homas peeked around the edge of the portal and surveyed the disarray of the captain’s quarters. Even with the spilled food and shattered pottery, ’twas clear the captain lived well.homas peeked around the edge of the portal and surveyed the disarray of the captain’s quarters. Even with the spilled food and shattered pottery, ’twas clear the captain lived well.
Though that was hardly Thomas’s concern. He could smell stewed meat, and that was enough to make his belly complain. Marika’s stomach grumbled from behind him, and he glanced back to find her hand clamped over her midsection. They shared a smile and Thomas indicated she should remain outside the chamber. At her nod, he crept into the room.
The captain lay on one side of the chamber. Thomas wondered for a heartbeat what had transpired here, then reminded himself that the doings of others were not his trouble.
Though he ensured the captain was alive. The man had a bruise rising on his temple but otherwise appeared to be sleeping.
Thomas’s belly urged him to make haste. He checked the scattered meal and found a large pot with a good bit of gravy unspilled within it. There was naught amiss with the thick bread trenchers, to his thinking, and he stuffed them into the pot. A survey of the table revealed naught else worth eating, though this would be fine enough fare and plenty for the two of them.
Thomas turned to leave and halted in surprise. Marika had come into the chamber behind him silently. She was staring at the fallen captain, such hatred in her eyes that Thomas’s blood chilled. She spat on his tabard, her expression so furious that Thomas could not bear to look upon her.
In all his twelve years, he had never witnessed such animosity. Thomas turned blindly to the table and feigned ignorance of her presence, even though he was startled by the change in her manner.
It seemed at odds with the sweetness Marika had displayed thus far. Indeed, he wondered what kind of person she was truly; what had happened between herself and this captain; what the entire tale was.
Yet he was not certain he wanted to know what could inspire such passion.
She made a sound of approval and Thomas glanced up with trepidation. The Marika he had glimpsed previously was returned, shyly offering an apple he had missed. She smiled and Thomas nodded with haste, uneasy with how quickly she changed expression.
Truly, she was so charming from that point onward that Thomas began to doubt what he had seen. All the same, he felt uncertain of her smiles, uneasy in her presence as he had never been with a woman before.
The pair found a corner in the kitchen that was warm and snug, and consumed the contents of the pot. Marika giggled and blushed like a young maid, though he knew she was at least ten years his senior.
She was unexpectedly pretty when she smiled at him. There was a dimple beneath one corner of her full lips and a dint high in the other cheek that made her look like a woman who laughed often. The sadness that occasionally stole through her dark eyes tempered that impression and left Thomas with a thousand questions.
Which he could ask, but she could not understand.
Perhaps it was only the meat, but long after Marika had fallen asleep, Thomas lay awake. Aye, he was not quite certain he wanted to sleep alone in this woman’s presence. In fact, he kept one hand upon the hilt of his knife, though he told himself ’twas just caution having its say.
For if Marika did more than spit upon the captain, they all could pay the price.
Ibernia had never felt anything like Rowan’s kiss. His touch awakened a yearning deep within her that she had never guessed she possessed. ’Twas no fever that claimed her, for this illness showed itself only beneath this knight’s touch. Too late Ibernia realized it was desire that made her knees weaken.
Rowan’s kiss was possessive yet gentle, tender and persuasive, entirely different from the way any other man had touched her.
It made Ibernia long for more. It made her want to savor this fleeting embrace, made her want to understand the full reason why others found lovemaking held such allure. She had no doubt that Rowan could show her all she desired.
But she had to resist him if she was to gain her freedom in Dublin.
To her own surprise, Ibernia realized that she trusted Rowan to keep his word, to take naught more from her than this kiss, to force naught upon her. Ibernia knew that he would suffer her to step away at any moment—yet at the same time, he was not unaffected by her embrace.
Aye, she could feel the heat of his arousal just a handspan from her own belly. Just as he pledged, he touched her with his lips alone.
He waited. He pleased. He urged her to join him.
And he savored. She peeked and found that Rowan’s eyes were closed, his expression blissful. That made her feel somewhat more desirable than she knew herself to be, and sent a feminine surge of pride rolling through her.
Rowan’s kiss was shared, not inflicted, and he was apparently as concerned with her response as with his own. She had some power in this match, she had some ability to coax his response, she had the right to halt their embrace.
And that alone persuaded her to continue.
