Vessey?
Briar groaned aloud.
Her tears had stopped, and she swallowed down any lingering sobs. This situation was even graver than she had first thought. It had only just occurred to her how grave. The fact that her joining with Ivo had not been unpleasant, or degrading, or in any way like the brief moments with Filby—that it had been one of the most wondrous nights of her life, rung a desperate warning peal in her mind.
Briar groaned again and covered her flushed, swollen face with her shaking hands. No, no, no! She needed to be calm and cold and single-minded. She could not lust after a stranger, a man who had no part in her life, or her dreams of vengeance. He was nothing to her, and so it must remain. How could she continue to survive if it were otherwise?
Impatiently, Briar brushed the tears from her cheeks. Jocelyn had been right, she had not considered the consequences of her action, and now they seemed particularly dire. She had lain with Ivo de Vessey and made a bond with him, and even if she tried to sever that bond, she sensed Ivo would fight to stop her.
No, angel, you are not lost. I have found you.
He had held her with such tenderness, such concern, feelings she would never have imagined such a big, warlike man could possess. And then he had kissed her again, and even after she knew he was not Radulf, she had kissed him back. She had let him touch her. Lie upon her and enter her body with his. Aye, when she should have been cold as rock toward him, she had melted and burned and sobbed with desire.
Briar’s breath quickened, and she closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists. No, no, she could not think of it now. Her mind was a whirling mass of confusion, and her throat was raw from crying. The grief she had thought long past her had returned, and as for her dreams of vengeance... Because of her wild lovemaking and her wild regrets, Briar had hardly enough strength remaining to dress herself, let alone consider what to do about the ruin of her plan.
Mary.
She must fetch Mary, and take her home.
The thought of her sister stilled the chaos inside her, and helped restore Briar to some semblance of the strong and resilient woman she had believed herself to be. Wearily, she used the bedding to mop at her face, ignoring the signs of passion. A vision of his naked body, lying upon the furs, strong-limbed and hard-muscled, languorous from their lovemaking, filled her mind like a warm breeze on a cold night. She banished it.
Mary would be worrying. Briar would make up some story—mayhap she had had a private audience for her songs? A widow, grieving for her one true love, who had wished to hear her sing in private. Mary would believe her, and they would go on as they had before.
Well, not quite. Briar wondered, miserably, if she would ever be as she was before. Ivo de Vessey had changed her, she wasn’t sure just how, but she knew it was so. Like a bolt of dark lightning he had split the old Briar asunder. And she was very much afraid the change was forever.
“Was she as sweet as she looked?”
Ivo ignored Sweyn, kicking his horse into a gallop through the still, moonlit streets of York. The sky was dear and starry, a wondrous arc above, and he wished suddenly he could show it to Briar. It had been long since Ivo had wanted to share anything with a woman, and the realization gave him pause.
“Did she sing to you?” Sweyn would not stop his teasing.
Ivo made an impatient sound. “What she and I did is private between us. You said we were wanted, what did you mean?” He had not even thought to ask until now, being otherwise occupied.
