owan was not in a good mood.owan was not in a good mood.
Already this day he had bought a slave he did not want; he had committed to keeping that slave he did not want; he had boarded a ship in much quicker succession than he might have preferred. Further, the ship was not one he would have chosen of his own volition, regardless of its destination.
For Rowan did not like this ship’s captain, this Baldassare di Vilonte. There was something untrustworthy about the man, something that made Rowan less than pleased to have his own future in this particular man’s care.
’Twas certainly not because Ibernia smiled for Baldassare when she refused to smile for him. That would have made no sense at all. Nay, Rowan de Montvieux cared naught for Ibernia, naught for any woman in particular beyond a desire to make them laugh.
Only Ibernia’s refusal to laugh at his jests rankled, and that because it was contrary to the response of all women Rowan had ever known. Aye, and her apparent preference for a Venetian sea captain over his own copious charms.
’Twas unnatural.
And so, he led Troubador into the hold in markedly poor temper, what greeted them there doing naught to improve his mood. Rowan caught his breath, his ears pricking at the sound of very human whispers. The hold where the horses were to be tethered was veiled in shadows, and surrounded by three heavy wooden walls lashed with stores.
Above was a hatch to the deck, a rope ladder hanging down. Behind Rowan was the entry to the hold, the side of the ship that would soon be lifted back into place. ’Twould be nailed in place, then sealed with wax, Rowan knew it well. The horses would be effectively trapped there for the duration of the journey.
As were those he could hear breathing behind the solid walls.
He and Thomas exchanged a quick, horrified glance, Rowan painfully aware of the shipman supervising their efforts. He gave the pale squire a sharp look and continued as if naught was amiss. Even Troubador looked indignant, the smell of fear doing naught to counter the beast’s inherent dislike of ships.
As Rowan shared that dislike, he was disinclined to be overly harsh with his mount. If he had been compelled to endure the voyage belowdecks, he would have been even more ill than was his custom.
Which said much, indeed.
But Rowan had made an arrangement. He had paid a healthy deposit for their passage, and had no doubt that it would remain in Baldassare’s possession, even if Rowan and his party chose now to not journey on the Angelica.
Aye, Rowan’s coin would go into the treasury of this rogue Baldassare, a man who made his fortune in spice and slaves. That revelation could do little to restore a man’s humor.
’Twas Ibernia’s fault that Rowan had impulsively arranged to journey on this particular vessel without learning anything about it, Ibernia’s fault that he had been compelled to make a poor choice.
Truly, she tested his patience overmuch!
Troubador rolled his eyes and fought the bit, refusing to step further into the shadows. Rowan stroked the beast’s flank and tried to calm him, but to no avail. It helped naught that the ship began to rock and Rowan’s own belly began to churn.
“My lord,” Thomas whispered as they tethered the steeds. “Must we journey this way? The ship has not yet left the port.”
“ ’Tis not my way to be faithless in a bargain made, Thomas,” Rowan said grimly. “Even when ’tis made with a rogue.”
“Aye,” Thomas agreed faintly, his usual cheerfulness absent.
Rowan murmured to Troubador, who was having none of his reassurance. The steed stamped impatiently and tossed his head. The palfrey took his mood and became flighty, as she was wont to do. She danced sideways and refused to step up beside the destrier, let alone into the spot they had been assigned midship.
“We have not all the day and night to see this settled!” Their companion swore in Venetian, then raised a hand to strike the palfrey’s flank.
Rowan moved quickly to intervene.
“No one touches my steeds!” he cried. “I have paid a king’s ransom for passage—you will take naught more from the hide of any beneath my care!”
The man lowered his hand and smiled slowly. “A man of measure would endure no such foolery from any beast.”
But Rowan would not be tempted to respond in kind. “A man of merit has no need to use force to win his way,” he retorted.
The shipman snorted, unconvinced.
But Rowan would show him the truth of it. He retrieved two lengths of linen from his saddlebag and blindfolded first the palfrey, then the destrier. The two steeds settled once they could not see the terrors surrounding them. Their noses twitched and their ears flicked, but the blindfold combined with Rowan’s gentle murmuring calmed them. They shivered and leaned against Rowan and Thomas, who stroked and spoke to them.
