bernia had made a mistake.bernia had made a mistake.
Obviously. Oh, only too late did she realize she should never have succumbed to the temptation of a meal. She should have endured wormy biscuits instead of letting herself into this situation.
There was something about Baldassare’s hungry gaze that persuaded Ibernia that he had only his own pleasure at heart. She had a fairly good idea that their objectives were not as one and cursed herself for not anticipating this most obvious ploy.
Ibernia was forced to concede that Rowan had been right in declining the captain’s invitation to her. Oh, how she hated being at the whim of men!
Should she flee now? But how, when the key was so safely tucked away? Nay, ’twould be better to lull Baldassare into complacency, win his trust and look willing to savor his touch, then escape. Perhaps once he discarded his tabard, she could retrieve the key.
Ibernia could only hope that he would discard his garb. Aye, she had known those who did not, but then, Baldassare seemed most fastidious.
She would and could hope.
Baldassare watched her like a cat who had successfully cornered his prey. Ibernia retreated as he advanced, trying to look as if she intended to take that backward step all along. She thought furiously all the while but came up with naught that resembled a plan.
The smell of the meal distracted her, for she was hungry.
Ibernia covered her fear by casting an assessing glance over the table and lifting her nose appreciatively, still watching the captain from the corner of her eye.
“It smells wonderful,” she said, hoping her voice was even. “How chivalrous of you to invite me to share in your meal.”
She deliberately dropped to sit in the single chair. There was no way that she would perch on the side of his bed.
Baldassare prowled around the table, apparently untroubled by her choice. He adjusted the ruffle of his cuffs as she had seen him do before, he straightened the neck of his chemise. He brushed a speck of lint from his chausses, then turned a bright smile upon Ibernia. She had been so busy watching him preen—indeed, she had never seen a man do as much—that she was inadvertently pinned beneath his gaze.
“You must permit me to serve you,” he murmured, “as my men are about their labor. And you must accept my humble apologies. ’Tis no fine table I can set here.”
The table looked quite lavish to Ibernia. There was a white linen cloth on the board, an array of finely wrought dishes, a pair of goblets wrought of glass spun fine. She tried not to gape, but Baldassare noted her attention. He lifted one glass and turned it so that it caught the light.
“A fine specimen, is it not? ’Tis from the isle of Murano.”
“I do not know this place,” Ibernia lied when in fact she had heard a great deal about Murano glass over the years. ’Twas part of her father’s fantastic tales of his home, though she had never seen a sample.
This glass was truly worthy of such high praise.
“Ah, but you should,” he chided with a smile. “ ’Tis in Venice and, indeed, home to the finest artisans in glass to be found.”
“Surely some artisans elsewhere have similar skills?” Ibernia asked idly.
Baldassare shrugged. “Nay, not a one. The guild would not permit it.”
Ibernia shook her head. “Surely you exaggerate. Artisans are seldom content to remain in one place, be there guild or nay. And many are inclined to share their skills with others. I have seen this often.”
His smile was thin. “ ’Tis why they do not leave Murano alive. ’Tis the way of the guild to ensure its own exclusivity in trade.”
Though Ibernia’s eyes widened in horror, Baldassare seemed untroubled by this practice.
In fact, he lifted the lid off a covered dish, showing her the tempting meat within. “May I?”
The smell nearly made Ibernia faint with hunger and partly distracted her from his tale of Murano. “Please do.”
But his fine manners could not make Ibernia completely forget his easy acceptance of that guild’s cruelty. She knew, beyond doubt, that she had to escape this night before Baldassare put his amorous plan into motion.
He might not even be as “gentle” as the two she had known before.
He served her a modest portion with fastidious care and Ibernia had a sudden idea how to repulse him. After all, Venetians were known for their love of fine manners—and Baldassare did not appear immune to that tendency.
Even as she had the thought, the lace-encrusted hem of his sleeve touched the dark gravy. His handsome features darkened, he dropped the ladle and immediately set upon removing the stain with a bit of water. Ibernia heard his exhalation of relief when it was clear there would be no lasting mark. He carefully added a bit of gravy to her portion, then stepped away to serve himself.
Ibernia chuckled, more than willing to let him believe her a savage if it meant her escape. “I am not a babe!” she protested, indicating the serving as if it were laughably small.
