bernia could not catch her breath.bernia could not catch her breath.
Indeed, her flesh burned where Rowan had deposited that pair of kisses. She tingled from head to toe, she wanted to shiver.
Illness, it could be naught else. Her mother had always said that a port was an unhealthy place, and she, to be sure, had frequented the most unsavory corners of this port. Though ’twas through no choice of her own, Ibernia feared she was about to bear the price of her own folly.
Again.
Ibernia was well aware of Marika’s curious glance upon her. She took a trio of quick breaths and forced a smile. No doubt Marika had done naught so foolish as Ibernia had done to earn her sorry fate. Ibernia had heard many tales of how slaves came to be bought and sold—most were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or showed the poor judgement to be on the losing side of a war.
’Twould be no small thing to see Marika released. Ibernia willed her resolve to grow. Aye, if Rowan would see to Marika’s freedom, if he managed this noble deed, then she would keep her word. She could do anything once and survive to tell the tale, as experiences of this sixmonth had already shown.
She had naught to lose in this wager, but a few kisses.
For indeed, she had less doubt with each moment that Rowan would keep his pledge. The man had a resolve about him, obviously one he preferred others not to note. But the fact remained that a dare taken against the odds could only be won with rare persistence.
Ibernia did not have a trouble believing that Rowan won most of his wagers. The man could be cursedly single-minded!
Hundreds of sweet kisses. Only this knight would have the audacity to ask so boldly for something so difficult to grant. Ibernia trembled within at the very prospect.
But she took a deep shaking breath and gestured to the cloth. Marika seemed to understand, her hands flying as she tried to indicate her needs to make the dress.
There proved to be a small bundle rolled within the cloth, a sack replete with needles and thread, a length of twine, a tiny sharp knife for cutting the cloth. Marika exclaimed with delight at the needles and—deliberately contrary to Baldassare’s advice—Ibernia entrusted her with the knife.
Marika clutched it for a moment, clearly overwhelmed to be granted possession of what could be used as a weapon. They two shared a smile, then she began to chatter. Clearly she told Ibernia what had to be done, though she spoke in some incomprehensive tongue. Ibernia knew the order of the tasks, having made many kirtles herself, but she feigned ignorance.
’Twould be good for Marika to feel a confidence in her own abilities once more. Already she looked more vivacious and carefree. Ibernia’s heart hardened against Baldassare a little more as the smaller woman talked with increasing animation.
To think that she had lost her child. Ibernia could not imagine the heartache Marika had borne.
Soon the two women were laboring together despite the language barrier, the door securely locked against the ship of men. Marika even began to hum under her breath as she measured Ibernia with the length of string.
But Ibernia could not ease the heat of those two tiny kisses, perhaps because she had so little to do. She wondered if there was a mark left upon her flesh from Rowan’s sure touch.
Shower him with kisses. The echo of his words in her thoughts, the knowing glint in his eye, the hint of his smile as he uttered them, all conspired to distract Ibernia from the task at hand. Indeed, only a man so enamored of himself as Rowan de Montvieux could have conceived of such a deed!
Oh, if ever she had desired to see that knight lose a wager, that desire had just doubled anew.
All the same, she could not bear the thought of Marika not being free. Instinct told her that she would not have long to ponder the matter. No doubt Rowan, intent on securing his prize, already negotiated for Marika’s release.
Then he would return to claim his due. Ibernia’s heart skipped a beat with dread. He could return at any moment. How long could it take to part with coin, especially for Rowan, who seemed to scatter wealth readily in his wake? The man had no respect for hard-won coin, that much was for certain, and the merchant’s daughter awaiting his return could not help but disapprove.
Yet even then Ibernia tried to imagine a way to avoid her duty in this. Was there some way she could keep her wager with Rowan, ensure Marika’s freedom, yet avoid that fearsome toll of kisses?
Ibernia was a woman with her wits about her—men with teasing smiles to the contrary—and she struggled to think of a clever way out of her pending predicament.
Yet Rowan, despite Ibernia’s conviction to the contrary, was not ensuring Marika’s release.
Naught could have been further from his mind, the pitching of the ship turning his thoughts in one direction alone. He hung over the rail, faithful Thomas by his side. Either the tide had changed more quickly than Baldassare anticipated or that man was incompetent. Rowan might have been able to enjoy that man’s failure if he had not been so ill.