Within a few moments, Rowan coaxed them into the assigned space. And not a heartbeat too soon. The ship heaved, there were cries from above and a last scampering on the decks. The gangplank behind was lifted, that hatch sealed as hammering echoed through the ship.
Trunks were hastily passed through the opening above and stacked behind the steeds, Troubador bristling at the noise of the men passing back and forth close beside him. Rowan scratched his ears and spoke softly, keeping a stern eye on how close the goods were packed to the horses.
Even such a measure of his coin, it seemed, had won them very limited space. Finally the men darted back above and more calls echoed.
“If you have pampered your beasts enough, we would depart,” the shipman said wryly.
Rowan cast him a dark look. “I would remain for a few moments, to ensure the destrier settles.” A shiver ran over Troubador’s dark flesh even as Rowan stroked him. He could not abandon the beast when he was so afraid.
“We shall seal the hatch.”
“You shall do no such thing,” Rowan snapped. “My arrangement expressly allows access to the steeds throughout the journey.”
“They must be fed!” Thomas interjected.
“Then their leavings must be shovelled, and that by you,” the shipman snorted.
“I am well used to the duties associated with tending horses,” Rowan retorted.
The men glared at each other for a long moment, then the silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders was visible against the patch of cloudy sky. He demanded something in rapid Venetian; the shipman replied. Rowan had one last glimpse of the man leaning against his goods, his expression sardonic, then the hatch dropped closed and the hold was plunged into darkness.
“You must understand that with such a valuable cargo, I cannot leave you here alone,” the shipman said, his voice soft in the shadows. “You have only to tell me when you are prepared to leave and arrangements will be made.”
And Rowan understood that his own cry would not bring a ladder and the opening of the hatch. He felt the shadows press against him, he smelled suddenly the press of humans trapped around him.
The silk of Troubador’s hide beneath his hand was suddenly smoother, the scent of horse stronger. The destrier shivered once again, the ripple that ran over his flesh passing over Rowan’s own. Denied of sight, he was more aware of his other senses.
Thomas took a step closer. The boy was uncharacteristically silent, and now Rowan wondered at the wisdom of his choice.
Perhaps he should not have been so stubborn, or so anxious to win Ibernia’s dare to win them passage on this ship. Perhaps he should have abandoned the coin to Baldassare—he could have afforded as much.
But ’twas too late for second thoughts.
Rowan’s belly churned restlessly as the sounds of casting off echoed through the ship. The vessel lurched, the oars ground, the wood creaked, and the water splashed against the hull. The ship rocked, finding its own rhythm as it lurched out of London’s docks and out to sea.
And when the first wave of the sea crashed against the prow, rocking the ship from stem to stern, Rowan could not withhold his response any longer.
He fell to his knees and vomited in the bucket left for the steeds, recalling its location all too well. It helped naught that the shipman laughed.
’Twas Ibernia’s fault that he was at sea again in such quick succession, Rowan thought furiously, Ibernia’s fault that he was trapped upon this specific ship. Aye, she had challenged him, she had chosen this vessel.
And she owed Rowan compensation for what she had wrought.
If Ibernia had any doubt as to what sound she heard, it was quickly dismissed. The moaning grew louder as they moved out to sea, clearly distinguishable from the creaking of the ship.
The hold of this vessel was filled with slaves. ’Twas a little too close to her own experience for comfort. Ibernia’s breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes, her ears filling with the sound. She could nigh feel that cursed rope around her neck again, and she itched to bring freedom to those below.
She knew she could not do it, just as she knew she should not be so foolish as to try. But that moaning tore at her heart.
She wondered how many of them there were.
She wondered where they had come from.
She wondered how many of them were ill or wounded, or heartbroken; how many separated from their families; and how many terrified.
When someone began to cry loudly, their wail winding through the ship, Ibernia could stand it no longer. Rowan’s advice was forgotten, her hand was on the latch. She opened the door only to find the captain himself standing before it, his hand raised to knock.
He smiled at the sight of her. “Ah! I knew you would come to seek me out,” he purred. His eyes gleamed as he stepped forward, his smile flashed in the darkness. “You are perhaps not so devoted a wife as your husband might suppose. And truly, there is naught awry with a lady seeing to her own pleasure.” He arched a brow, obviously certain where Ibernia would find that pleasure.
