f revenge was a dish best served cold, then Baldassare’s serving would be most satisfactory. He was within grasp of settling a debt that had gone due for over twenty years, and he was anxious to redress the balance.f revenge was a dish best served cold, then Baldassare’s serving would be most satisfactory. He was within grasp of settling a debt that had gone due for over twenty years, and he was anxious to redress the balance.
For the sake of his father’s memory.
Fortune had deigned to smile upon Baldassare of late, after long turning her attention away. He had a ship, he had a cargo that would see his debts paid, he even had a rumor of the man who had set his course on misfortune. Baldassare was hot on the trail of vengeance and knew Fortune would not fail him now. He stood, impatiently scouring the horizon for the first glimpse of Ireland.
Where debts would finally be settled. Oh, he had been wise to defy the advice of others and seek his prey beyond the shelter of the Mediterranean. He had taken a chance, and Chance would see him rewarded.
Baldassare was still there when the woman who had caused him such trouble the night before came on to the deck. She was a barbarian, of course, as he had learned all too well, yet she was not without some appeal. Her silhouette was decidedly feminine against the grey hue of the sea and sky, the faint sunlight glinted in the gold of her ridiculously short hair.
The blue wool favored her, better even than he had anticipated, though Baldassare was not surprised. He had an eye for trinkets that pleased women, and to be sure, anything that made them look their best was always a welcome gift.
He scowled with the recollection of how his gift seemed to have done little to soften Ibernia toward him. Nay, she had not been helpful. The more Baldassare reflected upon the matter, the less he was persuaded that she was as much of a fool as she would have had him believe.
Anger had a way of blinding Baldassare to anything beyond it, and he had been sorely angered by the shattering of the token of his homeland. He had gone through much to preserve that pitcher and glasses, so seeing their loss had enraged him beyond reason.
The jingle of coin did salve the wound, though.
Baldassare might have hauled into a port and dumped them all ashore, if he was not increasingly certain that Ibernia knew something that could aid his quest. He watched her for a long moment, noted that the knight did not join her, and deigned this as good a time as any to approach her again.
There were things he had to know, after all, and Ibernia was the one most likely to know them.
“Good afternoon, ma bella,” he murmured when he reached her side. She jumped slightly, then turned, her smile as cautious as the glint in her eyes. Baldassare was startled anew by the change in her appearance.
Not only was she garbed in a kirtle fitting of a lady, but she was clean. Her features were more fairly wrought than he had imagined, her complexion clear, her eyes bright and luxuriantly lashed. She stood like a lady of the court, her chin high, her gaze steadily meeting his. Indeed, the trepidation he had sensed had already been dismissed.
If it had ever been there. How had he ever imagined that this one was not high-born?
Indeed, there was something elusive in her appearance—the line of her jaw perhaps or shape of her eyes—that vaguely reminded him of a man he had sought off and on for two decades.
Was she related to Niccolo? Was that why he spied a fleeting ghost of his old enemy in this woman’s features? Baldassare’s heart skipped a beat, and he wondered whether he truly could be so fortunate as that.
Or did he see what he desired to see?
“Good afternoon,” she said crisply, her gaze wary.
Baldassare claimed her hand and raised it to his lips. “Your beauty leaves me speechless, ma bella.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “It seems not, sir.”
Baldassare chuckled despite himself, much more at ease with her dressed this way. “ ’Tis a shame you have no fine jewels to ornament your beauty.”
She lifted a shoulder carelessly, her gaze slipping back toward the sea. “They are but trinkets, and their possession oft fleeting.”
Baldassare leaned on the rail beside her, fully aware that she would have preferred to dismiss him. “As you learned on London’s docks.”
Her gaze flicked to him so quickly that he knew he had found a lie. So, there had been no theft in London! He had suspected as much.
Was Ibernia truly the knight’s wife? There was a chafe on her neck left visible by the cut of the kirtle—such a mark as might have been wrought by a rope tied too tight—that hinted otherwise.
Who was this woman truly? More important, did she know what he sought to learn?
She recovered herself as he pondered his course and inclined her head in acknowledgment. “As you say,” she agreed carefully. “I had tried to push that tragic theft from my thoughts.”
“Then I am a knave to have reminded you.” He granted her a smooth smile, and after a moment’s consideration of him, she responded in kind.
“ ’Tis naught.”
Baldassare looked out to sea and waited for the question he knew would come. Let her draw the information from him—it was less likely to rouse suspicion than if he had willingly confessed all.
“Do you sell spice in Dublin?”
