Claire Delacroix (131 page)

“Would you? If there was something to be gained for yourself?”

But Rowan scowled. “What manner of man do you think I am?”

“A man who prefers pleasure to responsibility,” she echoed carefully, hoping against hope that he would prove her wrong. “Was that not what you told me of yourself?”

Rowan bent to study the wound on his thigh, but not so quickly that Bronwyn did not see his expression darken. “Well, I am not so shameless a cur as that,” he said gruffly. “I will tell none of your deed, upon that you can rely.” He impaled her with a quick glance. “But you will tell me the reason for it before our paths part. Surely that is not too much to ask.”

“Nay, ’tis not,” Bronwyn agreed simply, stunned by his offer to cover her crime. It was unexpectedly generous—and yet more unexpected that she did not doubt in the least that he would keep his word.

But then, her wits had been addled since this man showed her the pleasure his touch could bring. She watched his hands as he parted the cloth of his chausses, so focused on the gentle strength of his fingers and the recollection of them upon her that the blood surprised her.

Bronwyn felt a chill pass over her as she stared at the ribbon of red seeping from the long shallow wound. She could not tear her gaze away from the insistent trickle of blood.

She had murdered Baldassare.

Willfully. Deliberately. She had killed a man. Though she had done as much to save her father’s life, still she was certain that this sin could never be absolved.

She would rot in hell for this.

“You should bind that,” she said, her voice sounding unnatural even to her own ears. But she had to do something, she had to be rid of the sight of the blood. Her fingers trembled as she tore a length of cloth from the hem of her kirtle and faltered as she tried to tie it around Rowan’s thigh.

“You do not need to do this,” he protested, lifting her
hands away. He frowned down at her, the chill in her fingers apparently seizing his attention. “ ’Tis not so bad a wound as that. Are you well?”

“I am well enough,” she argued, feeling faint. Her gaze fell to the blood once more, the sight reminding her of how Baldassare had bled. He had fought her, fought Rowan, well aware of the stakes. He had not slipped into death unawares, not as quietly as she had hoped.

And that was all her fault. She could at least have killed him quickly and painlessly. Bronwyn swallowed in recollection of how his blood had mingled with the rain and been slick on the deck.

Were it not for the sea, she would have the captain’s blood on her feet as well as her hands.

Bronwyn closed her eyes as the world cavorted around her and she felt her bile rise. Rowan caught her before she fell, and lay her in the minute shelter offered by the overhanging low cliff.

“What ails you?” he asked, with obvious concern. “Are you hurt?”

Bronwyn leaned her head back and kept her eyes closed, knowing that what troubled her would not cause a knight to turn a hair. After all, a knight made his living at war.

“Well?” Rowan prompted.

Bronwyn licked her lips. “I killed a man.”

She felt Rowan studying her, then he eased down beside her. He did not touch her, though she could feel his warmth. “And this sickens you?”

“Aye.”

“It seems a most natural response,” he conceded unexpectedly. “ ’Twould be more troubling if you enjoyed the deed.”

Bronwyn opened her eyes and looked at his profile. “Have you ever killed a man?”

Rowan seemed to find this amusing. He smiled and shook his head, bending his attention on binding his thigh. “I? Never. You forget that I avoid all unpleasantries with diligence. Murder is, after all, somewhat unpleasant.”

Bronwyn sat up to study him. “But you must have gone to war. You are a knight, after all.”

“I have not.” He grinned, as if proud of his achievement. “I always found an excuse, when Margaux would have put me to work, and truly I believe she tired of the game.”

“Because you did not wish to labor at all?”

He met her gaze steadily. “Because I did not wish to kill, regardless of who endorsed the matter.” He shrugged and looked to the sea again. “It seems there is no shortage of men anxious to kill others to win their own advantage.”

“Including your father?”

Rowan snorted. “He kills enough for an army. I told you I was not of his ilk.” Before Bronwyn could ask anything, he turned a bright gaze upon her. “And what of your father? You said you did this deed for him. What is his tale?”