She straightened and forced a thin smile, well aware that alienating her host would not be clever. “Indeed, I sought only a last sight of London.”
Baldassare shrugged eloquently. “Ah, but ’tis inappropriate that you should walk the deck in such humble garb, despite your spouse’s lack of generosity.” His smile turned predatory and Ibernia took an unwilling step backward into the cabin. “I have a gift for you, ma bella.”
Only then did Ibernia look past the captain, and when she did, her heart nigh stopped. Baldassare’s smile did not falter, though the small woman behind him looked terrified. She was tiny, her dark hair matted, her dark eyes too wide for her face. She was trembling in her tattered garb and her feet were bare.
But ’twas the iron shackled around her neck, no less the length of chain held easily by Baldassare that made Ibernia’s mouth go dry. She deliberately stood straight, hoping to hide her response, though her nails dug into the wood frame of the portal.
The captain nodded, apparently acknowledging that Ibernia could only be delighted by his generosity, then ducked past her into the tiny chamber. He locked the other end of the chain to a loop on the wall nonchalantly, tossed the key once in the air, then shoved it into his purse.
Ibernia had already wondered about that loop on the wall. Now she knew its purpose. The very thought made her feel ill with her own unwelcome memories. The woman watched the path of the key avidly, and Ibernia could understand her fear and suspicion.
Aye, they had much in common, they two.
“I had thought ’twould be fitting for you to have finer garb to wear,” Baldassare said, his tone fitting for more social circumstance than this. “And thus I bring to you a length of wool more suitable to accent your beauty.”
He snapped his fingers and a young boy bowed as he stepped into the room in turn. ’Twas becoming quite crowded in these small quarters! He presented a bolt of fine wool, woven in the tonal stripe typical of the weavers of Flanders, and dyed in wondrous hues of blue. Ibernia assessed its value despite herself and was impressed by the gift.
She knew this man would expect something in return for what he granted. At the same time, she doubted she could reject the gift without causing offense. Once again Ibernia was caught between two poor choices.
Baldassare gestured grandly to the wool. “ ’Tis enough for a woman’s kirtle, and my gift to you.”
“I could not be so bold,” Ibernia protested.
“I insist. ’Tis a fitting token of my admiration and one that I will not accept being refused.”
“But I have no skill with a needle,” she lied.
Baldassare gestured to the slavewoman without glancing in her direction. “This one is said to have talent. You may use her services.”
“But …”
“But surely you would not wish to risk insulting my generosity?” He smiled warmly, a man looking to be indulged.
Ibernia knew she would not win at this, but still she would try. This was the manner of man who would force his choice upon one, if not given some challenge. She would at least make her unwillingness clear.
“You are indeed most generous,” she acknowledged tightly. “But I fear the gift is too rich to be suitable.” She touched the cloth, uncertain she should voice a question about the terrified woman crouched behind the captain.
“ ’Tis a fine weave.”
“Aye, only the best will do.”
Ibernia flicked a glance through her lashes. “My husband might be insulted, should I accept.”
Baldassare’s jaw tightened. “Then his argument would be with me,” he said with sudden ferocity, then bowed with such graciousness that Ibernia thought she had imagined his fearsome expression. “If I might be so bold as to touch your fingertips?”
’Twas a concession, but a small one. Ibernia quickly debated her options and decided to grant this small favor. Baldassare, after all, could force them from his ship, and she wanted more than anything else to be home.
Surely she could keep his attentions at bay for the duration of this short journey?
Ibernia offered her hand, embarrassed at the state of her nails when Baldassare lingeringly kissed each fingertip in turn. He straightened and smiled genially. “Do not be so foolish as to grant her a knife,” he said with a quick gesture to the woman behind him. She flinched tellingly at his gesture, a move Baldassare did not notice. “These people have no scruples whatsoever.”
With that, he took his leave, the boy scurrying behind him. Ibernia pivoted to eye her new charge, leaning back against the wall as she did so.
