ince she could not sleep, Ibernia spent the night mustering her resistance. Aye, if she did not steel herself against Rowan, she would yield to his touch and lose the possibility of early freedom. ’Twould be too painful to be home and be unable to remain—and who knew where this unpredictable man might find himself in a year and a day? Ibernia did not even want to imagine.
Nay, she had to win.
So she could not afford to think about Rowan. Not the gentleness of his touch, not the languor of his kiss, not the way his eyes gleamed when she brushed her lips across his.
Certainly not the pleasure of his lips exploring hers.
Nay, anything but that!
Ibernia rolled over in the narrow cot. She could not think about how tall or how broad Rowan was, how alluring his smile, how cursedly cocky he was about his handsome features. She would be better to not even acknowledge that he was handsome, certainly not to admit that he was the most handsome rogue she had ever met. The twinkle in his eye tempted her to smile too readily, so she had best ignore her recollection of that.
She certainly could not afford to think about the weight of his hand upon her bare breast.
Ibernia shivered involuntarily and rolled to her other side. If her flesh had burned from his kisses, that was naught compared to the tingle in her nipple that would not cease. Aye, it throbbed, even now, as if it yearned for his touch again. His hand had been so warm, his fingers so strong, yet his touch was tempered with tenderness.
’Twas all a ruse, and Ibernia knew it well. The man manipulated her with his charm to bend her to his will. But she would not fall prey to Rowan de Montvieux. Nay, not she. She was clever enough to foil his plan. She knew the truth of relations between women and men, she had experienced enough of how men were.
Even if Rowan defied expectation at every turn. Ibernia gritted her teeth, stared at the ceiling, and mustered her resistance with every increment of determination she possessed.
But ’twas all for naught in the end. For the very moment that Rowan sauntered over the threshold of the cabin, that resistance abandoned her.
Completely.
Ibernia sat up, fighting her urge to study Rowan openly. Instead she lifted her chin and met his gaze, hoping hers snapped with defiance. “What do you want of me?”
Rowan smiled and shook his head, that wicked twinkle in his eyes not aiding Ibernia in the least. “Now, there,” he murmured, “is a weighted question indeed.”
Their gazes locked and held across the narrow space. Ibernia could not seem to take a breath; she could not halt her gaze from dropping to his lips. Her own burned in recollection of his kisses, she felt her nipple rise to a point, as if it would welcome his touch once more.
Curse its betrayal—’twould beckon him closer.
Rowan had the audacity to smile. He smiled slowly, as if to remind her of how his lips felt against her own.
’Twas a practiced feat, no doubt.
Ibernia rose abruptly and folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to stifle the annoying tingle. “Why did you return this morn? If ’tis for more kisses, you are destined to be disappointed.”
“Am I?” Rowan strolled into the cabin, his presence making the space feel even smaller than it was. His eyes narrowed as he halted just a pace away from her, and it seemed his smile chilled slightly. “You may be fortunate to escape with merely a kiss after what you have just cost me.”
Ibernia knew better than to fear this man. He would never hurt her and she knew it well. “I cost you naught but an affront to your pride!”
He laughed then. Ibernia glared at him and jumped when he brushed the tip of his finger across the end of her nose. It was a surprisingly playful gesture, one that caught her unawares, one that still made her thrum with yearning for more of his touch.
And he knew it well. She set her lips and held his gaze as if unaffected, wondering whether he truly was fooled. Rowan seemed untroubled by her response, though he looked down so quickly that she could not see what lingered in his eyes. He lifted a crockery vessel and shook it between them.
The jingle made Ibernia look within it.
“I am told that you were responsible for the destruction of this particularly fine Murano glass.”
Ibernia flushed. She stared at the shards of glass, feeling Rowan’s gaze upon her. She swallowed as she noted the distinctive swirl of a goblet stem, the twist of a pitcher handle.
She glanced up to find Rowan considering her and did not doubt he had glimpsed her guilt.
One russet brow arched high. “Interestingly enough, it seems our captain did not lie.”
“Nay, but neither did he tell you all of the truth,” Ibernia replied. “What else could I do? He locked me in his cabin, he intended to have his due from me. I fended for myself as well as I was able.”
Rowan’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, his voice dropped low. “But what were you doing in his cabin, ma demoiselle?”
She swallowed. “I was invited.”
“I had already declined that invitation.”