“Nay. ’Twill fetch a better price in the ports of northern France.” Baldassare watched her from the corner of his eye, nearly smiling when she swallowed visibly. Her curiosity about his intentions was a fine portent.
“The slaves, then?”
“Nay. They are destined for the south, for Mediterranean nobles who will appreciate their fair skin.” Baldassare shrugged. “I am thinking that Granada might be a suitable stop, as there is much wealth to be had there.”
“I would know naught of such matters,” she said hastily, and Baldassare smiled.
He patted her hand. “Ah, ’tis not so troubling as all of that to be a slave in such circumstance. Many of them have a finer life than they might have had in their own lands. The women, particularly, are much indulged in return for little but their favors. You have denied the pretty one of your choice much leisure, to be certain.”
Ibernia turned away, her words tight. “Do you not know her name?”
Baldassare laughed at the thought. “Of what possible use is her name? I know her worth and that is enough.”
The lady’s fingers tightened on the rail, the gesture amusing Baldassare. Women were such fools in thinking the luxuries of the world were not assessed by their value in trade alone. Though he had known men who found such nonsense charming, fortunately he had been spared such misguided thinking.
He knew what was of import.
“Why do you sail to Dublin, then?” Ibernia’s voice was tight.
“There is a task I must fulfill,” Baldassare said, carefully watching her reaction.
“A task?”
Baldassare smiled and braced his elbows upon the rail. “You see, ma bella, I made a pledge many years ago.” He watched his companion avidly and suddenly realized something he should have noted sooner.
’Twas odd that this couple had known his destination, when he had told none, though Baldassare knew his men talked on the wharf.
But his men only spoke Venetian among themselves. Was it knight or noblewoman who understood that tongue? There was one way to discover the truth.
Baldassare dropped his voice and leaned closer, slipping easily into the Venetian dialect. He spoke low and fast, watching her eyes to see whether she comprehended him. “I seek an old friend, a Venetian, with whom I have a debt to settle.”
She caught her breath tellingly, then shook her head.
Before she could protest her ignorance, he continued. “He is a man who has seen fifty summers, he is tall and dark of hair, he has a merry laugh and heavy purse. Rumor is that he wed a woman with fair hair, not unlike yours, ma bella, and fled to the refuge of her family estate. Of late I have learned that she was of Ireland, perhaps from the vicinity of Dublin. Would you know a man by the name of Niccolo? He was called the Falcon, because he traded so brilliantly and swept from port to port.”
The lady paled. “I do not understand,” she argued, though her voice lacked its previous resolve.
Baldassare nearly hooted with victory. He was so close!
“Would you know him, or know of him? ’Tis imperative, you see, that I find him.” Baldassare smiled, as if he were not talking about a man’s potential death. “I am a man who keeps his vows and this debt is long overdue.”
Ibernia’s fingers rose to her lips, then she abruptly straightened and shook her head.
“I cannot understand what you say,” she confessed, though there was a tremor beneath her words.
“Can you not, ma bella?” he demanded amiably in the tongue she favored. He bowed low, intending only to hide his smile. “My apologies. ’Tis the mark of a man abroad to slip into his mother tongue, without expectation.”
They eyed each other for a long moment, the wind whipping at her curls, hatred chilling her eyes. Oh, she had understood—he had said naught in this rough tongue of the English to prompt such sudden dislike.
“You have yet to tell me your mission in Dublin,” she chided, her smile forced.
Baldassare smiled easily. “I seek a friend, that is what I said. No more than that. It is always welcome to find a friend in a foreign port.”
The lady inhaled sharply before she turned away.
“Perhaps I know this friend,” Ibernia said, the way her voice hardened over the last word most revealing.
“His name is Niccolo.”
Her sidelong glance was cool and composed once more. “ ’Tis not a common name among the Irish.”
“Precisely why I thought you might recall him. He has the dark hair of the Venetians, which must be uncommon as well.”
“There are many dark-haired Irish.”
“But not with skin of golden hue.” He smiled when Ibernia looked his way. “Do you know him?”
She shook her head quickly, too quickly. “I know of no man named Niccolo in Dublin. Perhaps you seek him in the wrong place.”
Baldassare was undeterred. This lady’s response hinted that he was close, very close, to his prey. “Perhaps he changed his name.”
“Why would your friend do such a thing?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps he wished to fit in among the local folk with less commentary. Perhaps his new neighbors could not say his name as he preferred. Perhaps his wife did not care for it.” He paused. “Perhaps his child could not pronounce it.”