“For a man who has eaten little for three days, you have an uncommon lot in your belly,” Thomas commented when the knight finally straightened.
He shot the boy a dark look. “I thank you for your solace.”
Thomas grinned unrepentantly. He offered a damp rag and Rowan wiped the sweat from his brow. He accepted a sip of eau-de-vie and rinsed his mouth, spitting the liquor over the rail before repeating the deed. Despite the expense, he could not bear the thought of swallowing it.
His stomach soundly agreed with his choice, its rumbling more muted as they moved into the open seas. The wind lifted Rowan’s hair, the fresh tang of the air doing as much to restore his spirits as the increasingly steady roll of the deck.
The grey water still churned too much for Rowan’s comfort, so he deliberately looked to the horizon. The sea stretched in fathomless grey in all directions, the overcast skies and mist hanging over the water making the outlines of land distant and hazy.
The grey was unsettling, to say the least. Rowan gripped the rail and strove to remain composed. To the west, the channel betwixt the dim silhouettes of England and France seemed to boil. Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.
Aye, he would be ill all the way to Dublin.
’Twas not an encouraging prospect.
“I suppose ’twould be a waste of fine fare to invite you to share a meal this night,” Baldassare commented idly, his voice unexpectedly close.
Rowan spared the captain the satisfaction of seeing him jump. He casually glanced to his side and met the amusement in the other man’s eyes. There was a cold, mercenary glint to those dark eyes.
Fortunately, Rowan was well experienced with the motivation of mercenaries, having been sired by one.
He smiled, as if he had not a care in the world. “Aye, on this night ’twould be. Perhaps on the morrow would be better.”
Baldassare smiled. “Perhaps. I would extend my offer of hospitality to your wife for this night, even in your absence.”
Rowan smiled coldly, guessing that this man would not hesitate to press his suit if Ibernia was alone in his presence.
He had no intention of leaving her in such circumstance, especially now. “How very kind of you,” he demurred, his words hard. “However, the lady will have naught to wear so soon. She would not wish to insult your board with her immodest garb.”
Baldassare arched a brow. “Though she wore it on London’s wharf? You overestimate your lady wife’s modesty, I believe.”
The two men glared at each other. “Perhaps ’tis not her modesty I overrate,” Rowan said silkily.
Baldassare dropped a hand to his sword and straightened from the rail. “Do you insult my honor?”
“Of course not.” Rowan leaned back against the rail, looking at ease though he was well prepared to respond if Baldassare drew his blade. He smiled tightly. “ ’Tis merely my lady’s preference to observe propriety. I cede to her will whenever possible.”
“ ’Twas not possible in London?”
“Not expedient.” Rowan spread his hands. “A man must balance his lady’s demands. She could well have had new garb there, though she wished also to return home with all haste. One must choose the greater good, and on this, she and I were agreed.”
Baldassare’s gaze brightened. “You reside in Dublin? But you are unlike any other man I have met from that ill-fated land.”
Rowan shook his head, as if amused by the obligations invented by his woman. He would have to ensure he recalled this tangled web of lies—and that he told Ibernia of them before they did dine with the captain.
“My lady wife has family there,” he said carefully, not entirely certain that was true, “and has spent many happy days in that land. I fulfill her request to return there, though, indeed, I never imagined ’twould be a journey so fraught with adventure.”
He smiled directly into Baldassare’s narrowed gaze.
“If your lady is familiar with the land, then ’tis doubly important that I speak with her. She may be able to aid me.”
“Indeed?”
At that question, Baldassare seemed to realize he had said too much. He looked away and spoke with sudden haste, the drop of his eyelids veiling the interest that shone in his eyes. “Aye, of course. ’Tis difficult to find honest men in an unfamiliar port. Perhaps she could be of assistance.”
Baldassare smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes. “I must insist upon inviting her to my table this night. Might I rely upon you to convey my invitation?”
Rowan straightened. “My wife will not dine in your cabin without my accompaniment.”
“You would have the woman starve while you are ill?” Baldassare shook his head. “Surely even a knight is not so heartless as that. I offer naught but a fine meal.”
“And you have been declined.”
The captain shrugged. “If you will not convey my invitation, then I shall have to make it myself.”