“I know, but …”
Rowan’s eyes flashed. “You knew, but still you went willingly to a private meal with this man? What of your promise to remain in this cabin, with the door barred?”
“You cannot tell me what to do!”
“Nay?”
“Oh, indeed, you have bought me, so now you believe you can decree whether I eat a hot meal or not. How could I have forgotten?”
“Sarcasm does not favor you.” Rowan shoved one hand through his hair and frowned at her. “Ibernia, you were welcome to eat, but not with him.”
“Will you approve of all my activities? Truly I have never had a master so very diligent!”
“Ibernia!” Rowan bit back something and clearly fought for control. He backed her into the corner and she felt a flicker of uncertainty at the unholy blaze in his eyes. “Is it so reprehensible that I have concern for your welfare?”
’Twas not reprehensible and he knew it, just as Ibernia knew she had erred. She had broken her promise but she dared not admit it, for fear of softening to his appeal. “You would save me only for yourself,” she charged, though there was no heat in her words.
Rowan made a sound of frustration. “I thought you were a woman with some wits about her! Could you not see that this man is concerned only with his own advantage? Merchants can be bought and sold like so much chattel—and our captain is no different!”
The insult against her own family’s class would not pass uncontested—if it was, Ibernia would look overlong into Rowan’s amber gaze and forget all her reasons to resist him.
She certainly would not admit to this man that he was right.
“You are quick to condemn the merchants!” she countered. “How many tales does one hear of knights changing loyalty to the side most likely to win? Of landowners caring only for their own advantage? Why, you have only to look at happenings in Ireland of late to see that nobles are not above seeing their own needs served first!”
“You pose a spirited defense of merchants.” Rowan’s voice was soft, his gaze assessing. “As if you have a personal interest in their dignity.”
Ibernia drew back and considered him, realizing too late that she had said too much. Her heart began to pound.
Rowan shook the glass between them. “I have had to pay recompense for this foolishness of yours, a payment which cuts yet again into my increasingly limited finances.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A better bargain.” He smiled, though the expression was not reassuring.
Ibernia thought of hungry wolves and backed into the wall without realizing that she did so. “I will not surrender to your touch.”
Rowan shrugged. “You will, but ’tis not of import to this discussion.”
His confidence did little to ease Ibernia’s fears. Indeed, the words she managed to force past her lips sounded too strained to be her own. “What do you desire then?”
Rowan set the pot between them on the floor and propped his hands upon his hips as he studied her. “Honesty.”
The word was so unexpected that Ibernia blinked and stared at him. This man wanted honesty from her?
Rowan’s sudden grin caught her by surprise. “And your aid in winning the hand of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”
“What could I do to persuade this stranger to take your hand?” Ibernia scoffed. “And what further honesty do you want of me? I have told you all you need to know.”
“Liar.” Rowan enunciated the word carefully, though there was no censure in his tone. “I do not condemn you for keeping your secrets to yourself. But you know more of the ways of Ireland than you admit, and I would wager my own blade that this Bronwyn is no stranger to you. Are you friends? Confidantes? You could do much to aid my suit.”
Ibernia lifted her chin. “But I would so like to see you lose,” she declared with a measure of her usual spirit.
Rowan chuckled. He braced his hands on either side of her shoulders, and Ibernia knew he heard her quick intake of breath.
To her surprise, his expression was deadly serious. “But I am not inclined to lose this wager, even if it costs me all else. You will aid me.” He nudged the crock with his toe. “For indeed, you have already seen my resources quickly depleted. You owe me this.”
“I owe you naught!”
Rowan shrugged and turned away. “As I truly owe you naught.”
Ibernia felt a sudden dread. “What is that to mean? You bought me!”
“And I can sell you.” Rowan seemed to be feigning indifference, and she wished she could read him well enough to be certain. “Is that not what merchants do? Buy and sell to suit their own advantage? Truly, Ibernia, you are woefully expensive as a slave, particularly one who grants little value to her master.”
Ibernia caught her breath. “You would not do it! We have a wager and a bargain for my winning my freedom.”
“And you have already accused my rank of being faithless.” Rowan’s tone was most reasonable. “What little ’twould cost me to prove you right in this. Truly, my purse could use the coin.”
“But there is none to whom you could sell me,” she challenged, her eyes widening in realization as Rowan smiled.
