“Oh, I felt it. ’Tis just that I can think of more pleasurable things to do with it.”
Sweyn snorted a laugh at the coarse jest. “She is a shrew! Find yourself a sweet girl, Ivo, who will be grateful for your consideration. Not one who fights your every kindness as if you were binding her with ropes.”
Mayhap Briar deserved it, but the words stung her far more than she would admit. She flashed them both a look of disgust, and marched off. Mary, after a quick glance at Sweyn, hurried after her, calling for her to wait.
Briar hoped she could reach the safety of the kitchen, and Jocelyn, without further hindrance. In truth, she felt less than her tough self tonight. Her tongue might be sharp, as Ivo had said, and clearly she had cut him, but there was a shakiness in her belly, and a tightening in her throat, as if she might very well weep. And Briar never wept.
Well, she had not done so until she met Ivo de Vessey. Now it was as if her world had turned to tears, for she had sobbed her heart out twice in his presence. And he had comforted her. She remembered again how he had bathed her face, and fed her tiny pieces of food and tiny sips of wine.
Heat coiled in her belly, ousting the sick feeling that had begun to gather there. She had wanted him so badly, as they kissed and touched upon that narrow bed. She had been willing to give herself to him. Life had surged through her, and Ivo had been part of that desperate need to experience all that her body could feel. All that it had lacked in the past two years.
She had given herself away, mayhap. Dangerous. He must not know that he was important to her. That she needed him by her side. That she was beginning to think she could not do without him…No! His importance to her lay only in what he could do to help her discover the truth about Anna’s death. Nothing else. I dare not trust or believe in a man, ever again.
Briar repeated it to herself, feverishly, stubbornly, blindly.
As if by doing so she might begin to believe.
Behind them, heavy steps rang out on the floor, and Sweyn’s stifled chuckle echoed against the walls. The two men were following them, Briar acknowledged, grinding her teeth, her hopes of respite crushed. Although, by the look of the soft smile on Mary’s face, she felt the exact opposite.
“He will use you and then leave you,” Briar said sharply, for her sister’s ears only. “All men do.”
Mary turned to her with big, hurt eyes.
Briar groaned silently. She had meant the warning as a kindness, to save Mary unnecessary pain, but in her turmoil she had been less than subtle. Mary was young, and she had had little enough in her life that gave her pleasure. Sweyn was not a suitable recipient for her warm glances and romantic dreams.
But it was too late now to take the words back, and there was no time for soothing or explanations. The warm smells of the kitchen were wafting toward them, and the next moment they were within the well-lit room, with Jocelyn’s presence as warm as her oven.
“Sisters!” she cried, pleasure lighting her face. “You played and sang tonight like angels in heaven. Come, sit yourselves down and I will fetch you something to eat. I have eel pie and cold ham. And to drink I have mead. Sweet, honey mead, so that you can float home to your beds.”
And then her eyes lifted and fixed on a point above and behind them. For a moment she looked comically startled. “What do you here in my kitchen?” she asked blankly.
Mary glanced nervously back and forth between the men and Jocelyn, waiting for Briar to introduce them, or at least insult them. But Briar was busy with her own problems, and when she did not speak, Mary had to.
“Jocelyn, these men are in service with Lord Radulf. This is Ivo de Vessey and this is Sweyn. Jocelyn is our elder sister.”
Briar had sat down by the oven to warm her cold hands. She had not made introductions, or insults, because something had just occurred to her. Something that made her heart turn to ice.
Jocelyn must know who Ivo was.
She had been eight years older than Briar at the time he was squire to their father—she must remember him. The day he found her at the market, he had been here to Lord Shelborne’s first, and spoken to Jocelyn. Her sister had set him onto her. What had she said to Briar, that memorable night when she had accidentally taken Ivo to her bed? Every vixen will meet her match? Well, Jocelyn had made certain of it!
“You know him, don’t you?” Her voice shook with her effort to check her anger.
Jocelyn didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Of course.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Now her hurt and anger were plain in her voice, as well as bewilderment. Why had Jocelyn not warned her that Ivo knew more than he was saying? She could have saved Briar from making even more of a fool of herself than she had already, she could have stopped her from sinking into this pit.
“I thought ’twas best to keep it to myself, Briar. I—”
“I asked her to stay quiet.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Briar looked up into that dark, intense gaze. Ivo de Vessey still seemed a little paler than usual, his wonderful eyes shadowed.
“You have no right to interfere between my sister and me.”
“Not yet, perhaps.”