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But did he? And could he, when the moment came, actually destroy a man who was of his own blood? His own brother?
Briar served up the mess from the pot, and handed a bowl to Mary, who began delicately to eat. Catching the horrified eyes of the two men, Briar smiled as brightly as she was able and filled two more bowls, holding them out.
For a moment neither of them moved, and then Sweyn swallowed audibly and edged forward to take his portion from her. Ivo managed a faint smile as he reached for his bowl. “Thank you, demoiselle, I am grateful,” he said with his usual knightly courtesy. Then he just stood there with the bowl in his hand.
“Eat it, sir.” Mary was watching him, wry amusement in her eyes. She was, thought Briar, looking much better this morning. The swooning fit had passed, and Mary was full of life again. Or mayhap, ’twas Sweyn spending the night in the dwelling with them that had something to do with that.
Briar still did not believe the handsome, fair-headed mercenary was good enough for her sister, but after last night, seeing his dedication to protecting them, and his obvious fondness for her sister, she had thawed toward him.
“Do you sing again tonight?” Ivo asked, distracting her.
Mary nodded, giving him a shy smile.
“Lord Shelborne has offered us a generous fee,” Briar said, forcing down a mouthful of her breakfast. “His daughter and her new husband have returned from London, and he wishes to greet them with pomp.”
She chewed and swallowed another mouthful, then scooped up the next spoonful and stuck it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged. She could feel the blood leaving her face, and suspected by the interest showing in Ivo’s eyes that she had turned pale green. She swallowed her mouthful and started on the next, sure that if she ignored it long enough, the feeling would go away.
Her throat closed over. The mouthfuls she had already forced down changed course, and started to make their way up. With a despairing groan, Briar made a dash for the bucket in the corner. Everything she had eaten came back up, and she was utterly powerless to stop it.
Mary made as if to go to her, but Ivo caught her arm and shook his head, and she subsided. Sweyn set his own bowl thankfully aside. It was Ivo himself who crossed to the dejected form.
Briar had stopped retching at last, and seemed too exhausted to do more than sit with her head in her arms. Gently, Ivo lifted her up from the floor. Her arms fell limply to her sides, and he saw the tears running down her white cheeks. Her mouth was trembling with the effort it was taking not to cry, not in front of him. Ivo’s heart ached for her, his brave, beautiful Briar.
“Take this,” Mary murmured, and handed him a warm, damp cloth.
Ivo smiled his thanks, and sat down, cradling the w
oman in his arms. She kept her eyes tight shut, refusing to look at him while he bathed her face as he had done once before. Gently, thoroughly. After a little time, her tears stopped running and she was quiet, acquiescent against him and close to sleep.
“You will not sing this even, demoiselle,” he murmured the order, and set his lips to her brow.
It was as if he had stuck a pin into her.
She stiffened, her eyes shot open, their color almost completely green, and she glared up at him.
“I will sing!” she declared. “Leave me be, Ivo de Vessey. I will sing. ’Tis nothing to you. You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do.”
She struggled up, shaking herself free of his arms, and stalked to the other side of the room. Ivo watched her in amazement, her feet bare beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she fought him with every fiber of her being. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed her to have been prostrate with illness only moments before.
Jesu, she was magnificent! Ivo tried very hard not to grin, but he must have given himself away, because she let out a faint, strangled scream.
“Do not patronize me, de Vessey. You are not worthy, and we both know it.”
Ivo’s amusement fled. He squeezed his fist about the cloth he had used to cool her face, and tossed it aside. “Your insults grow old,” he said, and stood up. “You need to think of new ones, Briar, if you are to hold my attention.”
“’Tis not a matter of thinking up insults—there are so many, I hardly know where to start.”
With an impatient shrug, Ivo left her to her sister’s care, and beckoned Sweyn outside.
Sweyn grinned. “I’ll say it again. She is a shrew, my friend. You will have your hands full if you decide on her.”
Ivo glanced sideways at him. “Even if I dared to think such thoughts, what use would the daughter of a baron have for a disgraced knight? She is right, I am unworthy of her.”
Sweyn laughed. “Better to ask yourself how the outcast daughter of a traitor can make herself worthy of you, Ivo.”
Ivo smiled at last, and some of his anger drained from him. “And what of you? If I am worthy, then so are you, my friend.”
But Sweyn shook his head, and the bleak look in his amiable blue eyes returned. “Nay, Ivo. You are wellborn, a knight…aye, yes you are. What am I? The mercenary son of a Danish farmer. Not even a Viking raider, but a tiller of the soil.”
