Claire Delacroix (114 page)

Ibernia’s cheeks heated and she heartily disliked how his confession pleased her. “Rogue! You only seek to win another kiss.” She straightened and refused to be charmed. “You have not enough coin to be buying the freedom of slaves in exchange for mere kisses. How do you intend to court a wealthy bride with so little left to your name?”

Rowan’s brow darkened. “How do you know how much coin I have?”

Ibernia shrugged. “I had to fetch Marika’s key, of course.”

Rowan glanced away, obviously displeased by this revelation.
His fingers strayed to the purse, and Ibernia sensed that he was anxious to check its contents.

The very insinuation that she might be a thief was infuriating. “See for yourself,” she declared haughtily. “I took naught that was not mine to take. Indeed, if Thomas had not confessed that the key was there, I would never have opened your purse.”

To her disgust, Rowan did dump the contents of his pouch into his palm. How dare he not trust her? But ’twas not the coin that Rowan counted. Nay, his expression eased only when he saw that the golden ring was yet there. He ran a finger across it, almost reverently, then put everything back in place.

Ibernia watched him with narrowed eyes. “That ring is not worth so much to make a difference in your suit,” she observed.

Rowan impaled her with a glance. “Indeed, for
no one
, you know much of the value of jewellery. Nay, I would wager that you are a merchant’s daughter, that you fled a convent and had fortune turn against you.”

Ibernia backed away from his bright gaze. “I keep my ears open and my wits about me, ’tis all.” She tried to change the subject, to deflect his curiosity. “What is the import of that ring? Its value must be sentimental is all I imply, though I would never have guessed you to be sentimental.”

Rowan’s lips drew to a taut line. “ ’Tis not of import. I should prefer to know more of your tale.”

“And I should prefer to know more of that ring,” Ibernia retorted, well aware that they both were trying to turn the conversation in the direction they favored. “ ’Tis a lady’s ring, for ’tis too small for you, and too finely wrought to favor a man’s hand.”

“So, you are a goldsmith.”

“Nay, I am a woman with eyes in
my
head.” Ibernia made an intuitive guess. “ ’Tis the ring of the only woman who ever held your heart, I would wager, a token of her affections and a memento to cherish. What happened to her, that you are alone and so quick to spread your seed?”

Rowan’s features hardened. “You know naught of what you speak!”

The very glimpse of his anger told Ibernia that she was close to the truth. “Or is it the ring of the only woman you ever loved?” she challenged. “Perhaps the only one who ever spurned you?

Rowan’s eyes flashed. To Ibernia’s astonishment, he did not grace her guess with a reply. He spun and marched to the door, the speed of his departure telling her that she had hit upon the truth.

He said naught but walked straight out, his footsteps echoing solidly down the corridor, then fading away. Ibernia sagged against the wall, knowing in her heart that he would not return this night. She also knew she should not be troubled to know that Rowan’s heart was so securely held in thrall.

But troubled she most certainly was.

It must be the unfamiliarity of meat in her belly, Ibernia resolved. Aye, such a treat could hard upon a body. That alone must be why she could not sleep, even in the peaceful solitude of the cabin.

It could be no more than that.

Rowan did not like losing control of his passions. ’Twas unlike him, and the certainty that he had done so—no less with the infuriating Ibernia—was enough to keep him awake most of the night.

Aye, he wanted her, and he was not inclined to wait.

But he would not break his pledge. Even if the lady showed remarkable resistance to his kiss.

Perhaps that alone was key to her appeal.

Rowan paced and he prowled, he drummed his fingers, he whistled tunelessly. When the sky began to pinken, he took to the decks, pacing off his frustration. He found Thomas and Marika asleep in the kitchen and ate part of a trencher of bread soaked in gravy.

His belly, to his relief, did not spurn the offering.

Rowan did not return to their cabin, for he did not know what he would do if he did. ’Twas not the most reassuring thought he had ever had.

Even hours absent from her presence and long after his blood should have cooled, Rowan stood on the deck desiring Ibernia.

And she had made her own lack of desire for him more than clear.

’Twas no good sign that she seemed intent upon unveiling the few secrets Rowan had. He closed his hand possessively over his purse and took a deep breath of the salt-tinged wind.

Even when he closed his eyes, he could see her. The way she faced him with defiance, the snap in her eyes, the proud tilt to her chin. The curve of her breast visible though the gape in her stained chemise. The sweet weight of that breast in his hand. The sigh that escaped her lips when she yielded to his touch.

Rowan’s mouth went dry as he recalled the look of wonder in Ibernia’s eyes when she stretched to kiss him that last time. That kiss had not been due; she had offered it of her own volition.

Without fear. Aye, there had been desire shining in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

The sight of it had nigh been his undoing. The woman
addled his wits, there was no doubt about it. Why else would he have revealed the import of that ring? Rowan heaved a sigh at his own weakness, clenched his fists at his sides, and walked.

Ibernia was naught but a woman. Another woman in a long string of women for Rowan, her willingness naught unusual in his experience. Only the thrill of victory intrigued him, the prospect of changing her fear to delight. Aye, she was naught but a woman who, soon enough, he would never see again.

After all, he was a man who desired naught in his life. No obligations, no responsibilities, no due owing to any master. ’Twas why he sought an heiress, a woman who would continue upon her own course with no need for turn.

Rowan preferred women who expected naught and had naught to lose. Widows. Whores. Perhaps an heiress. She might want a son, but that was a duty he could fulfill. Aye, Rowan had seen evidence enough that marriages had naught to do with shared lives or even shared objectives. He was confident that he could strike a bargain with any woman he chose to court.

’Twas fortunate for him that Ibernia would not be among the candidates. There was a woman who defied every expectation!

