She could never tell Mary what she was planning, that she had persuaded one of the servants to secretly prepare her a chamber at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house, and that Briar meant to share that chamber with the man in the other room. Give him false kisses and caresses, and coldly cleave her body to his. Tonight, she would use her womanhood to tempt him. As her only weapon, it would serve her well.
‘Tis just, she thought. A woman began this calamity, and now a woman will end it.
Mary was hovering, obviously wanting to ask more. But at heart she had always been a biddable girl, and now, with a sigh, she acquiesced.
“Very well, Briar. I will wait in the kitchen with Jocelyn. It is warm there, and Odo will be in the stables, helping with the horses. She is lonely without him. Do you think, Briar, that I will ever find a man to love as Jocelyn loves her Odo?”
Jocelyn loved Odo, it was true, even though he was not the strong husband he had once been. Something had broken him, and without Jocelyn to care for him, Briar doubted Odo would live a week. And yet without Odo to care for, Jocelyn would be lost and alone. They were bound together by ties of need as strong as any marriage vows.
Briar shook her head at Mary’s wistful question— she did not want to think of love. Not when her whole being was consumed with hate. Tonight was the culmination of two years of blind rage, smoldering and fermenting inside her, hot and angry. Briar had lived her need for vengeance, worn it like a heavy dark cloak about her shoulders. It had subjugated all other emotions, until she had rarely thought of anything else.
Tonight would end it.
Out in the other room the level of noise was rising, like a tide flooding up through the floor and walls, all the way to the ceiling beams. The guests were growing impatient. They had eaten and drunk, and now they were expecting to be entertained. And Briar and Mary were the entertainment.
A vision filled Briar’s mind, so strong and real she physically flinched. That pale, angular face, too fierce and too intense to be handsome, and those brooding black eyes: He was not to be taken lightly, her enemy. She did not underestimate him, but nor did she underestimate herself. She did not accept the tales that would have her believe he was more than flesh and blood. He was but a man, the same as any other. And tonight she would wind her carnal spell about him, binding him so fast, so tight that he would not escape.
And then she would destroy him.
Chapter 1
Ivo de Vessey half smiled as Sweyn murmured a joke in his ear. A serving girl paused before them, filling their tankards with more warm ale, and returned Sweyn’s grin. Outside the late summer evening was fading into darkness, drawing shadows down upon the city of York, but here in Lord Shelborne’s hall the company was jolly and the food good, and Ivo had drunk far too much.
Ivo had come north with Lord Radulf, in response to yet another skirmish within the northern lands of Radulf’s wife, the Lady Lily. The north of England seethed with subversion like a many-headed monster, and despite King William’s brutality in putting down each rebellion, no matter how small, there was always another to take its place.
Sweyn, a fellow mercenary, had accompanied Ivo, and along with a large troop of Radulf’s men, they had readied York as the bells for Vespers began to toll. Lord Radulf, missing his wife and best left to his own company, had retired, but Ivo had been in favor of going at once to the castle and asking the garrison for information on this latest act of lawlessness. Before he could set out, a messenger had arrived at the door with a request for Lord Radulf and his men to come and feast at the hall of Lord Shelborne. Sweyn had promptly set about persuading Ivo to bathe and change his travel- stained clothing, and attend Lord Shelborne’s hall instead of the possibly dubious repast they would find among the soldiers of the garrison.
“The invitation is for Lord Radulf,” Ivo had argued.
“Aye, but he is like a surly bear tonight and best left undisturbed. A warning, my friend, never let a woman make her home in your heart.”
“I need no warning,” Ivo had retorted. “But will this Lord Shelborne not think it strange that we have left Lord Radulf behind?”
“Not if he saw him, Ivo. He would be grateful we had not brought him.” Sweyn strode impatiently to the door. “Come, there will be time enough for talk of rebellions tomorrow! Enjoy yourself tonight, my friend. Lord Shelborne’s messenger says there will be dancing and singing, and one of the women has the voice of an angel. An angel, he says, who can heal a sick man, and make a broken man whole. And there will be dice, Ivo! I am desperate to replenish my coin.”
Ivo had snorted. “Do you think of nothing but women and dice, Sweyn?”
Sweyn had stopped and pretended to consider. “No.”
So Ivo had laughed, and allowed himself to be bullied into going to Lord Shelborne’s hall. And Sweyn had been right, Ivo admitted it now. There was such a thing as being too dedicated to one’s tasks, too serious, too willing to forgo pleasure for the sake of duty. Tomorrow would be soon enough to apply themselves to Radulf’s problems in the north. Surely even a disgraced knight was allowed an occasional evening of leisure.
Ivo had been sipping his ale, deep in his thoughts, and it was a moment before he became aware that all had gone quiet. An expectant hush. He glanced up, and as he did he heard the voice.
It was low and slightly husky; deeper than that of the women he was accustomed to hearing sing. The timbre of it brushed over his skin, soft as fur, warm as blood, making him instantly aware. His body tightened, hardened, as if he were preparing for battle, every sense alerted. Ivo narrowed his eyes and turned his head, searching for the singer in a room made smoky from ill-drawing fires and shadowy from candles that flickered in the many drafts.
And found her.
She sat upon a small dais, and as he stared, the vapor in the hall seemed to clear from before his eyes.
Long chestnut hair lay smooth and heavy over her back and shoulders. Too heavy for her pale and piquant face and wide, slanting eyes. She was a small woman, slender, but with a voice at once powerful and moving. The notes she sang vibrated through him, caught like a small fist in his chest, and made his heart ache.
Dear God, what was this?
Ivo blinked, and stared at her, and realized then that the woman was gazing directly back at him. As if she were singing for him, and him alone. He took a shaky breath.
Beside him, Sweyn leaned over to whisper in his ear. “The messenger had it aright, Ivo. She is an angel.”
“Aye,” Ivo said, wondering if he sounded as bemused as he felt.
