owan de Montvieux was in a foul mood.London,
July 1172
owan de Montvieux was in a foul mood.
Not only had he been ill beyond belief on the journey from LeHavre, but he was not at his intended destination. Indeed, the last Rowan had heard, the Thames was not in Ireland.
Which meant that he must endure another sea voyage, no doubt even less pleasant than this last, and that he must do so immediately in order to win the challenge he had accepted from his brothers.
Nay, he was not in a fine mood. He strode through the tangle of merchants on the docks, retrieving his horse and finding his squire Thomas with no small effort. They badgered him from every side, these hagglers with their shoddy goods, and he braced himself against thieves in the crowd. He deigned to purchase some meat pies from one merchant who looked more reputable than most.
But what he really needed was a measure of ale. Aye, then some song, and a solid measure of the sorry excuse for food in this country warm in his belly. Then blissful sleep. That would restore his interest in bucking his brothers’ expectations. Rowan loved a challenge—at least when he was feeling hale—and the more desperate the stakes, the better.
An Irish heiress! For the love of God, what had possessed him to take such a dare? On a morn like this, with the taste of his own bile ripe in his throat, Rowan doubted he could charm even the most ancient and desperate crone alive.
Or that he wanted to.
“Oho! A fine knight just into port!” a slavemonger cried. The man was unshaven and unkempt, his dark hair hanging in his eyes and more than one tooth missing from his mouth. “I have just the wench for you, sir, and she is a bargain on this day of days.” He leaned closer to whisper, his breath even more foul than Rowan’s own. “I shall make you a special deal, sir, on account of your knightly status and recent arrival.”
Rowan growled a dismissal and made to push past the man, his gaze drifting disinterestedly to the woman in question.
And then he stopped to stare.
’Twas not the bright red gold of her hair that captured his attention, nor even that her tresses were cropped short. ’Twas not the deep hue of her tan, nor even how that tan made her eyes appear ethereally blue. ’Twas not the ripeness of her breasts fairly spilling from her chemise, not even that she wore a boy’s chausses, which hid none of her copious charms.
Nay, ’twas that she feigned insouciance nearly as well as he.
“She is not much of a lay, if that is what you seek,” the seller confided in an undertone. He leaned closer to whisper. “Indeed, a corpse might serve a man better.”
The woman did not even blink. Her stance remained unchanged, her arms folded across her chest, her bare feet braced against the ground. She was nearly as filthy as her owner, a rough length of rope knotted around her neck and tethering her to that man.
Rowan swallowed as he noted the mark of a chafe there. “Indeed,” he said mildly. “I would have naught with which to compare.” The man looked quizzically at him and Rowan lifted his brows. “Having never been intimate with a corpse.” His squire chuckled at the jest, but the woman’s steady stare did not waver.
The would-be seller, though, grimaced and turned away, muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath and giving the woman’s rope a savage tug. She made no protest, obviously accustomed to his abuse, and strolled behind him with her head as high as a queen’s. Rowan could not help but watch them go.
He imagined the man taking his pleasure with this woman, his sweaty bulk heaving atop her as she stared fixedly at the rafters. His stomach rolled mutinously and, though he stood on dry land, Rowan felt ill again.
“How much?” he called impulsively.
“Three silver deniers,” the man cried, spinning to jab a finger at Rowan. “Two for you!”
“Outrageous,” Thomas murmured.
’Twas a shocking price but Rowan found himself digging for the coins. “Margaux will be proud of me,” he muttered. He fired a glance at Thomas. “Be sure to tell her of this. I may well be in need of her favor.”
Thomas nodded. A mere heartbeat later, Rowan’s purse was lighter and he held the end of the distasteful rope in his hand. The seller marched away, whistling.
But the woman surveyed him with the same cold manner. If Rowan had thought she might thank him for winning her release from that creature, he was clearly mistaken.
And that irked him. He had just bought a slave, for no good reason, a slave he did not want, expending coin he would have preferred to keep or at least spend on some amusement.
She could at least appreciate the gesture!
“For a smile and a word of thanks, I would release you,” he offered pointedly, and her gaze flicked over him.
“Gratitude for paying him for his crimes?” she asked. “You will not have that from me, nor a smile.”
“A smile would cost you naught.”
“ ’Twould cost me that very freedom you promise,” she retorted dryly. Her eyes narrowed. “Or have you not noted the fine company we keep?”
