Ivo started, and then he threw back his head and laughed. But it was a wild laugh, without any humor. “Like Miles? Oh, demoiselle, you would not like me if I were like Miles.”
Annoyed at his strange, secretive behavior, Briar sniffed and tossed her head. “Well there you are wrong, for I would like you very much better!”
Does she mean it?
Ivo flinched, and felt the pain of her words go deep, tearing and ripping like an arrow bolt through soft flesh. She could not have hurt him more had she tried.
She doesn’t understand, he told himself. You must explain to her.
But he couldn’t. The words would choke him. And more than that, when she learned how he had failed his sister, she would look at him with new eyes. She would no longer think him capable of daring feats, she would no longer nestle so confidently into his arms. She would know he deserved to suffer, as Miles was making him suffer now.
So she preferred Miles?
Then God help her.
God help them both…
“Come with me, Briar,” he said, and his voice had turned dead and cold. He felt both. Miles had come to York to destroy him, and this time Ivo had more to lose than ever.
After a brief hesitation, Briar gave him her hand with a shrug of impatience, and he helped her up onto the horse. She cast him a sideways glance, puzzled, uneasy.
“Are you angry with me, Ivo?”
He didn’t answer her.
“Are you angry with Miles?”
“My feelings are my own business, Briar. Leave them be.”
She gave a noisy sigh, and subsided into silence. As she settled herself, Ivo found himself remembering what else Miles had said. He had been too enraged at the time to give it any weight, but now he recalled Briar’s question about Anna Kenton. Lord Fitzmorton had known her, but they had already heard that from Sir Anthony. It had not previously occurred to Ivo that, if Fitzmorton knew Anna, then Miles would know her, too. And if Miles was involved with Anna, then there was more than a possibility that it was he who had killed her. Miles would not think twice about killing a woman who had displeased him or had made him feel less than adequate.
Death seemed to follow Miles about.
“Sweyn?”
He looked up on hearing Mary’s voice, pretending surprise. Upon their return to the dwelling, Sweyn had stayed to guard her. Now the wind from the river blew her long dark hai
r about her serious face, stinging color into her cheeks. So she had finally gained the courage to come outside and speak to him.
From the corners of his eyes, he had seen her open the door, had felt her gaze upon him. As she drew closer, he had smelt her scent. Aye, he had been as aware of her as if she had run her hands down his body.
Sweyn took a sharp breath at the image, every muscle and sinew tightening with his desire and need.
“Sweyn?”
She was closer now, and he forced himself to relax. He smiled, made it casual and friendly. Nothing too intense, nothing too meaningful.
“Lady?” he said.
Who was he fooling? What he really wanted was to lean down and plunder her soft lips. He wanted to pull her to him, lift her against the wall so that he could better press his male hardness against her soft womanhood.
Madness!
And what was even more crazy, more bizarre, more frightening, he wanted to cradle her in his arms and sleep with her every night. He wanted to gaze deep into her dark, serious eyes every morning.
How could he, the famous jokester, the easygoing womanizer, have come to such a pass as this? Sweyn felt completely bemused and dismayed. As if he had wandered into a familiar forest, only to discover the trees had all changed and he could not find his way out again.
“I am no lady,” Mary said.