bernia was terrified. Not only was Rowan going to take his pleasure with her, but he intended to take days at the task. She did not know how she would survive—indeed, what intimacy she had endured had lasted but moments and left her in pain for a long time afterward.
If he were as thorough as he threatened, she might never walk in comfort again. All the same, Ibernia knew that whatever Rowan demanded of her, ’twould be small in comparison with whatever Baldassare believed his due.
She would not question her faith in that, though she hoped hers was not some misguided optimism.
Or impulsiveness. She closed her eyes and cursed impulsiveness soundly.
Rowan had already discarded his hauberk, the clatter of its fall to the floor making Ibernia jump. She watched through her lashes as he shed his chemise with a casual gesture, his gaze averted from her own. Ibernia’s eyes widened at the sight of his nudity, the tanned expanse of his chest, the russet river of hair on his chest. He seemed to fill the cabin, even more than he had before. Ibernia could smell the heat of his flesh; she found herself watching the flex of his muscles as he lay his belt and scabbard aside.
And she was profoundly grateful that he seemed oblivious to her presence. That alone granted her the opportunity to study him, a deed she would never have imagined to interest her, certainly not as much as it did.
He had folded his tabard and his chemise, much to her astonishment, and took care in laying his belt aside. The scabbard with its fine sword and his dagger were handled with even greater care, and she realized that though Rowan would have all believe he cared for naught, that was far from the truth.
She wondered what he valued most of all and knew she could die wondering. This man would confess naught to anyone, especially a slave with whom he took his pleasure.
She wondered whether he would tell Bronwyn of Ballyroyal such secret truths, then his efficient movements distracted her from that direction of thought.
He would soon be nude.
He would soon be atop her.
She would soon be hurting and unable to aid herself. Ibernia gripped the pallet in dread.
Rowan shed his boots and set them aside, then reached for the tie of his chausses. Ibernia swallowed, knowing full well what came next. Neither of her former masters had troubled to undress themselves fully, but Rowan would not differ in the deed itself. She stared at the wooden wall, bracing herself for the worst.
’Twas then she heard a splash. Ibernia darted a glance Rowan’s way to find him quickly washing himself. His back was to her, so she took the opportunity to study him, noting the strength of his legs, the tightness of his buttocks. He was tanned from head to toe, a sign that he was not afraid to let the sun touch all of him, but then, that boldness did not surprise Ibernia.
Rowan was not a knight interested in convention.
When he started to turn, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the worst. She thought she was prepared for anything, but soon learned differently.
For she was not anticipating the warm caress of a cloth on her foot. Ibernia jumped and she sat up in alarm, instinctively pulling her feet beneath herself.
Rowan crouched at the end of the pallet, a wet cloth in his hands and an impish twinkle in his eyes. But she could see his aroused state and knew that he was not so boyishly playful as he might pretend.
“Your feet are filthy,” he charged.
That was a fact. Ibernia heaved a sigh of concession and cautiously stretched her leg back out again. A harmless enough indulgence, she supposed. The cloth was rough, and Rowan stroked it across the bottom of her foot like a caress.
Ibernia leaned back, closed her eyes, and endured.
He scrubbed the bottom of her foot, then pushed the cloth between her toes, leisurely cleaning each in succession. Ibernia tried not to clench her foot; she sought to appear at ease with all of this. She was quite certain she failed—her grip on the sides of the pallet hinted at the truth—especially when his thumb eased across the nail of her second toe and she caught her breath. It was a move she felt she should have anticipated.
Ibernia took a deep breath. It was not so bad, truly, to have a man wash her feet. She gritted her teeth, deciding to savor this moment and not think of the one to come. This alone was rather pleasant, the thoroughness with which Rowan worked doing much to ease her agitation.
Aye, he was tranquil and oddly quiet. Ibernia listened to the rhythmic creaking of the ship. The men’s voices were so distant and muted that she and Rowan might have been alone. She could smell the spices from the bundles knotted overhead, the steam from the water apparently having loosened their exotic scents.
When Rowan completed one foot and moved his attention to her other one, repeating gesture for gesture, Ibernia resolved this was enjoyable. To be clean again was no small thing. Aye, she had felt encrusted with filth for the better part of a sixmonth, and this change would be a welcome one.