Baldassare blinked, then his smile returned. She sat with approval etched on her features as he served more. He hesitated, then, encouraged by her nod, added again to her trencher. Ibernia made no indication that he should halt, though she was not certain she could truly eat all this meat.
Baldassare frowned and served another measure. He paused, then added again, the gravy from the meat dribbling over the trencher and onto the linen.
He swore softly and made to wipe up the spill.
Ibernia saw opportunity and took it. She knew her fingers were clean, but Baldassare did not. She stuck her fingers in the running gravy before he could reach it and licked it off them.
“Marvelous,” she declared, then looked pointedly into the dish. “Perhaps you should ensure that you have some.” Her tone indicated that she had not yet had enough but was being gracious.
Baldassare hid his surprise quickly, serving himself an ample portion—though not nearly as much as was already heaped before Ibernia—then cast an inquiring glance her way. He tipped the pot, revealing a good bit more meat and a lot of gravy. Ibernia ran her fingers around her trencher to catch the running gravy, then busily licked them each in turn and ensured she made more of a mess on the linen than it would have endured otherwise.
Baldassare paled when he saw the fate of his linen, but he said naught.
“These trenchers are so thin!” Ibernia protested, knowing it was unspeakably vulgar to insult the offerings of his board. Her mother would have been appalled by such behavior, but Ibernia knew she had little other choice.
A resourceful woman used the opportunities at hand, after all.
She frowned and looked longingly at the remaining meat in the pot, considered her dripping trencher, then eyed the meat again as if she could not bear to decline it.
“You had best leave the pot here.” She patted the board beside herself, leaving gravy fingerprints on the cloth.
Ibernia repeated her performance with every dish he served, until there was a ridiculous amount of food piled before her.
Rudely, she began to eat—noisily and with her fingers—before Baldassare even took his seat. She thanked him with her mouth full, savoring how he inhaled so sharply that his nostrils nigh pinched shut.
He reached for the wine pitcher and Ibernia cooed with delight, lifting her goblet toward him. The gravy on her fingers smeared over the Murano glass, a fact which the captain obviously noted. She frowned when he filled it only halfway, saluting him with the full glass so enthusiastically that the wine sloshed over the rim.
Another stain graced the white linen.
Ibernia took a healthy swig of the wine, before he could even pour his own, then dug into her meat with both hands. It was marvelous, and she wished she was in a situation that would allow her to enjoy it better.
She ate with gusto and deliberately left a bit of gravy on her chin. Baldassare stared at that adornment, clearly unable to say anything.
Finally he cleared his throat. “You indeed seem hungry this evening,” he said, contenting himself with an elegant sip of wine. “Does your spouse ever deign to feed you?”
Ibernia grinned, deliberately ignoring the fact that there was still meat in her mouth. “It has been hours since our meal this morn,” she declared, slurping her wine greedily. “And, indeed, I had not packed nearly enough for the midday meal.”
Baldassare blinked. “You have already eaten twice this day?”
“Thrice actually,” Ibernia lied. “Although a roast chicken at midmorning barely counts, does it?”
Baldassare stared at her, his own meal untouched. He sipped at his wine, his eyes narrowed as he watched her. She sensed that he could not bear to eat with the sight of her indulgence before him. His preference gave Ibernia an idea. She quickly quaffed her own measure of wine and held her glass out for more.
“No more for you?” she demanded coquettishly. “My mother said a woman should never respect a man who could not hold his wine.” Ibernia dropped her voice. “She said ’twas sign that he was not truly a man, if you know my meaning.”
Baldassare’s lips tightened for a moment. Then he drained his glass in one gulp and filled it to the rim.
The wine would have more impact upon his empty belly than her own—and Ibernia could do much to ensure it stayed that way. She picked through her meat, discarding one piece or another. She scowled and rummaged through the contents of the pot, scooping up gravy in her fingers purely to appall her companion.
Finally she glanced up and eyed the untouched food still before the captain. “Do you intend to eat that fine piece of meat?”
Baldassare pushed his trencher across the table without hesitation. Ibernia shoved a choice morsel into her mouth, chewed with enthusiasm, then poked through the remainder. She grimaced. “It needs more gravy,” she declared, and before he could assist, tipped the pot at a generous angle.
