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And then that lackwit had interrupted them!
Ivo had looked like a fool.
Briar had laughed at him, and set aside her own passion as easily as stale bread. Were her feelings for him so shallow? Or was she just better able to disguise them? Aye, that was probably it. She had been playing a part since Castle Kenton was taken from her, and she had learned well to dissemble.
It had become clear now to Ivo that she had sought revenge upon Lord Radulf because her father had cursed Radulf and blamed him for all their troubles. Briar had taken up the quest in his name. She had planned to punish Radulf and revenge her father, and thought all would be well afterward. Or had she simply failed to consider afterward?
It was a simpleton’s way of looking at things, but Ivo did not think Briar a simpleton. She had a clear, concise view of the world; she saw things in simple terms. In her eyes Radulf was to blame, therefore Radulf should suffer, and she looked no further than that.
Sir Anthony had given her another story to mull over, one she had not heard before, and it had confused her and hurt her. But Ivo thought the knowledge, no matter how distressing, was important to her. Ivo was well aware that Radulf would never have forsaken Lily for Anna, and neither was he responsible for Anna’s death. So Briar needed to look elsewhere, and she appeared to have already accepted that possibility.
And what if she begins to ask questions of men who do not want to answer?
Ivo well knew that the past could be a murky and dangerous pond, one that was sometimes best left undisturbed.
She needs to resolve this matter or she will never be free. She needs to know the trut
h, even if it is dangerous. And I will protect her.
Sir Anthony had mentioned Lord Fitzmorton’s name. Ivo knew Fitzmorton was presently in the south, licking his wounds after his castigation by the king on Radulf’s behalf. Anthony had also made mention of Lord Shelborne, and he was right here.
Ivo glanced over to where Shelborne was speaking with Radulf. A large, robust man with a ruddy face and sparse gray hair, his host smiled often. But Ivo had noticed that his pale eyes remained watchful.
’Twas sensible to be watchful, and Ivo did not think any less of Shelborne for keeping a close eye on his guests. Only a fool trusted all men. And women. Was Shelborne really Lady Anna’s lover? Would such a reputably beautiful woman really have been interested in such an ugly man? Mayhap it was not beauty that attracted Anna, but power. To have a strong man like Lord Shelborne, and an evil one like Lord Fitzmorton in thrall to her must have given her an intoxicating sensation, better than any wine.
The idle thoughts continued to spill through Ivo’s head, but they were really only a distraction. He was not here in Lord Shelborne’s hall to decide what made a woman like Lady Anna what she was. He was here for quite another reason.
Briar.
Ivo’s sense of anticipation grew—his skin tingled, his chest tightened, his heart began to pound. He was waiting for Briar to appear upon the little dais. For her voice to once again open wide his wounded heart.
And set him free.
It was madness, and he knew it. To give in to his vulnerability, to strip himself bare in these dangerous times! But he could not help it. Briar was his redemption…and mayhap she would be his destruction.
The crowd began to cheer and applaud. Ivo’s head came up. Briar and Mary had come into the hall, plainly dressed and with their hair loose about their shoulders. And yet they seemed to glow. Ivo watched as they settled themselves upon the small dais. There was a hush, a sense of waiting, and then Mary’s clever fingers brought the harp to life, and Briar began to sing.
At the sound of her husky voice, a great wave of emotion swelled Ivo’s heart. It felt almost too big for his chest. He tried to disguise his feelings, standing tense and still, but her voice, her words, pierced him like a lance. How was it possible to feel so painfully shattered, and yet so wonderfully released?
“Who is the girl?”
Lord Radulf’s voice.
Lord Shelborne answered. “Her name is Briar. She and the harpist are sisters, and they have become quite famous in York, my lord.”
Ivo felt himself bristle, knew it was stupid and still could not help it. The tightness in his chest increased. He did not like their interest in Briar; he did not like their casual discussion of her. She was his, and he felt an urgent need to guard his property.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, not to do anything foolish. Ivo leaned back against the wall and swallowed down his ire. Had anyone noticed his moment of madness? he wondered, glancing uneasily about him. That was when he saw that Sweyn had moved to stand further around the hall, where he had a better view of the two women. His friend’s blond head rose above the crowd; his blue gaze was fixed on Mary, and it was clear that for Sweyn, the rest of the audience had ceased to exist.
Ivo forgot his own problems.
Sweyn, in love?
Surely such a thing was as unlikely as horses taking to the sky? Sweyn was the sort of man who found it impossible to take anything too seriously—everything was a joke to him. He liked women, he enjoyed them often, but if a woman asked more of him than a smile and a good time, then he was gone. There was no harm in Sweyn; he did not hurt anyone apurpose. But he was definitely not the man for a woman to set her sights on if she wanted a husband who came home to only her.
And now there he was, gazing lovestruck at Mary, the youngest daughter of the traitor Lord Kenton. Although Sweyn did not know that, he still thought that the “important man” who was their father was some sort of merchant or tradesman. Perhaps Ivo should warn him? And then again, he thought with a smile, perhaps he would not. Not yet, anyway. The cold harsh reality of Mary’s past might give him an excuse to turn and run. Poor Sweyn, how would he deal with falling in love? Run as far and as fast as his legs could carry him? Or simply refuse to accept it?
His smile faded. ’Twas all very well to scoff at Sweyn, but was he not in much the same boat? Briar had crept under his skin like a tick and now he had a constant itch that could not be scratched. He wanted her, aye, but it was more than that. Ivo wanted to look after her, to protect her, to fight for her. Do those things he had been trained to do from boyhood.