’Twas true enough that the docks were swarming with unsavory characters, more than one of whom was making a thorough study of what filled her chausses.
“ ’Tis your own fault for wearing such garb,” Rowan felt compelled to observe.
The hint of a smile crossed her lips. “The embroidery on each and every one of my kirtles is being mended.”
Thomas laughed, then looked to Rowan and stifled himself. Rowan fixed the woman with a dark glance, not liking that she made the jests instead of he.
His look did not seem to trouble her in the least, which was doubly vexing.
“At some point,” he said sternly, “you donned that garb of your own choice.”
“True enough.”
“Why?”
Now she did smile, although the expression was more sad than might have been expected. “ ’Twas a whimsy of long ago and far away.”
“Why?” Rowan repeated, determined to have one answer from her.
Her smile disappeared. “I thought to disguise myself as a boy.”
“You? A boy?” Rowan laughed. He could have done naught else. “A man would have to be blind to doubt your gender!”
The woman glared at him and Rowan felt a measure of pride for stirring some response from her. “I thank you for observing my foolishness. I might have doubted it otherwise, given my current exalted status.”
Thomas snickered even as Rowan’s smile was snatched away.
“ ’Tis the mark of maidens in a convent to imagine that they can deceive the world, simply by donning boy’s chausses and cropping their hair …” Rowan’s voice faded as he stared at her in sudden comprehension. “You speak too well to have been raised in a gutter. Who are you?”
The woman’s eyes flashed so quickly that Rowan almost missed the telltale sign that he had found a truth. “I am no one,” she declared.
“You have studied in a convent,” Rowan insisted.
“I labored in one,” she corrected hastily, though Rowan guessed that was a lie. She shrugged, her composure in place once more. “Until I ran away.”
“Shunning the compassion and care of the nuns for the charms of that one.” Rowan jerked a thumb in the direction her former owner had taken.
“I did not expect …” she began hotly, then caught herself and said no more. She folded her arms across her chest again and glared at Rowan.
“You made a mistake,” he acknowledged softly. “And I think you have already paid for it. Pledge to me that you will not flee and I will remove the rope.”
“So much for your fine offer.” She turned to Thomas. “Are your knight’s words worth so little as that?”
Before Thomas could answer, Rowan clarified the matter. “I offered an exchange, but I have yet to have thanks and a smile.”
Her full lips tightened. “Do not hold your breath.”
“Then ’twill be a year and a day of labor from you,” Rowan declared as if he made such arrangements all the time, “for I must have something from my coin.”
In truth, he could not have cared less for the coin, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she intrigued him.
She visibly gritted her teeth. “I shall not labor on my back.”
“I would not expect you to.”
“Nay?” Her skepticism was more than a little grating, and Rowan had the urge to provoke a response from her.
“Nay,” he retorted. “I like my women lean and lithe.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously and Rowan darted backward, not the least bit certain that she would not strike him. Instead she loosed a string of Gaelic so potent that it needed no translation. He knew she could not have learned that in a convent.
Ha!
Rowan grinned at her. “Your pledge, ma demoiselle?”
“If you touch me, I shall flee.”
“Fair enough.”
She considered him for a telling moment, her eyes no more than blue slits. “Then I swear it to you,” she said finally, her reluctance to accept his very generous offer more than obvious.
Rowan unknotted the rope, catching his breath when he realized the chafing was more extensive than he had guessed. “This must hurt,” he murmured, deliberately being gentle.
She averted her gaze. “One can accustom oneself to anything.” She was cold and composed again, though Rowan yearned for another glimpse of that spark in her eyes.
“Have you a name?”
Her gaze flicked to his and away. “Ibernia.”
“A lie,” Rowan concluded with a smile of appreciation for her quick wits. It meant literally “from Ireland,” something he would guess to be true judging by her earlier spate of Gaelic. “But ’twill do. And if you truly are of Ireland, then you can be of aid to me without rolling to your back.”
“How?” Her suspicion could have been construed as an insult by one more sensitive than Rowan.
“I seek a bride, the most wealthy heiress in Ireland.” He grimaced comically. “Sadly, I do not know her name.”
“You seek a bride for her wealth alone?” she demanded with one fair brow arched high. “How very romantic.”
Thomas—curse him!—chuckled again.
