Briar told herself she should stand up hotly for what she had done—wasn’t she seeking vengeance for them all, not just herself? But right now she was simply too beaten, too exhausted to justify herself to her sister. In truth, Briar, who was usually so independent and so headstrong, felt as if something vital inside her had shattered.
As if sensing her weakness, Jocelyn pressed her advantage, her voice trembling now with anger.
“I have learned that you gave a private audience to a man, Briar. Are you going to tell me about it? I know ‘twas not Radulf. He did not come to the hall tonight. Rumor has it he was missing his wife, and stayed away.”
“Please, do not—”
“Aye, please do! You brought a man here, sister. You tricked Grisel into preparing this chamber for you, telling the simple wench some lying tale! And all the time you meant to bring Radulf here— it was Radulf you had set your sights on, wasn’t it? You asked after him so many times, I cannot be mistaken in that. I was a fool not to realize you had not given up your foolish plot, Briar. Who was here with you? Tell me!”
Resigned, Briar said, “He was one of Radulf’s men. His name was Ivo de Vessey. He was tall and dark-haired, and I thought... I thought I recognized him.” Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I thought he was Radulf.”
Jocelyn made a sound like a groan. “I told you to take care, Briar. I warned you to leave well alone. “ ‘Tis Filby all over again.”
Briar shook her head slowly, back and forth.
Her blue eyes wide now with worry, Jocelyn caught her sister’s chin to hold her still, the candle dipping wildly in her other hand. “You destroy yourself with your own hatred, Briar! Now what have you done? This man, did he hurt you?”
Briar swallowed. “No, he did not hurt me.”
Jocelyn stared at her a moment, blankly. Under her gaze, the color crept slowly, tellingly, into Briar’s face. Jocelyn frowned, then stepped back awkwardly. “I do not understand you.”
Briar felt her cheeks burn even hotter. “This man, this Ivo de Vessey, he was not like Filby.”
Jocelyn continued to gaze at her as if she were mad, and then realization made her catch her breath. “You liked what he did to you.”
“Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant—”
“You liked it! Dear God, I should be horrified, but instead I am strangely glad. You are safe and unharmed, and this man ... But what is it, Briar? You are different. Something in you has changed.”
Briar turned away. “It was the wrong man,” she whispered in anguish. “I meant to punish Radulf for all he has done to us, and instead... I failed us all.”
“You mistake me,” Jocelyn said, more gently. “I am not angry with you, well... I was. Sister, I have always regretted not stopping you from going to Filby. He was callous and unfeeling, and he wounded you deeply. I never did like him. If Odo had not been so ill, and I had not had other thoughts to fill my head, I would have stopped you. Instead you went off in your own headstrong way, certain you could change the mind of such a man. Briar, we cannot always change the way of the world, just because we wish to. Surely tonight has shown you that, if nothing else?”
“I admit I have made a mistake,” Briar replied bluntly. Tears tightened her throat, but she tried to swallow them back down. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
The admission sapped her limited strength, and she slumped down upon the bed, covering her face with trembling hands. “I don’t know what to do,” she repeated with all the bewilderment of a wounded child. “I thought it would feel so good that I had succeeded at last, but I felt... empty. I had stolen Radulf from his wife, just as he stole Anna from our father, and it was right and just. But instead I felt tainted. And then I learned the man I had lain with was not even Radulf! I had let the wrong man use my body. I had given myself to the wrong man and achieved nothing!”
“Oh Briar—”
“No, no, you were right. Even though it was not Radulf, and I realized my ridiculous mistake, I knew then that I had wanted Radulf to be this man because I was... he was ... Jocelyn, you were right. I did like what we did. He made me feel such things! He was like no other man. But then I realized that, being with him, had ruined everything. I cannot even think of... of... with Radulf. Not now. And my plot, my vengeance, is all broken up and confused in my mind. What will I do? I feel such pain, such emptiness and loss. Jocelyn, if I cannot honor my father by defeating his enemy, what am I to do?”
Jocelyn wrapped her arms around Briar and held her tightly as she wept. The sobs were painful to hear, but Jocelyn felt only relief. Briar had held herself aloof for so long, ever since they left Castle Kenton. She had professed her hatred and sought her revenge, but it had been a barricade behind which she hid from the stark truth— that nothing could ever be the same again. And now that barricade seemed to have suffered some major damage.
Was that the doing of this man? This Ivo de Vessey? Had he breached her sister’s defenses when all else had failed? Or was it simply that, now that Briar’s plot had fallen in a heap, she found herself at a crossroads she had never faced before? To go on hating, as she had for two years, or to strike out in a new direction.
Whatever the case, Jocelyn felt that Ivo de Vessey deserved her gratitude.
“Will you see him again?” she asked quietly.
Her sister lifted her ravaged face and gave her a wild look. “Nay, I must not! I must never see him again!”
Jocelyn hugged her closer, her mind working. Clearly Briar was suffering, but if this Ivo de Vessey had wrought one miracle, he may be able to perform another.
“Tell me about him,” she said coaxingly. “Humor me. What was he like? I worry, Briar, that this man had not seen a woman for some time. You are fair; he probably could not believe his good luck. Was that all there was to it?”
Briar snuggled down against her sister’s shoulder. She had not been held like this since she was a child, and it felt good. Was Jocelyn right? she wondered. Was it that Ivo had merely been eager for a woman, and any woman would do? But if that were the case, would he have held her so tenderly? Would he have kissed her mouth as if it were all he had ever wanted? Called her his angel? And, come to think of it, he had not looked like the sort of man who would have any trouble finding a woman for his bed. Nay, he had not thrown himself onto her like a starving man a loaf of bread! He had held back, kept his passion in check until she had reached her own peak. Were they the actions of an oaf who cared nothing for the needs of women?
“He was a knight, once,” she said at last, softly, as if she were confiding something rare and sweet. “He is no unlearned fool, Jocelyn. He speaks well, and his mind is sharp and clever. He acts like a noble, although now he is disgraced and fights for coin to feed himself—even so, much of his past remains.”