Surely it could hurt naught to enjoy a single kiss? Surely she would be a fool not to savor such a moment?
Her decision made in a heartbeat, Ibernia opened her mouth to Rowan. He eased his tongue between her teeth, the way it flicked against hers making her heart pound. Ibernia closed her eyes and surrendered to that kiss; she let her tongue tangle with his.
Rowan caught his breath. He came yet closer, his lips more demanding than they had been before. ’Twas as if they fed from each other’s passion and coaxed the embers of a blaze to burn high. No less, they did it together, and that, for Ibernia, was the telling ingredient.
When Rowan finally lifted his head, she was honest enough to admit—at least to herself—that she was disappointed.
Then Rowan opened his eyes, revealing how they had darkened with desire. He smiled that slow smile that made Ibernia tingle, his gaze falling to her lips like a caress. She noticed that both of them were breathing quickly, that the cabin seemed astonishingly warm.
“Ninety-nine,” Rowan whispered. He arched a russet brow, clearly challenging her to not try to escape her wager. “ ’Tis your turn, I believe.”
There was a challenge in his voice, a hint that she would not keep her word, or that she would not return his kiss with the same gentle ardor he had shown.
But Ibernia would show Rowan that he was not the only one possessed of allure! She smiled, then eased an increment closer, ensuring that her breasts were a mere finger’s breadth from his chest.
She heard Rowan catch his breath and shook a finger gently at him. “Your hands will not move,” she reminded him.
Rowan swallowed and nodded once, his gaze dancing over her.
Ibernia had a fleeting sense that he did not know what to expect from her, and she savored the change of roles. She stretched to her toes and framed his face in her hands. She echoed his attack, sliding her lips across his several times before she slanted her mouth across his own with gentle demand.
Rowan moaned softly, the minute sound heating Ibernia’s blood yet further. She felt the tension within him, heard him catch his breath, felt the moment he surrendered to her embrace.
’Twas she who set the stakes this time, she who was in control. This was a new experience for Ibernia and one she intended to enjoy. She kissed Rowan with increasing intensity, nibbling on his lip, tangling her tongue with his, savoring the smell and the taste and the feel of him.
He kissed her back, matching her passion though he did not move his hands. The heat rose faster between them this time. Ibernia fairly tasted the heat of Rowan’s desire, his erection brushed against her belly, his every muscle drawn taut Yet he stood and let her take her pleasure, let her kiss him however she wanted.
That he would let her do this, that he would not seize what he so obviously desired, drove Ibernia on. She felt filled with a power that she had never sampled before. She was desirable, she was desired, yet she alone would say what came of it.
But when she finally broke their kiss, Ibernia knew her cheeks were flushed. Her breathing came quickly, even as Rowan’s did.
Their gazes locked and held. The air seemed to sizzle between them, naught but the creaking of the ship carrying to their ears.
Ibernia leaned back against the wall, feeling the heat of him, smelling his skin, seeing the way his hands had knotted into fists where they still were braced against the wall.
“One hundred,” Rowan whispered, his voice more uneven than Ibernia had expected. He exhaled shakily, then made to run a hand through his hair. He could not seem to tear his gaze away from her, though, and he did not step away.
That made Ibernia smile. She had shaken his composure, this knight who had more confidence than any she had ever known. She felt suddenly bold and impulsive—’twas the same impulsiveness at the root of her current troubles, but Ibernia did not care.
The sense of being in charge of her own destiny, however fleeting that influence might prove to be, was impossible to deny.
She eased closer, her gaze locked on his. She saw Rowan’s eyes widen, noted how his jaw tightened. She reached up and slid a fingertip down the side of his face, much as he had touched her earlier. She traced the strong line of his jaw, let her finger meander across his firm lips. She lifted her gaze to Rowan’s as she decided to succumb to temptation.
She stretched to her toes, fanned her fingers across his cheek, and let her breasts touch his chest. Rowan shivered. Ibernia smiled.
“Ninety-nine and a half,” she whispered with a wanton’s boldness, then touched her lips to his once more.
Rowan slanted his mouth across hers with purpose, and Ibernia surged against him. The hardness of his chest made her feel soft and feminine; the way his hands remained on the wall emboldened her. She ran her hands down his neck, across the breadth of his shoulders, then back to tangle in the luxuriant thickness of his hair. She arched against him as he kissed her deeply, knowing only that she wanted yet more and more.