Rowan deliberately summoned the visage of the charming widow he had sampled in Paris; the two sisters at his brother Burke’s wedding festivities just weeks past at Montvieux; the enthusiastic romp he had savored en route to those festivities with …

Rowan frowned, displeased when Ibernia’s rare smile intruded upon his recollections.

Nay, that one had not been blonde. Her hair had been long, he had been certain of it. Curly, aye, that was it, and her face was …

Impossible to recall.

Rowan took a bracing breath of morning air as the sun nudged over the horizon and paced with new vigor. He had to loosen Ibernia’s grip upon him—the fact that she denied him seized his imagination, no more than that.

’Twas decided in that moment. Rowan would win his wager with Ibernia, and before this ship docked in Dublin. After all, he should not be pondering the seduction of his lovely slave. There were greater issues at hand. He was on a bride quest, after all.

Aye, Rowan
should
be thinking about the courtship of one Bronwyn of Ballyroyal. That was the matter that should consume his attention. There was the victory he needed to prove not one but both of his brothers—and his foster-mother—dead wrong.

The stakes were not small. Failing to win the hand of the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland could ensure that his purse was never readily loaded with coins again. Rowan felt a shiver of dread. Would Margaux truly cut him off from her fortune?

She was riled, there was no doubt of that. And when Margaux was angered, she struck with the surety of a viper.

He stared at the ruffled surface of the sea, now tinged with a fine coral hue, and knew he had to win his brothers’ dare.

Even though Ibernia was right that his coin thinned overmuch. Rowan would have a hard time lavishing gifts upon this heiress, no less because undoubtedly she was already in possession of everything she had always wanted. And he knew well enough how pampered women loved expensive gifts.

Why had he not considered this before? He should have brought treasures from Paris, wonders that would catch such a woman’s eye, silks and perfumes that she would not know!

But he, characteristically, had been too impatient to begin,
too impetuous and assured of success, to trouble himself with such petty details.

Rowan’s lips thinned as he acknowledged his flicker of doubt. He wished Ibernia had not been so very right about his disappearing coin.

He wished Ibernia had not kissed so very sweetly. The errant recollection of her nipple tightening under his hand tormented him in that moment.

Nor indeed that she should have been so hesitant to share her charms. The woman was a distraction and one most unwelcome! Rowan growled in frustration and made to pace the length of the deck once more.

But when he pivoted, ’twas a disgruntled Baldassare di Vilonte he found in his path. The man was angry and rumpled beyond expectation, with a reddened bump on his temple. He looked fit to fight, and Rowan took a wary step back.

“A good morning to you,” Rowan said with false cheer. He added a smile designed to melt any opposition.

“ ’Tis no good morning and you know it well,” the captain snarled. “ ’Twas a black day that ever I took the lot of you aboard my vessel, and it cannot be soon enough that I am rid of you.”

Rowan deliberately hid his alarm. This man could not put them ashore sooner than Dublin! Not only could he not bear to endure another arrival and departure, another ship and another negotiation, but he doubted he had the coin to see the matter resolved.

’Twas a new sensation, to fret over coin, and one most unwelcome. Rowan did not intend to let it become a permanent situation in his life. But he knew all too well that there were many ports along the way and ’twould be far too easy to direct this vessel to one.

Baldassare did not look indulgent this morn.

Rowan wondered where he had acquired that bump on his
brow and felt a slight inkling of dread. It could not be insignificant that this fastidious man allowed himself to be seen in such a state.

What had happened last night?

“I have paid more than adequate passage to Dublin,” he said with bravado. “And ’tis only in Dublin we shall disembark.”

“Only because I have not the time to enter another port.” Baldassare snarled. “But you will not be about the ship, and you will not leave your cabin, and you will not buy the freedom of slaves, and you will not allow your wife to cross my path again.”

“Again?”

“Again. That is no gentlewoman you wed, and, indeed, I pity you the humiliation of enduring her sorry excuse for manners.”

Rowan frowned, sensing that he had missed part of this tale. “What would you know of my lady’s manners?”

“What would I not know of them!” Baldassare snorted. “ ’Twas
disgusting
to watch her lay waste to a decent meal and a fine table! Indeed, I cannot imagine the magnitude of crime that would compel a man to witness her eating again. You shall keep her confined to that cabin, for ’tis rightly said that a woman has no place upon a ship.”

Rowan folded his arms across his chest, having a very good idea what had happened. Aye, Ibernia’s chemise had been stained last eve when he awakened, but not before.

“What meal would this have been?” he asked, letting frost filter into his tone. “I specifically recall declining your kind invitation for a meal last eve.”

Baldassare snorted. “A woman should not starve because her spouse is ill. Indeed, the very fact that you expected as much inclines me to believe that you two barbarians are deserving of each other!”

Rowan dropped his hand to the hilt of his blade. “You will not insult my lady wife!”

“And I shall not bear the cost of the damage she has wrought,” the captain retorted. “Clearly I erred in fearing the steed’s wreckage alone.”

“Damage? What damage?”

Rowan saw then that Baldassare carried a pot. The man produced it from behind his back and shook its contents at Rowan. Whatever the shards within it had been, they glittered in the morning sunlight like gemstones.

Shattered gemstones.

Rowan lifted his gaze to the other man, summoning every increment of his disdain. “And this would be?”

“A fine pitcher and two wine goblets wrought of Murano glass,” Baldassare supplied hotly. “They were particularly fine specimens, of my collection, and I demand compensation for their loss.”

Rowan arched a brow. “I should recompense you for these shards, on the basis of your own assessment alone? I did not even see these goblets before. How am I to know their worth?”