“Ma bella,” he murmured, his gaze filled with mischief.
Ibernia’s mouth went dry. “You would not. You could not.” She sought a reason why he should not do this thing and found none. Indeed, she had relied heavily upon his sense of honor, and could think of no other compelling reason for him to keep her.
Because the problem was that she could not guess what Rowan would do.
And he knew it, curse him!
He arched a brow, his eyes gleaming, as if he would dare her to tempt him. What a vexingly unpredictable man he was!
Oh, she should have sacrificed herself to his touch last evening! Perhaps then he would believe she had value.
Though none of her other masters had.
She met his gaze and summoned her most challenging stare. “I do not believe you would do this thing,” she declared. “I believe you have more honor than that.”
Rowan chuckled, not the most reassuring sound he might have made. “Why do you not dare me?” His words were silky soft and Ibernia guessed that any challenge would do little to change his mind. He was determined to win the wager already made with his brothers, and that alone would guide his choices.
Regardless of how that affected her.
But still she had to try to sway his choice. Ibernia could not quickly compose the dare to ensure her goal was achieved, the fact that Rowan eased closer doing naught to aid her concentration. He halted before her, her mouth went dry, and she stared at the floor as she tried to muster the words she needed.
Sadly, the lean strength of his legs interrupted the view and distracted her from the argument.
“You intrigue me, ma demoiselle” he whispered, and she closed her eyes against the waft of his breath far too close to her ear. “Other women would offer kisses or more to win their way, but you argue like a man.” His lips feathered across her cheek and Ibernia felt herself tremble. “Do you think your feminine charms so little worthy of merit as that?”
The heat of his mouth closed over her earlobe and Ibernia’s resistance slipped dangerously. All too soon, she sagged against the wall, felt herself turn to touch her lips to his.
Rowan’s lips closed over hers and Ibernia’s will dissolved beneath his sure touch. For the moment, she did not care that he manipulated her apurpose. For the moment, she wanted naught but Rowan’s kiss.
Though, indeed, that kiss granted her the answer she sought.
Ibernia told herself that she had to surrender to stay his hand. Proving her value to Rowan was far preferable to becoming a possession of Baldassare di Vilonte. Even a year and a day beneath Rowan’s hand—a man who had shown himself to be reasonably fair—was far preferable to lifetime in slavery to one who had proven himself precisely the opposite.
’Twas no more than a sensible decision that had Ibernia opening her mouth to that kiss. She immediately felt dread well up within her, for that deed between men and women had never been a sweet moment for her, but Ibernia knew what she had to do.
A woman of resolve could endure anything once.
Rowan had never expected Ibernia to welcome his touch. He certainly had never expected her to surrender with a sweet yearning that made him both anxious to please her and desperate to have her.
’Twas too tempting to have his desire find an echo within her. Rowan slanted his mouth across hers possessively, fully expecting her to twist away, but Ibernia opened her mouth to him.
She lifted her hands to his shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed and, almost as an act of will, she leaned against his chest.
Rowan’s heart thundered. He felt her trepidation, sensed her uncertainty, was awed that she put her trust in him. There was a plea in her kiss, an entreaty for tenderness, that a man less experienced in the arts of love might have missed.
But Rowan heard it and it tore at his heart. His certainty that he was glimpsing a vulnerability that Ibernia would have preferred to hide made him feel protective of her. She was by no means a weak woman, yet he could wound her deeply, at least in this moment.
Rowan had no intention of doing so. Clearly she had been hurt by her couplings with men in the past. If naught else, he would leave her with an understanding of both her own allure and the pleasure that could be found between a man and a woman.
Indeed, Rowan could not have thought of a candidate more perfect for the task than himself. He caught Ibernia against him, deepened his kiss, and revelled in her unwilling moan of pleasure. Oh, he would be thorough, he would make the most of this opportunity. ’Twould take a goodly measure of the morning, or perhaps the day, to see matters set to rights.
He almost smiled in anticipation of the way she would thank him.
Rowan lifted his head reluctantly when Thomas knocked on the door. He watched Ibernia’s eyes open, noted her quick glance upward and the faint flush that stained her cheeks. Rowan smiled down at her, taking his leisure in ensuring that she understood he, too, was pleased.
“My lord?” Thomas cleared his throat.