Rowan groaned and he caught her against him. The strength of his hands bracketed her waist and lifted her against him. He backed her against the wall, one hand rising to cup her jaw as he kissed her thoroughly. Ibernia could only hold on and enjoy this unexpected pleasure. She matched him touch for touch, too lost in sensation to care at this path’s destination.
Until Rowan reached into her chemise and cupped her breast in his hand.
Ibernia caught her breath at the intimacy of his warm palm against her bare flesh, shuddered as his thumb slid across her nipple. She gasped and tore her lips from his, but Rowan, his expression intent, only bent to capture that tightened nipple in his lips. He suckled her gently and Ibernia closed her eyes. She clung to his shoulders, feeling faint with pleasure, until she suddenly realized what he did.
He was merely winning another wager. Rowan meant to seduce her with his touch, just as he had pledged, but the prize that hung in the balance was Ibernia’s freedom.
“Nay!” she cried, and pushed him away.
To her relief, Rowan immediately released her, though his eyes smoldered with desire. He surveyed her, his gaze lingering on the breast that now grew chilly without the luxury of his touch. He looked tousled and displeased, and Ibernia knew an inkling of dread that she was not truly in command of this situation.
“You pledged not to touch me,” she declared, hating how tremulous her word sounded. “You swore to keep your hands upon the wall.”
Rowan snorted, he shoved a hand through his hair. “Ye gods, Ibernia, a man can only bear so much,” he muttered, then paced the narrow expanse of the cabin. It took only two of his steps, but when he turned, Ibernia was glad of even that minute distance between them.
“I knew that you meant only to win our first wager with the second,” she charged.
Rowan arched a brow. “I beg you make your accusations more clearly. My thinking is addled at this moment.”
Ibernia wondered whether that was true. He looked so composed so quickly that she doubted as much. She pulled her stained chemise closed and folded her arms across her chest, wishing she could hide the fullness of her breasts from his gaze.
“We wagered that if I did not succumb to your charm before arriving at Ballyroyal, then you would release me there, rather than in a year and a day. And when you demanded a shower of kisses in exchange for Marika’s release, I knew you would make the most of that to win the first wager.”
Rowan looked unconvinced. “ ’Twas you, Ibernia, who made that last kiss what it was.” His gaze bored into hers, as if he would read her very thoughts, as if he guessed that she had truly desired him.
Against all good sense. Ibernia abruptly turned away.
Silence reigned in the small cabin, though there was a tension in the air. Ibernia hated that she was too well bred to leave the matter there.
“I thank you for winning Marika’s release,” she said grudgingly.
“The prize was well worth the price.”
Ibernia glanced up to find Rowan’s gaze warm upon her. She felt herself flush and hoped the poor light would hide her response. “You must say that to all the women you persuade to abandon good sense.”
He chuckled then, clearly not insulted by her cross tone. He sauntered across the cabin, but Ibernia defiantly held her ground. Her pulse quickened but she fought to hide any sign of her awareness of him.
Rowan halted before her, eyes twinkling merrily and tapped one fingertip playfully on the tip of her nose. “Ah, ma demoiselle, ’tis difficult to say who was most persuasive just moments past.” He surveyed her, his eyes gleaming gold. “ ’Tis not everyday that I abandon my pledge to a woman, no less that I forget it completely beneath her beguiling kiss.”
Ibernia’s cheeks heated and she heartily disliked how his confession pleased her. “Rogue! You only seek to win another kiss.” She straightened and refused to be charmed. “You have not enough coin to be buying the freedom of slaves in exchange for mere kisses. How do you intend to court a wealthy bride with so little left to your name?”
Rowan’s brow darkened. “How do you know how much coin I have?”
Ibernia shrugged. “I had to fetch Marika’s key, of course.”
Rowan glanced away, obviously displeased by this revelation. His fingers strayed to the purse, and Ibernia sensed that he was anxious to check its contents.
The very insinuation that she might be a thief was infuriating. “See for yourself,” she declared haughtily. “I took naught that was not mine to take. Indeed, if Thomas had not confessed that the key was there, I would never have opened your purse.”
To her disgust, Rowan did dump the contents of his pouch into his palm. How dare he not trust her? But ’twas not the coin that Rowan counted. Nay, his expression eased only when he saw that the golden ring was yet there. He ran a finger across it, almost reverently, then put everything back in place.