The woman was breathing heavily, her expression wary, She did indeed resemble a cornered creature in the wild. The ship rocked as the two women stared at each other, the bolt of cloth lying on the pallet to one side.
Ibernia wondered whether she had looked as frightened as this when Rowan found her on the dock.
“What is your name?” she asked gently.
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she said naught at all, her gaze darting over the cabin as if she sought escape.
Ibernia could not begin to imagine what she had endured.
Indeed, she did not want to.
Ibernia took a deep breath, striving to show herself harmless as she took a step closer and squatted to look the woman in the eye. She left her hands open on her knees. The woman watched her, easing back into the corner, her expression uncertain.
“Do you speak?” Ibernia kept her voice soft, all too familiar with the terror this woman was obviously experiencing. “Are you alone here? Where did you come from?”
When her questions merited no response, she tried Gaelic, though indeed the woman did not look like a Celt. She tried the dialect of the Venetians and noted only that the woman’s expression grew more mutinous.
If she spoke or understood that tongue, she would not allow it to pass her lips. Ibernia eyed the heavy shackle and could not blame her for that.
But that shackle gave her an idea of how to proceed.
Though the sealed hold composed the better part of the galleon, the captain’s chamber and those of his officers were built upon the back third of the deck, where a small kitchen was secreted. Here was where Ibernia should be awaiting Rowan behind a locked door.
Even Rowan was not fool enough to believe that.
He made his way back there, well aware of Baldassare’s mocking gaze following his progress across the deck. Rowan had no doubt the tale of his illness had already reached the captain’s ears. Thomas, well accustomed to his duties, emptied the pail over the side and followed Rowan without abandoning that pail.
Aye, ’twould be needed again, of that Rowan was certain. His ears burned at Baldassare’s mocking smile, and he did not deign to acknowledge that man.
At least Rowan made it across the deck without having to flee for the rails. ’Twas a small victory, though likely one that had more to do with the hollow emptiness of his belly.
Rowan blinked at the darkness as he stepped into the tiny corridor, the smell of salt fish on the boil nigh enough to make his belly heave with all haste. With an effort, he swallowed his bile and made for the door near the end on the right.
Open. Of course.
Rowan gritted his teeth and stepped forward, intent on telling Ibernia of her foolishness, but the murmur of her voice brought him to a sudden halt. He frowned, surprised at her gentle tone, and gestured to Thomas to hang back. Rowan sidled closer, touching the door with one fingertip to ease it open wider.
Neither of the women within noticed. Aye, there were two women, one small and dark, shackled to the wall and as terrified as a cornered hare; the other, Ibernia, striving to reassure the first. A bolt of wool lay between them, and Rowan knew who had been so bold as to bring it.
First Ibernia, he resolved, then Baldassare.
As Rowan watched, Ibernia lifted her chemise away from her neck, speaking softly to the other woman. Though Ibernia’s back was to him, Rowan knew she showed the slavewoman the rope burns upon her own neck.
He was astonished that Ibernia of all women would admit to any manner of weakness, the very unexpectedness of this making him halt. He lingered in the protective cloak of the shadows, watching.
Her companion was evidently also astonished. The woman’s eyes widened, her hand rose to the iron fastened around her neck. Ibernia nodded, her words falling low and fast, the cadence foreign and lyrical. Though the sound was pleasing, Rowan could not understand her speech, and neither apparently could the slave.
But on the matter of bondage, the women clearly understood each other.
Ibernia pulled up the hem of her sleeve, revealing a sorry welt on her left wrist, a sight that made Rowan’s gorge rise.
Clearly Ibernia sought to reassure the terrified slave, sought to show the commonality between them to calm the woman’s fears. ’Twas an act of compassion and one that left Rowan even more intrigued about his newly acquired captive.
The slave caught her breath and stared at Ibernia. Slowly her tiny fingers found what might have been called the hem of her tattered kirtle and she lifted it slightly, displaying an angry gash upon her leg. The wound had scabbed but would undoubtedly leave a scar.
Ibernia clicked her tongue and shook her head.
She squared her shoulders then, and Rowan knew she would reveal something even more painful than what she had thus far. How he wished he could see her features! Ibernia’s hand landed on her belly and moved downward before it suddenly halted. She made some gesture with her fingers and averted her face from the slavewoman, as if her confession mortified her so that she could not look another in the eye.