Rowan folded his arms across his chest, his good humor dispelled. “I seek her to answer a challenge from my brothers.” Her curiosity was undisguised, so he elaborated. “I have been challenged to a bride quest, to find the most wealthy heiress in all of Ireland and make her my bride.” He paused, looking the woman dead in the eye. “ ’Tis a challenge I intend to win.”
“My lord does love a dare,” Thomas interjected.
“Oh, I should like to see you lose,” Ibernia murmured with unexpected heat, “for you are too confident by far.”
Rowan grinned that she once again revealed her thoughts. “Indeed, the near certitude of failure is what made me risk this quest.”
Ibernia blinked. “Truly?”
“Truly.” He spared her his best smile, to no discernible effect.
She straightened, a daring glint in her eyes that made Rowan’s pulse quicken. “Then you will be delighted to know that the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland is one Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”
“Why should that delight me?”
Ibernia smiled fully then. The result was so fetching that Rowan nearly lost the thread of their conversation, and he considered the challenge of winning this woman’s favor.
There would be high stakes of failure!
“Because she will not have you,” Ibernia declared with resolve. “There is no doubt of the matter.”
Rowan would not take that to heart so readily. He leaned closer and winked, well aware of his own good looks. “Because she likes her men less handsome? Less charming? Less amusing?”
Ibernia snorted with unwilling laughter, then lifted one hand to her lips to halt the sound. “Because she is already betrothed,” she said with satisfaction.
“Perfect!” Rowan cried, laughing at his companion’s startled expression. He gripped her waist and swung her into the air. “ ’Tis hopeless! We shall proceed to Ballyroyal at once.” He set Ibernia on her feet and touched one fingertip to her nose. “And you, my lovely demoiselle, shall guide us directly there.”
She shook her head, clearly marvelling at his response. “You are mad.”
“But oh-so-roguishly handsome,” Rowan retorted, taking advantage of her surprise to quickly kiss the tip of her nose.
Ibernia darted away, scrubbing at her nose with her hand, her expression wary. There was a glint in her eyes, though, that had not been there before. Rowan knew enough of women to not be fooled.
“You have granted me license to flee,” she reminded him.
Rowan’s surety wavered for only a moment before he recalled her own comment about their surroundings.
He smiled and gestured to the unsavory characters surrounding them. “Indeed, you are free to do so.” He bowed when she hesitated. “Although I should be honored to accompany you to Ballyroyal.”
She folded her arms across her chest, pushing her fine breasts to prominence. Contrary to his own claim, Rowan admired the view, less inclined to lithe and lean women as each moment passed. “How very gallant,” she commented dryly, “to see my ends served to fit your own.”
Rowan grinned, liking her quick wits very well. “And your choice?”
“I will accept your companionship,” she said so regally that a blind man might have been convinced she had alternative options. Nay, this one was not bred in a gutter, Rowan knew it well. “If only to witness your failure.”
“Do not be so certain of it as that,” Thomas counselled in an undertone. “Matters have a way of turning unexpectedly in this knight’s presence.”
“Aye,” Rowan agreed with a wicked wink. “By the end of this, even you will not be able to resist me.”
That made Ibernia laugh outright for the very first time. There was a kind of satisfaction to be had in seeing her so surprised. Indeed, Rowan guessed that this year and a day might provide a very interesting pursuit, one beyond his brothers’ quest.
He liked the sense of Chance mounting against him. Rowan would woo this Bronwyn of Ballyroyal to be his bride, and he would seduce Ibernia before they parted ways. And there, Rowan knew well enough, would lay the greater challenge of all his days.
He could hardly wait to begin.
Ibernia.
She almost smiled to herself at the apt choice. ’Twas a lie to be sure, but not a bad one, especially considering the sliver of time she had had to concoct a tale. Indeed, she had learned much of late, including the ability to use her wits with haste.
And she supposed there was no harm in this knight knowing the land of her birth. Indeed, it provided adequate explanation for her knowing the circumstance of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.
Perfect. She matched her pace to his, noting that his retinue seemed to consist only of the fine destrier, a dark chestnut beast with a lopsided star upon its brow and one white sock. Its caparisons were of the same deep blue edged with white as this Rowan’s tabard; his insignia, the spurs upon his boots, his sword, and his obvious wealth declared his knightly rank.