There might be some benefit to ceding to the touch of a fastidious man. The telltale splashing of water and absence of Rowan’s touch revealed that the cloth was being rinsed and wrung out.
Ibernia prided herself on the fact that she did not so much as stir when the warm cloth and Rowan’s hand closed around her ankle. He scrubbed the skin with gentle diligence, his thumb sliding into the nook beside her ankle bone with sensuous ease. Ibernia told herself it was just his manner to move so deliberately, that there was naught amorous about his touch.
She was proven wrong when he kissed the sole of her foot.
Ibernia gasped. She sat up and Rowan chuckled at her response. He watched her, a glint in his eyes that dared her to pull away once more. Ibernia’s heart was thumping but she would not prove him right in this. Though she stiffened, she did not retreat.
She did not miss his satisfied smile. He nibbled the side of her big toe, he kissed it, he slid his tongue between it and that next toe. He caught her foot in his hand, his thumb sliding across her instep with persuasive ease. His lips followed suit, caressing her instep, nibbling on her ankle bone, the heat of his breath driving her to distraction as he kissed every increment of skin.
Rowan watched her all the while, his gaze searching. There was concern in his eyes, Ibernia was certain of it, and she had a sudden conviction that a single protest from her lips would halt his progress.
’Twas a heady thing, to feel that she had a say in this. Even more remarkably, she did not want him to stop.
Ibernia felt that foot tingle. She lay back with a thump and stared at the goods knotted over the bed, unwilling to let Rowan see her response.
She felt as she did when he kissed her. Her flesh tingled, she wanted to shiver, she was achingly aware of his breath, his kiss, his touch, his heat.
And his heat awakened an answering passion within her. Ibernia swallowed, locked her hands around the edge of the pallet, and reminded herself of her talent for endurance.
Rowan, though, was disinclined to rush. As she might have guessed if she had been able to hook two thoughts together, he proceeded to wash her legs. He was as slow and thorough as before, each stroke of the cloth languid.
He followed the progress of the cloth with his hot kisses, the weight of his body easing up the pallet alongside her. His touch and his kisses stoked that burgeoning heat within her belly to a flame, pushing her fear further away with each slow stroke.
Ibernia learned things about her body that she had never guessed before. Who would have imagined that a man’s hand, locked around her ankle, would be so pleasant? Who would have guessed that a slow kiss on the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, would make her yearn for more of his touch?
Rowan knew. Rowan understood her own body better than she. ’Twas only because he was a practiced seducer of women, Ibernia knew this well. All the same, she was disinclined to stop him. Indeed, when he halted at the crest of her thighs, she was almost disappointed.
But not quite. Her fear still flickered in the back of her thoughts, her certainty that all could not proceed without pain was unshaken.
Rowan’s lips quirked, as if he guessed as much, then he got smoothly to his feet and crouched to rinse out the cloth again. His back was to her and Ibernia found herself studying him through her lashes, lest he turn quickly.
“You shall have to remove your chemise,” he said, his calm tone in marked contrast to Ibernia’s racing heart. “Then roll to your belly so I can wash your back.”
Ibernia did not wait for him to reconsider his offer. She was not so brazen that she could bare herself before a man and look him in the eye, yet truly she longed to be clean from head to toe. Ibernia shed her chemise and cast it on the floor, quickly rolling over in case Rowan tried to catch her unawares.
But he did no such thing. The cloth was dunked and wrung out one more time before he came to her side. Ibernia closed her eyes and bit her lip when he sat on the pallet beside her. Her heart began to pound. She knew fall well what part of him was so close, knew that they both were nude and there was naught to stop him from taking what he would have of her.
The pain would surely come in a moment, and her determination to prove her usefulness to him nearly deserted her.
But Rowan cradled her buttock in his hand and squeezed, the slow slide of his thumb across her flesh making Ibernia’s eyes fly open. He used both hands to wash the small of her back, his fingers nearly closing around her waist. Ibernia felt her lips part and acknowledged that this attention was not so difficult to endure.