Rowan guessed that Ibernia would be standing nude in their cabin, as Marika measured and cut the cloth. Indeed, he had no doubt that Baldassare also assumed as much. He caught at the man’s shoulder when that man turned away and schooled his voice.
“Truly, you cannot abandon our discussion so soon,” he said smoothly. “I have yet to recompense you for the cloth you granted to my wife.”
Baldassare smiled. “ ’Tis my gift to the lady. Beauty to beauty, as ’twere.”
“I must insist.”
“I could not hear of it.”
“Ah, well.” Rowan jingled the coins in his purse and watched the captain’s eyes light. “Perhaps another trinket would be more fitting.”
“I have little to sell on this journey,” Baldassare said quickly. “Much of my cargo is already vouched for.”
“Indeed. What of the slavewoman who aids my wife?”
The captain blinked. “What of her?”
“My lady wife has taken a fancy to her, and I would match whatever commitment you have for her.” Rowan smiled easily, the very image of a man intent on winning some trinket for his lady. “ ’Tis good for women, do you not think, to have one they can confide in?”
“The slave would be very expensive. I doubt you have the coin.”
“Name the price.”
“I would not so insult you.”
Rowan’s smile broadened. “I insist.”
Baldassare folded his arms across his chest and met Rowan’s glance coldly. He named a sum that made Thomas choke. “As you insisted,” he said archly. “Now that we have amused ourselves, shall we return to the issue of the evening meal?”
“Not just yet,” Rowan declared. He counted out the coins and tossed them to the captain.
Baldassare caught them clumsily, bit the gold, then granted Rowan a surprised glance. Rowan did not miss the captain’s glance to his purse and knew he would have to be certain the man did not take advantage of them.
Although it might well be too late. Curse Ibernia for forcing him to reveal his wealth in such circumstance! ’Twas a poor tactic at best—and he should have known better than to so openly win her dare.
Rowan gritted his teeth, less than pleased with his own decision in this. Aye, there was something about Ibernia that tempted him to forget his own few rules, if only to win a glimpse of her smile.
Or even hundreds of her kisses.
For a man who desired to live a life unfettered and devoid of responsibilities, as Rowan did, he was accumulating a hefty measure of both fetters and duties. A year and a day with Ibernia in tow would see him laden to the ground!
Meanwhile, Baldassare rummaged in his own purse, tossing Rowan an iron key with such abandon that it nearly leapt over the side of the ship.
Rowan guessed that was no accident, but he caught the key nonetheless.
The captain looked briefly disappointed as Rowan tucked it safely in his own purse. Then his eyes narrowed. “You are uncommonly wealthy, to so readily cast such coin aside.”
There ’twas—the very conclusion he had feared.
“Not for much longer,” Rowan retorted with a heartfelt chuckle. “My lady wife shall beggar me in short order if this continues.” He shook his purse, ensuring that it made precious little noise. “Though I confess ’tis not easy to swallow any accusation that I do not sufficiently indulge the queen of my heart.”
Baldassare’s eyes lit with challenge. “Then you shall send her to my cabin, that she not miss her evening meal.”
Rowan held his gaze. “We shall both be delighted to accept your invitation on the morrow.”
“You will still be ill.”
“Nay, I have no complaint upon the open sea,” Rowan lied. ’Twas better for his belly there, but hardly ideal. He pursed his lips and scanned the sky, determined to needle this cocksure captain in exchange for the shocking amount of coin he had just cast aside. “Indeed, I would not have been in such discomfort had our departure been timed to the tides.”
Baldassare’s features darkened at this reminder. “One cannot completely trust the charts of foreigners,” he snapped. “Particularly those of little experience upon the seas.”
There was an edge to his words that awakened Rowan’s curiosity. Venetians, he knew, plied their trade upon regular routes, often between ports where they maintained their own communities.
And Baldassare had already admitted to having no connections in Dublin. Now that Rowan thought about it, ’twas most odd that the Venetian had ventured this far. Venetian traders were much more likely to do business within the Mediterranean. Indeed, Rowan had never seen their ships in the northern ports of France.
“You had no Venetian charts for this port?” he asked with apparent idleness.
“None.” Baldassare sneered. “And these foreigners know naught of timing a tide properly. ’Twas my own error for trusting their observations instead of making my own.”