The gravy surged forth and flowed across the linens, precisely as Ibernia had planned.
Baldassare swore.
“God in heaven!” Ibernia declared, wide-eyed. “What a shocking waste.”
Before Baldassare could recover from his obvious horror, she bent and noisily licked the gravy from the cloth. The captain paled, drained his glass, and poured another. He muttered something under his breath and withdrew slightly.
“A fine gravy,” Ibernia murmured, smiling for him as she lifted her glass. She took a very tiny sip, wondering whether she could manage to summon a belch. She had eaten quickly, after all, so there was hope.
’Twould be the perfect end to her performance.
Baldassare gestured vaguely with one finger. “You have sauce on your face,” he said, the color rising on his own that he even had to call her attention to such a thing.
Ibernia ensured there was gravy on her fingers before she reached for her face. “Here?” she asked, landing one wet finger on her cheek. He shook his head and she touched other, feeling the first mark cool against her skin. “Here?”
Baldassare looked away, his disgust clear. “Nay, ’tis on your chin, though now there is more.”
“Ah well, then.” Ibernia pressed her face into her sleeve and wiped her face with the length of it. To her delight and Baldassare’s horror, she managed a respectable belch immediately thereafter. She sniffed and dabbed her nose on the opposing sleeve, then poked a finger in the meat again.
“I thought you said you had compote,” she said plaintively.
“Sweet Jesu,” Baldassare muttered, and pushed to his feet He drained his glass again, and Ibernia noticed how he steadied himself with one hand on the board before he stepped away.
“Does it have dried plums in it?” Ibernia demanded. “I adore dried plums when they are simmering in a compote. Indeed, there is naught finer—I could eat them all the night long!”
Baldassare glanced back from the shelf where he evidently had left the compote. “I had thought we might talk this evening.”
Talk. Ibernia’s heart skipped a beat, his intent glance telling her what precisely he meant by “talk.” There would be naught verbal about it, unless she missed her guess.
“Suit yourself.” She hid her trepidation, grinning broadly at him and leaning back in her chair. She deliberately sat like a peasant and used one fingernail to pick at her teeth, the task apparently taking all of her concentration. She examined her finger, as if she had retrieved something particularly worthy of note, then sucked it noisily from her nail.
Baldassare placed the entire serving vessel of compote before her with a minute sigh of disgust, then took his place once more. He lounged back against the cushions, his gaze bright, and cradled his glass of wine in his hands. He watched her so avidly that Ibernia wondered whether she truly had fooled him at all.
“Are you of Ireland, then?” he asked with apparent idleness, only the glint of his eyes revealing his interest in the answer.
Too late Ibernia wished she knew whether Rowan had told this man anything else. “Why?” She lifted a shoulder in a playful pose. “Do I look to be of the Irish?”
“I would not know,” Baldassare countered smoothly. “Though ’tis said they are a lusty folk.” His gaze drifted over the wreckage she had made of his table, then lifted to meet hers once again.
With her open enjoyment of food, Ibernia realized that she might have given him exactly the wrong impression.
Still, she would play the fool, as he seemed to expect little intellect from her. “Truly? My mother always said that I should not listen to the sayings of all and sundry.”
“Your mother has much to say to you.”
“Is that not typical of any noblewoman?” Ibernia ran a finger around the rim of the compote pot, ensuring that she licked it thoroughly, then repeated the gesture.
Baldassare watched her gesture, then hastily took a restorative gulp of wine. “Then you are a noblewoman?”
Ibernia glanced up, determined to not be found out even though she had erred. “How else would I be wed to a knight?” she asked, then smiled with all the innocence she could summon.
Baldassare leaned forward. “A knight who insists you return to Ireland to visit family. Are you of Ireland, ma bella?”
Ibernia knew that she was on dangerous ground. There was not only her own suite of lies to Rowan to keep intact, but his lies to the captain to ensure their passage.
What else had Rowan told this man?
She plucked a plum out of the pot with her fingers, held it between finger and thumb, and sucked on it as she surveyed the captain. Aye, he was interested in her knowledge of Ireland, though why, Ibernia could not guess.
What had that to do with seducing har?
