Claire Delacroix (111 page)

Baldassare’s lips tightened for a moment. Then he drained his glass in one gulp and filled it to the rim.

The wine would have more impact upon his empty belly than her own—and Ibernia could do much to ensure it stayed that way. She picked through her meat, discarding one piece or another. She scowled and rummaged through the contents of the pot, scooping up gravy in her fingers purely to appall her companion.

Finally she glanced up and eyed the untouched food still
before the captain. “Do you intend to eat that fine piece of meat?”

Baldassare pushed his trencher across the table without hesitation. Ibernia shoved a choice morsel into her mouth, chewed with enthusiasm, then poked through the remainder. She grimaced. “It needs more gravy,” she declared, and before he could assist, tipped the pot at a generous angle.

The gravy surged forth and flowed across the linens, precisely as Ibernia had planned.

Baldassare swore.

“God in heaven!” Ibernia declared, wide-eyed. “What a shocking waste.”

Before Baldassare could recover from his obvious horror, she bent and noisily licked the gravy from the cloth. The captain paled, drained his glass, and poured another. He muttered something under his breath and withdrew slightly.

“A fine gravy,” Ibernia murmured, smiling for him as she lifted her glass. She took a very tiny sip, wondering whether she could manage to summon a belch. She had eaten quickly, after all, so there was hope.

’Twould be the perfect end to her performance.

Baldassare gestured vaguely with one finger. “You have sauce on your face,” he said, the color rising on his own that he even had to call her attention to such a thing.

Ibernia ensured there was gravy on her fingers before she reached for her face. “Here?” she asked, landing one wet finger on her cheek. He shook his head and she touched other, feeling the first mark cool against her skin. “Here?”

Baldassare looked away, his disgust clear. “Nay, ’tis on your chin, though now there is more.”

“Ah well, then.” Ibernia pressed her face into her sleeve and wiped her face with the length of it. To her delight and Baldassare’s horror, she managed a respectable belch immediately
thereafter. She sniffed and dabbed her nose on the opposing sleeve, then poked a finger in the meat again.

“I thought you said you had compote,” she said plaintively.

“Sweet Jesu,” Baldassare muttered, and pushed to his feet He drained his glass again, and Ibernia noticed how he steadied himself with one hand on the board before he stepped away.

“Does it have dried plums in it?” Ibernia demanded. “I adore dried plums when they are simmering in a compote. Indeed, there is naught finer—I could eat them all the night long!”

Baldassare glanced back from the shelf where he evidently had left the compote. “I had thought we might
talk
this evening.”

Talk. Ibernia’s heart skipped a beat, his intent glance telling her what precisely he meant by “talk.” There would be naught verbal about it, unless she missed her guess.

“Suit yourself.” She hid her trepidation, grinning broadly at him and leaning back in her chair. She deliberately sat like a peasant and used one fingernail to pick at her teeth, the task apparently taking all of her concentration. She examined her finger, as if she had retrieved something particularly worthy of note, then sucked it noisily from her nail.

Baldassare placed the entire serving vessel of compote before her with a minute sigh of disgust, then took his place once more. He lounged back against the cushions, his gaze bright, and cradled his glass of wine in his hands. He watched her so avidly that Ibernia wondered whether she truly had fooled him at all.

“Are you of Ireland, then?” he asked with apparent idleness, only the glint of his eyes revealing his interest in the answer.

Too late Ibernia wished she knew whether Rowan had told
this man anything else. “Why?” She lifted a shoulder in a playful pose. “Do I look to be of the Irish?”

“I would not know,” Baldassare countered smoothly. “Though ’tis said they are a lusty folk.” His gaze drifted over the wreckage she had made of his table, then lifted to meet hers once again.

With her open enjoyment of food, Ibernia realized that she might have given him exactly the wrong impression.

Still, she would play the fool, as he seemed to expect little intellect from her. “Truly? My mother always said that I should not listen to the sayings of all and sundry.”

“Your mother has much to say to you.”

“Is that not typical of any noblewoman?” Ibernia ran a finger around the rim of the compote pot, ensuring that she licked it thoroughly, then repeated the gesture.

Baldassare watched her gesture, then hastily took a restorative gulp of wine. “Then you
are
a noblewoman?”

Ibernia glanced up, determined to not be found out even though she had erred. “How else would I be wed to a knight?” she asked, then smiled with all the innocence she could summon.

Baldassare leaned forward. “A knight who insists you return to Ireland to visit family. Are you of Ireland,
ma bella
?”

Ibernia knew that she was on dangerous ground. There was not only her own suite of lies to Rowan to keep intact, but his lies to the captain to ensure their passage.

What else had Rowan told this man?

She plucked a plum out of the pot with her fingers, held it between finger and thumb, and sucked on it as she surveyed the captain. Aye, he was interested in her knowledge of Ireland, though why, Ibernia could not guess.

What had that to do with seducing har?

Unless he truly had recognized her and meant to capitalize upon his knowledge. Her heart stopped, then raced.

“I had no idea that you and my husband had the opportunity to talk on this day,” she said, popping the plum into her mouth. “How wondrous that you became better acquainted.” And she poked in the pot once more.

Baldassare visibly ground his teeth and his next words sounded strained. “Ma
bella
, do you or do you not have family in Ireland?”

Ibernia’s thoughts flew like quicksilver and a knot of dread formed in her belly. She had been right! Baldassare knew something of her true circumstance! Why else would he care so much about such a detail?

Well, she would not be the one to confirm whatever he might have guessed. She had to escape his probing questions, and the sooner the better.

