Claire Delacroix (110 page)

Ibernia could visualize those biscuits all too well and favored the alternative.

“And the salt fish.” Baldassare gestured broadly, then shrugged. “There are those who enjoy it, I am told.”

Just the smell of the cooking salt fish was enough to make Ibernia’s belly protest. “Your cook could not send the beef here?” she asked hopefully, already guessing what the answer would be.

“
Ma bella
! What do you know of men?” Baldassare chuckled. “ ’Twould be foolish to let my men so much as glimpse what fine fare is mine by rank.” He shook a finger under her nose. “ ’Tis the way of men to desire what is granted to another—a man of my position can only guard against such infidelities.”

Oh, Ibernia could attest to the truth of that. She glanced back to Rowan, wondering whether he would even
know
if she took a meal with Baldassare.

Surely ’twould be a harmless indulgence?

That man waved his hand. “But if you will remain here, there is naught I can do to sway your choice. ’Tis a fearsome toll your spouse expects for loyalty, but ’tis not my place to comment.”

As he turned away, the prospect of a hot meal going with him, Ibernia stepped forward impulsively. Aye, she could endure anything—especially in exchange for a good meal!—regardless of what Rowan thought of the matter.

“I would be honored to join you.”

Baldassare’s eyes flashed, he bowed low, then he offered
his arm. Indeed, he urged her a bit too close to his side for Ibernia’s comfort.

And she realized too late that he also might not be immune to this desire of men to possess what was not their own.

Baldassare was delighted to find all as he had decreed. Three lanterns had been lit, their golden light casting an intimate glow over the finely appointed contents of his cabin. The wood gleamed, the hammered silver upon the table shone. His own sturdy chair had been drawn up to one side of the table—the other setting demanded that individual sit on the broad bed.

The linens were changed and turned down, a bevy of Eastern cushions at the ready to support whatever might need support. The wine gleamed red in the heavy glass pitcher.

And the chamber was devoid of anyone else.

He recognized the moment Ibernia realized the import of the setting. She caught her breath, spun to face him. Her eyes were wide, showing that remarkable blue to advantage, and Baldassare smiled as if he did not guess she would prefer to flee.

“Privacy,
ma bella,
” he purred, “is important to any intimate discussion.”

She watched avidly while he turned an ornate key in the lock, securing the door behind them. Her gaze followed the path of that key as he secreted it in his embroidered tabard. He was prepared to ply her with wine, with kisses, with food, with whatever was necessary to win his desire. The key ensured their privacy.

This woman would never find it, nor have any chance to flee, before Baldassare had what he wanted of her.

Fortunately, the evening was still young.

bernia had made a mistake.

Obviously. Oh, only too late did she realize she should never have succumbed to the temptation of a meal. She should have endured wormy biscuits instead of letting herself into this situation.

There was something about Baldassare’s hungry gaze that persuaded Ibernia that he had only his own pleasure at heart. She had a fairly good idea that their objectives were not as one and cursed herself for not anticipating this most obvious ploy.

Ibernia was forced to concede that Rowan had been right in declining the captain’s invitation to her. Oh, how she hated being at the whim of men!

Should she flee now? But how, when the key was so safely tucked away? Nay, ’twould be better to lull Baldassare into complacency, win his trust and
look
willing to savor his touch, then escape. Perhaps once he discarded his tabard, she could retrieve the key.

Ibernia could only hope that he would discard his garb. Aye, she had known those who did not, but then, Baldassare seemed most fastidious.

She would and could hope.

Baldassare watched her like a cat who had successfully cornered his prey. Ibernia retreated as he advanced, trying to
look as if she intended to take that backward step all along. She thought furiously all the while but came up with naught that resembled a plan.

The smell of the meal distracted her, for she was hungry.

Ibernia covered her fear by casting an assessing glance over the table and lifting her nose appreciatively, still watching the captain from the corner of her eye.

“It smells wonderful,” she said, hoping her voice was even. “How chivalrous of you to invite me to share in your meal.”

She deliberately dropped to sit in the single chair. There was no way that she would perch on the side of his bed.

Baldassare prowled around the table, apparently untroubled by her choice. He adjusted the ruffle of his cuffs as she had seen him do before, he straightened the neck of his chemise. He brushed a speck of lint from his chausses, then turned a bright smile upon Ibernia. She had been so busy watching him preen—indeed, she had never seen a man do as much—that she was inadvertently pinned beneath his gaze.

“You must permit me to serve you,” he murmured, “as my men are about their labor. And you must accept my humble apologies. ’Tis no fine table I can set here.”

The table looked quite lavish to Ibernia. There was a white linen cloth on the board, an array of finely wrought dishes, a pair of goblets wrought of glass spun fine. She tried not to gape, but Baldassare noted her attention. He lifted one glass and turned it so that it caught the light.

“A fine specimen, is it not? ’Tis from the isle of Murano.”

“I do not know this place,” Ibernia lied when in fact she had heard a great deal about Murano glass over the years. ’Twas part of her father’s fantastic tales of his home, though she had never seen a sample.

This glass was truly worthy of such high praise.

“Ah, but you should,” he chided with a smile. “ ’Tis in Venice and, indeed, home to the finest artisans in glass to be found.”