His squire was a young boy of ten or twelve summers, admiration in the bright gaze he oft bestowed upon his master, his hair so dark as to be almost black. The boy was neatly garbed in the knight’s own colors, and he held a dappled grey palfrey beside the destrier. She was a much smaller steed and walked quietly, while the warhorse fairly pranced with cocky pride.
Not unlike his master. Ibernia swallowed her response, not wanting this man already so fond of himself to conclude that his company alone prompted her smile.
Though she was forced to concede—if only to herself—he was a good measure more handsome than her last master. And his touch had been gentle when he removed the rope. Its very absence made her feel free again.
Though she was not entirely liberated. ’Twas no small thing to realize that she must trust this man, this one who seemed to grant value to naught but a dare. Dread slipped through her and she feared she had trusted overmuch over-soon.
He had already challenged expectation with his fleeting kiss, though it had not been unpleasant.
Ibernia’s mouth went dry. She knew naught about this knight, yet she was in his power. How oft had she heard the tale of a finely mannered man, even a handsome one, whose heart was as black as sin? Ibernia glanced quickly to the confident creature beside her and wondered at the wisdom of her wager.
God in heaven, had she impulsively made her lot worse again?
“Have you a name?” she demanded.
Her new companion winked, then executed a sweeping bow, right on the wharf, much to the amusement of all around him. Ibernia could just imagine what tales he prompted, making such a display before an obvious slave, and felt her cheeks heat.
This man would do naught without an audience, to be sure. That dread rose another notch as she wondered whether his gallantry would ease in private.
“Rowan de Montvieux, at your service,” he declared with a solemnity undermined by the mischievous glint in his eyes.
Ibernia did not know quite what to expect of him. “And you are a knight?” she guessed. “A man of honor?”
He laughed then, a rich sound that turned yet more heads. “Now, there is an association, Thomas, that cannot always be held to be true.”
“To be sure, my lord,” the squire replied with enthusiasm. “We have met many men of dishonor with spurs upon their boots.”
Such a claim did naught to feed Ibernia’s confidence.
“And which are you?”
’Twas troubling how his amber gaze locked with hers, no less how her heart skipped a beat when it did. And that impish smile, well, she had best not to ponder its effect overmuch.
No doubt this Rowan considered its merit enough for both of them.
“You care mightily for my answer,” he said silkily, and closed the distance between them with a quick step. His hand rose to her jaw and Ibernia did not dare give him a glimpse of her growing uncertainty. She held her ground, even as a tremble launched from her belly.
What would he do?
Rowan’s gaze fell to the chafe on her neck. His eyes darkened. Ibernia’s pulse leapt in terror, but his hand hovered above her skin, the heat so close to her own launching an unwelcome shiver over her.
To her astonishment, compassion gleamed in Rowan’s eyes. “I suspect you have seen much of dishonor in this world,” he murmured. His gaze locked with hers, and Ibernia did not know whether to flee or stare him down. She felt as if he could read her very thoughts; she had a fleeting conviction that he would kiss her again.
Perhaps not upon the nose this time.
Rowan’s frown was so fleeting that she nearly missed it. Then he shrugged and stepped away, as if he were indifferent to her presence. He turned his back upon her, and Ibernia had the distinct sense that he hid from her as readily as she would hide from him.
Though that made no sense at all. What had a carefree man like this to hide from anyone?
“Indeed, it matters naught in this moment,” Rowan said with a cavalier shrug. “For you have made your choice and will have to bear the price of it.”
With that, he strode in the direction of the town, clearly expecting her to follow.
Ibernia did not.
His words had not reassured her, though his manner might have done. Indeed, she was sorely tempted simply to flee. With her knowledge of the wharf, she could disappear into the crowd and Rowan would never find her again.
Though undoubtedly another unsavory character would. And ’twould mean breaking her pledge.
But thus far, Rowan had kept his word. And she had a sense that he was a man of honor, despite his hesitation to make any such claim.
Ibernia would have liked to have waited until Rowan noticed she was not fast on her heels, if only to make a point. But an unshaven sailor leered at her. Another reached for her buttocks and she delayed no longer.
“Where are you going?” she called, disliking that this unlikely candidate was her best chance for a champion.
Rowan halted and turned, looking astonished that she was not immediately behind him. His features darkened when he saw the men circling around her. He marched back to her side and seized her elbow, his grip less forceful than she had expected.
“Fool woman!” He shook her slightly and forced her to match her pace to his. “I thought we had agreed!”