“Did you know—I have heard this said—that all the occupants of Christendom are related to the Irish?” Ibernia kept her voice light, as if she were indeed fool enough to believe as much. “Indeed, ’tis on account of the Celts, those men who once occupied nigh all of the lands from here to Outremer, and even ’tis rumored, farther east than that.” Ibernia gestured expansively with her sticky hand. “Why, we could all be related! Is that not most amusing?”

Baldassare did not look amused. He drained his glass and set it heavily on the board, his gaze unswerving from Ibernia.

Sadly, he did not look besotted in the least.

Clearly, he had to drink more wine. Quickly.

“Oh, let me aid you,” Ibernia insisted. She reached for the vessel of wine, intent on pouring him another.

But Baldassare’s eyes widened at the mess of her fingers, no less where they would soon leave their mire. He reached
simultaneously for his prized glass pitcher, their hands connected, and the pitcher wobbled.

Once she saw what was inevitable, Ibernia encouraged the pitcher to spill more quickly.

Red wine poured across the table like bloody river. There was linen that would never be serviceable again! It surged around Baldassare’s discarded goblet, then ran off the edge of the table. He leapt to his feet as the wine evidently dripped onto his chausses, inadvertently bumping the table with his knee.

Ibernia, again, saw no reason not to aid in the chaos. She nudged the table a little further with her toe. Vessels, crocks, trenchers, goblets, gravy, and wine fell to the wooden floor with a resounding crash.

The Murano pitcher and pair of glasses shattered most satisfactorily.

Then silence filled the chamber. Baldassare stared at the mess of their intimate meal with horror, his mouth working soundlessly.

“ ’Tis a shame, truly, that there is no dog upon this ship,” Ibernia said pertly. “Our hounds would make quick work of this mess.”

“You!” the captain roared. “You did this apurpose!” His face darkened with rage and he lunged toward her, his fine manners abandoned. Ibernia darted away, Baldassare landed one foot in the spilled gravy in the same moment that the ship rolled to one side.

He slipped, he swore, he landed hard. He scrabbled for a grip as he fell, the heavy table notwithstanding. Baldassare cried out as the table tipped, the corner of it catching him across the temple.

He slumped to the floor and did not move again.

The ship rolled the other way, the table slid back slightly, but Baldassare did not stir.

Ibernia stared at him for a long moment, her heart hammering. Did he mean to deceive her? But he did not move and she began to fear that her ploy had gone too far.

Ibernia crept closer. There was no blood upon his temple and he was still breathing. Baldassare was not dead—indeed, he might awaken soon.

And who knew what he would do when he remembered?

With not a moment to waste, Ibernia reached into his tabard. She quickly found the imprint of the key, though she had to feel through several layers of cloth before she could work it free. All the while she held her breath, convinced that Baldassare would awaken and make much of her actions.

But then the key was free. Ibernia did not hesitate. She fled for the door, unlocked the latch, seized a lantern, and fled into the corridor.

She was free!

For the moment, at least. She hoped that her father had not put too hefty a price on her retrieval—for a man like Baldassare di Vilonte would be more than intent to collect whatever he thought his due.

Then she hoped that Baldassare would have such an ache between his ears that he would forget all that had happened this eve.

’Twas unlikely at best, but Ibernia hoped all the same.

Ibernia jiggled the latch of the room she and Rowan had been assigned, unaccountably relieved when Thomas quickly opened the door. The boy was sleepy and he rubbed his eyes as he regarded her, squinting slightly at the light. Ibernia noted immediately that Rowan still slept. She could see Marika curled into a ball like a little cat, the other woman’s eyes bright in the shadows.

“You smell like meat,” the squire commented.

“Aye, ’twas a fine meal,” Ibernia said breathlessly. “Sadly, the captain fell ill.”

“How ill?”

“Not precisely ill,” she conceded, locking the door behind them and leaning back against it in relief. “He slipped and hit his head. He will awaken in a sour mood, no doubt, but be none the worse for that.” The boy’s gaze was assessing, so Ibernia hastened on. “Did you eat?”

Thomas grimaced. “Biscuits.”

There was a wealth of meaning in that single word, and Ibernia refused to consider what Baldassare had told her of those biscuits.

“If you are not overly proud, there is meat still in the captain’s cabin,” she confided. “You would have to be quick and stealthy, but ’tis there. Though the table tipped, much could probably be salvaged.”

“Aye? It can only be finer fare than those biscuits,” the boy said darkly. “And what of the woman?”

“Marika,” Ibernia corrected, noting how lean the woman was. Aye, it probably had been long since she had eaten as well. “Perhaps you could bring her some.”

“Why should she not simply accompany me? I would eat my meal elsewhere, now that you might at least watch my master. The smell of food might sicken him anew.”

Ibernia cast the boy a dubious look. “There is the matter of her shackle.”

Thomas grinned. “For which my master has the key. I would not be so bold as to take it from him, but since he told the captain that he bought the slavewoman for
you
…”

Ibernia gasped. “He bought Marika’s freedom?”

“Aye.”

“Then why did no one say so?” Ibernia did not wait for an answer. She crossed the small room and crouched beside
the slumbering Rowan. He had rolled to his back, one arm hanging to the floor. His color seemed better, though maybe ’twas only the flattery of the lantern light.

And still he slept.

Surprisingly, she hesitated before reaching for his purse, feeling she pushed too far in this. Though she had had no such qualms about searching Baldassare for a key! What difference was there between Marika’s freedom and her own? Ibernia shook her head and eased the purse from Rowan’s chausses.

This time, though, she was achingly aware of the man so close to her hand, that hip beneath his fingers, his muscled thighs stretched to her right. She knew enough of men to know what she would see if she but lifted her gaze, and the very thought make her cheeks heat. She swallowed, knowing Rowan would savor any such hint of awareness in her.

Aye, this man was sure enough that all women desired him! Ibernia gritted her teeth and opened the purse with a quick gesture.