“Surely some artisans elsewhere have similar skills?” Ibernia asked idly.

Baldassare shrugged. “Nay, not a one. The guild would not permit it.”

Ibernia shook her head. “Surely you exaggerate. Artisans are seldom content to remain in one place, be there guild or nay. And many are inclined to share their skills with others. I have seen this often.”

His smile was thin. “ ’Tis why they do not leave Murano alive. ’Tis the way of the guild to ensure its own exclusivity in trade.”

Though Ibernia’s eyes widened in horror, Baldassare seemed untroubled by this practice.

In fact, he lifted the lid off a covered dish, showing her the tempting meat within. “May I?”

The smell nearly made Ibernia faint with hunger and partly distracted her from his tale of Murano. “Please do.”

But his fine manners could not make Ibernia completely forget his easy acceptance of that guild’s cruelty. She knew, beyond doubt, that she had to escape this night before Baldassare put his amorous plan into motion.

He might not even be as “gentle” as the two she had known before.

He served her a modest portion with fastidious care and Ibernia had a sudden idea how to repulse him. After all, Venetians were known for their love of fine manners—and Baldassare did not appear immune to that tendency.

Even as she had the thought, the lace-encrusted hem of his sleeve touched the dark gravy. His handsome features darkened, he dropped the ladle and immediately set upon
removing the stain with a bit of water. Ibernia heard his exhalation of relief when it was clear there would be no lasting mark. He carefully added a bit of gravy to her portion, then stepped away to serve himself.

Ibernia chuckled, more than willing to let him believe her a savage if it meant her escape. “I am not a babe!” she protested, indicating the serving as if it were laughably small.

Baldassare blinked, then his smile returned. She sat with approval etched on her features as he served more. He hesitated, then, encouraged by her nod, added again to her trencher. Ibernia made no indication that he should halt, though she was not certain she could truly eat all this meat.

Baldassare frowned and served another measure. He paused, then added again, the gravy from the meat dribbling over the trencher and onto the linen.

He swore softly and made to wipe up the spill.

Ibernia saw opportunity and took it. She knew her fingers were clean, but Baldassare did not. She stuck her fingers in the running gravy before he could reach it and licked it off them.

“Marvelous,” she declared, then looked pointedly into the dish. “Perhaps you should ensure that you have
some.
” Her tone indicated that she had not yet had enough but was being gracious.

Baldassare hid his surprise quickly, serving himself an ample portion—though not nearly as much as was already heaped before Ibernia—then cast an inquiring glance her way. He tipped the pot, revealing a good bit more meat and a lot of gravy. Ibernia ran her fingers around her trencher to catch the running gravy, then busily licked them each in turn and ensured she made more of a mess on the linen than it would have endured otherwise.

Baldassare paled when he saw the fate of his linen, but he said naught.

“These trenchers are so thin!” Ibernia protested, knowing it was unspeakably vulgar to insult the offerings of his board. Her mother would have been appalled by such behavior, but Ibernia knew she had little other choice.

A resourceful woman used the opportunities at hand, after all.

She frowned and looked longingly at the remaining meat in the pot, considered her dripping trencher, then eyed the meat again as if she could not bear to decline it.

“You had best leave the pot here.” She patted the board beside herself, leaving gravy fingerprints on the cloth.

Ibernia repeated her performance with every dish he served, until there was a ridiculous amount of food piled before her.

Rudely, she began to eat—noisily and with her fingers—before Baldassare even took his seat. She thanked him with her mouth full, savoring how he inhaled so sharply that his nostrils nigh pinched shut.

He reached for the wine pitcher and Ibernia cooed with delight, lifting her goblet toward him. The gravy on her fingers smeared over the Murano glass, a fact which the captain obviously noted. She frowned when he filled it only halfway, saluting him with the full glass so enthusiastically that the wine sloshed over the rim.

Another stain graced the white linen.

Ibernia took a healthy swig of the wine, before he could even pour his own, then dug into her meat with both hands. It was marvelous, and she wished she was in a situation that would allow her to enjoy it better.

She ate with gusto and deliberately left a bit of gravy on her chin. Baldassare stared at that adornment, clearly unable to say anything.

He did not eat.

Finally he cleared his throat. “You indeed seem hungry this evening,” he said, contenting himself with an elegant sip of wine. “Does your spouse ever deign to feed you?”

Ibernia grinned, deliberately ignoring the fact that there was still meat in her mouth. “It has been hours since our meal this morn,” she declared, slurping her wine greedily. “And, indeed, I had not packed nearly enough for the midday meal.”

Baldassare blinked. “You have already eaten twice this day?”

“Thrice actually,” Ibernia lied. “Although a roast chicken at midmorning barely counts, does it?”

Baldassare stared at her, his own meal untouched. He sipped at his wine, his eyes narrowed as he watched her. She sensed that he could not bear to eat with the sight of her indulgence before him. His preference gave Ibernia an idea. She quickly quaffed her own measure of wine and held her glass out for more.

“No more for you?” she demanded coquettishly. “My mother said a woman should never respect a man who could not hold his wine.” Ibernia dropped her voice. “She said ’twas sign that he was not truly a
man
, if you know my meaning.”