“And has he a name, this frightening man?” Jocelyn asked, glancing sharply at Briar.
Grisel nodded. “He says he is Ivo de Vessey, of Lord Radulf’s household.”
Briar feared her face betrayed her. He had come to see her! She felt very peculiar, as if she were made of colored glass—that precious stuff that some of York’s newly built churches displayed in their windows. It was beautiful, there was no doubt, but so easily broken. Briar wondered if she too might shatter with disappointment, if it turned out that Ivo de Vessey was here for some other, more prosaic purpose.
“Grisel, go and tell this man the songstress will see him. And then take him to the alcove off the hall. And bring him some wine.”
Grisel ducked a curtsy, and reluctantly retreated.
Briar snatched the comb from Mary and began to work on her hair, tugging through the painful knots with her usual stubborn determination. But her hands were trembling, and that made her angry.
“He has returned very quickly,” Jocelyn said. “Why do you think that is?”
“How should I know?” Briar retorted.
Jocelyn gave her a little, knowing smile. “Mayhap he is caught in your spell already, Briar.”
“Is this the man you sang to last night?” Mary asked the question with such studied innocence that it gave Briar pause. There was a cunning gleam in Mary’s eyes.
For a brief moment, Briar wondered if her young sister was really as naive as she seemed. And then she dismissed the doubt as ridiculous, and took Mary’s hands in hers. “I will go and see. Stay here and have something to break your fast. When I return, we can go home.”
Mary nodded, but Briar sensed her suspicion.
“Take care,” Jocelyn warned.
“Do not worry. I know what I am about.”
“Do you?” Jocelyn replied softly. “Every vixen will meet her match one day, Briar. Mayhap you have met your fox...”
Ivo paced back and forth in the alcove, his boots scattering wine-soaked straw left over from last night’s revelries. Where was she? He knew she was somewhere within this household, for last night he had put a guard on Lord Shelborne’s house to follow the singing sisters. Only they had never left. And so he had told the maidservant, who had tried to pretend she had never heard of Briar. The girl, already terrified at the sight of him, had crumbled like stale cheese before his determined questioning.
Where was she? Had she sneaked out through a back way? Was she even now running down York’s narrow lanes, trying to escape him? Didn’t she realize yet that she couldn’t? Ivo smiled to himself. She was his.
A slight sound outside the alcove drew his attention. Ivo turned to face her, the wolf-pelt cloak settling about his shoulders. She was coming toward him, rumpled, her big hazel eyes sleepy and wary at the same time, her face pale and strained, her hair unbound about her shoulders. Something in his chest clenched, hard and painful, and he took a sharp breath.
The childhood memory was there, blurring the edges of the present. The little girl falling, cutting her cheek on the hound’s half-chewed bone, her family running in response to her cries. And he, young and gentle, yet to learn the harsh realities of being Miles’s brother, lifting her up. Earning her gratitude and her childish love. She had followed him about, to the amusement of all, until the day he left the Kenton household. And he had allowed it, perhaps because he missed his mother and his sister, and perhaps because he was a little in love with her himself.
She was still beautiful.
But now she was a grown woman, and he was a man. The innocence had gone. Aye, she was indeed a woman. Ivo almost groaned aloud, and his groin tightened instantly with lust, while his blood began to heat. It didn’t matter. Whatever she wanted from him, he would find some way to give it to her, without compromising his loyalty to Radulf and his integrity as a de Vessey. He would do it. And at the same time he would protect her from Lord Radulf, from the enemies of her father, even from herself.
Silently, Ivo swore it.
She had reached him. There were shadows under her eyes and her mouth was closed tight, but he could see a pulse jumping in her throat.
“Briar.”
Her name was like honey in his mouth.
Her gaze slid warily over his chain-mail tunic, the wolf-pelt cloak tied over it, and the big sword strapped at his side. He had removed his helmet, leaving his head bare.
“You surprise me, de Vessey.” Her voice sounded cool and distant. “I thought never to see you again.”
“Why? Because you mistook me for another?”
She came even closer—unwillingly, he thought, but she was clearly determined not to let him know she was afraid. Her scent caught in his nostrils, adding to his yearning, and he had to force himself not to reach out and pull her against him, although his body throbbed with his need.
“I know you have secrets, Briar.”