Rowan’s mouth went dry in sudden certainty of what had happened to her. No wonder she insisted she would never willingly turn to a man!
The slavewoman’s face burned crimson. Her mouth worked silently as she touched the apex of her thighs through the worn kirtle. Her tears rose, a silent testimony to the pain she had endured.
Rowan felt ill, though ’twas not due to the movement of the ship this time. The woman spoke quickly, one sentence falling from her tongue in a rush. They were hot words, foreign yet filled with such anguish that any fool could have understood her pain. She curved her arms, as if cradling an invisible child, then flung out her hands with a cry.
She had been raped and she had lost a child; it did not matter whether that had been two separate incidents or one of cause and effect. Rowan shook his head in horror and dared not interrupt.
The woman inhaled sharply and bit her lip, clearly fearing she had said too much. Her wide eyes fixed on Ibernia, who murmured something low, reassuring by its very tone. A lone tear broke from the slavewoman’s lashes and fell with a splash upon her interlocked hands.
Ibernia opened her arms. The slavewoman fell into her embrace and wept, while Ibernia cooed softly to her. She closed her eyes and held the smaller woman close, letting her pain spend itself in tears.
Rowan noted that Ibernia’s cheeks were dry, and he marvelled at her strength. Maybe she had wept all of her tears already, though Rowan doubted it. Nay, ’twould be like Ibernia to never permit herself the weakness of tears. He leaned back against the wall and thought about this, content to grant the women whatever time they needed.
Moments later, the slavewoman pulled out of Ibernia’s embrace. She rubbed her tears from her cheeks and took a few shaky breaths. Rowan held his breath, fascinated by this glimpse of Ibernia’s compassion and not wanting to break the spell she had woven.
She touched her breast. “Ibernia,” she said softly.
Then she reached across to the other woman. The woman inhaled sharply but she did not pull back, even when Ibernia’s fingertips hovered a mere thumb’s breath away from her own chest.
The woman’s lips parted, but no sound came forth. ’Twas as if she had not uttered her own name in so long that she had forgotten it.
But Ibernia waited, infinitely patient, impossibly still. The woman licked her lips, she took a breath and swallowed, she tried again.
“Marika,” she said hoarsely.
“Marika,” Ibernia repeated, the name fluid on her tongue. She sat back on her heels and gestured to each of them in turn, speaking as one would speak to a child. “Marika and Ibernia.”
A flush rose in Marika’s cheeks and she lifted one hand hesitantly toward her companion. “Ibernia,” she said softly.
Hesitantly she repeated the cradling gesture, those tears rising again. “Vassily,” she whispered, her voice husky, and Rowan knew she named her lost child.
“Vassily,” Ibernia repeated, and crossed herself. “God bless his tiny soul.”
Marika crossed herself in turn, Ibernia’s blessing of her child apparently understood and appreciated.
And when Marika tentatively smiled, Rowan knew that Ibernia had smiled first. Indeed, he wished he could have glimpsed that smile himself, but the lady still had her back to him.
All the same, he was touched by Ibernia’s desire to forge a bond, however fleeting, between herself and this slave. He felt that he had glimpsed something that was not his to witness. But when he might have left the two to their new acquaintanceship, his stomach rolled ominously.
Marika glanced up, paling at the sight of him. She must have assumed him responsible for Ibernia’s wounds, for she clutched Ibernia’s hand, as if she would draw her close.
Ibernia herself started at the sight of Rowan but quickly lifted her chin with defiance. She eased to her feet, her leisure implying that she had meant to do so all along, and placed herself deliberately between Rowan and Marika.
Her implication that he could not be trusted was not welcome.
Rowan felt his lips thin. “You must have charmed our host, for him to share one of his slaves with you.”
Ibernia’s eyes narrowed. “There are more?” she asked, no question in her tone.
“Perhaps a hundred.” Rowan folded his arms across his chest and leaned in the doorway. “They are sealed below, out of sight and thus impossible to count.”
“Marika would know.”
The woman started at the sound of her name, her anxious gaze flying between the two of them.