Ibernia’s sidelong glance was hasty. “You know that he is married and has a child?”
Baldassare smiled. “Nay, I merely speculate upon the child.”
Ibernia shook her head again. “A man of your coloring would not go unnoted in Dublin. I should know of him—he must not be there.”
She turned a steely gaze upon him, as if she would will him away from the port by her own determination alone. The look alone nigh stole Baldassare’s breath away. Her expression was strangely reminiscent of the way a certain man had looked when he had struck the killing blow.
She was kin with Niccolo!
“You would be better served to seek your friend elsewhere,” she said crisply.
“Do you know all the men of Dublin so well as that, ma bella?” Baldassare teased, to cover his own surprise.
She had the grace to blush. “ ’Tis not a large burg.”
“And you are not there now. How long have you been gone from that port?”
The lady clamped her lips together and looked out to sea. “Not so long as that.”
“But long enough that a ship could arrive and a man could take up his abode in the town without your awareness of him.”
Ibernia’s lips thinned. She nodded barely and with obvious reluctance. Every line of her figure was tight with disapproval and anxiety—aye, Niccolo had been there when Ibernia left.
Played skillfully, she would lead Baldassare directly where he wanted to go.
“You have yet to tell me of your abode,” he prompted.
She flashed a glance his way, then veiled her alarm. “ ’Tis not pertinent,” she argued.
“Perhaps you could grant me accommodations,” he suggested, noting her terror even though it was quickly veiled. Baldassare captured her hand and lifted it to his lips, watching her as he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Perhaps I seek only the gift of seeing your smile again.”
The lady pulled her hand from his grip and looked away. “ ’Twould be inappropriate. My husband would not approve.”
Aye, she did not like the thought of him being near.
Baldassare shrugged easily, though he sensed he was finally close to victory. “Ah, well, I shall find other accommodation.”
“Surely you do not intend to linger in Dublin?”
“I see no harm in spending a few days seeking this friend of mine. After all, we have come so far—’twould be a shame to miss encountering him again.” He smiled. “Perhaps a week in Dublin should see my goal achieved.”
Ibernia looked at him with such shock that Baldassare nearly rubbed his hands with glee. Anger began to simmer in her gaze.
Better and better. She sought to protect Niccolo by urging Baldassare away, but he was not so easily swayed as that. He bowed again and excused himself, having no doubt that he left the lady with much to consider.
Aye, she would flee to warn Niccolo of Baldassare’s arrival, of that the captain had no doubt, perhaps as soon as they touched the shore in Dublin. He would follow her, of course, to settle a debt that had festered overlong.
Niccolo would finally pay for his treachery.
Ibernia feared she would be ill. She hung on to the rail and stared into the distance, desperately wishing she knew how long it might take to arrive in Dublin.
’Twas daunting even to consider an attempt to outwit Baldassare di Vilonte. The man toyed with her, as a cat did with a mouse, and she was not entirely certain he had not read her thoughts. He had a streak of cruelty that could not be ignored.
But yet, Ibernia could not do naught when a life so precious to her hung in the balance. How quickly could she make her way home? Could she evade Rowan? ’Twould mean breaking her word, but she did not have a year and a day to wait! She would have to steal a steed, perhaps she would take Thomas’s palfrey. If naught else, she could return the beast later. Somehow.
What was critical was that she return home with even more haste than she had expected. For home was where the man who had once been Niccolo the Falcon believed himself to be safe.
Her father was wrong.
He was not safe, not in the least, and against every assurance he had ever granted her mother, his past returned to claim its due.
Ibernia had to warn her father.
She stared out to sea, her gaze tracing the distant silhouette of land even as she strove to recognize some curve of the coast. ’Twas impossible, though, and she could not gauge their distance from Dublin. She wanted to pace the decks in frustration, she wanted to shout, but she dared not give any hint to the watchful Baldassare that his words reminded her of an old tale.
Ibernia considered briefly the idea of confessing all to Rowan, for that would surely win his quick wits to her dilemma at least. It might be of aid to have a knight like Rowan by her side, instead of facing adversity alone.
What addled her wits? Rowan would not take her cause to his heart! He would certainly not risk his life to see Baldassare thwarted in this. Nay, Rowan was a man who valued lovemaking and pleasure, not a warrior intent on setting matters to rights.
Rowan would ensure his own ends, no more than that If there was any chance that Bronwyn of Ballyroyal could not be his bride, or if he discovered that Bronwyn was not the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland, or if the truth itself came to light, Rowan would be gone in the blink of an eye. He had impressed upon Ibernia that he would not lose this wager with his brothers, not at any cost. If she relied too much upon him, his inevitable departure could prove most inopportune.
