Claire Delacroix (108 page)

Indeed, her flesh burned where Rowan had deposited that pair of kisses. She tingled from head to toe, she wanted to shiver.

Illness, it could be naught else. Her mother had always said that a port was an unhealthy place, and she, to be sure, had frequented the most unsavory corners of this port. Though ’twas through no choice of her own, Ibernia feared she was about to bear the price of her own folly.

Again.

Ibernia was well aware of Marika’s curious glance upon her. She took a trio of quick breaths and forced a smile. No doubt Marika had done naught so foolish as Ibernia had done to earn her sorry fate. Ibernia had heard many tales of how slaves came to be bought and sold—most were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or showed the poor judgement to be on the losing side of a war.

’Twould be no small thing to see Marika released. Ibernia willed her resolve to grow. Aye, if Rowan would see to Marika’s freedom, if he managed this noble deed, then she would keep her word. She could do anything once and survive to tell the tale, as experiences of this sixmonth had already shown.

She had naught to lose in this wager, but a few kisses.

For indeed, she had less doubt with each moment that Rowan would keep his pledge. The man had a resolve about him, obviously one he preferred others not to note. But the fact remained that a dare taken against the odds could only be won with rare persistence.

Ibernia did not have a trouble believing that Rowan won most of his wagers. The man could be cursedly single-minded!

Hundreds of sweet kisses.
Only this knight would have the audacity to ask so boldly for something so difficult to grant. Ibernia trembled within at the very prospect.

But she took a deep shaking breath and gestured to the cloth. Marika seemed to understand, her hands flying as she tried to indicate her needs to make the dress.

There proved to be a small bundle rolled within the cloth, a sack replete with needles and thread, a length of twine, a tiny sharp knife for cutting the cloth. Marika exclaimed with delight at the needles and—deliberately contrary to Baldassare’s advice—Ibernia entrusted her with the knife.

Marika clutched it for a moment, clearly overwhelmed to be granted possession of what could be used as a weapon. They two shared a smile, then she began to chatter. Clearly she told Ibernia what had to be done, though she spoke in some incomprehensive tongue. Ibernia knew the order of the tasks, having made many kirtles herself, but she feigned ignorance.

’Twould be good for Marika to feel a confidence in her own abilities once more. Already she looked more vivacious and carefree. Ibernia’s heart hardened against Baldassare a little more as the smaller woman talked with increasing animation.

To think that she had lost her child. Ibernia could not imagine the heartache Marika had borne.

Soon the two women were laboring together despite the language barrier, the door securely locked against the ship of men. Marika even began to hum under her breath as she measured Ibernia with the length of string.

But Ibernia could not ease the heat of those two tiny kisses, perhaps because she had so little to do. She wondered if there was a mark left upon her flesh from Rowan’s sure touch.

Shower him with kisses.
The echo of his words in her thoughts, the knowing glint in his eye, the hint of his smile as he uttered them, all conspired to distract Ibernia from the task at hand. Indeed, only a man so enamored of himself as Rowan de Montvieux could have conceived of such a deed!

Oh, if ever she had desired to see that knight lose a wager, that desire had just doubled anew.

All the same, she could not bear the thought of Marika not being free. Instinct told her that she would not have long to ponder the matter. No doubt Rowan, intent on securing his prize, already negotiated for Marika’s release.

Then he would return to claim his due. Ibernia’s heart skipped a beat with dread. He could return at any moment. How long could it take to part with coin, especially for Rowan, who seemed to scatter wealth readily in his wake? The man had no respect for hard-won coin, that much was for certain, and the merchant’s daughter awaiting his return could not help but disapprove.

Yet even then Ibernia tried to imagine a way to avoid her duty in this. Was there some way she could keep her wager with Rowan, ensure Marika’s freedom, yet avoid that fearsome toll of kisses?

Ibernia was a woman with her wits about her—men with teasing smiles to the contrary—and she struggled to think of a clever way out of her pending predicament.

Yet Rowan, despite Ibernia’s conviction to the contrary, was not ensuring Marika’s release.

Naught could have been further from his mind, the pitching of the ship turning his thoughts in one direction alone. He hung over the rail, faithful Thomas by his side. Either the tide had changed more quickly than Baldassare anticipated or that man was incompetent. Rowan might have been able to enjoy that man’s failure if he had not been so ill.

“For a man who has eaten little for three days, you have an uncommon lot in your belly,” Thomas commented when the knight finally straightened.

He shot the boy a dark look. “I thank you for your solace.”

Thomas grinned unrepentantly. He offered a damp rag and Rowan wiped the sweat from his brow. He accepted a sip of
eau-de-vie
and rinsed his mouth, spitting the liquor over the rail before repeating the deed. Despite the expense, he could not bear the thought of swallowing it.

His stomach soundly agreed with his choice, its rumbling more muted as they moved into the open seas. The wind lifted Rowan’s hair, the fresh tang of the air doing as much to restore his spirits as the increasingly steady roll of the deck.

The grey water still churned too much for Rowan’s comfort, so he deliberately looked to the horizon. The sea stretched in fathomless grey in all directions, the overcast skies and mist hanging over the water making the outlines of land distant and hazy.

The grey was unsettling, to say the least. Rowan gripped the rail and strove to remain composed. To the west, the channel betwixt the dim silhouettes of England and France seemed to boil. Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.

Aye, he would be ill all the way to Dublin.

’Twas not an encouraging prospect.

“I suppose ’twould be a waste of fine fare to invite you to share a meal this night,” Baldassare commented idly, his voice unexpectedly close.

Rowan spared the captain the satisfaction of seeing him jump. He casually glanced to his side and met the amusement in the other man’s eyes. There was a cold, mercenary glint to those dark eyes.