Rowan had a sudden feeling of dread. Surely Ibernia would not challenge the captain over his cargo?
He disliked that he could not be certain of that.
“It matters little, for there is naught we can do.” Ibernia’s eyes flashed at this claim, but Rowan held up one hand for silence. “You chose this vessel,” he reminded her sternly, “and I have already parted with a goodly measure of coin to see us upon it. Do not imagine that I have the wherewithal to buy the freedom of an entire ship of slaves, especially from a Venetian well aware of their worth. And do not imagine that your friend Baldassare will sacrifice their value in any way.”
“You could set them free,” Ibernia suggested, her words confirming Rowan’s worst suspicions. “You could begin a rout …”
“And have the Venetians put a price on my head? I think not!” Rowan flung out a hand angrily. “Do you know naught of the world? You must understand that the Venetians are everywhere, in every port, in every town. I would not survive a year!”
Ibernia squared her shoulders, her eyes taking a glint Rowan did not find encouraging. “But indeed, you said yourself that you loved a challenge. Perhaps I should dare—”
“Do not even say it!” Rowan roared, at the limit of his patience as he had never been in all his days. “ ’Twould be senseless foolery!”
Marika shrank against the wall as Rowan stepped into the room and glowered at Ibernia, marvelling that she could turn his mood so foul so very quickly. “I will not take such a dare, even if you are so foolish as to utter it.”
Ibernia, supremely unconcerned, shrugged. “Ah, then I see you are not the man you pledged to be, after all.”
She had done it again.
Rowan swore thoroughly, though it did naught to aid matters.
Had he ever met a more irksome woman? Rowan was quite certain he had not. He shoved a hand through his hair, paced to the portal, and swore again.
Rowan spun to face Ibernia and found her beginning to smile. “You are an astonishingly vexing woman,” he muttered, and she grinned outright.
“I thank you, sir,” she said with a mocking little bow.
Her eyes sparkled with beguiling mischief and yet again, Rowan was enchanted by her spirit. She defied even his own expectations, and he found himself sorely tempted to take her dare, to prove her wrong, to conquer the odds set against Marika and however many of her companions were locked in the hold.
’Twas folly of the worst kind. But Ibernia’s eyes, eyes that glowed from within like fiery sapphires, tempted Rowan to do just that.
He braced one hand in the door frame and watched the lady, even as he tried to figure a way to best her in this. “And what if I did meet your challenge?” he demanded softly. “What would you grant me in exchange?”
Ibernia’s smile faded. “The satisfaction of a match won.”
Rowan shook his head, reassured that the balance had shifted once again. Now she was wary and he called the tune.
This was infinitely preferable to the opposite circumstance.
“Nay,” he said calmly. “ ’Twill not do, not for such high stakes.”
“I have no fortune to grant you.”
“Save your favor.” Rowan grinned wickedly. “A more earthy satisfaction would be in order.”
Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and her eyes narrowed. He knew she had already guessed the direction of his thoughts. “What do you want?”
“A kiss is all, one kiss from your sweet lips.” Rowan blew the lady a kiss, to no visible effect.
“But, husband, you have the right to claim a kiss at any moment you so please.” Ibernia’s tone was as hard as a whore’s heart, but Rowan was not fooled. She was afraid he would make precisely that claim, and as tempted as he was, he would prove that expectation of hers wrong.
He would prove her understanding of men and their desires wrong if ’twas the last thing he did.
Rowan let his smile broaden and leaned closer. Ibernia held her ground, as he had guessed she would, though he heard her quick intake of breath when he brought his lips close to her ear.
“Aye, wife, that I could,” he whispered, and felt her shiver. “But the meal is so much sweeter when ’tis served willingly.”
“I have told you that I will never surrender willingly!”
“Nay?” Rowan met her bright gaze. “I dare you to accept my challenge.”
“What challenge?” Her voice was breathless, her eyes wide.
“For each slave I set free, you will shower me with kisses.”
Ibernia’s eyes narrowed to a sliver of blue, but not so quickly that Rowan did not note the way her gaze dropped to his lips. Indeed, a tinge of pink claimed her cheeks.
“One kiss,” she argued breathlessly.