Indeed, that heat in her belly had been joined by a shiver, and the combination was not all bad.
Rowan washed her back, the heat of his skin dangerously close as his lips trailed the cloth. Ibernia’s flesh sang beneath his caress, then his strong hand slid up the back of her neck. Water trickled around her, escaping down between her breasts. Ibernia shivered, though she was uncertain whether that was due to the water or the possessive way Rowan slid the weight of his fingers into her hair.
He caught her shoulders in his hands, bracing his weight on his elbows as he leaned over her. Ibernia exhaled shakily when Rowan pressed a hot kiss into the curve between neck and shoulder.
His tongue traced a path up her neck and he kissed her earlobe again, making her shiver as he had before. He lingered there, teasing her with his tongue and awakening the same yearning she had felt when he kissed her before. The strength of him was almost against her back, the hair on his chest tickling her shoulder blades.
Ibernia was shocked to realize that she wanted to press back against him, even knowing all she did.
But Rowan eased away, rolling her to her back with an easy gesture. Ibernia let him do it, telling herself this was the moment of reckoning. She could not bear to look at him, to see the twinkle purged from his gaze when lust claimed him. Or even worse, she would not see his expression at the truth that she was far from lean and lithe.
Aye, Ibernia was tall; she was not fat, but she was buxom. Her mother always said her figure was all womanly curves, and even these months of scant provisions had not changed that.
No doubt Rowan would be appalled. He said naught, but she felt his gaze linger upon her and her face burned. Then he rose to rinse out the cloth once more. When he returned and she met his gaze, he smiled and Ibernia’s heart thumped in a most awkward manner.
He captured her hand with the warmth of his, his gaze unswerving, as if they stood at court in all their finery. His smile broadened as he eased the dirt from her hand. And when he was done and Ibernia was more flustered by his attention than she knew she should be, Rowan inclined his head and kissed her palm. He closed her fingers over the burning imprint of his kiss, nibbled his way up the tender flesh of her arm, and kissed the inside of her elbow.
Ibernia could not breathe. Rowan, his eyes closed in an expression of perfect bliss, pushed his cloth higher. His kisses followed suit until he grazed his teeth across her shoulder.
His eyes flew open as Ibernia stared at him. He grinned wickedly and winked so quickly that her heart leapt. He pressed a kiss in the hollow of her collar bone, then turned his attention to her other hand.
Ibernia stared at her own curled fingers, still holding that kiss safe while he washed the other hand. She felt oddly cherished by this man, pampered and spoiled by his touch, savored and appreciated in a way she had not been before.
Ibernia closed her eyes and leaned back against the pallet, certain her bones were melting beneath his persuasive touch. Rowan washed her wrists, her arms, her elbows, her shoulders, and her throat. His lips grazed a trail right behind while Ibernia held fast to the kiss that still heated her palm. He washed her neck, then rinsed the cloth and washed her face. He kissed her brow, her temple, her closed eyes, the tip of her nose.
To her astonishment, Rowan did not kiss her lips.
To her greater astonishment, she felt cheated.
His kisses moved down her throat, even as the cloth moved lower. Her breasts, she was certain, had never been so clean as when Rowan finished with them. Indeed, he seemed fascinated by them, so intrigued that he abandoned the cloth on her belly, cupped one breast in his hand, and bent his head.
Ibernia cried out when his mouth closed over her nipple. She gasped and twisted beneath him, wanting escape and, in the same breath, wanting only more. Rowan suckled and teased; he flicked his tongue across the turgid peak, he stroked her curves with those strong fingers.
When Ibernia thought she could bear no more, he turned his attention to the other breast. She felt the heat of his erection pressed against her thigh and was startled to find that it did not frighten her as it had before.
Nay, she was anticipating the heat of him filling her.
Before Ibernia could puzzle over that, Rowan’s questing lips moved lower. He rolled his tongue in her navel, then he kissed her hips. He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs sliding across the tight nipples over and over again, driving Ibernia to distraction.
Slowly his fingers and the cloth moved lower and slid between her thighs, his touch sure and gentle. Ibernia found herself rising to meet his touch with a brazenness unexpected. She saw only the knight’s fleeting smile before he cast away the cloth with a flourish.