“And your ship is not Venetian either,” Rowan mused.
Baldassare’s eyes flashed. “An inconvenience, I assure you.”
Why was Baldassare here? Was there something special about this cargo of slaves? And why did he desire Ibernia’s assistance in Dublin? Rowan had assumed that Marika’s price was high simply because Baldassare intended her to be too expensive for his purse, but perhaps there was more at root.
But he would have no chance to ask further. “If you will excuse me, my labor summons me once more.” Baldassare bowed and walked away.
Rowan knew ’twas no coincidence that, within moments, they turned directly into the wind. High waves broke against the prow, rocking the ship so hard that it seemed it would shatter.
His belly turned again, even the prospect of Ibernia’s shower of kisses doing little to ease his misery.
At least for the moment.
’Twas late in the day when Rowan finally returned, the meagre light within the cabin having faded yet more. Ibernia and Marika had made quick work of cutting and piecing the kirtle and were nigh completed. More hands, as Ibernia’s mother oft said, made less of any task.
Though the work was a challenge as the ship pitched through the waves. Ibernia had more than one prick on her finger and feared staining the lovely wool with blood. In the shadows and without a lamp, such stains could not be readily discerned, if indeed they were there.
The waiting, the growing certainty that Rowan would return to claim his due, the knowledge that she had no clever ploy to avoid his touch, did naught to calm Ibernia, and she pricked her finger again.
And again, as she started at the jiggle of the door latch, though she had been listening for his return all the day long.
“Ibernia?” Rowan demanded gruffly. “Open the door, if you please.”
“And if I do not please?” she taunted.
This time, though, her jest met with naught more than a growl of irritation. With a quick glance to Marika, who watched with alarm, Ibernia rose and unlatched the door.
“And what ails you this night?” she asked, striving not to sound like a discontented fishwife. “You have been long enough abroad to suit any torn.”
Rowan frowned and staggered directly for the bed, not troubling himself with a reply. He collapsed on the thin pallet and closed his eyes, looking more like a cadaver than a cocky knight.
Ibernia had seen enough of men to know what trouble was at root. She had been right to insist upon leaving London rather than going to that tavern! Aye, a drinking man could not be trusted to keep his pledge.
She inhaled sharply and drew herself to her full height, exuding disapproval—though, indeed, she was more disappointed that Rowan had proven himself like all the others than disgusted with his choice of weakness.
“Drinking!” Ibernia declared, picking up her needlework with a sweeping gesture. “I should have known to expect as much. Aye, you wanted an ale so badly that you would have missed the sailing of this vessel.”
“Aye, and what a crime that would have been,” Rowan muttered, his tone uncommonly sour.
Before Ibernia could say more, he rolled to face the wall of the ship, turning his back to her and ending the conversation. She exchanged a look with Marika.
Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and glared at Rowan. “Where am I to sleep, if you claim the only pallet for your own?”
“The bed is wide enough for two,” he declared, without turning to face her.
How dare he assume she would join him so readily as that?
She tossed down her stitching, then leaned over him, her hands propped on her hips. “You do not fool me, Rowan de Montvieux,” she declared. “Nay, I will not join you on this narrow pallet this night! I will not aid your quest to seduce me.”
“Suit yourself” came the reply.
Ibernia glared at him for a moment, but his breathing deepened. Surely he did not go to sleep?
But sleep apparently was what he did.
Ibernia frowned. ’Twas not like Rowan to so readily abandon an argument. Aye, he was one who would have every eye in the place upon him, unless she missed his guess.
This must be a ploy to win her sympathy!
“You will not twist my heart,” Ibernia informed him. “You will not win my compassion by looking so woebegone as this. I know well enough your objectives.”
Rowan snored softly.
’Twas not precisely the manner of a man bent on seduction. Ibernia looked around the cabin, seeing that she still held Marika’s attention.
“Well, at least you have shown the true measure of man that you are. A gentleman,” Ibernia said haughtily, “would have granted the pallet to the lady.”
She would have returned to her needlework, her chin high, but Thomas’s unexpected words made her halt midstep. “ ’Tis a lofty ambition for a slave,” he commented, his gaze bright, “to be treated as a lady.”
