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The image of Ivo de Vessey leaning over her to kiss her, his lips smooth and warm, once more filled Briar’s mind. She gasped and lifted her face to the rain, feeling its cold daggers against her skin. Why did he possess her thoughts so? Always, before, she had been able to order them, keep a part of herself locked away. Now it was as if he had permeated every single inch of her.
Aye, she had enjoyed what he did to her. In her secret heart, she wanted him to do it again. But at what cost? Would it be too high? And what if, in the end, she wasn’t able to separate her mind from her senses? If she wasn’t able to remain cold and distant from him, her mind free from the contamination of his kisses, how could she do what she had sworn to?
Was it really possible to give him her body, and take his, and then forget him?
When her stepmother had died, and then her father, when Filby had taken her, Briar had drawn on her cloak of vengeance. She could not have survived else. But Ivo de Vessey had come, and he had rent and torn that cloak, and now the cold breeze of doubt was assailing her. She had begun to wonder if there really was nothing more to her life than this weighty task she had set herself. And she had begun to wonder if she really was the sort of woman who could use a man for her own ends, and then abandon him.
I have my secrets, too, demoiselle.
How had he been hurt? His hand, always covered—what had happened to it? What lay behind that dark and brooding gaze? She wanted to know; the need was as fierce within her as her body’s need for his. She wanted him, and she understood that that want was not going to go away easily.
For the first time in a very long time, Briar was living in the present.
And it hurt.
The rain increased, drumming down upon them. The storm closed over York like Ivo’s mysterious black glove, thunder muttering, lightning slashing across the leaden sky. King William’s second castle rose like a gloomy warning on its motte, on the other side of the Ouse. Along either side of the river, near the wooden bridge, were the staithes, where the ships went on loading and unloading their cargoes in the rain. Smoke billowed from the roof of a small hospice, a shelter for the poor and homeless.
Thankfully Briar and Mary were no longer classed among them.
Home, for them, was one of a cluster of ancient and crumbling buildings that hugged the very edges of the River Ouse, beyond the busy staithes. These dwellings were relics of the days when the Vikings ruled here and called it Jorvik. Many buildings in York had been abandoned or burned through William’s determination to occupy it; and many were being rebuilt. But areas like this old Viking outpost would never be reoccupied.
The Ouse had turned into an angry rush of gray water, winding its way down to the deeper places. The wasted houses looked closer to collapse than ever, roofs dipping, blackened timbers bulging. The place looked so grim that no one would ever have thought to look for two women there.
But inside their chosen shelter, it was warm and dry, and they had done their best to make it their own. The oak beams in the walls were sound, and where the roof sagged, they had found a solid support to prop under it. This particular dwelling was larger than the rest; mayhap it had once been the home of a leader or a Viking prince—even tall Odo was able to stand upright within it. It bespoke of the Kenton sisters’ inborn arrogance that they would chose the largest and grandest hovel for themselves.
Briar hurried to the hearth, and finding a spark among the coals, carefully fed it into a blaze of heat. Soon her face was pink and shining with sweat, and she and Mary stripped off their sodden clothing and hung them by the fire to dry. They wrapped themselves in blankets, and Briar found some of the bread Jocelyn had given them the day before while Mary poured water to drink.
It was a poor sort of meal, but they did not complain. They had long ago learned to be grateful for what they had. There had been many days after their father died and they had been outcast by Filby, when they hadn’t eaten. At the memory of her betrothed, Briar found a spark of her own—a reminder of her burning hatred. Filby had once kissed her fingers and swore his undying love to her, but it had been all lies.
Nothing was real.
No one could be trusted.
How could she ever place her life in the hands of a man again, knowing of what they were capable? How could she believe Ivo when he promised her peace and safety? Surely ’twas better not to take the risk?
A knock on the door heralded Jocelyn and Odo.
“How cozy it is in here! Odo, see how warm it is.”
Jocelyn led her husband gently into the room, settling him by the fire, still speaking to him as if he understood every word she said. Odo stared blankly before him, the ruined side of his face immobile, the red flames coloring his graying hair and pale eyes. His hair had begun to go gray after he was struck down with his illness, now it was almost all gray, and he looked haggard and far older than his years. How much longer could he go on like this, even with Jocelyn’s loving care?
“Sister, you should not come out in such weather!” Mary scolded her, hurrying to take Jocelyn’s sodden cloak.
Jocelyn smiled and shook the raindrops from her hair. “Why should I be afraid of a little rain? Besides, I came because I had something to say.”
Her glance to Briar was a warning, and Briar groaned inside. She knew what her sister was going to say before she even said it.
“Ivo de Vessey came to Lord Shelborne’s home to ask questions about you.”
“You are too late,” Briar retorted. “He found us at the market.”
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“He—” She glanced at Mary and stopped.
Mary sighed loudly and rose to her feet. “Something I must not hear? Are my seventeen-year-old ears so innocent that they cannot be sullied? Oh, never mind! I will go and fetch more wood from the pile outside. But do not be too long in your gossip; it is cold out there and I do not want to get soaked again.”
When she had gone, with much muttering, the two sisters exchanged a look.