Then his kiss followed his fingers where none had ever kissed Ibernia before. She might have protested if she had not been so quickly captivated. His tongue flicked against her, and Ibernia realized how much she wanted his touch there. She parted her thighs, that hint the only encouragement Rowan needed to cup her buttocks in his hands and feast upon her.
Rowan knew Ibernia was his the moment she let her thighs fall apart for him. He might have felt triumphant but there was yet too much to do. He tasted and teased, ensuring that this time, Ibernia felt the pleasure lovemaking could bring. She fought a battle and Rowan knew it well, for experience could be a hard master.
Fortunately, he had three days to undo whatever lessons she had learned. Rowan settled in, savoring the taste of her, the little gasps she made when he surprised her. He coaxed her further and further, one step at a time, smiling to himself when her fingers dug into his shoulders in silent demand.
He had been a fool to ever prefer lean and lithe woman and could not imagine now what he had ever seen in their boyish figures. Ibernia was all ripe curves and sun-kissed skin, she was womanly in every sense of the word. She was soft and strong, she was feminine yet resilient.
Rowan desired her as he had never desired another, and it was not only the lady’s ripe curves that enchanted him. He was intrigued by the fiery flash of her blue eyes, by her determination to conquer the odds, to see matters resolved as she would choose.
He delighted in the knowledge that he was surprising her now. She moaned, the helpless sound feeding his own passion. She writhed but did not try to escape his touch. Rowan could fairly feel the heat rising beneath her flesh. She was wet and hot and achingly sweet. ’Twould take more than one sampling of Ibernia’s charms to sate him, he knew.
And he did not care.
Rowan felt her quickening, he urged her on. He kissed and tempted her anew. He seized her foot in one hand and ran his thumb across her instep, having already seen how it made her shiver. Ibernia shivered this time with gusto, she cried out and arched off the pallet. Her nipples tightened, her hips bucked, she cried out as she peaked, then she collapsed, trembling.
Rowan stretched out beside her, holding her in his arms as the last of the quakes slipped through her lush body. She was flushed and so astonished that she twined her arms around his neck before she realized what she did.
She opened her eyes and looked at him in wonder. Rowan granted her his most charming grin, and she almost smiled as she rolled her eyes in disgust.
“Cocky rogue,” she muttered.
“Surely I have earned a smile for that,” he teased.
Ibernia pinkened, but she did smile for him, looking so delightfully tousled that Rowan could not resist her. He kissed her impulsively and deeply, and liked that she hesitated only a moment before she returned his kiss in kind. His hand slid down the smooth length of her, his fingers easing between her thighs. She gasped when he touched her again and Rowan swallowed the sound, caressing her undeterred.
And she rose to his touch once again. Instinctively Rowan knew how she had been compelled to service men who did not see to her own pleasure, and he resolved to make this experience as different as possible.
Nay, he would not feed her fear. He would not pin her down. He would not make her feel trapped and cornered.
There were far more interesting ways to make love.
He forgot his clear thinking when Ibernia shyly eased her tongue between his teeth. Rowan caressed her and swallowed her moans, he coaxed the flame anew, every hint of her arousal feeding his own. When Ibernia could not keep her hips still, when her kisses became so fervid that Rowan did not believe he could last much longer, he caught her in his arms and quickly rolled to his back.
The lady sprawled atop him, her eyes wide with surprise, her magnificent breasts inviting his kisses.
“You are mad,” she protested. “What is it you would do now?”
Rowan grinned up at her. “What else?” He caught her hips in his hands and urged her to straddle him.
She took one downward glance and paled. “I cannot do this.”
“Of course you can.” Rowan held her gaze. “And this way, ’tis your choice when to start and when to stop.”
Her lips parted as she stared at him and Rowan thought she might have blinked away a tear. He reached for the bounty offered by her breasts but did not manage to kiss her anew.
For Ibernia’s hand closed around his erection with a surety that made Rowan jump. He had only a glimpse of the determination in her face before she pushed him into her.
He fell back against the pallet, fighting for a measure of control, reminding himself to be slow. But Ibernia was hot, wet and tight, the grip of her upon him nigh enough to make him swoon. And heavens knew that he desired this woman beyond all else.