Ibernia watched him with narrowed eyes. “That ring is not worth so much to make a difference in your suit,” she observed.
Rowan impaled her with a glance. “Indeed, for no one, you know much of the value of jewellery. Nay, I would wager that you are a merchant’s daughter, that you fled a convent and had fortune turn against you.”
Ibernia backed away from his bright gaze. “I keep my ears open and my wits about me, ’tis all.” She tried to change the subject, to deflect his curiosity. “What is the import of that ring? Its value must be sentimental is all I imply, though I would never have guessed you to be sentimental.”
Rowan’s lips drew to a taut line. “ ’Tis not of import. I should prefer to know more of your tale.”
“And I should prefer to know more of that ring,” Ibernia retorted, well aware that they both were trying to turn the conversation in the direction they favored. “ ’Tis a lady’s ring, for ’tis too small for you, and too finely wrought to favor a man’s hand.”
“So, you are a goldsmith.”
“Nay, I am a woman with eyes in my head.” Ibernia made an intuitive guess. “ ’Tis the ring of the only woman who ever held your heart, I would wager, a token of her affections and a memento to cherish. What happened to her, that you are alone and so quick to spread your seed?”
Rowan’s features hardened. “You know naught of what you speak!”
The very glimpse of his anger told Ibernia that she was close to the truth. “Or is it the ring of the only woman you ever loved?” she challenged. “Perhaps the only one who ever spurned you?
Rowan’s eyes flashed. To Ibernia’s astonishment, he did not grace her guess with a reply. He spun and marched to the door, the speed of his departure telling her that she had hit upon the truth.
He said naught but walked straight out, his footsteps echoing solidly down the corridor, then fading away. Ibernia sagged against the wall, knowing in her heart that he would not return this night. She also knew she should not be troubled to know that Rowan’s heart was so securely held in thrall.
But troubled she most certainly was.
It must be the unfamiliarity of meat in her belly, Ibernia resolved. Aye, such a treat could hard upon a body. That alone must be why she could not sleep, even in the peaceful solitude of the cabin.
It could be no more than that.
Rowan did not like losing control of his passions. ’Twas unlike him, and the certainty that he had done so—no less with the infuriating Ibernia—was enough to keep him awake most of the night.
Aye, he wanted her, and he was not inclined to wait.
But he would not break his pledge. Even if the lady showed remarkable resistance to his kiss.
Perhaps that alone was key to her appeal.
Rowan paced and he prowled, he drummed his fingers, he whistled tunelessly. When the sky began to pinken, he took to the decks, pacing off his frustration. He found Thomas and Marika asleep in the kitchen and ate part of a trencher of bread soaked in gravy.
His belly, to his relief, did not spurn the offering.
Rowan did not return to their cabin, for he did not know what he would do if he did. ’Twas not the most reassuring thought he had ever had.
Even hours absent from her presence and long after his blood should have cooled, Rowan stood on the deck desiring Ibernia.
And she had made her own lack of desire for him more than clear.
’Twas no good sign that she seemed intent upon unveiling the few secrets Rowan had. He closed his hand possessively over his purse and took a deep breath of the salt-tinged wind.
Even when he closed his eyes, he could see her. The way she faced him with defiance, the snap in her eyes, the proud tilt to her chin. The curve of her breast visible though the gape in her stained chemise. The sweet weight of that breast in his hand. The sigh that escaped her lips when she yielded to his touch.
Rowan’s mouth went dry as he recalled the look of wonder in Ibernia’s eyes when she stretched to kiss him that last time. That kiss had not been due; she had offered it of her own volition.
Without fear. Aye, there had been desire shining in the sapphire depths of her eyes.
The sight of it had nigh been his undoing. The woman addled his wits, there was no doubt about it. Why else would he have revealed the import of that ring? Rowan heaved a sigh at his own weakness, clenched his fists at his sides, and walked.
Ibernia was naught but a woman. Another woman in a long string of women for Rowan, her willingness naught unusual in his experience. Only the thrill of victory intrigued him, the prospect of changing her fear to delight. Aye, she was naught but a woman who, soon enough, he would never see again.
After all, he was a man who desired naught in his life. No obligations, no responsibilities, no due owing to any master. ’Twas why he sought an heiress, a woman who would continue upon her own course with no need for turn.
