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Briar didn’t know how she knew, she just…knew. Mayhap she was stupid to believe as she did—her past had shown her that men were not to be trusted. And yet there was a solid core of certainty inside her, that told her Ivo de Vessey would never hurt her. A moment ago she had been in a temper with him, she had fought him, but it was not a real fight. Instead, there had been a kind of excitement in it, as if she were testing her mettle, setting the limits she could go with him. And he had been willing to let her have her way…for a time. When he had had enough, he had put an end to it.
He indulged me.
The realization should irritate her. Instead Briar felt warm and comfortable, a sensation very like the feelings she had had when she was safe and secure at Castle Kenton.
He wants me, she reminded herself brusquely, and while he wants me, I am safe from him. She could manipulate him to her will, take what she wanted, use him for her own ends. And he would allow it.
And then? What will happen once it is over? Will he let me walk away from him so easily? And will I want to go?
Aye, there was a question!
Briar couldn’t answer it, and thought it best not to try. She firmed her lips, and set about the task of binding her hair into one long braid before she twisted it up under the fur-lined hood of her cloak. Then she sat down on the stool to pull on her woollen, oft-darned stockings and cast-off shoes.
Mary watched her dress, clearly still not satisfied. “You don’t even know this man,” she reminded Briar, “and yet you trust him with your life. Why is that, sister?”
“That is no concern of yours, Mary.”
“But it is, Briar. What if he had killed you just now with his sword? What would have become of me then?”
“Killed me?” Briar spluttered. “Ivo de Vessey will not kill me. Nay, ’tis not my death he wants from me. You are too young to understand—”
“But I am not too young!” Mary cried, and she looked flushed and cross. “I am seventeen, Briar. I am a woman. Why will you not speak to me like one?”
Her words gave Briar pause, but there was no time now for long discussions with Mary on what it was and was not good for her to hear. She sighed, and made her voice gentler, calmer. “We will speak of it later.”
Mary groaned and threw up her hands. “Now you talk to me as if I were a lackwit! Go then, Briar. I can see you are like a mare at the stallion’s gate. Go to your stallion. In truth, I would welcome some time on my own.”
Briar had stopped, her hand on the door. She was shocked at her sister’s earthy words. What did Mary know of mares and stallions? Clearly she needed to sit down with her young sister and have a serious talk.
But not now.
Ivo de Vessey was waiting, and the tingle up and down her spine made her wonder if there was some truth in Mary’s fanciful observations after all.
Mary was standing with her back to Briar, arms folded tight about herself, almost as if she were keeping her emotions from spilling out. Briar could read the tension in her rigid shoulders and back.
“I do not know where I am going, but I will try not to take too long.” Her voice sounded almost pleading, as if she were asking Mary’s permission. Briar cleared her throat, and tried for a firmer tone. “Do not fret, Mary. The Dane is outside, on watch. You will be safe until I return.”
“As you say, sister.” Mary did not turn around, but she sounded softer, more her usual self. “I will be quite safe with Sweyn.”
“Good.” Briar hesitated a moment longer, knowing her disgraced knight awaited her. She admitted to herself that she was curious to see where he meant to take her, and her blood ran hotter at the thought of spending time alone with him. But Mary was her sister…
Mary glanced over her shoulder, her face pale. “Go, Briar,” she said impatiently. “I do not need you.”
Briar smiled, relief conquering the guilt in her heart. She opened the door and went outside.
Chapter 7
The river was gray today, a shiny steel-gray that dazzled her eyes. A pair of dippers floated upon its surface, their feathers sleek and wet, while a heron searched among the rubbish along the shore. Ivo waited by his horse, looking stiff and uneasy. Briar knew, as if he had told her, that he did not feel safe in this place. He was wrong; it was safe enough if a person was careful. She and Mary had had only one unpleasant encounter: a man had tried to get inside their home, but had soon fled when Briar came at him with her sword, and he realized they weren’t the helpless women he had thought them. They had not been molested since.
Their dwelling was warm and dry, better than many of the other accommodations they had found since they left Castle Kenton. It would do. And besides, what choice had they? Despite their popularity they were lowly women entertainers, and the money they earned was barely enough for food and clothes. They could not afford to live high. And Jocelyn could not jeopardize her, and above all Odo’s, place in Lord Shelborne’s household by smuggling in her sisters. They had agreed on that. Odo always came first with Jocelyn.
Briar walked up to Ivo and tilted her head to see his face. It was closed, watchful, but he did not move back, not even when the toes of her shoes touched his and her cloak brushed his legs. She realized then that she liked that about him, the fact that he didn’t back down from her.
“What do you want to show me?”
Something moved in his closed face. Pain? Regret? But even as her suspicions were aroused, he had resumed his intent, black stare.
“You will see soon enough, demoiselle.”