“ ’Tis part of the tale you are owed.”

“Aye, and I would collect while I can.” Rowan smiled, though Bronwyn was not encouraged by the reminder that their paths would soon part.

Aye, he would seek another heiress, one more wealthy, one more biddable, one perhaps more incomparable. Bronwyn did not cherish the thought.

She drew her knees up beneath her chin, her gaze dancing over the others who had managed to reach the beach. The rain fell in a gentle, incessant patter, and the sea rolled in fathomless grey. Debris from the broken ship could be spotted periodically, then it disappeared again.

She was in no rush to hasten away from this place, nor indeed from Rowan’s side. She told herself that was only
because she was tired but admitted in her heart that was a lie.

Bronwyn pleated the wool of her kirtle between her fingers, feeling how the salt was drying in the weave. ’Twould be stiff later, of that she had no doubt.

“You said that Baldassare wanted to kill your father,” Rowan prompted. “Why? Did they know each other?”

“Perhaps, once,” Bronwyn admitted. She shivered and did not protest when Rowan slid his arm across her shoulders. Its weight was welcome, his presence beside her comforting. She took a deep breath and decided ’twas past time she told him what she did know.

“My father’s name was Niccolo, at least before he came to these shores. He was a Venetian trader, a captain known for his skill in making new discoveries and ensuring his voyages made profits for his investors. He always saved the finest wares for his home port and was a man of wealth and repute there. He was called the Falcon, for his sharp eye and his ability to drive a hard bargain.”

“How did your father come from Venice to here?”

Bronwyn smiled. “He met my mother. She says he tried to cheat her, by paying less for her wool roving than its worth. He insists that he wanted only to draw out the negotiation to ensure that they spent more time together.”

She focused on her fingers busily pleating her kirtle and missed Rowan’s rueful smile.

“And they fell in love. My mother would not abandon her family, so my father offered her passage on his ship. He wooed her all the way to Dublin, though she insists they went by way of the Atlantic. He says that was only because she was too stubborn to admit the truth.”

She glanced up to find Rowan smiling slightly. “They sound well matched.”

“Indeed, they are still smitten with each other, and these
differences of opinion oft end with much laughter from their chamber.”

“So, Niccolo courted her, and he won her.” Rowan pursed his lips. “But why would a Venetian find himself so far north? ’Tis not common now and could only have been less common twenty years past.”

Bronwyn focused on the wool between her fingers. “My father was fleeing an enemy.” She felt Rowan’s gaze upon her and did not need his question to be prompted to continue. “Once upon a time, before my father left Venice, he had a trusted partner. They two had roved many a sea together, found many a new opportunity, and made a tidy living at their trade.

“ ’Twas my father who charted their course, listening as he did to rumor and intuition. He oft declared that he wished he had not heard the tale of a distant port where gold could be traded for salt. He and his partner agreed they would make this their next destination, and salt they loaded aplenty. They found the port and ’twas exactly as rumored. They were the first Venetians ever to visit, perhaps the first from Christendom, and the gold was of such quantity that the eyes of all the crew widened.

“The voyage went awry from that point, my father said the gold made his partner turn mad. He could not have enough of it. He swears his partner would have loaded enough to sink the ship like a stone. They argued heatedly, for the first time in all their days together, and in the end, their men drew sides. There was much bloodshed and many good men died before the ship had even left the harbor, including the partner who had so changed. In the interest of security, his discontented followers were put ashore, against their will, and abandoned in this foreign port.

“My father returned home to acclaim, but what he had witnessed weighed heavily upon his heart. He doubted that
he could ever trust another fully, for he had shared so much with his partner, only for their companionship to come to ruin in the end. He had no desire to return to this port of gold. In fact, he wished never to set sail again, but his patrons insisted otherwise.

“My father’s investors would not outfit his ship without his pledge to return to the golden city, and my father refused to return or reveal its location. I think he believed the place itself was cursed and a source of wickedness, for naught else, to his thinking, could have turned such good friends against each other.”

“What was the partner’s name?”