Yet Ibernia, instead of feeling threatened by his annoyance, felt oddly protected. She told herself that ’twas only natural to expect a knight to protect one, especially a knight who had paid too much coin to make her his slave.
She was a possession, no more than that.
“We agreed to go to Ireland,” she clarified.
“Surely ’tis not too much for a man to partake of a meal and a measure of ale first.”
Ibernia looked to him in alarm. “In a tavern?”
“Aye, likely as not.”
“I will not enter a tavern!” Ibernia argued, for that was where her own troubles had begun.
“Whyever not?” Rowan turned to her, his expression slightly impatient. “Surely you can have no desire to linger here? When did you last have a hot meal? ’Tis not my intent to eat alone!”
Ibernia clung to her conviction, not daring to be tempted by the luxury of hot food. “We travel to Ireland.” She deliberately took a more confrontational pose. “You vowed it to me.”
To her surprise, dismay transformed Rowan’s features. Then he smiled anew, and she wondered whether she had imagined his response.
Indeed, his tone turned cajoling. “But I have only just disembarked. Would you not have a meal in your own belly first?”
Did he mean to break his pledge? Ibernia folded her arms across her chest, not prepared to leave wharf for town without a battle.
Even if her empty belly was readily persuaded to join Rowan’s side. “I think only of your quest,” she declared archly.
Rowan looked skeptical. “Aye?”
“Aye. You would not want to reach Ballyroyal after Bronwyn had taken her marital vows.” Ibernia shrugged, knowing from the brightness of his gaze that she had his attention. “Of course, ’tis your quest, and no doubt you know best how to pursue it.”
The squire snickered until the knight cast him a dark glance.
“After her nuptials?” Rowan shoved a hand through his russet hair, the dishevelled result making him look appealingly boyish. His brows drew together in frustration. “When was she to wed?”
“Just past midsummer was the last I heard. And now ’tis—”
“Just past midsummer!” the squire crowed.
Rowan swore.
Once again Ibernia feigned indifference, knowing the knight’s attention was fully snared. “Though indeed, ’tis long since I was in Ireland. The nuptials could have been delayed.”
“Or hastened,” the squire commented, most conveniently, to Ibernia’s thinking.
Rowan’s expression turned grim in a way that she guessed was not characteristic. “To what port must we sail?”
“Dublin, of course.”
His gaze slid over the numerous ships at anchor as if seeking an escape from keeping his word. “Indeed, there may not be a vessel destined there.” He nodded crisply. “We shall seek news at the tavern while we eat.”
“On the contrary, that ship with the Venetian colors is destined precisely there.” Ibernia pointed to the flag fluttering in the breeze with its familiar symbol of the winged lion of St. Mark.
Rowan’s gaze turned questioning and Ibernia realized she had erred. She hastened on before he could even ask how she knew enough to recognize that banner. “I heard the men talking as my former master and I passed.”
Which was partly true. She had heard them talking of their destination—but had recognized their insignia from her father’s lessons.
Though she had understood their Venetian dialect from her father’s lessons as well, that was less than pertinent. If Dame Fortune rode with her, Rowan would never catch her second slip.
Ibernia lifted her chin to face Rowan, wanting beyond all else to be on that ship, purely because it was destined to leave the soonest.
Rowan glanced to the ship and paled ever so slightly. “Surely we can find passage on the morrow,” he suggested.
Ibernia feared that time would change his thinking or that ale would muddy his intent.
“Perhaps we could.” She smiled ever so slightly. “Or perhaps you do not truly wish to win your dare, after all.”
She stepped forward, allowing a slight swagger in her walk, then glanced over her shoulder. “Or perhaps,” she added softly, “you are afraid to measure your charm against the Venetians. One does hear that they are most handsome and gallant men, accomplished and discerning. A woman could readily lose her heart to such a man.”
“Or something somewhat lower,” the squire amended, his lack of innocence making Ibernia glance his way in surprise.
But Rowan cast his hands toward the sky, indifferent to the boy’s comment. “I fear comparison with no man! How could you even suggest such foolery?”
“Then prove it,” Ibernia whispered. Rowan glared at her and she felt suddenly very bold. “I dare you.”
The air crackled between them and Ibernia’s heart skipped a beat. The knight’s eyes flashed. He strode forward so suddenly that his destrier started, and grasped Ibernia’s elbow with purpose.