“Nay, ’twill not do.” Rowan leaned closer, savoring how she caught her breath. Aye, she was aware of him. If he led her easily, she would follow him down the path of seduction.
The very prospect heated his blood, but Rowan strove to appear unaffected by her rejection. “Only hundreds of sweet kisses will compensate.”
“Never!”
Rowan shrugged and sauntered toward the door once more. “Ah, well. Perhaps Marika is accustomed to her shackles.”
“You!” Ibernia cried. Rowan glanced back to find her eyes flashing dangerously. “You would use one challenge to win the other.”
“I?” Rowan feigned affront. “You would accuse me of such dishonorable intent?” He appealed to his amused squire. “Truly, Thomas, have you ever heard the like?”
“Oh!” Ibernia stormed after Rowan, shaking her finger beneath his nose. Her cheeks were flushed in a most intriguing way. “You will not best me in this! You will not trick me into falling prey to your charms!”
Rowan smiled. “Is that not odd? I was certain you believed I had no charms at all.”
Their gazes locked and held for a charged moment, then Ibernia looked away.
Rowan felt curiously compelled to reassure her. “Kisses are not the same as surrender, Ibernia,” he said quietly.
The lady’s gaze lingered on Marika, all the anger fading from her expression as that compassion stole to the fore. The softening of her features made her look younger, and unexpectedly vulnerable. She lifted her chin suddenly, a warrior princess yet again, and Rowan’s admiration surged.
“Marika first?” she demanded.
Rowan was humbled that she would face her own fears to see to the good of another. Such a markedly selfless gesture gave him yet another glimpse of this lady’s character. “Of course.”
Ibernia squared her shoulders. “I suppose a woman can endure anything once,” she conceded, with enough reluctance to prick Rowan’s pride. “I accept your wager.” Ibernia glanced up at him so quickly that Rowan had no time to hide his displeasure with her response.
“Because you think I will do it only once,” he retorted.
A smile lifted the corner of Ibernia’s full lips, the twinkle that lit her eyes nigh compensation enough for her insult. “Aye. Clearly. Indeed, I suspect that you may lose interest in the chase before ’tis won.” She arched a brow. “I might not have to pay my wager, after all.”
Her pert manner was enough to challenge Rowan’s control right then and there. The half-light favored the perfection of her creamy complexion and hid the scars of the rope. When she held his gaze like this, her own sporting a winsome twinkle, her lips full and half curved into a smile, Rowan could not imagine losing interest in this clever beauty.
’Twas time she knew the truth of it.
“Indeed?” Rowan eased closer, putting the narrowness of the space to work in his favor. Ibernia moved back a mere increment and he knew the instant her back encountered the wooden wall, for she blinked quickly. Rowan braced one hand on the wall over her shoulder, sheltering her beneath his body. He drew close enough that he could feel the heat of her flesh so close to his own, yet he did not touch her.
Save with a fingertip.
He held her gaze as his fingertip grazed her temple, slowly circled her ear, then traced a circle against the soft flesh beneath her ear. He felt her pulse leap beneath his touch as his finger eased across her throat, tracing the line of her jaw. He tipped her chin up further with that fingertip and held her gaze.
She did not seem to even breathe. He watched a flush rise over her throat and stain her cheeks.
“Indeed, ma demoiselle,” he whispered. “You underestimate your own allure.” Rowan bent and pressed a gentle kiss beneath her ear, his fingertip still upon her chin. The flesh was so soft there, so sweetly scented and warm that he was sorely tempted to do more than leave that kiss there alone.
Well aware of her fears, though, and newly aware of the reason for them, Rowan left Ibernia ample room to escape. That she did not duck beneath his arm and flee might have been called a victory of sorts.
Or it might have been a sign that the lady was even more stubborn than he. Rowan did not know and he did not care. She stayed. On some level, she began to trust him.
’Twould do, for the moment.
“Perhaps even as much as you overestimate my savagery,” he breathed into her ear. Rowan felt Ibernia shiver, indulged himself with another tiny taste of her sweet flesh, then stepped away.
She did not so much as move—let alone speak!—until he had left the cabin. Rowan heard the latch dropped and allowed himself a tuneless whistle.
Aye, she would succumb to him before this journey was done, he was certain of it.