But she was watching him; she was waiting.
Briar had made it sound so simple a thing, for him to tell her his secrets. But it was not. There was nothing simple about it. Ivo rarely shared those most painful of memories with anyone. The past was messy, and his was messier than most.
“Ivo,” she said gently, reaching up to touch his cheek, where the bruise was fading to a dull shadow. “When I was a little child you came to my aid. You picked me up and held me in your arms, and I loved you. I followed you about, do you remember?”
He half smiled at the memory. “I do, Briar. You were beautiful then, too. I gave you my heart, and you have it still.”
“Then do you really think I would harm your heart? Do you really believe I would do that, after you have given me so much? What could be so bad that it would make me turn from you now?”
He tilted his head and kissed her fingers, but the bleakness had returned to his eyes.
“My brother hates me,” he said, as if with an effort, and drew her close against him so that he could rest his chin upon her soft hair. “I don’t know why he hates me, but he always has. I used to think that it was my fault, that I had done something wrong, and I tried harder to be a better brother because of it. But it didn’t matter what I did, he found fault, he derided me, he looked at me with the eyes of loathing. I learned at an early age, that no matter what I did, Miles would still hate me.”
The words were coming easier now, as if a door had opened inside him. Ivo let them flow, forgetting where he was and who was listening, letting himself journey back into his boyhood.
“Miles is the elder son, and our father loved him. I was never favored above him, I was never given more than he. There was no reason. He could have made so much of his life, and instead he had made it his ambition to torment me. Sometimes it was as if my mere presence was enough, and he bitterly resented me for it. Perhaps he wanted to be the only son, perhaps it was as simple, as impossible, as that.
“I was told once that, when I was a babe and he was a boy, he took me up onto the roof and held me over the drop to the ground. ‘Twas only my mother’s threats to tell our father that made him spare me. Afterward, she kept a closer watch upon me, and our father told Miles that if anything were to happen to me, he would send him far away and I would inherit all. But there were still accidents. Small things—a cut here, a fall there, a knock—nothing that could be proved as being done on purpose. One of Miles’s tricks was to ride at me with his pony, and miss me by a hairsbreadth. After a time I learned to stand perfectly still and pretend not to mind. He did not intend to knock me down, not then, he feared our father still. His pleasure was all in frightening me, terrifying me, making my life a misery. I learned to be brave from an early age.
“Perhaps that was one of the reasons I was sent away to be a squire in your household.” He squeezed her gently, feeling her living warmth in his arms. She returned the pressure but said nothing, afraid perhaps to interrupt him now that he had begun.
“Though I missed my home, after a time I grew to love being in the Kenton household. Your family was so different. No one was favored above any other; no one was hurt for just being themselves. And there was no Miles.”
“I am glad you were happy,” she murmured, her voice husky. “I am glad my family gave you that, Ivo.”
They were silent a moment, remembering. And then Ivo sighed, and said, “But then my father died, and I returned home. And my happy days were done. Miles was waiting for me, and now there was no one to rein him in.”
“But why, Ivo? Why does he hate you so?” Her eyes were wide, compassionate, as she leaned back in his arms to look up at him. Briar, the pampered daughter, the beloved of her father, would never have understood, although she may have sympathized. But this Briar had suffered too—he had seen it in her eyes that first night. She had been hurt, and she had survived. Just like Ivo.
Mayhap that was why he loved her so much.
He drew her gently back against his chest, smoothing the fingers of his gloved hand through her hair, soaking up her warmth as if he were frozen. She had opened his heart once, when he had thought all chance of love was dead. Perhaps she could do it again...
“When I was eleven, Miles and I were mock-fighting with our wooden swords. I could beat him, and he hated me all the more for it. And the more he showed his hate for me, the better it felt to beat him. The old soldier who watched over us at such times took sick, and in the confusion we were left alone. That was when Miles thought it would be a good idea to use real swords.
“I was not afraid of him when it came to swordplay—I was bigger and stronger than him already. So I agreed, and we found our swords, and we began to fight. But it was no longer a game, Briar. It was no longer practice. Miles was fighting me in earnest, and I realized I was not as good at defending myself as I had thought. He beat me back, and when I held up my sword to block him, he sliced not at the blade but at my hand upon the hilt. I lost three fingers.”
“Jesu, Ivo...”
“I was half fainting with the pain of it, sure he would kill me now. But instead he lifted me up from the ground, and called for help, as if it had been an accident. I was in agony, swooning, blood soaking into my clothes and dripping onto the ground. I looked up into his face and he was smiling. Now, he said, there can be only one knight in the de Vessey family.
Briar, face pressed to his chest, was trembling violently. “He was a monster.”
“Aye, he was. But he was content afterward, he left me alone. He thought he had won, at last.”
“But he had not?” She asked the question eagerly, and despite himself, Ivo smiled.
“No, he had not. I healed. Everyone doubted I would ever wield a sword again, but that only made me all the more determined to do so. I practiced and my mother had a glove made, of steel and leather, that helped me to grip the hilt of my sword without it slipping. And in time I could fight just as well as any man, and better than most. When Miles understood he had failed, he was furious. And he became even more determined to best me, to hurt me, to wound my mind and my heart, as well as my body.”
“Because you conquered him, Ivo. You were too strong for him, and he hated you for it.”
Ivo felt her tears on his skin, warm and wet, like a benediction.
He could stop now, he thought, and she would never know the worst part. But he would know, and suddenly he could not bear it. He wanted her to hear all, he wanted to rid himself of the taint of his brother. More than anything, he just wanted to be free.
“I had a sister. She was my sister, the child of my mother and not Miles’s mother. She was older than me but younger than Miles, and he seemed fond of her, or perhaps he was just indifferent. Whatever he felt, he had never tried to hurt her as he did me. Her name was Matilda, and she was sweet and gentle and serious. A little like your sister Mary.
“When my mother died, Miles decided Matilda should wed. She was fifteen years, and old enough. He took me aside and told me what he had planned for her, and when I wept and begged him nay, he laughed. He had discovered my weakness, you see. He had known that he could threaten and hurt me all he wanted, but I would always survive and grow stronger. He had realized it was more painful for me if he turned his evil attentions to those I loved. And I loved my sister.”