Ibernia slanted a sidelong glance his way and noted the determined set of his lips. She had a very definite sense that she was going to win her way in this. But that was not the sole root of the very odd thrill running through her as Rowan marched her down the wharf.
“Oh, I shall accept your dare and shame you for even making such a suggestion, of that you can be sure,” the knight muttered through gritted teeth. “My charm so far exceeds that of mere merchants that even you shall swoon in my arms when you see the truth.”
Ibernia chuckled despite herself. “Oh, I think not.”
Rowan turned a sparkling glance upon her, his annoyance gone as swiftly as the wind. “Would you care to make a wager upon it, ma demoiselle!”
Oh, he was an alluring man, of that Ibernia had no doubt. Her breath caught in her throat. A strange warmth unfurled in her belly, and Ibernia wondered if she were becoming ill. Truly she had never felt so strange in all her days.
“What manner of wager?” Aye, even her voice was oddly breathless.
Rowan’s eyes gleamed. His smile made her heart pound, the way his thumb slid across her arm prompting her to shiver. “That I can persuade you to share your charms with me.”
“Willingly?” Ibernia’s doubt made the squire chuckle again.
But Rowan arched a brow. “Of course.” His gaze danced over her features, and ’twas as if he touched her. Ibernia’s face burned and she leapt away from him.
“I will never willingly cede to a man’s touch!” She granted him a scornful glance, though she wondered whom she sought to convince. “Especially a rogue like you.”
Rowan watched her, his gaze too perceptive for Ibernia’s taste. She wrapped her arms around herself, and glared at him. Both shivers and heat ran beneath her flesh. Clearly, she was falling prey to some foul illness.
Yet, if she fell ill, would Rowan take advantage of her then? She had witnessed how men thought of little beyond themselves and their pleasure. Oh, how she longed to be home and safe again!
When Rowan spoke, his voice was soft. “Then you have naught to lose by taking my challenge.”
Ibernia studied him for a long moment. She was oblivious to the bustle of the wharf, aware only of the glow in Rowan’s amber eyes and the hammer of her heart. “You will not force me?”
“Never.” His slow smile heated her blood in a most uncommon way, or maybe ’twas the heat in his pledge. “I prefer to have women leap willingly into my bed.”
Ibernia shook her head and stepped away. “I will not be the next. Not I.”
“On the contrary, I suspect you will.” Rowan offered his hand, in the manner of knights making a pledge, his manner so cursedly confident that Ibernia was tempted to prove his expectation wrong. “Let there be a new wager between us. I pledge to win your willing surrender—with no tool but my own charm.”
Still Ibernia did not take his hand. “You will not force your affections upon me?”
Rowan snorted. “That course is for the vulgar alone.” He arched a brow. “Perhaps a merchant might take such a course, but I would not stoop to such a deed.”
“And what stakes do you set?”
He grinned. “Resist me until Ballyroyal and you shall have your freedom then and there.”
Ibernia blinked. The man did indeed set a hefty measure upon his allure! “Instead of in a year and a day?”
“Aye.” There was a twinkle in the knight’s eye, one that reminded her of his desire to win at challenges.
But Ibernia knew she could withstand any such temptation. Sharing a bed with a man was no pleasure—and could be no different, even with one so handsomely wrought as Rowan.
She could fend off his advances for a few weeks, especially if the prize was her freedom—and to be home once again.
Home. She could be home before summer’s end. And free.
’Twas an offer that could not be denied.
Ibernia took his hand without further hesitation. “Consider the wager to be made.”
“That I do.” Rowan’s hand closed over hers with a warmth and surety that Ibernia found curiously reassuring. His eyes flashed and she had a warning only the span of a heartbeat before he quickly brushed his lips across her brow.
Ibernia danced backward, outraged that he would make such a gesture. “You!” The fleeting kiss seemed to burn against her flesh, and she scrubbed at it, well aware that the knight chuckled at her expense.
Oh, he was too confident by half! She would savor each refusal of his attempt to woo her!
“I but seal our bargain,” Rowan teased with a confident wink, then turned toward the ship.
Without dragging her along, or binding her to his side, or otherwise compelling her to join him. But Ibernia followed, disliking that Rowan found her so predictable as that. She could have fled—aye, in a heartbeat!—but he was her best opportunity to achieve what she wanted. That alone was why she followed him.
And Rowan de Montvieux—curse him!—knew that all too well.