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m, to be her knight. Ivo was not one to believe in fate, but it seemed to him, as he lay with Briar in his arms, that their lives had come together for a reason, a purpose. And before this night was through, he meant to discover what it was.
Unfortunately, Sweyn had other plans.
“We are needed,” he said, the humor subdued to a spark in his blue eyes. “You know I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise, Ivo.”
Ivo gave a sullen grunt, followed by a resigned nod of his head. “Aye, ’tis clear you are most upset, Sweyn. Go. I will meet you in the hall.”
Sweyn chuckled at his friend’s display of bad humor, and closed the door.
During his conversation, Ivo had been aware of Briar’s warm presence at his back. Now she was clinging to his shoulders, and her fingers dug into his flesh so hard that her nails were surely drawing blood. Was she so upset that he must leave her? The thought pleased him, and he was gentle as he eased himself away from her nails, and shifted his body on the bed, the better to see her.
She was white, her hazel eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face, and her breasts were rising and falling deliciously fast. Ivo frowned; this was more than a small upset, far more.
“Demoiselle,” he said carefully, “I must go. I am called away by my lord. But I swear to you that I will return—”
“What did he call you? What is your name?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
He frowned, puzzled, and reached to touch her cheek. She shook her head desperately, scooting away from him on the rumpled cushions and furs. What was wrong with her? This was beyond strange. The niggling sense of doubt grew within him, and Ivo’s frown blackened. ’Twas time they cut through this nonsense, and got to the heart of the matter—he had never been one for prevarication.
He pushed aside the wild tangle of his hair with his black leather glove. “I am Ivo de Vessey,” he said with barely concealed impatience. “I am here in the service of Lord Radulf, to put down the skirmish on his northern borders. I was once a Norman knight, demoiselle, but am one no longer. Disgrace has tainted me. Now I fight for coin instead of glory. Is that introduction enough? If you require one after what has taken place in this bed tonight!”
Briar wondered if she was going to scream. She could feel the sound building up inside her, like a roaring tempest in a small room, whirling around and around in the tiny space, and threatening to destroy all within.
I have given myself to the wrong man! She felt little, vulnerable, as she had not felt in two years. Her hatred, her plots, had helped keep her safe from the full extent of her grief and loss, and suddenly, now, she was back in that pit.
I have given myself to the wrong man!
It could not be so. She had been so positive this man was Radulf…so positive she had recognized him in some elemental way. She had not even thought to ask anyone! This man was Radulf! The dark hair and eyes, the impressive size, his warlike air. Who else could it have been?
Shadows drew in from the corners of the room, fluttering at the edges of her vision. Briar felt close to fainting.
He is not Radulf!
So much plotting and planning, all her dreams of vengeance, all that had kept her going through the long, long weeks and months. She felt herself beginning to crumble, turning to nothing but fine, choking dust. Ashes. She had built herself protective walls of hatred and revenge, keeping herself safe with dreams of what she would do to Radulf when she found him. And now they were falling down, blowing away in the hot wind of disaster.
Sweet Jesu, she had given herself to the wrong man!
Briar was distraught, more shaken than she could ever remember. The grief she had felt when her father died and all was taken from her, when Filby used her and then heartlessly discarded her to her fate, came sweeping over her, fresh and raw as ever. The single-minded dream of vengeance had helped to keep her living and breathing, and now for it to go so terribly, terribly wrong…
It was beyond bearing.
Hot and angry tears sprang from her eyes. Forgetting her nakedness, forgetting what they had just done together, Briar rose up on her knees, her hair streaming about her body, and shook her clenched fists in his face.
“No, no! It cannot be, I do not believe it! You are Radulf, say you are! I wanted Radulf in my bed, Radulf’s body in mine. ’Tis a trick, a lie, yes, yes, it must be a lie!”
He looked shocked, but almost at once he was reaching for her, trying to subdue her. Briar would not be subdued. She struck out at him, screaming wildly and struggling, until he covered her mouth with his hand and held her fast against his big body. Still she squirmed and wriggled and cried, but now her sounds were muffled and her movements were hampered by his great strength.
“Demoiselle,” he said, trying to penetrate the fit that had come upon her. There was agony in her cries, a pain that went deep. Ivo knew pain, he understood it, and he wanted to understand what was happening with Briar. “Tell me what ails you, lady! Hush, you are safe, you are safe with me…”
And then, as the meaning of her words finally became clear, he frowned down at her and said more sharply, “Did you seek to lure Radulf to your bed? Lady, he would never come. He is in thrall to his wife, how could you not know that? Everyone knows that! Come, come, compose yourself. What is Lord Radulf to you? Will I not do instead? For truly, my angel, I am more than willing to lie with you again. We two were made to be one.”
It was true. Never had Ivo lain with a woman who gave him more pleasure, who had so easily found a place in his mind and his senses. Already Ivo felt the desire stir anew at the thought of having her, even though his angel had turned into a wildcat. Strangely, he was not jealous. What they had experienced together was too remarkable. Whatever this nonsense with Radulf meant, he would untangle it to his own advantage.
She had stilled, suddenly, and now lay limp in his embrace. Carefully, watching for signs of a renewal of her mad struggles, Ivo removed his hand from over her mouth and, when she said not a word, eased his grip on her. She was unmoving in his arms, shuddering off and on, as if she were very cold. And yet she did not feel cold.
Musingly, Ivo gazed down at her. Here was a woman who had been hurt in some way—mayhap not physically, but nevertheless she had been injured. He sensed it, tasted it, recognized it. Gently, he smoothed back her hair, so that he could better see her face. It was white and drawn, and tears leaked through the spiky clumps of her dark lashes, oozing down her cheeks. Ah, such pain, such anguish, was etched into her sweet features! Ivo felt his heart squeeze with tender feelings he had long thought beyond him.
She had brought them back to life again. After all these years, she had jolted his frozen heart into a response. Ivo did not know whether to be furious with her, or grateful. In truth, he was bewildered, and feared he would soon be more so. Was it true what they had said, then, that this woman could heal a sick man and make a broken man whole?