Ibernia blinked and felt her cheeks heat. She had not realized the boy lingered in the cabin door. No less, her indignation with Rowan had been great enough that she momentarily forgot she was supposed to be no one of merit.
Instead of her father’s privileged daughter.
She forced a smile. “A man of measure does not concern himself with such ranks of circumstance,” she retorted, a poor reply that did little to mollify Thomas. Indeed, the squire snorted and rolled his eyes, though he said naught more to her.
He went instead to Rowan, carefully removing that man’s boots and setting them aside. Oddly enough, the boy carried a bucket, which he set on the floor beside his lord’s shoulder.
“We should see your hauberk removed,” he murmured.
Rowan snorted softly. “ ’Tis an unnecessary risk in this den of iniquity,” he muttered, his words fading even as he uttered them. “I shall keep it.”
Thomas sighed and frowned, clearly seeing that he could do naught more. He unfolded a blanket that was stuffed beneath his arm and carefully laid it over his lord with a care usually reserved for those incapable of seeing to their own needs.
“The bucket is here,” the squire murmured. “I shall see the horses fed, then return.”
Rowan grunted and Thomas turned away.
“He is drunk so often as that?” Ibernia asked archly. “You seem well used to accommodating him in his besotted state.”
“My lord is not drunk,” Thomas said sharply. “As anyone with wits can see, he is ill.”
Ibernia’s gaze flew to the knight once again, an array of hints suddenly making great sense to her. He had looked pale upon his return, and his manner was not his usual one.
But she would not be persuaded so quickly as that. “How can he have fallen ill so quickly?”
“ ’Tis the sea. His innards do not like its rhythm.” Thomas shrugged. “ ’Tis no doubt why he would have preferred to remain at least an hour on London’s shore before departing anew. He has eaten little of late.”
Accusation hung in the boy’s words, and Ibernia realized that ’twas her dare that had prompted Rowan to depart so quickly. And against his own comfort.
She stared at the knight’s sleeping figure as the squire departed and chewed thoughtfully on her lip. Perhaps Rowan was not quite the selfish man she had assumed him to be.
Or perhaps he merely sought to win her confidence. ’Twas quite a price to pay, however, and Ibernia could not credit that.
Perhaps she should not have been such a shrew. Perhaps she should have asked why he did not want to leave so quickly, why he wanted the bed this night, why he had remained on deck—instead of assuming the worst.
Perhaps Rowan de Montvieux was different from other men.
Ibernia got no further before there was another sharp rap upon the door. She started and Marika jumped back when Baldassare’s voice echoed through the wood.
“Ma bella?”
Ibernia rose slowly. Rowan slumbered on, unlikely to aid her in this, so she smoothed her chausses and summoned her best smile. She opened the door a crack, unable to quell her urge to shelter Rowan from the captain’s view. “Aye?”
Baldassare smiled broadly. “Ah, to look upon your beauty is like seeing the sun after a long spell of rain,” he said, embellishing his claim yet further with a bow. “Dare I hope that your husband called matters amiss?”
“Which matters?”
“Ah, that you would not be interested in a fine meal this evening. To be sure, I tried not to offer offense in extending my invitation that both of you join me for an evening repast.”
Food! Suddenly Ibernia realized that she was remarkably hungry. When had she eaten last? And when had she last eaten the fine fare of a captain’s board?
All the same, she did not fully trust Baldassare, not with that lecherous gleam in his eye. “My husband is not disposed to dine this evening,” she said, the lie nigh sticking in her throat.
The captain smiled. “Though ’tis most unfortunate that your spouse does not share my affection for the sea, still it seemed”—Baldassare apparently sought the right word—“selfish for him to decline on your behalf.” His expression turned guileless. “Surely you are not so enamored that you cease to eat when he is ill?”
“Nay, of course not.”
“Then surely we could share a meal together? I assure you, ma bella, that my intentions are purely honorable.” He smiled wolfishly, his expression doing little to reassure Ibernia.
In fact, she would guess that his intentions were far from honorable. Ibernia decided to trust her instincts.
“I could not think of it,” she said crisply and made to close the door.
But Baldassare slipped his boot into the space, his smile quick. “Then I must insist that you join me.” Though his tone remained cajoling, Ibernia heard a thread of steel there. “ ’Tis not often that we have the delight of feminine company on our humble vessel.”