It would be better to not rely upon him at all. Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and hugged the truth to herself. She stared out to sea, chilled to the bone, and wondered how quickly she would be able to flee home.
’Twas then she realized that fleeing home was precisely what Baldassare expected her to do. After all, he knew she had understood him. If she raced to warn her father, he would simply follow her.
Ibernia gripped the rail, her knees suddenly weak. She could prove to be the link that provided her father’s destruction. Nay! It could not be thus! But she had to return home, for she had no other means of earning her keep.
Except upon her back. Her lips tightened. She knew that starving in the streets of Dublin was no guarantee that Baldassare would not find her father anyway.
And kill him.
Ibernia’s throat tightened. She had to do something.
She must not lead Baldassare home. That was what he expected, that was what he waited for. If Ibernia could not warn her father, there must be another solution that would save his life. Her mother had always said that a woman with wits about her could find the key to the riddle.
What if Baldassare could not follow her?
What if Baldassare met with an accident?
The possibility of violence falling from her own hand nigh stopped her heart. Ibernia closed her eyes and forced herself to think of her kind-hearted father, a man who had wanted naught but to step away from the shadow of his past. She thought of her gentle mother, the woman who glowed in that man’s presence. She thought of the home those two had made, the happiness they had found in each other, the love they shared.
And she deliberately thought of Baldassare di Vilonte stealing it all away. She could not let him do that. She would not let this mercenary captain steal so much away from the two people she loved most in the world.
Not at any cost. Yet as long as he was alive, ’twas clear that was what Baldassare intended to do. Ibernia knew that her father would not return to Venice willingly; he had sworn as much long ago.
Which left only one choice.
Ibernia wondered what had happened to the wickedly sharp blade that had been granted her for the cutting of the wool. She had not seen it when Marika finished the kirtle.
Indeed, she had not seen it since the day before.
“Do not tell me that you are falling ill now,” Rowan teased as he leaned on the rail beside Ibernia. Though her new kirtle favored her wondrously, she was deathly pale and her hands were knotted upon the rail so tightly that the knuckles shone white.
“I am fine,” she declared, and made to brush past him.
Rowan caught her arm in his hand, keeping her from walking away, and frowned at the chill of her skin. “You shall fall ill if you remain so cold for long,” he chided, and shed his cloak. He cast it about her shoulders, noting that she seemed uncommonly distracted.
And not by him. This was not precisely how a man hoped to meet a woman after they had loved with such passion. Aye, she ought to be recalling all they had done and be anxious to return to their cabin!
But Ibernia frowned and stared across the sea, apparently oblivious to Rowan’s presence.
He touched a fingertip beneath her chin, compelling her to glance his way. “Are you ill?”
“Nay.”
“Chilled?”
“No longer.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Thank you.”
Her gaze slid away from him once more. She nibbled her lip, evidently disinterested in his presence once more.
’Twas irksome how readily she could dismiss him, and even more irksome that he had been able to think of naught but her while they were apart. That she was spared the answering affliction did little to please the knight.
Rowan eased closer and redoubled his charm. “Does the kirtle please you? To my eye, it favors your coloring wondrously.” He bent and brushed his lips across her temple. He ran a fingertip down the side of her neck, frowning as he paused beside the chafe mark. “If you had a suitable chemise, ’twould hide this blemish. Does it still trouble you?”
“Nay.” Ibernia’s response had all the interest one saved for brushing away a fly. She frowned and drummed her fingers upon the rail, shooting a sudden and very blue glance his way. “Did you take the knife?”
Rowan blinked. “What knife?”
“The one Marika used to cut the cloth.”
“I did not even know there was a knife.” She pursed her lips and Rowan bent to offer a smile. “You are welcome to the use of my dagger, if you have need to cut more cloth.”
“Nay, ’twill not do.” Ibernia’s words were crisp. “It must be the other.”
“Why do you have need of it? Your kirtle is done and my blade is sharp enough for any task you have.”
But Ibernia shook her head impatiently and frowned. What in the name of God was she thinking?
She impaled Rowan suddenly with a glance, her eyes so bright that he thought her feverish. “How long until we reach Dublin?”
Rowan leaned against the rail to consider her, more than puzzled by the change in her manner. “Why?”
“I would simply know how long we are to be at sea.”