Unless he truly had recognized her and meant to capitalize upon his knowledge. Her heart stopped, then raced.
“I had no idea that you and my husband had the opportunity to talk on this day,” she said, popping the plum into her mouth. “How wondrous that you became better acquainted.” And she poked in the pot once more.
Baldassare visibly ground his teeth and his next words sounded strained. “Ma bella, do you or do you not have family in Ireland?”
Ibernia’s thoughts flew like quicksilver and a knot of dread formed in her belly. She had been right! Baldassare knew something of her true circumstance! Why else would he care so much about such a detail?
Well, she would not be the one to confirm whatever he might have guessed. She had to escape his probing questions, and the sooner the better.
“Did you know—I have heard this said—that all the occupants of Christendom are related to the Irish?” Ibernia kept her voice light, as if she were indeed fool enough to believe as much. “Indeed, ’tis on account of the Celts, those men who once occupied nigh all of the lands from here to Outremer, and even ’tis rumored, farther east than that.” Ibernia gestured expansively with her sticky hand. “Why, we could all be related! Is that not most amusing?”
Baldassare did not look amused. He drained his glass and set it heavily on the board, his gaze unswerving from Ibernia.
Sadly, he did not look besotted in the least.
Clearly, he had to drink more wine. Quickly.
“Oh, let me aid you,” Ibernia insisted. She reached for the vessel of wine, intent on pouring him another.
But Baldassare’s eyes widened at the mess of her fingers, no less where they would soon leave their mire. He reached simultaneously for his prized glass pitcher, their hands connected, and the pitcher wobbled.
Once she saw what was inevitable, Ibernia encouraged the pitcher to spill more quickly.
Red wine poured across the table like bloody river. There was linen that would never be serviceable again! It surged around Baldassare’s discarded goblet, then ran off the edge of the table. He leapt to his feet as the wine evidently dripped onto his chausses, inadvertently bumping the table with his knee.
Ibernia, again, saw no reason not to aid in the chaos. She nudged the table a little further with her toe. Vessels, crocks, trenchers, goblets, gravy, and wine fell to the wooden floor with a resounding crash.
The Murano pitcher and pair of glasses shattered most satisfactorily.
Then silence filled the chamber. Baldassare stared at the mess of their intimate meal with horror, his mouth working soundlessly.
“ ’Tis a shame, truly, that there is no dog upon this ship,” Ibernia said pertly. “Our hounds would make quick work of this mess.”
“You!” the captain roared. “You did this apurpose!” His face darkened with rage and he lunged toward her, his fine manners abandoned. Ibernia darted away, Baldassare landed one foot in the spilled gravy in the same moment that the ship rolled to one side.
He slipped, he swore, he landed hard. He scrabbled for a grip as he fell, the heavy table notwithstanding. Baldassare cried out as the table tipped, the corner of it catching him across the temple.
He slumped to the floor and did not move again.
The ship rolled the other way, the table slid back slightly, but Baldassare did not stir.
Ibernia stared at him for a long moment, her heart hammering. Did he mean to deceive her? But he did not move and she began to fear that her ploy had gone too far.
Ibernia crept closer. There was no blood upon his temple and he was still breathing. Baldassare was not dead—indeed, he might awaken soon.
And who knew what he would do when he remembered?
With not a moment to waste, Ibernia reached into his tabard. She quickly found the imprint of the key, though she had to feel through several layers of cloth before she could work it free. All the while she held her breath, convinced that Baldassare would awaken and make much of her actions.
But then the key was free. Ibernia did not hesitate. She fled for the door, unlocked the latch, seized a lantern, and fled into the corridor.
She was free!
For the moment, at least. She hoped that her father had not put too hefty a price on her retrieval—for a man like Baldassare di Vilonte would be more than intent to collect whatever he thought his due.
Then she hoped that Baldassare would have such an ache between his ears that he would forget all that had happened this eve.
’Twas unlikely at best, but Ibernia hoped all the same.
Ibernia jiggled the latch of the room she and Rowan had been assigned, unaccountably relieved when Thomas quickly opened the door. The boy was sleepy and he rubbed his eyes as he regarded her, squinting slightly at the light. Ibernia noted immediately that Rowan still slept. She could see Marika curled into a ball like a little cat, the other woman’s eyes bright in the shadows.
