A tall man.
Part of Ivo’s battle-trained mind took note of the details, even as he was making swift plans for Briar’s safety.
He moves with the easy grace of a fighting man, a soldier…No, not a follower. He moves with the confidence of a leader of men.
He set Briar aside, freeing his sword arm, and glanced behind him. Accomplices? Nay, there was no one blocking their escape, if such a thing became necessary. Although Ivo had enough confidence in his own skills to doubt he would need to run. Still, there was Briar to consider, and their child.
He reached for his sword, feeling the green stones pressing into his flesh.
He had never had so much to lose before.
“Hold, Ivo! I did not mean to startle you. I have been enjoying your conversation. How goes it with you?”
He sounded almost merry, as if he were greeting an old friend. Only he was not Ivo’s friend, he never had been.
Ivo’s fingers tightened convulsively on the hilt of his sword. He felt dizzy, disoriented, as though the ground were tipping beneath his boots. Like icy water the past rose up to meet him, cold fingers covering his mouth and nose, making it hard for him to breathe.
“Miles.” He didn’t know whether he spoke the word, or if it was just so loud in his head.
The tall dark shape stepped forward into the light, and it was no longer just a bad dream. Miles. He looked thinner, older. As if recent times had been hard for him. His clothes were still fine, but they appeared frayed, and not as clean as they could be. Miles had been running and hiding from his enemies, and it did not suit him.
The sensation of walking on, and breathing in, frigid water was passing. Miles was here and he was real. And Ivo knew, with a twist of nausea in his belly, that if he was to get Briar to safety he must not let Miles guess what she meant to him.
“I did not think to see you here in York,” he said calmly, knowing his lack of emotion would annoy his brother. “Last I heard you were in Normandy.”
Briar glanced warily back and forth between the two men. “Who is this, de Vessey?” she asked bluntly. “Another mercenary?”
Miles turned to look at her with sudden intere
st, his cold gray eyes lighting, and Ivo felt his heart stop. ’Twas not a good thing to draw the attention of Miles de Vessey, not if you were a woman.
“This is no one, demoiselle. Do not concern yourself.”
Miles laughed quietly, mockingly. “No one? Brother, you do me a grave disservice.” He turned back to Briar and bowed low. “Let me introduce myself, lady. I am Sir Miles de Vessey, the brother who is not disgraced.”
Wide-eyed, Briar turned to Ivo. He knew he looked white and strained, but he hoped there was nothing more to be read in his face. Their safety depended on him playing a part of indifference. Briar return to Miles with a practiced smile, suddenly very much the great lady. “’Tis good to know one of the de Vesseys is still in favor, Sir Miles. Tell me, what do you here?”
Miles cast an indifferent look about him and shrugged. “I was passing and I saw you enter. It hardly seems the sort of place for an assignation—though I doubt my brother has ever made an assignation with a woman in his whole life. I was curious.”
“This is my father’s house,” she said bluntly.
And that told Miles who she was.
Ivo saw it in the narrowing of his cold eyes, the twist of his lips. Aye, he knew her, but would he make use of the knowledge? Miles had many schemes spinning in his head, but he always had room for another.
“I have been in this hall,” Miles said. “I was in the service of Lord Fitzmorton, so I knew your father slightly. And your mother, the Lady Anna. A most beautiful woman.”
If Briar was surprised by his quick understanding she did not show it. “Stepmother,” she corrected him haughtily, her polite smile fading.
Take care, thought Ivo, while his own tongue felt frozen. Why was it Miles had this power over him? A combination of regret and fear and guilt and hate. Regret, because Miles could so easily have been his friend, was still his flesh and blood, and Ivo could not help but remember it. Fear, because he knew of what Miles was capable, guilt because he always felt as if it was his fault that his own brother loathed him. And hate, because of what Miles had done to him ever since they were children.
Miles was bowing his acknowledgment of Briar’s correction. “My own mother was not Ivo’s,” he said with a smile. “We have that in common, lady.”
Ivo shook his head, and his voice came out like that of a stranger. “You have nothing in common with her, Miles. Come Briar, ’tis time to go.”
Briar looked as if something had just occurred to her, and she ignored Ivo, turning again to Miles. “You say you were in Lord Fitzmorton’s service, Sir Miles? I have heard he was very fond of Anna—her death must have upset him greatly.”
Miles nodded, his gray eyes fixed on her face. “I believe they were close. Is that what you wished to know, lady?”