But matters were not aright. Rowan gritted his teeth and opened his eyes. Ibernia might have moved to please him, but her expression was strained and Rowan was not fooled.
This would not be a foul task to be endured! He halted her with a touch, the vulnerability in her eyes making his heart clench.
“There is no need for haste. Does it hurt you?”
Tears glittered in her eyes. “Less than before.”
Rowan smiled to reassure her. “ ’Tis not good enough.”
“Let us see the deed done.”
“Nay, there is only one way we shall see this done, and that is when we both find pleasure together.”
She stared at him as if she could not comprehend his words. Rowan reached between her thighs and touched her again, his own erection swelling within her when she trembled with desire.
She whispered his name, the unsteadiness of her voice feeding that unfamiliar protectiveness again. Rowan gritted his teeth and compelled himself to wait until the lady was ready.
Oh, he had never been so chivalrous as this, and the shame of it was that his mother would never know. This deed could never be counted in his favor. This deed was only between himself and Ibernia.
And that—oddly enough considering his mother’s current threat to disinherit him for his unworthiness—suited Rowan well. He had no opportunity to consider the puzzle further.
For Ibernia sat up and leaned back, her head falling back and her fine breasts jutting forward. ’Twas a sight to feast upon, one that scattered any thought beyond desire. Rowan could have stared at her for all his days.
He touched her with gentle persuasiveness, fighting his body’s demand for release. He watched the flush spread from her breasts, watched her bite her lip. She moaned softly and then her hips rocked against his of their own accord. She gripped his hand demandingly, her lips parting soundlessly, her neck arching.
Ibernia stiffened with a tiny cry, then fell forward. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her gaze blazed into his. “More,” she whispered. “I want more of you.” And she rolled herself against Rowan, driving him to a frenzy.
Rowan was only too happy to comply. He gripped her hips and let her set the pace, easing farther into her with each stroke. Her heat seemed to swallow him, to cradle him, to coax him closer. They moved together, each stroke driving them higher and higher.
And just when he thought he could endure no more, Ibernia framed his face in her hands and kissed him. Her tongue tangled with his, her hunger unmistakable. Rowan fleetingly thought she would devour him whole, then there was naught but her tongue, her lips, the heat of her surrounding him.
Aye, he was overwhelmed by the most beguiling woman he had ever known. His hands were full of her, he wanted as he had never wanted before. Her womb tightened around him convulsively as she shivered from head to toe, and in that same moment, Rowan slackened his reins of control.
There was naught but Ibernia. Rowan broke their kiss and arched back, gripping her buttocks and roaring as his own release filled his veins with Stardust.
Aye, Ibernia was his alone.
Ibernia collapsed atop Rowan, her thoughts spinning incoherently. She could do naught but feel, and what she felt was fine enough to satisfy.
The first thought she managed was the acknowledgment that she had never felt so marvelous.
She had never imagined that there could be such pleasure, that a man and a woman could grant each other such a gift. She steadied her breathing and realized that there was something of merit in lovemaking, after all.
Especially with this man. Ibernia opened her eyes and studied the profile of the man beneath her. She was still lying atop Rowan, he remained on his back, his hands warm on the back of her waist. He was breathing as heavily as she, his eyes were closed, and she could see the erratic leap of his pulse at his throat.
His heart hammered nigh as quickly as her own. Ibernia swallowed a smile that she had been able to please this man, this man who was clearly no stranger to pleasure. He opened his eyes and smiled at her in that moment, his gaze so warmly appreciative that Ibernia blushed.
Rowan heaved a contented sigh and ran one hand up her back with evident admiration. His hand slid to her breast, that nipple still responding pertly to the caress of his thumb.
He cupped her jaw, smiling to himself as he studied her. “And there is that bewitching smile again,” he teased softly. “I knew ’twould be worth the wait.” With that, he drew her down to kiss her again.
They parted reluctantly some moments later, only because of the discomfort of their position, and Ibernia could barely catch her breath. Who knew she would rise to his touch again so quickly? Indeed, this was a day of marvels. She sat up and folded her knees together shyly, aware of her nudity but not wanting this moment to end.