“You smell like meat,” the squire commented.
“Aye, ’twas a fine meal,” Ibernia said breathlessly. “Sadly, the captain fell ill.”
“How ill?”
“Not precisely ill,” she conceded, locking the door behind them and leaning back against it in relief. “He slipped and hit his head. He will awaken in a sour mood, no doubt, but be none the worse for that.” The boy’s gaze was assessing, so Ibernia hastened on. “Did you eat?”
Thomas grimaced. “Biscuits.”
There was a wealth of meaning in that single word, and Ibernia refused to consider what Baldassare had told her of those biscuits.
“If you are not overly proud, there is meat still in the captain’s cabin,” she confided. “You would have to be quick and stealthy, but ’tis there. Though the table tipped, much could probably be salvaged.”
“Aye? It can only be finer fare than those biscuits,” the boy said darkly. “And what of the woman?”
“Marika,” Ibernia corrected, noting how lean the woman was. Aye, it probably had been long since she had eaten as well. “Perhaps you could bring her some.”
“Why should she not simply accompany me? I would eat my meal elsewhere, now that you might at least watch my master. The smell of food might sicken him anew.”
Ibernia cast the boy a dubious look. “There is the matter of her shackle.”
Thomas grinned. “For which my master has the key. I would not be so bold as to take it from him, but since he told the captain that he bought the slavewoman for you …”
Ibernia gasped. “He bought Marika’s freedom?”
“Aye.”
“Then why did no one say so?” Ibernia did not wait for an answer. She crossed the small room and crouched beside the slumbering Rowan. He had rolled to his back, one arm hanging to the floor. His color seemed better, though maybe ’twas only the flattery of the lantern light.
And still he slept.
Surprisingly, she hesitated before reaching for his purse, feeling she pushed too far in this. Though she had had no such qualms about searching Baldassare for a key! What difference was there between Marika’s freedom and her own? Ibernia shook her head and eased the purse from Rowan’s chausses.
This time, though, she was achingly aware of the man so close to her hand, that hip beneath his fingers, his muscled thighs stretched to her right. She knew enough of men to know what she would see if she but lifted her gaze, and the very thought make her cheeks heat. She swallowed, knowing Rowan would savor any such hint of awareness in her.
Aye, this man was sure enough that all women desired him! Ibernia gritted her teeth and opened the purse with a quick gesture.
Too late, she feared he would awaken, but Rowan only grunted and slumbered on. Ibernia spilled the purse’s contents into her palm. There were half a dozen gold coins, a few silver ones, a single key.
And a golden ring.
Ibernia’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat on that ring, a ring clearly too small to fit Rowan’s hand. She was almost curious, then told herself that his liaisons had naught to do with her. She took the key, poured coins and ring back into his purse, and replaced it as it had been.
Marika’s eyes lit as Ibernia stretched to unlock the shackle. She was half afraid ’twould be the wrong key, that either Rowan deceived her or Baldassare had deceived him.
But the key turned smoothly in the lock. The shackle fell from the wall as Marika cried out in delight. The same key proved to open the shackle at her neck, the expression of joy on the small woman’s features tearing at Ibernia’s heart.
Then Marika fell on her hands and knees and kissed Ibernia’s feet in gratitude. Ibernia felt the woman’s tears fall on her skin and bent to hug her, her gaze straying to the sleeping knight.
Rowan had truly won her dare.
Even if he had done this purely to prove her wrong, purely to win her “shower of kisses,” ’twas no less a fine deed for all of that.
Now she knew that he was not blessed with inexhaustible coin. Nay, if Rowan meant to court a wealthy bride and then return to France, then he had sorely cut into his finances to do this deed. And this while he was ill.
Despite herself, Ibernia’s poor opinion of this knight was revised for the better.
Indeed, Ibernia’s resistance to him softened in the lantern light. Aye, she knew what she had to do. She would keep her wager, just as she had pledged, just as Rowan had kept his.
But she would render her shower of kisses now, while Rowan slept, as tousled and harmless as he might ever manage to be.
He would not be able to argue whether her payment was sufficient. All the same, Ibernia was less than confident in her skill and did not savor the thought of witnesses.