She dug in her heels, though she smiled in turn. “I have naught to wear.”
“Your presence alone will be ample grace for my board.”
“Ah, but I could not so insult your hospitality.”
Baldassare leaned closer, his eyes glinting. “Surely your husband called it awry to insist that you would prefer to pine for his recovery?”
Ibernia hesitated still.
Baldassare pushed open the door slightly, his expression turning scornful as he looked over Ibernia’s shoulder. “Surely you can do naught for him while he sleeps like a child?” He looked Ibernia in the eye and his voice dropped low. “And surely, ma bella, you are hungry?”
Hungry? There was temptation difficult to deny.
“We have beef from London,” Baldassare murmured, “and though ’tis rich and succulent, I fear it must be consumed this night before it spoils.”
Ibernia’s doubts wavered. How long since she had had meat?
Baldassare evidently saw that he had found a weak spot, for he pressed his case. “Fine young potatoes, ah, they are so sweet when they are small! And the last fresh bread we shall have before Dublin. A compote of raisins and dates, a young wine—surely, ma bella, you will not leave me to indulge in such luxury alone?”
Ibernia’s mouth went dry. Her belly was empty beyond all and there was truth in what the captain said. What could be the harm in joining him? Surely there would be others there?
She licked her lips without immediately realizing she did so. Baldassare’s smile flashed and he stepped away. “Of course, if you feel you must watch your husband slumber instead, the cook can send you some biscuits from our stores.”
“Biscuits?” They did not sound as delicious as the hot meat.
“Aye, they are decent enough fare.” Baldassare shrugged. “A bit hardened after all our days at sea, but not so filled with worms that they cannot be consumed.”
Ibernia could visualize those biscuits all too well and favored the alternative.
“And the salt fish.” Baldassare gestured broadly, then shrugged. “There are those who enjoy it, I am told.”
Just the smell of the cooking salt fish was enough to make Ibernia’s belly protest. “Your cook could not send the beef here?” she asked hopefully, already guessing what the answer would be.
“Ma bella! What do you know of men?” Baldassare chuckled. “ ’Twould be foolish to let my men so much as glimpse what fine fare is mine by rank.” He shook a finger under her nose. “ ’Tis the way of men to desire what is granted to another—a man of my position can only guard against such infidelities.”
Oh, Ibernia could attest to the truth of that. She glanced back to Rowan, wondering whether he would even know if she took a meal with Baldassare.
Surely ’twould be a harmless indulgence?
That man waved his hand. “But if you will remain here, there is naught I can do to sway your choice. ’Tis a fearsome toll your spouse expects for loyalty, but ’tis not my place to comment.”
As he turned away, the prospect of a hot meal going with him, Ibernia stepped forward impulsively. Aye, she could endure anything—especially in exchange for a good meal!—regardless of what Rowan thought of the matter.
“I would be honored to join you.”
Baldassare’s eyes flashed, he bowed low, then he offered his arm. Indeed, he urged her a bit too close to his side for Ibernia’s comfort.
And she realized too late that he also might not be immune to this desire of men to possess what was not their own.
Baldassare was delighted to find all as he had decreed. Three lanterns had been lit, their golden light casting an intimate glow over the finely appointed contents of his cabin. The wood gleamed, the hammered silver upon the table shone. His own sturdy chair had been drawn up to one side of the table—the other setting demanded that individual sit on the broad bed.
The linens were changed and turned down, a bevy of Eastern cushions at the ready to support whatever might need support. The wine gleamed red in the heavy glass pitcher.
And the chamber was devoid of anyone else.
He recognized the moment Ibernia realized the import of the setting. She caught her breath, spun to face him. Her eyes were wide, showing that remarkable blue to advantage, and Baldassare smiled as if he did not guess she would prefer to flee.
“Privacy, ma bella,” he purred, “is important to any intimate discussion.”
She watched avidly while he turned an ornate key in the lock, securing the door behind them. Her gaze followed the path of that key as he secreted it in his embroidered tabard. He was prepared to ply her with wine, with kisses, with food, with whatever was necessary to win his desire. The key ensured their privacy.
This woman would never find it, nor have any chance to flee, before Baldassare had what he wanted of her.
Fortunately, the evening was still young.