These days Jocelyn was employed as Lord Shelborne’s cook, and he treasured her for her fine pastries and bread, and the succulent dishes she placed before him. It was Jocelyn who had given Briar the important news that Radulf was to be invited to the marriage celebrations at Lord Shelborne’s hall.
“I don’t know if I will be content, sister,” Briar had said in answer to Jocelyn’s questions. “But at least I will have fulfilled our father’s last wish.”
Jocelyn had shaken her head impatiently. “You have thought only of the moment, Briar, as usual. I know you well. You are headstrong and brave and determined, but you fail to think beyond the moment. What do you believe Radulf will do with you when you tell him who you are? Think carefully, Briar, before you act. Remember, morning always follows night.”
“So you will not help me?”
“No, I will not help you! You go to your own destruction by such behavior. Briar, I, too, have many reasons to hate Radulf. But will that bring our father back? Or our lands and wealth and the joy we knew? Will it bring my Odo back to the man he used to be? What do you hope to achieve by making Radulf suffer, Briar? Methinks it will only increase your own suffering...”
Now, as Briar tightened her grip, her small hand in his, Jocelyn’s warnings rang in her head. She had refused to listen to Jocelyn then, and she did not want to remember her words now. They made her feel uneasy, edgy. Radulf must suffer, just as they had suffered. Aye, Briar was right and Jocelyn was wrong, and she must damp down all doubts within her, be cold as winter on the moors about her home at Castle Kenton. That was why she had not said another word to Jocelyn about tonight, why she had turned instead to Grisel, one of the maidservants. It was simple enough to spin Grisel a tale about a man for whom Briar was lovesick, to beg her to prepare her a room, to swear her to silence.
The chamber that Grisel had found for her was at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house. Quickly Briar pulled her enemy inside the chamber after her, and closed the door. Her gaze darted about the room, assuring herself that everything was in place. Grisel had left a single candle on a wooden chest, and its flame shivered in the draft, sending shadows dancing upon the low-beamed ceiling. The bed was large and thick with sumptuous furs and soft cushions. It looked most inviting, as it was meant to.
Grisel had made a tempting trap, with Briar herself as the bait.
“This is your room?”
He was watching her, those gleaming black eyes piercing her own. She had never seen such eyes, so expressive, so wounded, so ancient. As if he had seen things she could only dream of... Again Briar shook herself. She could read desire in them, and that was all she needed to see. Aye, he wanted her. She had known it from the moment they exchanged glances across Lord Shelborne’s hall. So much for Radulf’s famed fidelity to the Lady Lily! And yet...
Something struck her amiss, like a sour note on Mary’s harp.
Breathless, Briar struggled with her doubt and fear. Not now. She pressed the emotions down inside herself, deep, deep down. She could not allow her feelings to sway her now, not when vengeance was within her grasp. This was the time for a cool, clear head and a cold heart. If Radulf was willing to betray his wife, then Briar told herself she was more than willing to help him do it.
“Wine?” she asked calmly, moving to pour some into a goblet from the jug Grisel had placed earlier.
“Aye, demoiselle.” He reached out his hand.
When she saw the black glove upon it, Briar hesitated. “One glove?” she asked, with a breathy laugh. “Is this an affectation, my lord?”
He shook his head, the humorless smile barely curling the edges of his wide mouth. “No affectation, demoiselle. My hand is injured and I wear the glove so that it will not frighten pretty ladies like yourself. That is all.”
Briar shrugged, but her gaze was curious. Had Radulf hurt himself? She had not heard of any serious injury, and she always had her ears open for talk of the King’s Sword. “ ‘Twould take more than that to frighten me, my lord,” she said grimly, without thinking.
His gaze sharpened at her tone. “Oh?” he asked. “Are you not the fearful sort?”
But Briar had control of herself, and she laughed again, her deceit once more firmly in place. She poured some wine for herself and drank deeply, letting the slightly sour, heady brew relax her. He moved closer. His fingers brushed against her neck, lifting a lock of hair and feeling its texture. His touch made her shiver, but it was not from fear or revulsion. This was something more, something new, something unexpected. Startled, she lifted her head and met his gaze.
His eyes were mesmerizing.
“You are very beautiful,” he murmured, and stepped so close that her body was almost touching his. She felt his heat, smelled his scent, saw the flicker deep in his eyes. He smiled then, his wide mouth curling up and completely transforming the fierce angles of his face. His was a face made for smiling, and yet she could see by the lines upon it that such moments were rare.
Briar could not look away. Not even when he set both their goblets upon the chest and leaned down and kissed her, his lips smooth and unhurried against hers.
“Demoiselle,” he whispered, and rubbed his rough cheek against hers, before capturing her lips once more with his. His mouth was hot and seductive, and Briar went still, confused by the sensations that were cudgeling her mind and body. This was not how she had imagined it! She had meant to seduce him, playing at feelings she could not possibly feel, disguising her distaste and bitter triumph beneath the soft cries of a woman enjoying her man. Leading her enemy further and further into the maze until it was too late, until he was utterly lost in its tangled paths, and willingly hers.
I am Briar, she would tell him then. The daughter of Lord Richard Kenton. I am here to avenge my father and stepmother.
Or maybe she would simply arrange to have someone discover them in bed, someone who would report back to Lily. Radulf would be shattered by his guilt and her pain, aye, destroyed.
That was the problem with loving someone. Love could so easily become a weapon...
Dear God, his mouth was hot! He gripped her upper arms, pulling her closer against his hard body. Briar found that she was leaning into him, her own hands slipping about his waist beneath the wolf-pelt cloak. His body was big and strong, and his touch was as perfect as it was startling. As was the realization that she wanted this.
Where was the distaste for what she was doing? Where was the resignation? She should be grimly suffering even as she triumphed over this man, her enemy. She had plotted so long to punish him; she had never expected to enjoy it!
Nay, this was not how it was meant to be. This was her moment, and if anyone should grow weak from their kisses, then it should be he.
Briar stepped away from him, taking a breath, watching him warily now. He smiled again, coming after her, backing her toward the bed. “We will sing together,” he said softly. “An old song, demoiselle, but a good one.”