“ ’Twas forbidden to utter his name in our home, so great was my father’s heartache.” Bronwyn shrugged. “At any rate, my father lingered in port too long. Word came that the rebels were making their way back to Venice, with vengeance hot in their words. My father decided he would not wait to hear their false accusations. If he could not leave with a ship, he would leave on foot. A trusted servant accompanied him.

“My father left his homeland. He left all he knew. He travelled north with naught more than he could carry, wanting only to put distance between himself and the lust for gold that made men mad.” She granted Rowan a smile. “Eventually, he reached the North Sea and his yearning for the sea reclaimed him. He and this servant who had become his friend worked on ships, and though my father told no tale of his past, his skills saw him quickly promoted.”

“And then he met your mother?”

“Aye. And when he won her, he changed his name, for he could not bear that she should undertake the burden of his past. Always in the back of his thoughts was the fear that his partner was not truly dead—he mentioned once that the man had a son who had been on that fateful voyage.

“My father promoted this servant and friend to captain in his own stead and made a new life for himself in Ireland. Eventually his friend returned to his side and tempted him into a new partnership. My father missed his trade and his travel, though now he only invests in his new partner’s journeys.”

Rowan looked surprised. “But he loved the sea, you said yourself.”

“Aye, but he feared for my mother—and later for me—if he was recognized.”

Rowan frowned, as if he could not imagine making such a choice.

“ ’Tis the power of love to sacrifice what you hold of import to see another safe, or happy,” Bronwyn insisted, seeing in Rowan’s eyes that he knew naught of such power.

Nor even of such love.

Her heart cringed a little for that small boy and all he had lost when his mother died so suddenly. Her gaze fell to the ring glinting on his hand as she realized that one twist of faith had shaken that child’s conviction that he was lovable.

And this was the crux of the matter. That boy had learned a telling lesson, that he should never treasure anything, that he should expect naught for himself, that he was of no merit to those around him.

The man he had become clung to that lesson as if ’twere the only certainty upon which he could rely. Rowan feigned indifference to all so that he might readily care for naught—or that he might
pretend
to care for naught.

But the truth might be that he cared too much. Bronwyn’s heart leapt to her throat at the prospect.

“And love is why you had to stop Baldassare?”

Bronwyn met Rowan’s gaze steadily, seeing the question that lurked in those amber depths. He truly did not understand. Once she saw the truth of it, she could not hold his
gaze. Bronwyn looked away, feeling suddenly more fortunate in having known her parents’ love than she ever had before.

She would not torment Rowan with fond recollections of a childhood so very different from his own.

“My parents are happy,” she said quietly. “My father is a good-hearted man, and I believe the tale as I have been told it. Baldassare could be none other than that partner’s son. When he declared that he sought my father and called him by his Venetian name, I knew the truth of it, I saw the wild hatred in his eyes. I could not have stood by and done naught.”

“You would protect your father from such a threat, regardless of the risk to yourself, without another thought?” Rowan gripped her shoulder, his touch prompting her to turn. “How could you put your own welfare aside? You could have been killed!”

He leaned closer, the flash of fear in his eyes taking Bronwyn by surprise. “Baldassare was not a weak man, not by any means. What if he had turned upon you? Or what if the ship had not sunk? His crew would have taken compense for his loss from your very hide.”

Bronwyn blinked and swallowed. “I had not considered the risk, and even if I had, ’twould not have stayed my course.”

He watched her so long that she wondered whether he had been struck dumb. Then he tilted his head, regarding her with narrowed eyes so that she could not discern his thoughts.

“Just as you did not consider the risk when you fled your parents’ home?”

Bronwyn felt suddenly like a willful child, determined to see her way alone. He must think her foolish indeed! “I suppose I have been impulsive in my time.”

Rowan chuckled and she looked up in surprise. “Impulsive is the least of it! I have never met a woman so persuaded that she can set matters to rights as you are.”

Bronwyn felt her cheeks heat, though she lifted her chin proudly. “I was taught that a woman could achieve all that a man might, if she but had the will to try.”