This surprising revelation ousted all her former doubts. She had been wrong when she worried Ivo would leave her—she knew it was not in his nature to abandon those in need. But there were still so many questions Briar did not know the answers to. Ivo had secrets, painful secrets, she accepted that. But so did they all. How could she help him if he did not tell her?
Aye, he was angry, but it was more than that. Something was festering and rotting deep inside him. Something was poisoning him, and preventing him from being the man he could be.
It was up to Briar to find out what it was, and heal him.
“Are all men so infuriating?” she asked Mary, when she had finished glaring aft
er him, and gone inside to find her sister returned.
Mary looked up with a vague smile, her face drawn and pale, her eyes distant. She did not even bother to answer.
What is wrong with everyone? Briar felt like screaming.
To add to her misery, an hour later the sickness returned. Despite it, and with fierce determination, she set about dressing and readying herself for their performance that night. Jocelyn had sent word that they were required at the home of a city merchant. Lord Shelborne had been shouting their praises so hard, others were clamoring for them to perform.
It was not until they reached the venue, that Briar understood how quickly the rumor of their real identity had spread. Instead of the story turning patrons against them, it was having the opposite effect. The wealthy of York appeared to be fascinated by them. Having them perform gave a touch of danger to proceedings, Briar supposed. A brush with the forbidden. She was not foolish enough to think that, if it became too dangerous, these same people would not drop them like hot coals and abandon them to their fate.
As Briar knew all too well, ’twas the way of the world.
The merchant’s house was opulent, the people enthusiastic, and despite her afflictions, Briar sang well. Tonight it was Mary who made the blunders. At one point she lost the tune entirely, and her lip wobbled, as if she might burst into tears, but Briar simply sang louder and they got through it.
They had come to their final song, and a troop of acrobats was waiting impatiently to take their place, when Briar glanced across the heads of the guests and spied Sir Miles de Vessey. He was standing, watching her from the shadows at the very back of the room.
Her heart gave a great thump, almost as if she was afraid. But that was foolish, for why should she be afraid of Miles, who was Ivo’s brother? And then she thought of Ivo, and how cold his behavior had been. Had she not decided she must heal whatever ailed him? If only there was some way to discover just what it was…
She looked up again, searching the faces before her, but this time Miles had gone. Vanished into the shadows, as if he had never been.
Sweyn peered around the room, wondering who it was Briar was staring at. The woman was dangerous, and he wished Ivo luck in taming her. Aye, all women were dangerous. He was better off alone.
“They’re both bonny, but for my money, I’d have the taller one.”
The voice drifted in Sweyn’s direction, cocky and confident, and Scottish. Sweyn gritted his teeth. He hated the Scots. In his experience all they did was fight and fornicate, and they never knew when to stop on either count. He had just spent some of the worst weeks of his life chasing them off Lord Radulf’s estates and back over the border, and now here was another one, lording it over the locals in York.
“I like tall women,” the voice went on, as if everyone was panting to know his preferences. “I like to look right into their eyes when I’m on top of them.”
Sweyn ground his teeth. His head was muzzy with drink and now a rush of hot blood added to the mixture. He knew, even as he began pushing his way through the rich sea of fine cloth tunics and silken gowns, that he was making a mistake. He had never fought for a woman before, he had never even been jealous before.
But this was about Mary. And Mary was special.
Amazed, he paused, stood gazing at nothing, forgetting where he was.
Aye, she is special. She’s different from all the others. I don’t know why or how, but she is. And no amount of my wishing can change how I feel about her…
“I wonder if her fingers are as nimble on other instruments.”
Sweyn groaned. That was it! He could take no more. Like a maddened bull, he thrust his way into the group around the Scot and grabbed the man up by the scruff of his neck, and shook him hard.
Women screamed. Men cursed and backed away. The Scot choked and clawed at his hands, but Sweyn kept shaking him.
“Do not speak about my lady in that way,” he said, drawing out his words, giving the Scot a good, hard shake on each one. “Do you hear me, you foul-mouthed beastie? Do you hear me now?”
The Scot nodded desperately, his face turning blue.
“Let him go, Sweyn.”
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Ivo, Sweyn realized through the fumes of drink and rage. His friend’s fingers were very strong, and they pressed down hard, and then harder again.
“He has learned his lesson, and we do not want to attract too much attention. He might be someone important.”