’Twas only when Ibernia tore her gaze from Rowan’s and swallowed that he turned to his squire with a grin. He surrendered the lady’s embrace with reluctance, anxious only to ensure their privacy once again.
With certain amendments to the current situation.
“Good morn, Thomas.”
“You are better this morn, sir?”
“Aye, I am as hale and hearty as ever I was.” Rowan winked. “Though whether ’tis the open sea or the pleasure of the company, I cannot begin to guess.”
Rowan watched Thomas look between the two of them and grin. “I trust you slept well?”
“Aye, my lord.” Thomas bowed. “The steeds are tended already this morn and seem well enough, though Troubador is feisty.”
“ ’Tis only natural he be restless in such confinement, though there is little that can be done for it. And Marika?”
The slavewoman peeked out from behind Thomas, offering a shy smile. “She seems well enough, my lord, but …” Thomas’s brow knotted in a frown.
While Rowan could imagine that the boy did not appreciate the woman’s company, he was disinclined to do much about it in this moment.
“But naught, Thomas,” he said firmly. “You do me a great favor in ensuring she is well. I have a task for you this morn, and then you may amuse yourself.”
“Aye?” The boy’s countenance brightened.
“Aye. Ibernia and I have need of a decent bath.” Rowan heard Ibernia inhale and almost smiled. ’Twould be a fine way to spend the morn, and telling that she was too shocked to protest.
“Several pails of hot water will suffice, if you can persuade the cook to part with the water. I suppose we could bathe in salt water if naught else can be had. But it must be hot, and I will part with no more coin to see it done.”
Thomas nodded and bowed, and Rowan beckoned to Marika as the boy darted away to complete his task.
Rowan gestured to the pieces of wool and made a stitching motion with his hand. “You must finish this today,” he told her, uncertain how much she understood. He gestured to Ibernia. “So the lady has something to wear.” He touched Ibernia’s chemise and grimaced.
Marika nodded in quick agreement and undoubtedly would have sat on the floor to take up her work, but Rowan shook his head. “Nay, you must take the work with you.” She looked up at him, her expression blank, and Rowan gestured to the door.
Marika promptly abandoned her needlework and made to leave.
“Nay!” Rowan scooped up the wool and pressed it into her hands. Marika considered him with some confusion, then shrugged and sat down again, preparing to thread a needle.
Rowan looked up and found Ibernia smiling. The very sight quickened his blood and made him anxious to have Marika on her way. He quickly repeated his gestures, confusing the slavewoman all over again.
Rowan refused to concede that his mother had been right when she counselled him to be more diligent with his studies, that awareness of languages would serve him well. Though French was his first language, he fared well enough in the common tongue of England.
Marika, sadly, seemed familiar with neither of his options. Rowan gritted his teeth, preparing to repeat the whole ordeal once again for lack of other choice, but Ibernia intervened. She flashed Rowan a sparkling glance so unexpected that it struck him silent for a moment.
Then he realized that she was laughing at him, at his incompetence, and was doubly irked. Trust all to go awry when he meant to seduce this woman! ’Twas one thing to tempt a woman’s laughter by choice, another to unwittingly prompt her laughter by one’s inabilities.
Not that Rowan had many of those. Ibernia seemed to bring out the worst of them. He folded his arms across his chest and watched as she bent over the slavewoman.
He would not admire the ripe perfection of Ibernia’s buttocks. Rowan thought again of her intent to pass as a boy and nearly snorted aloud.
It seemed he was not alone in foolish whims, and that realization did much to restore his mood.
Ibernia spoke softly and though she said much the same thing as Rowan, she gestured differently. She pointed to Marika and the needlework, then made a sewing gesture. Marika nodded with enthusiasm, then chattered away in some incomprehensible tongue, her hands moving like quicksilver. Ibernia nodded approval, then took the woman’s hand, lilting her to her feet and ensuring that all of the sewing was in her arms.
Marika looked confused and Rowan folded his arms with satisfaction. Here was where the matter became troubled! He knew Ibernia would fare no better than he.
But she pointed to the door, giving Marika a little push, ensuring she held on to the wool when she might have put it down. Marika frowned. She pointed to the floor, then repeated the movement of sewing. Ibernia pointed to the hall, following with the same gesture. Marika’s gaze slid between Ibernia and Rowan and she pursed her lips.
