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It was chill here, and the sounds from the hall were abruptly muted. Ivo knew from long experience that he should be wary, and yet still he went with her, as though entranced. Deep inside him, there lay mistrust—the years of living in his brother’s dark shadow had made him cautious—but he did not mistrust her enough to deny himself the pleasure of her. She had offered, and Ivo meant to take.
’Twas as simple and as brutal as that.
Briar felt dizzy, as if this were not real at all. How could it have been so simple? So easy? Not even Briar at her most optimistic had believed her enemy would fall so willingly into the net she cast. But he had, and now she held him in the palm of her hand. Literally. Briar’s fingers tightened their grasp about that warm, broad hand, feeling the ridges of calluses and scars that told of many years of battle.
His hand.
The great Lord Radulf, the King’s Sword.
Before he died, Briar’s father had cursed Radulf, blaming him for the death of Anna, Briar’s stepmother, whose murder was still unsolved. Anna’s murder had precipitated the destruction of the Kenton family. Thus, in Briar’s mind, Radulf had begun this terrible calamity. Aye, he had destroyed her family, taken from her her home and wealth, her life and all she had taken for granted. Until it was no more.
“Radulf did this,” she had said dully, the day they were cast out from Castle Kenton because their father was branded a traitor. They had trudged into the tiny village, but no one there had dared to help them or shelter them—they were all too afraid of the consequences. So they had walked on, with nowhere to go.
“Radulf did this!” She had screamed it out the second time, her voice echoing across the moors. Radulf. Her feverish mind had found a focus, a thing to hate and blame for all that had befallen them. A way to keep her alive.
Her elder sister, Jocelyn, had looked at her while Odo ambled alo
ng to the side like a great, mindless bear. Jocelyn’s blue eyes were reddened and swollen, her face puffy and blotched from crying. “’Tis over and done. We must make our way as best we can, Briar, and not look backward.”
“’Tis not over and done! Father swore to take vengeance, and now I swear to fulfill his wish.”
Jocelyn had gazed back at her, her thin face intent. “Put this behind you, Briar. It is wrong to seek to heal evil with more evil. I beg you, put this behind you.”
Briar had shaken her head angrily. How could she put such things behind her, forget what had happened to their father and to them? Go on as if nothing had happened? She was not like Jocelyn—her anger could not be dampened with a trickle of water.
Briar had meant what she had said that day, but in the meantime they had wandered far, eventually all the way to York, living like peasants. And no one came to their aid. They were Richard Kenton’s daughters, the traitor’s children, and therefore safer forgotten.
But Briar had not forgotten, and the need for vengeance had grown; a blind, desperate need that gave her no rest. Nor would it, until it was satisfied. The answer to her prayers came when she had heard Radulf was traveling into the north to deal with a rebellion on his wife’s lands. By then, Briar had known much of the King’s Sword, and his love for his wife. And she had known exactly how she would repay him for what he had done to her and her family.
“And what will happen then? When you have lain with Radulf, and soured Lily’s love for him? Will that content you, Briar?”
Jocelyn had been less than impressed when Briar had divulged her intended plan to her sister some weeks past. Her blue eyes had been hard and watchful as she demanded answers. Jocelyn had still not given up trying to persuade Briar to put the past behind her, and Jocelyn was no gentle flower, unlike Mary.
These days Jocelyn was employed as Lord Shelborne’s cook, and he treasured her for her fine pastries and bread, and the succulent dishes she placed before him. It was Jocelyn who had given Briar the important news that Radulf was to be invited to the marriage celebrations at Lord Shelborne’s hall.
“I don’t know if I will be content, sister,” Briar had said in answer to Jocelyn’s questions. “But at least I will have fulfilled our father’s last wish.”
Jocelyn had shaken her head impatiently. “You have thought only of the moment, Briar, as usual. I know you well. You are headstrong and brave and determined, but you fail to think beyond the moment. What do you believe Radulf will do with you when you tell him who you are? Think carefully, Briar, before you act. Remember, morning always follows night.”
“So you will not help me?”
“No, I will not help you! You go to your own destruction by such behavior. Briar, I, too, have many reasons to hate Radulf. But will that bring our father back? Or our lands and wealth and the joy we knew? Will it bring my Odo back to the man he used to be? What do you hope to achieve by making Radulf suffer, Briar? Methinks it will only increase your own suffering…”
Now, as Briar tightened her grip, her small hand in his, Jocelyn’s warnings rang in her head. She had refused to listen to Jocelyn then, and she did not want to remember her words now. They made her feel uneasy, edgy. Radulf must suffer, just as they had suffered. Aye, Briar was right and Jocelyn was wrong, and she must damp down all doubts within her, be cold as winter on the moors about her home at Castle Kenton. That was why she had not said another word to Jocelyn about tonight, why she had turned instead to Grisel, one of the maidservants. It was simple enough to spin Grisel a tale about a man for whom Briar was lovesick, to beg her to prepare her a room, to swear her to silence.
The chamber that Grisel had found for her was at the back of Lord Shelborne’s house. Quickly Briar pulled her enemy inside the chamber after her, and closed the door. Her gaze darted about the room, assuring herself that everything was in place. Grisel had left a single candle on a wooden chest, and its flame shivered in the draft, sending shadows dancing upon the low-beamed ceiling. The bed was large and thick with sumptuous furs and soft cushions. It looked most inviting, as it was meant to.
Grisel had made a tempting trap, with Briar herself as the bait.
“This is your room?”
He was watching her, those gleaming black eyes piercing her own. She had never seen such eyes, so expressive, so wounded, so ancient. As if he had seen things she could only dream of…Again Briar shook herself. She could read desire in them, and that was all she needed to see. Aye, he wanted her. She had known it from the moment they exchanged glances across Lord Shelborne’s hall. So much for Radulf’s famed fidelity to the Lady Lily! And yet…
Something struck her amiss, like a sour note on Mary’s harp.
Breathless, Briar struggled with her doubt and fear. Not now. She pressed the emotions down inside herself, deep, deep down. She could not allow her feelings to sway her now, not when vengeance was within her grasp. This was the time for a cool, clear head and a cold heart. If Radulf was willing to betray his wife, then Briar told herself she was more than willing to help him do it.
“Wine?” she asked calmly, moving to pour some into a goblet from the jug Grisel had placed earlier.
