Claire Delacroix (136 page)

“Know that circumstances may see your belly empty if you follow me,” Rowan warned. The steed nickered and seized another mouthful of grass. Rowan laughed. “I suppose there is enough on this isle to content you for the present.”

Troubador rubbed against him and Rowan grimaced. “You smell like a brothel,” he chided, though he did not move away. “And not a fine one either. But I suppose we have little enough choice.” He regarded the steed sternly. “ ’Twill be your fate to bear us to Ballyroyal.”

He captured the reins that hung loose, making a face at the salt that had turned the leather much rougher than it had
been. Then he turned to Bronwyn with a smile. “
Ma demoiselle
, can you ride without a saddle?”

“Of course!” Bronwyn grinned and stepped toward the destrier. “ ’Tis the blood of Celts that runs in my veins!”

Rowan gestured to the palfrey. “Then I can offer you your own mount on this journey. Truly we shall reach Ballyroyal in fine style.”

Bronwyn’s heart sank to her toes. She would not ride with Rowan. No less, they would reach Ballyroyal sooner than she had anticipated. And if she and Rowan rode separately, then she would have little enough chance to persuade him to her view.

But then, ’twas not appropriate to ride with a man when there were no marital vows between them. Bronwyn appreciated that gossip would plague her name if they rode otherwise and supposed she should appreciate Rowan’s thoughtfulness.

Even if she did have an eerie sense that there was more than that at root here. Was it the circumstance of Leon’s hall that had kept Rowan away from her these past nights?

Or was it a portent that he intended to escort her to Ballyroyal, then leave her side for all time?

Despite Bronwyn’s desire to know the truth, no opportunity arose for private discussion with Rowan in the three days that it took to journey to Ballyroyal. Each night he found them shelter and disappeared, purportedly to tend the horses, but he never returned before Bronwyn was asleep.

After one instance, she wondered. After two, she had strong suspicions. On the third morning, when he would not meet her gaze, she knew the truth. Bronwyn knew that it was no coincidence that matters kept them apart, and she
chafed that Rowan had granted her no opportunity to win his heart as she had pledged.

She could only wait and see what he would do, when the final choice was upon him. ’Twas not Bronwyn’s preference by any means—but then, she knew well enough that no one could be compelled to love another.

Still, her helplessness chafed.

At noon on the third day they spied Ballyroyal in the distance. Bronwyn could not decide whether they reached her home too soon or too late—she wanted desperately to know Rowan’s decision, yet she feared he would quickly depart, leaving her to mourn this short journey for years to come.

’Twas one of those peculiarly Irish days, when the rain falls gently and ceaselessly, but a beam of sunlight toys with all around. The light burst from the clouds at unexpected intervals, highlighting a cottage in the distance, or illuminating the distant sparkle of the sea, or turning all around them to the vibrant hues of rare emeralds.

Her first sight of home in more than a sixmonth startled Bronwyn with the power of her response. She reined in the palfrey for a moment simply to look. There was the river she had splashed in as a young girl; there was the field where she had learned to ride.

Her mother’s prize mare had indeed foaled, for Bronwyn could spy the smaller horse following behind the chestnut mare. Though she was distant, the creatures were as familiar as brothers and sisters might have been. Other horses grazed within the stone walls, many more than she recalled. Either her father had been buying gifts for her mother again or Ballyroyal had guests.

Rowan cast an inquiring glance her way and Bronwyn smiled for him. She felt a sudden urge to be home, to be safe, to be among those who loved her dearly.

Aye, she owed an apology to them.

“What will you do, now that we are at Ballyroyal?” she asked softly, half dreading, half anticipating his answer.

Rowan’s hands tightened for a moment on the reins, the gesture drawing her gaze to his strong fingers. Bronwyn’s mouth went dry as she recalled the magic he had roused from her flesh with those fingers.

He shrugged then, his manner cool and composed. “I had thought to find a travelling troupe of entertainers.”

Bronwyn could barely force the words past the lump in her throat, let alone make them sound light and indifferent. “Aye? What of your heiress?”

Rowan’s smile did not reach his eyes. Indeed, his gaze was curiously flat, though he quickly supplied the reason. “I will have no heiress.”

“So you will lose your brother’s wager?”

“I forfeit it and all its victory would have entailed.” Rowan shook his head and looked away. “You called it aright, Bronwyn. To win would bring only that which I do not desire.” He met her gaze again, his words falling tonelessly between them. “I thank you for showing me the folly of that path.”

His gaze was steady, perhaps even dispassionate. Bronwyn stared at him, his manner unfamiliar. Where was the merry Rowan she had come to know? Where was the determined knight, the man whose anger flashed when she showed no regard for her own welfare? Rowan in every guise was passionate, his eyes flashed and twinkled, his smile was never far.

But this Rowan was an indifferent stranger, a man whose thoughts she could not guess.

“And what if I wished I had not warned you of that?” Bronwyn asked, for indeed, in this moment she did.

“Words once uttered can not be left unsaid.” Rowan’s
gaze was unswerving. “It seems you shall witness me losing the quest for Bronwyn of Ballyroyal’s hand just as you desired.” He arched a brow and smiled coolly. “Does it not please you?”

Please her? Anger swept through Bronwyn. Not only would Rowan abandon her, pretending there had been naught between them, but he would lay the blame at her own feet.

How dare he care
naught
for her, after all they had shared?