She indicated herself once more, made the sewing gesture, and pointed emphatically to the floor. Ibernia shook her head, pointed to Marika and the hall. Then she indicated herself and Rowan, pointed to the narrow pallet, and pushed her right index finger into the loose fist she made of her left hand. She pumped it a couple of times, to ensure the meaning was not lost.
Marika gasped. Both women blushed. It seemed Marika could not look at Rowan any longer, and though he dearly wanted to laugh, he did not dare to do so. The slavewoman hastily gathered up all of her materials, then fled out the door without a backward glance.
Before Rowan could say anything, Thomas returned with two steaming buckets of water, his expression mutinous. “I have to haul slops in exchange,” he said darkly.
Rowan’s grin finally broke free, though Thomas undoubtedly thought it poorly timed.
“ ’Tis not amusing in the least!” the boy complained.
“Nay ’tis not,” Rowan agreed, and bit back his errant smile again. “Take but one bucket and disappear. The cook has no business demanding your aid. And after all, you must ensure Marika’s safety. If he troubles you about the matter, tell him to speak with me.”
“Aye, my lord.” Thomas grinned then ran back out into the shadowed corridor. “Marika!”
Rowan flicked the door shut with his fingertips. The latch fell into place with a click. “Now, where were we?” he mused, leaning back against it and surrendering fully to his impulse to grin. “Ah, I know. You were teaching Marika obscene gestures.”
Ibernia did not smile. “It worked, did it not?”
“Indeed.” Rowan bowed low. “I am much impressed with your cleverness.” He stepped closer and caught her hand in his. Ibernia stared at him, her eyes wide and the flicker of a pulse at her throat. “As I was impressed by your fleeting smile.”
The lady looked away.
“Smile for me,” Rowan cajoled.
“I cannot.” Ibernia shook her head, her expression grim. “Not now, not when this prospect is before us.”
“Ah, but that is precisely when you should smile.” Rowan bent and bestowed a feather-light kiss on one corner of her mouth. Ibernia watched him, almost poised to flee.
’Twas galling to realize how she dreaded this, no less what must be at root of her fears. Rowan’s admiration for Ibernia’s resolve redoubled.
He kissed her on the other corner of her mouth. “ ’Tis not so very difficult to smile,” he whispered, his lips a finger’s breadth from hers. “I have seen you do it.”
She was pale with the fear of what they would do, and Rowan knew they would do naught unless she could summon some enthusiasm for the deed. He brushed his lips across hers gently and she shivered.
“I would never hurt you,” he murmured, holding her gaze as if he would persuade her with his own steady glance. Her uncertainty might have been unflattering to a man less convinced of his own abilities than Rowan.
He brushed another fleeting kiss across her lips, lingering tellingly for the merest heartbeat. “Have I ever hurt you?”
“Nay.”
“Then why imagine I would now?”
Ibernia swallowed. “ ’Tis unavoidable.”
Rowan chuckled and treated himself to another taste of her lips, letting his mouth tease her lips until she parted them in response. “Only to clumsy fools.” He lifted his gaze to hers once more. “Do you believe me a clumsy fool?”
“Nay.” Her word was breathless, but that fear still lit her magnificent eyes.
“An inexpert lover?”
Ibernia released a soundless laugh, though still there was no smile. “Nay.”
“A man whose kiss is offensive?” Rowan treated her to his most engaging grin. “Poorly executed?”
“Nay,” she whispered, then caught her breath when Rowan stole another tiny kiss. “And nay.”
He grazed his lips along her jawline, noting how her lips parted and her eyes closed. Her body at least seemed amenable to his plans. Rowan could work with that.
And indeed, he would. Slowly, languorously, thoroughly.
Ibernia’s breath caught as he kissed beneath her ear. He let his hand trail down her neck on the other side, his fingertips enchanted by the softness of her skin. He cupped her jaw in his hand, kissed her ear, her temple, her cheek. He hovered just above her lips, waiting for her to open her eyes and acknowledge him before he claimed her lips again.
Her eyes flew open, all wide clear blue. Her gaze raked over him, and she seemed to recall herself. She straightened, her first instinct clearly to fight or flee, but Rowan had seen this in her before.
He would see her shaken of these impulses before he halted. He bent, pleased that she did not pull away. He closed his mouth over hers, his kiss slow and deliberate. There was no rush this day, and he continued his leisurely kiss, coaxing her lips to part, touching his tongue to hers, urging her to embrace him in return.