No doubt Thomas would be highly amused, for he must have witnessed many an elaborate seduction and would find her efforts laughable.
Ibernia urged Marika toward the door. “Go with Thomas,” she instructed, gesturing with her hands until the woman nodded. “Go and find what food you can, then go with Thomas.”
“Would you not have her return to you?” Thomas asked.
“Nay.” Ibernia smiled. “I have a debt to render to your master, and ’tis a deed best done in privacy.”
The boy grinned, then chuckled. He bowed to Marika, indicating that she should precede him, then paused on the threshold.
“Be gentle with my lord and master,” he counselled, a wicked glint in his eyes. “He has lately been ill and might not be able to withstand a lengthy shower of kisses.”
Ibernia’s smile was tight. “I shall keep that in mind.” She latched the door behind the two and faced the knight, still sleeping peacefully.
How many was a shower of kisses, precisely? Rowan had said hundreds.
Ibernia’s belly quivered. She rubbed her stomach, then looked down at herself. She was smeared with gravy, stained with wine, and wearing a measure of the compote’s sticky sauce. She was still dirty from her travels, her clothing was torn and disreputable. The sight almost made her chuckle, though surely ’twould be unappealing to the knight should he awaken.
Perhaps she risked less here than might be imagined.
Ibernia glanced to him again, watching his chest rise and fall. Even in sleep, there was something about this man that defied expectation—and she was not as certain of her undesirability to him as she might have hoped.
Nor was she so certain that she did not find him desirable. Nay, the sight of Rowan, all long and lithe strength, his jaw stippled with a day’s growth of russet beard, his hair tousled, made Ibernia tingle deep inside. Her lips already burned, just as her neck had burned where he pressed those kisses, and she knew that she must truly be falling ill.
Ibernia heaved a sigh. ’Twas better she delivered her due while she was mostly hale, no less while the man was asleep. There was no telling how he might turn her own touch against her otherwise.
A woman could endure a task only once ’twas begun, she told herself grimly, and stepped forward.
Rowan dreamed of chickens.
Aye, he was in the kitchen garden of Montvieux, all of six summers again. The sun was shining, Marie was scolding him for stealing a pinch of bread, complaining to the cook that Rowan would never escape the taint of his roots. Her prized chickens scattered as Rowan fled across the garden, then returned to their incessant pecking of the ground.
Marie cast grain across the ground, venting bitterly about the trouble young boys made underfoot, then let the chickens in the green of the garden proper. They clucked and fluttered and scurried, then they pecked at the pests on the crops growing there. They scratched and clucked, their necks working as they greedily gobbled up grubs and insects.
Rowan watched in horror, wondering what ’twas like to be an unfortunate grub, destined for a chicken’s belly. He watched them peck and peck, imagining the surprise of the insects that were merrily enjoying themselves when disaster struck unexpectedly from above. He even protested, but Marie swept his words aside, her attention bent on encouraging her flock to become fatter.
They pecked and gobbled and pecked some more, pecking the ground, pecking the grubs, pecking the insects.
And then they began to peck at him. Rowan could feel them. They began gently at first, then with increasing fervor. They pecked at his brow, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw. He twisted and turned, but the chickens could not be deterred.
Rowan felt the sweat trickle down his back. They would peck him to death! He tried to run, he realized ’twas naught but a dream, he fought to escape its clutch.
Yet all the while, the chickens mercilessly pecked.
His eyes finally flew open. His heart was pounding. Rowan clutched the sides of the narrow bed nowhere near Marie’s garden, momentarily uncertain where he was.
Then Ibernia bent to bestow another kiss upon him. Her eyes were tightly shut, her lips were puckered so tightly that they paled. Her entire expression was one of distaste.
When she bent and pecked a tight kiss upon his brow, Rowan could not help but laugh aloud. This was the chicken who would peck him to death!
Ibernia’s eyes flew open and she jumped back, her wary expression quick to cover her surprise. “ ’Tis so amusing as that to find me rendering my debt?”
“What debt?”
“A shower of kisses.”
Marika! Rowan glanced to the place where the woman had been shackled and saw her gone. “Thomas?” he asked, and Ibernia nodded.
There was no delight in her expression, though, and Rowan was momentarily irked that he had slept through her discovery.