Rowan watched her as if she were the greatest marvel in all of Christendom, a heady sensation indeed.
“I cannot imagine that I knew naught of such pleasure,” she confessed, feeling her cheeks heat.
Rowan shrugged and grinned, pushing to his feet easily. Ibernia watched the ripple of his muscles unabashedly, knowing full well that he preened slightly before her.
“ ’Tis only because you have not coupled with me before,” he said cheerfully, grimacing when he found the water had chilled. His attention moved to the door, and he appeared to be deciding whether to call Thomas for another bucket.
Ibernia could not believe his audacity. “You have a confidence in your own charm!”
Rowan cast a sparkling glance her way. “Practice makes for perfection,” he confided with a merry wink, then reached for his chemise as if he had not a care.
Ibernia regarded him in shock. She had been naught but another willing woman to him—and he had shaken her to the core! ’Twas unfair to realize in this moment that she had been right in guessing that naught mattered to this knight beyond himself.
“And how close have you come to perfection?” she asked coldly.
Rowan grinned wickedly. He crossed the cabin and caught her face in his hands, bending to kiss her deeply, his move so smooth that she had no chance to evade him. Much to her own disgust, Ibernia felt her annoyance with him fade.
Curse the man, he knew the moment she yielded to him. He lifted his lips from hers, a knowing gleam in his amber gaze. “My technique is fully perfected,” he purred, then bent to fetch his abandoned chemise, a whistle on his lips.
“Well, I have had better,” Ibernia retorted, purely to prick his pride.
Rowan granted her a confident smile. “I should think not.” He hauled his chemise over his head, that victorious whistle making Ibernia grit her teeth.
“I sought only to ensure that your pride was not wounded,” she retorted haughtily. “But truly, the coupling was mediocre.”
Rowan stilled. Ibernia braced herself, but he pivoted slowly, his expression intent. “Mediocre?” His voice was dangerously soft, his eyes narrowed. That cursed whistle was silence. “None have ever called me a mediocre partner.”
Ibernia smiled, pleased to see that she had unsettled him. She reached for her own chemise, hoping she looked as if such encounters occurred every day of her life. “There is always a first, I suppose.”
Rowan’s eyes flashed. He crossed the cabin and caught her arm in his grip. “That was not mediocre!”
Ha! Now she had his attention. “Nay?” Ibernia shrugged and reached for her chausses. “If ’tis of import to you to believe as much, then I suppose I must agree.”
“You were pleased, I ensured as much!”
“Aye.” Ibernia kept her tone light. “As were you. But truly, is that not the least of what one expects?” She turned away before he could see how boldly she lied, though she heard him mutter a curse.
“You expected far worse than what we shared,” he asserted, such conviction in his voice that Ibernia knew he had not been fooled. “You feared my touch.”
“Only because I was not certain you would be aware of anything beyond your own pleasure.” Ibernia cast a glance over her shoulder, only to find Rowan’s amber gaze blazing. “Some men are thus, you must surely know.”
He folded his arms across his chest, a chest she had been nestled against only moments past, a chest that was warm and reassuringly solid. Aye, she had felt sheltered in his arms.
But she had only been the next conquest.
She would not make this easy for him.
“And was I?” he asked, frost in his tone.
Ibernia summoned a chilly smile. “Your competence cannot be questioned.”
“Competence!” Rowan roared, more infuriated than she had ever seen him. “I am far more than competent in the arts of love! Never have I been so insulted!”
“Then perhaps you should put more effort into your labor,” Ibernia said lightly, bending her attention on the tie to her chausses. Her fingers were trembling still and she tried to fasten quickly before he saw the telltale hint of her response.
That was the only reason she was surprised when his hands landed on her shoulders. ’Twas no less surprising to find his breath on her nape, nor even his lips against her ear.
Ibernia shivered, much as she would have preferred otherwise.
“Mediocre,” he whispered, then rolled his tongue into her ear so slowly that Ibernia’s eyes closed. She felt herself lean back against him, powerless to stop herself as desire flooded through her. Aye, he was wickedly talented in this, and when he touched her, she found it nigh impossible to resist him.