Rowan preferred women who expected naught and had naught to lose. Widows. Whores. Perhaps an heiress. She might want a son, but that was a duty he could fulfill. Aye, Rowan had seen evidence enough that marriages had naught to do with shared lives or even shared objectives. He was confident that he could strike a bargain with any woman he chose to court.
’Twas fortunate for him that Ibernia would not be among the candidates. There was a woman who defied every expectation!
Rowan deliberately summoned the visage of the charming widow he had sampled in Paris; the two sisters at his brother Burke’s wedding festivities just weeks past at Montvieux; the enthusiastic romp he had savored en route to those festivities with …
Rowan frowned, displeased when Ibernia’s rare smile intruded upon his recollections.
Nay, that one had not been blonde. Her hair had been long, he had been certain of it. Curly, aye, that was it, and her face was …
Rowan took a bracing breath of morning air as the sun nudged over the horizon and paced with new vigor. He had to loosen Ibernia’s grip upon him—the fact that she denied him seized his imagination, no more than that.
’Twas decided in that moment. Rowan would win his wager with Ibernia, and before this ship docked in Dublin. After all, he should not be pondering the seduction of his lovely slave. There were greater issues at hand. He was on a bride quest, after all.
Aye, Rowan should be thinking about the courtship of one Bronwyn of Ballyroyal. That was the matter that should consume his attention. There was the victory he needed to prove not one but both of his brothers—and his foster-mother—dead wrong.
The stakes were not small. Failing to win the hand of the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland could ensure that his purse was never readily loaded with coins again. Rowan felt a shiver of dread. Would Margaux truly cut him off from her fortune?
She was riled, there was no doubt of that. And when Margaux was angered, she struck with the surety of a viper.
He stared at the ruffled surface of the sea, now tinged with a fine coral hue, and knew he had to win his brothers’ dare.
Even though Ibernia was right that his coin thinned overmuch. Rowan would have a hard time lavishing gifts upon this heiress, no less because undoubtedly she was already in possession of everything she had always wanted. And he knew well enough how pampered women loved expensive gifts.
Why had he not considered this before? He should have brought treasures from Paris, wonders that would catch such a woman’s eye, silks and perfumes that she would not know!
But he, characteristically, had been too impatient to begin, too impetuous and assured of success, to trouble himself with such petty details.
Rowan’s lips thinned as he acknowledged his flicker of doubt. He wished Ibernia had not been so very right about his disappearing coin.
He wished Ibernia had not kissed so very sweetly. The errant recollection of her nipple tightening under his hand tormented him in that moment.
Nor indeed that she should have been so hesitant to share her charms. The woman was a distraction and one most unwelcome! Rowan growled in frustration and made to pace the length of the deck once more.
But when he pivoted, ’twas a disgruntled Baldassare di Vilonte he found in his path. The man was angry and rumpled beyond expectation, with a reddened bump on his temple. He looked fit to fight, and Rowan took a wary step back.
“A good morning to you,” Rowan said with false cheer. He added a smile designed to melt any opposition.
“ ’Tis no good morning and you know it well,” the captain snarled. “ ’Twas a black day that ever I took the lot of you aboard my vessel, and it cannot be soon enough that I am rid of you.”
Rowan deliberately hid his alarm. This man could not put them ashore sooner than Dublin! Not only could he not bear to endure another arrival and departure, another ship and another negotiation, but he doubted he had the coin to see the matter resolved.
’Twas a new sensation, to fret over coin, and one most unwelcome. Rowan did not intend to let it become a permanent situation in his life. But he knew all too well that there were many ports along the way and ’twould be far too easy to direct this vessel to one.
Baldassare did not look indulgent this morn.
Rowan wondered where he had acquired that bump on his brow and felt a slight inkling of dread. It could not be insignificant that this fastidious man allowed himself to be seen in such a state.
What had happened last night?
“I have paid more than adequate passage to Dublin,” he said with bravado. “And ’tis only in Dublin we shall disembark.”
“Only because I have not the time to enter another port.” Baldassare snarled. “But you will not be about the ship, and you will not leave your cabin, and you will not buy the freedom of slaves, and you will not allow your wife to cross my path again.”
“Again?”
“Again. That is no gentlewoman you wed, and, indeed, I pity you the humiliation of enduring her sorry excuse for manners.”
Rowan frowned, sensing that he had missed part of this tale. “What would you know of my lady’s manners?”