Fortunately, Rowan was well experienced with the motivation of mercenaries, having been sired by one.

He smiled, as if he had not a care in the world. “Aye, on this night ’twould be. Perhaps on the morrow would be better.”

Baldassare smiled. “Perhaps. I would extend
my
offer of hospitality to your wife for this night, even in your absence.”

Rowan smiled coldly, guessing that this man would not hesitate to press his suit if Ibernia was alone in his presence.

He had no intention of leaving her in such circumstance, especially now. “How very kind of you,” he demurred, his words hard. “However, the lady will have naught to wear so soon. She would not wish to insult your board with her immodest garb.”

Baldassare arched a brow. “Though she wore it on London’s wharf? You overestimate your lady wife’s modesty, I believe.”

The two men glared at each other. “Perhaps ’tis not her modesty I overrate,” Rowan said silkily.

Baldassare dropped a hand to his sword and straightened from the rail. “Do you insult my honor?”

“Of course not.” Rowan leaned back against the rail, looking at ease though he was well prepared to respond if Baldassare drew his blade. He smiled tightly. “ ’Tis merely
my lady’s preference to observe propriety. I cede to her will whenever possible.”

“ ’Twas not possible in London?”

“Not expedient.” Rowan spread his hands. “A man must balance his lady’s demands. She could well have had new garb there, though she wished also to return home with all haste. One must choose the greater good, and on this, she and I were agreed.”

Baldassare’s gaze brightened. “You reside in Dublin? But you are unlike any other man I have met from that ill-fated land.”

Rowan shook his head, as if amused by the obligations invented by his woman. He would have to ensure he recalled this tangled web of lies—and that he told Ibernia of them before they did dine with the captain.

“My lady wife has family there,” he said carefully, not entirely certain that was true, “and has spent many happy days in that land. I fulfill her request to return there, though, indeed, I never imagined ’twould be a journey so fraught with adventure.”

He smiled directly into Baldassare’s narrowed gaze.

“If your lady is familiar with the land, then ’tis doubly important that I speak with her. She may be able to aid me.”

“Indeed?”

At that question, Baldassare seemed to realize he had said too much. He looked away and spoke with sudden haste, the drop of his eyelids veiling the interest that shone in his eyes. “Aye, of course. ’Tis difficult to find honest men in an unfamiliar port. Perhaps she could be of assistance.”

Baldassare smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes. “I must insist upon inviting her to my table this night. Might I rely upon you to convey my invitation?”

Rowan straightened. “My wife will not dine in your cabin without my accompaniment.”

“You would have the woman starve while you are ill?” Baldassare shook his head. “Surely even a knight is not so heartless as that. I offer naught but a fine meal.”

“And you have been declined.”

The captain shrugged. “If you will not convey my invitation, then I shall have to make it myself.”

Rowan guessed that Ibernia would be standing nude in their cabin, as Marika measured and cut the cloth. Indeed, he had no doubt that Baldassare also assumed as much. He caught at the man’s shoulder when that man turned away and schooled his voice.

“Truly, you cannot abandon our discussion so soon,” he said smoothly. “I have yet to recompense you for the cloth you granted to my wife.”

Baldassare smiled. “ ’Tis my gift to the lady. Beauty to beauty, as ’twere.”

“I must insist.”

“I could not hear of it.”

“Ah, well.” Rowan jingled the coins in his purse and watched the captain’s eyes light. “Perhaps another trinket would be more fitting.”

“I have little to sell on this journey,” Baldassare said quickly. “Much of my cargo is already vouched for.”

“Indeed. What of the slavewoman who aids my wife?”

The captain blinked. “What of her?”

“My lady wife has taken a fancy to her, and I would match whatever commitment you have for her.” Rowan smiled easily, the very image of a man intent on winning some trinket for his lady. “ ’Tis good for women, do you not think, to have one they can confide in?”

“The slave would be very expensive. I doubt you have the coin.”

“Name the price.”

“I would not so insult you.”

Rowan’s smile broadened. “I insist.”

Baldassare folded his arms across his chest and met Rowan’s glance coldly. He named a sum that made Thomas choke. “As you insisted,” he said archly. “Now that we have amused ourselves, shall we return to the issue of the evening meal?”

“Not just yet,” Rowan declared. He counted out the coins and tossed them to the captain.

Baldassare caught them clumsily, bit the gold, then granted Rowan a surprised glance. Rowan did not miss the captain’s glance to his purse and knew he would have to be certain the man did not take advantage of them.

Although it might well be too late. Curse Ibernia for forcing him to reveal his wealth in such circumstance! ’Twas a poor tactic at best—and he should have known better than to so openly win her dare.

Rowan gritted his teeth, less than pleased with his own decision in this. Aye, there was something about Ibernia that tempted him to forget his own few rules, if only to win a glimpse of her smile.

Or even hundreds of her kisses.

For a man who desired to live a life unfettered and devoid of responsibilities, as Rowan did, he was accumulating a hefty measure of both fetters and duties. A year and a day with Ibernia in tow would see him laden to the ground!

Meanwhile, Baldassare rummaged in his own purse, tossing Rowan an iron key with such abandon that it nearly leapt over the side of the ship.

Rowan guessed that was no accident, but he caught the key nonetheless.

The captain looked briefly disappointed as Rowan tucked it safely in his own purse. Then his eyes narrowed. “You are uncommonly wealthy, to so readily cast such coin aside.”

There ’twas—the very conclusion he had feared.

“Not for much longer,” Rowan retorted with a heartfelt chuckle. “My lady wife shall beggar me in short order if this continues.” He shook his purse, ensuring that it made precious little noise. “Though I confess ’tis not easy to swallow any accusation that I do not sufficiently indulge the queen of my heart.”