Rowan swung his feet around so he was sitting on the bed. To his delight, his belly seemed to have settled. “That was a kiss?”
Ibernia propped her hands upon her hips. “Ninety-eight kisses, to be exact.” She lifted her chin and stepped closer. “If you should be so kind, I will pay the remainder of my due and have this labor behind me.”
Rowan sobered, wishing he had not missed the other ninety-eight kisses. Though, if they had been of the same ilk as that last one, he had not missed much. Indeed, it appeared he was to have little credit for his good deed.
Which only meant the remaining kisses had to be worth remembering.
Rowan shoved a hand through his hair and offered the lady his best grin. “And I am to simply sit here, while you drop one hundred and two more such kisses upon my brow?” he asked.
Ibernia’s eyes narrowed. “Two and two alone it shall be.”
“Hundreds,” Rowan retorted, emphasizing the plural and enjoying how her eyes flashed before she hid her response. He pushed to his feet, noting her quick step backward. “Although even I have little appetite for a hundred and two more kisses like that.”
She lifted her chin, those eyes bright with defiance. “ ’Tis all you will have of me. That or naught at all.”
Rowan eased closer. “I shall settle your debt for two kisses alone, on one condition.”
“We agreed on no conditions.”
“That we did not.” Rowan halted a mere step away from her, noting how her breasts rose and fell more quickly now that he was so close. “But I offer to lessen your obligation in exchange for a small consideration.”
The lady arched one fair brow. “Small to you, no doubt, but considerable to me.”
“Oh, I shall do my best to ensure ’tis not so onerous as that.” He leaned closer, savoring the way she straightened, and blew softly on the side of her neck.
She shivered, then stepped aside. “You try to force yourself upon me.”
“With a breath? I think not. ’Twas only your strange adornment that captured my curiosity.” Rowan traced the line of her throat with a single fingertip, lifting a spot of gravy while he did so. He held her gaze and slipped his finger into his mouth, licking the sauce from it thoroughly and enjoying how she blushed.
“Delicious,” he purred, and she abruptly looked away.
“What do you want of me?”
“Two kisses, ’tis all.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Naught but those two kisses,” Rowan insisted. Ibernia looked back at him, curiosity lighting her eyes. “The condition is merely that I grant you the first one and you return the second in kind.”
Ibernia rolled her eyes. “Aye, no doubt that first kiss will involve more than merely a kiss. You would ensure you win your other wager, one way or the other, but I will not succumb to your touch!”
“Kisses only,” Rowan insisted. “And naught shall I touch but my lips to yours.”
“Liar!”
Rowan smiled slowly. “Coward,” he charged in a whisper. The lady’s eyes flashed fire, the sight quickening his blood. “But if you are so very afraid that you might enjoy that kiss, that you might want more than one other, then take the easier path. We shall count the hundred and two due together.”
She stared at him and Rowan decided to push her just a little more. “Do you not think that a shower should cover a man from head to toe? Not merely his face?”
“You!” Ibernia exhaled hotly. She stepped closer and raised her chin, her eyes bright with challenge, her lips set. “Do your worst,” she invited in a low voice. “Truly, you love yourself enough for two.”
Rowan refused to take offense, knowing she would not be so annoyed if she were not tempted by the prospect of his touch. He stepped closer, letting his gaze rove over her features, bracing his hands against the wall over her shoulders. He leaned closer, until they were nearly nose to nose, and watched her anger fade into fear.
His heart clenched and he knew that he must persuade her of the merit of men, of himself, of the pleasure of touch, and all of this with a single kiss. Even Rowan, after all the kisses he had shared, felt a increment of doubt in his abilities.
So much rode on a single embrace!
“Fear not, my Ibernia,” he whispered, his own smile gone. “I shall do my best, not my worst.”
Her eyes widened slightly, she stiffened. Rowan grazed her full lips with his once, twice, thrice, and felt her soften slightly.
He touched his lips to hers ever so gently, felt her quiver of fear as surely as if it had been his own. He moved his lips slightly, coaxing and cajoling. Ibernia made a little sound in the back of her throat, she shuddered, then she parted her lips.
Rowan was not a man to decline such an invitation as that. He slanted his mouth across hers, swallowed her gasp, and set to the labor he did best of all.