“What would I not know of them!” Baldassare snorted. “ ’Twas disgusting to watch her lay waste to a decent meal and a fine table! Indeed, I cannot imagine the magnitude of crime that would compel a man to witness her eating again. You shall keep her confined to that cabin, for ’tis rightly said that a woman has no place upon a ship.”
Rowan folded his arms across his chest, having a very good idea what had happened. Aye, Ibernia’s chemise had been stained last eve when he awakened, but not before.
“What meal would this have been?” he asked, letting frost filter into his tone. “I specifically recall declining your kind invitation for a meal last eve.”
Baldassare snorted. “A woman should not starve because her spouse is ill. Indeed, the very fact that you expected as much inclines me to believe that you two barbarians are deserving of each other!”
Rowan dropped his hand to the hilt of his blade. “You will not insult my lady wife!”
“And I shall not bear the cost of the damage she has wrought,” the captain retorted. “Clearly I erred in fearing the steed’s wreckage alone.”
“Damage? What damage?”
Rowan saw then that Baldassare carried a pot. The man produced it from behind his back and shook its contents at Rowan. Whatever the shards within it had been, they glittered in the morning sunlight like gemstones.
Shattered gemstones.
Rowan lifted his gaze to the other man, summoning every increment of his disdain. “And this would be?”
“A fine pitcher and two wine goblets wrought of Murano glass,” Baldassare supplied hotly. “They were particularly fine specimens, of my collection, and I demand compensation for their loss.”
Rowan arched a brow. “I should recompense you for these shards, on the basis of your own assessment alone? I did not even see these goblets before. How am I to know their worth?”
“By my word!”
“Which will set the measure of your own compensation?” Rowan shook his head. “I think not.”
Baldassare took a step forward, his expression grim. “You will pay, or you will swim.”
Rowan deliberately gauged the distance to the shoreline misted in the distance, as if he had a choice. In truth, he had none, and Baldassare knew it, but Rowan would not be extorted so readily as that. “You have my deposit already.”
“And ’tis clear I may need its reassurance, given the damage already sustained. Indeed, we are but a single day out of London’s port. St. Mark himself could not guess what you might manage in the three days passage remaining!”
Rowan hoped ’twas less than it had been thus far. “Surely ’tis only reasonable to consider my wife’s tale of events?”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Do you call me a liar?”
“Nay, but ’tis clear you held this glass in affection and, like any token held in esteem, you may have overrated its charms.” Rowan softened his charge with a smile, though he held the captain’s gaze steadily. “I would have my wife’s assessment to compare with your own.” He shrugged. “ ’Tis simply good business.”
“This is no business wager!” Baldassare cried. “This is an insult, an insult that requires compensation. The longer you wait, the higher the price will be.”
He clamped his lips tightly and seemed to rein in his emotions, then leaned closer. His eyes were so cold that Rowan stifled a shiver. “Do not imagine, sir, that you could not disappear from this vessel, never to be seen again.”
“How much?” Rowan put as much impatience into his tone as he dared, as if he bored of the discussion.
Baldassare named a price and Rowan, even though he had braced himself, very nearly flinched.
“And I thought you were a merchant, not a thief,” he muttered.
Baldassare held out his hand.
Rowan exhaled mightily, then dug in his purse, cursing Ibernia under his breath. The woman would see him beggared.
And had she not said she would love to see him lose his suit for this Bronwyn’s hand? Rowan’s fingers stilled in sudden realization.
Had she done this apurpose?
He could not discredit the possibility, given her obvious desire to win her wager. ’Twas a tactic fitting of his usual deeds with his brothers! Ye gods, he would teach her not to push him overmuch!
The other man snatched up the coins as soon as Rowan presented them. Baldassare would have marched away, but Rowan hailed him. “The glass, if you please.”
“ ’Tis of no use to you!”
“I would argue that. And indeed, I have just paid a hefty price for it.”
“I would keep it.”
“Then you truly are a thief, not a merchant, as you so claim.”
The men glared at each other for a long moment, then the captain spat once on the deck. He tossed the crockery vessel to Rowan, then marched away, his mood not visibly improved. He ran one hand over his tabard, evidently intending to smooth its rumpled state, then looked at his hand in horror.
Rowan, however, was not interested in whatever souvenir Baldassare had found. He shook the contents of the pot until they jingled and felt his lips thin.
He had other matters to resolve.
Before Ibernia spent every last coin he possessed.