Especially after what they had just shared. His hand slid around her waist and under her chemise, those fingers rising to tease her nipple again.
Ibernia just barely managed to bite back the moan that threatened to fall from her lips. Her sole consolation was the press of Rowan’s erection against her buttocks, and she rubbed herself against him, like a wanton, before she knew what she was about.
“That was far from mediocre,” Rowan murmured. “And the next time, you will have to admit as much before I grant you release.”
Ibernia’s eyes flew open at that threat and she turned quickly to face him. “What do you mean? You have to release me in a year and a day, ’tis our bargain!”
Rowan’s slow smile only made her traitorous heart pound. “I meant your release abed,” he whispered, lifting one hand to trail his fingertips across her cheek. “Although you raise an interesting possibility.”
His lips landed on her cheek like a butterfly, but Ibernia swatted off his touch and danced backward, needing to keep her thoughts clear. She took a step farther away, though this seemed to amuse him mightily. “What madness do you talk now?”
Rowan arched a russet brow, untroubled by the fact that he wore no chausses as yet. Had she ever seen a man more at ease in his own skin? If naught else, such confidence was grating!
“You complain about my lovemaking. And truly the only way to improve any deed is with diligent practice.”
“One coupling was all I intended to grant!”
He chuckled. “But surely not a mediocre one? It would only be chivalrous of me to ensure you were”—he licked his lips and surveyed her slowly—“sated.”
Sated?!
“Oh, I am sated with you! You need have no fear of that!”
But Ibernia’s words fell too quickly to be believable. Rowan’s grin widened and he touched a fingertip to her lips. Ibernia caught her breath and knew he heard it. His eyes gleamed as he traced the outline of her lips, their gazes clung, his fingertip meandered over her collarbone.
Ibernia knew where that fingertip was destined, but she would not give him the satisfaction of stepping away. The moment that that finger and thumb found her nipple, she knew that her body at least would do naught to support her ruse.
The nipple came to an aching point with embarrassing speed. Rowan turned his gaze upon it, the admiration in his expression making Ibernia catch her breath. He slid his palm across her breast, then back again, as if he could not help but be fascinated.
The man was practiced in making a woman feel appreciated, there was no doubt of that.
Even if his attention was too fleeting for Ibernia’s taste.
She heaved a sigh deliberately and forced boredom into her tone. “Are you finished toying with me? I would check upon my new garb.”
He glanced up quickly, then his cocky smile returned with all its radiance.
“Liar,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “You are a liar, ma demoiselle, and I shall win the truth from you yet.”
She held her ground stubbornly, squeezing her eyes shut when he bent and kissed her erect nipple, even through her chemise. The sensation was exquisite, and made her want him again. She had an urge to drive her fingers into his hair, to drag him back to that narrow bed and spend the entire day there.
But not if it meant so little to him.
A woman of merit had to have some pride.
To her dismay, Ibernia misjudged his timing and opened her eyes to find Rowan nigh nose to nose with her, his fingers having replaced his questing lips. He smiled slowly, his gaze dancing over her features as if he saw something there she would prefer to hide.
“Mediocre, indeed,” he purred, his tone almost affectionate. “I shall prove that you lie, Ibernia, regardless of what that task demands of me.”
And he kissed her so quickly that she had no time to escape his touch.
“You!” she cried when he stepped away. “You have an audacity, and ’tis most unwelcome!”
But Rowan, laughing, was already tying his chausses and ducking out the door. When she heard him whistling a moment later, Ibernia glared after him.
Well, she had already surrendered to his touch, and though it had been a marvel, Ibernia did not welcome the sense that she had been naught but the next wench in a long line of Rowan’s pleasures. Nay, she would have a surrender from him, she would coax his astonishment as he had hers.
Or she would die trying.
Aye, perhaps she could so astound him that he would grant her freedom at Ballyroyal, after all. Or indeed, he might be inclined to indulge her, if he grew fond of her. The very possibility made Ibernia smile.
For if Rowan intended to court Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, the goodwill of Ibernia could not be underestimated. Aye, in the end, ’twould be she who outwitted this cocky knight.
That was consolation indeed.