He knew the very moment she responded. Her gasp was like a flint being struck. She shivered and rose against him, her hands tentatively twining around his neck.
But ’twas how Rowan favored this lady. Determined to grant and to have her own share. She must have been sorely used to abandon that stance in any facet of her life, and its return fed his desire as naught else could have done. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, ensuring that he pushed no further than she was willing to go.
When he finally lifted his head, her cheeks were flushed. There was a sparkle in her eyes that he glimpsed just before she averted her gaze.
“No smile?” he teased.
Ibernia flicked a quick half smile his way, though her gaze fixed on the steaming buckets with apparent fascination.
“You should grant the gift of your smile more often,” he said softly. “ ’Tis bewitching.”
The lady stepped away, her smile fading to naught. “You do not fool me,” she charged, though her tone was more breathless than scathing. “ ’Twas the obscene gesture—or better yet, its import—that bewitched you.”
Rowan laughed, he could not help it. “Nay, I was bewitched afore,” he admitted, his words turning more husky than he had anticipated. “When you smiled on the docks.”
Ibernia pivoted and stared at him, apparently uncertain whether to believe him. Their gazes locked and held for a timeless and telling moment. Indeed, neither of them took a breath; the cabin seemed suddenly overwarm from the steaming water.
Rowan knew ’twas true, there had been something about Ibernia that touched him as no other woman had done, even on that first day. He hoped he saw a similar acknowledgment in her eyes but could not be certain whether his hope colored his vision.
But either way, he was concerned that he not disappoint the lady. He told himself that was only because he took pride in his labor, even a labor of love, but Rowan knew that was a lie. ’Twas the way Ibernia’s eyes widened, the flick of fear that she quickly suppressed, the hundreds of tiny signs that told him she had not savored her adventures abed. She was uncertain, but she was forcing herself to trust him.
Him. Rowan had never felt the weight of responsibility quite so acutely. To his astonishment, the burden was not so ungainly as he had always expected it to be. Perhaps that was only because their objectives were as one in this.
And Rowan knew, without doubt, that his fascination with Ibernia would end with the having of her. If he was not sated the first time, then the third or the sixth or the tenth would see it done. ’Twould be easy to walk away once they reached Ballyroyal, both he and Ibernia having won their desire.
Rowan looked into the fathomless sapphire of her eyes and was not quite as certain of that as he would have liked to be.
He made a jest to cover the moment, as was his wont. “What man of merit would not be intrigued to know what lingered beneath this gravy-embellished garb?”
He lifted his fingers to the knotted tie of Ibernia’s chemise. He bent and pressed a kiss beneath her ear, feeling her tremble and feeling less alone in his trepidation.
“We must hasten before the water cools,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she agreed breathlessly, and pushed away his hands. Her own dropped to the ties of her chausses and shook as she undid the knot. As Rowan watched in surprise, she wiggled out of those chausses and kicked them aside, rolling to her back on the narrow pallet and parting her thighs.
He did not even have the chance to enjoy the lean perfection of her legs, the hued tan of her flesh, the glimpse of the treasure between her thighs.
“I am as prepared as ever I will be,” she said briskly. She closed her eyes, clearly expecting him to leap atop her and do the deed, then turned her face to the wall.
Rowan’s enthusiasm waned in the face of her manner. He turned away crossly and hauled his tabard over his head. “Indeed, ma demoiselle, I have had whores who showed more desire than this.”
“Is enthusiasm not what they are paid to feign?”
“That is not the point,” Rowan retorted, then took a deep breath. When he continued, his voice was more steady. “You misunderstood my meaning. I intended that we bathe first.”
“Ah, my lack of clean garb disgusts you. I understand.” Ibernia’s words were toneless. She straightened and reached for a cloth, but Rowan caught at her hand.
“You have misunderstood me,” he said in a low voice when her gaze rose to his in alarm. “I ask that you cease in your efforts to hurry events.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is no need for haste,” Rowan assured her. “I ask only that you cease to fret, that you savor the moment.”
But the expression on Ibernia’s face told him that she could not even conceive of doing that. Well, Rowan de Montvieux was not a man who surrendered a challenge readily, and, clearly, seducing Ibernia was going to be a greater challenge than even he had anticipated.
’Twas fortunate indeed that she had chosen the right man for this task.