At least, Bronwyn knew the best way to bring back the Rowan she knew and loved. She would have one last glimpse of him with his eyes twinkling, to savor over the years.

For it seemed that was all she would have of him in the end.

“I shall race you!” she cried, and gave the mount her heels before he could see her heart break. “Indeed, I
dare
you to beat me to the gates!”

Marika squealed and clung to Bronwyn’s waist as the palfrey leapt forward, but Bronwyn leaned low over the horse, loving the feel of muscles rippling beneath her. The steed needed no more urging to race like the wind.

Bronwyn heard Rowan’s cry behind her but did not slow. She could ride like none other and was content to let him eat her dust. Oh, there was so much he did not know of her—so much he apparently did not
want
to know. His rejection stung, but Bronwyn would give Rowan no hint of that.

By the time they reached the gates, she would be composed again. Troubador’s hooves thundered on the road behind, but she was away first and she would beat him to the gates.

And beat Rowan Bronwyn did, though any triumph she might have felt faded fast.

For none other than her father’s partner Marco opened the gate to Ballyroyal’s bailey. Marco, with his grim expression and disappointment in his eyes; Marco, who had always disapproved of Bronwyn’s wild inclinations; Marco, whose hair silvered at his temples.

Marco, the fiancé from whom Bronwyn had fled.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice dry as dust. “ ’Tis no surprise that you return with all the impetuous haste you showed in departing.”

Something was amiss.

One moment Bronwyn had been challenging Rowan to best her, her full lips set with defiance, the glint in her eyes making him regret the course he had chosen.

And the next, she had been wide-eyed and somber, her smile gone. She introduced Rowan stiffly to her father’s partner, Marco, and said not a word more than that.

The lady was not often silent and Rowan did not care for the change. Indeed, he had been prepared to argue with her. He had been surprised by his own regret on their arrival to her home, for ’twould be only a matter of moments before he could safely deliver Bronwyn to her parents’ care, then be on his way.

But he had not wanted to hasten, had not wanted to race to the gates, and now he did not want to leave.

Bronwyn paled beneath her tan in most uncharacteristic way. Rowan frowned as he followed her, Marco’s polite chatter flowing over him unheard. Indeed, Rowan had been so stunned that Bronwyn asked after his plans, so surprised at the hopeful glint in her eyes, no less by the disappointment that followed when he pledged to leave.

Had she not wanted him to lose her hand, after all?

And why did Bronwyn’s disappointment trouble him, as
no other woman’s disappointment had ever done? Was it merely the way she addled his wits, the quick deceitful game that lust played on a man’s thoughts.

Or was there something more at stake? Rowan was not certain he wanted to know.

Without doubt, ’twas good their paths parted now, before his thinking grew even more muddled.

They were only just within the gates, when a tall man stepped into what might have been generously called a bailey.

“Marco, who comes at this time of the day? Surely every guest we can accommodate is already here?” The man surveyed the arrivals quickly, then suddenly gasped aloud. “Bronwyn!”

“Hello, Father.” Bronwyn stood and smiled.

Relief washed over the features of Nicholas of Ballyroyal and he let out a hoot of delight. He crossed the yard with quick steps, wonder on his face.

“Bronwyn!” he cried, then caught her in his arms. “Daughter mine!” He made a sound of speechless joy and swung her high, as if she were naught but a child. He clasped his daughter close and closed his eyes, as if he could not believe she had returned. Bronwyn locked her arms around her father’s neck, her tears spilling even as she smiled.

So, this was what it was like to be welcomed home with love, Nicholas’s delight nigh brought a tear to Rowan’s eye, and he tried to recall if anyone had ever greeted his return anywhere with such pleasure.

Not at Montvieux. Margaux was more likely to roll her eyes and demand to know what he wanted of her
this
time.

But Nicholas framed Bronwyn’s face in his hands and eyed her, as if he would see the evidence of anything foul
his daughter had endured. He touched her cheek, her shoulder, he smiled that her feet were bare, he kissed her brow.

He seemingly could not believe she stood before him.

“God in heaven, I never thought to see you again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You are well? You are unhurt? You are none the worse for wear, despite your foolery?”

“I am well enough,” Bronwyn admitted with a demure smile. She turned and gestured to Rowan, the disappointment that clouded her eyes making his heart sink. Was this not what she wanted? “This is Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux. He escorted me home.”

’Twas true enough, Rowan supposed, though her tone gave no hint of all that had been between them. He stepped forward and accepted Nicholas’s hand, feeling an urge to set matters straight, to claim the intimacy that he and Bronwyn had shared, regardless of the price that might bring.

But that was foolish. Their paths
must
part here.

Even if he preferred not to leave her.

Rowan felt Bronwyn’s expectation heavy upon him, though he was not entirely certain what she wanted of him. Aye, the woman had always addled his wits!

Bronwyn’s father was a man of perhaps forty-five summers, though he was hale and tanned like a younger man. His grip was sure and Rowan liked the man immediately. Nicholas’s green eyes snapped with a vivacity unexpected, though his wavy mane of hair had turned to shining silver. He smiled, a man confident in his looks and his abilities, and gripped Rowan’s hand warmly.

“I cannot thank you enough for your service in this,” he declared. “The world is no place for a woman alone, and ’tis beyond good fortune that an honorable man should find Bronwyn and ensure her safe return home.”