He spared her a winning smile. “What reason is there to care?” He lifted a finger to trace the line of her jaw, disappointed when she did not shiver as was her wont. “We have each other and privacy—perhaps you are only concerned that we spend enough time abed.” He leaned closer, his own thoughts consumed with that very question, and kissed her temple with a gentle persuasiveness that never failed to win results.
To the knight’s surprise, Ibernia stepped abruptly away. She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “Is it so impossible to imagine that I might want to know something that did not concern bedding you?”
Rowan grinned cockily, reassured by her annoyance. “Aye, ’tis.” She rolled her eyes and might have stepped farther away, but he caught her in his arms and trapped her between himself and the rail. ’Twas good to feel her curves against him once more, though she seemed immune to the pleasure Rowan felt.
“Your affection is inappropriately timed.”
“On the contrary, ’tis perfectly timed. Do you think all of these seamen did not fail to note your solitary presence here? Or your lovely curves, so fetchingly displayed in your new garb?”
Rowan gathered her closer, taking satisfaction in ensuring that all aboard the Angelica knew this woman to be his own. Her back was against his chest and he folded his arms around her waist, leaning his chin on her shoulder as he followed her gaze across the sea. The curve of Ibernia’s buttocks against him awakened a part of him, and he guessed she knew her effect upon him.
Rowan nuzzled her neck. “Am I alone in seeing that there is no chemise beneath this kirtle and wondering how the wool feels against your bare flesh?”
“Rowan!”
He pulled back to look deliberately into her eyes. “Does it chafe your nipples? If so, ’twould only be chivalrous of me to soothe them with kisses.”
She flushed scarlet, not nearly so unaware of him as she might have had him believe. “Your attention is unwelcome.”
“Indeed? I have no doubt that any one of this crew would be pleased to offer his companionship instead, if you would prefer to be devoid of my company. Perhaps even Baldassare would take leave of his duties to entertain you.”
Ibernia stiffened and stared resolutely out to sea.
“He did come to speak with you,” Rowan guessed, a cold kernel lodging in his gut and tempering his desire. There was that protectiveness again, though, indeed, he had proof aplenty that Ibernia had no need of his protection.
The lady fared well enough on her own, it seemed.
Though that truth was surprisingly annoying.
“Did he trouble you? Did he touch you?”
“He but wanted thanks for his gift.”
Rowan heard the hard edge to his own words. “And how did he have that thanks?”
Ibernia shrugged. “As pretty words, no more than that.”
“That was the end of the matter?”
The lady averted her face. “More or less.”
That was not the end of the matter and Rowan knew it well. He knew equally well that she was not inclined to tell him of it.
“He said something to trouble you,” Rowan guessed, whispering the words into her ear.
Her reply was slightly breathless. “Nay, naught.”
“But you are troubled.”
“Nay, not I.”
Clearly she was not going to confide in him. Though the realization stung, Rowan knew one way to earn another increment of the lady’s trust—not to mention, to win her attention fully. He slipped a hand beneath the cloak she now wore and closed his fingers around the swell of her breast. Rowan smiled when Ibernia caught her breath, satisfactory proof that he could be irresistible.
“There is something preying upon your thoughts,” he murmured, his thumb coaxing her nipple to a peak with satisfying speed. “Perhaps you reflect upon our coupling of this morn and fear you must wait until this evening for another sample.”
She laughed then, a quick startled sound, and flicked a glance over her shoulder at him. “You have no lack of confidence.”
Rowan grinned, boldly touching her beneath the refuge of the cloak. Ibernia’s smile faded and a flush stained her cheeks as her tawny lashes fluttered against her cheek. “Perhaps I was mistaken then. Perhaps you have no interest in returning to our cabin. Perhaps you would prefer to while away the days here on this cold deck rather than warm and cosseted below.”
He made to lift his hand away.
Ibernia caught at his fingers, staying his move, her fingers entwining with his. “You are a wicked tease,” she charged, her eyes sparkling so merrily that Rowan caught his breath.
He might have argued that she teased, but her other hand slipped between them and closed unexpectedly over his arousal. Even through the layers of cloak and chausses, her grip was sure and Rowan jumped slightly.
She turned in his embrace, her grip unyielding, and met his gaze knowingly. When her hand moved, her gesture making him catch his breath, he locked one arm around her waist and did not relinquish the weight of her breast from the other hand.
He dragged his thumb across the tightened nipple and watched her catch her breath.
“You have a choice,” he fairly growled into her ear. “You may walk demurely and immediately back to the cabin, or I shall toss you over my shoulder and take you there.”
Ibernia lifted her chin, the bold glint that fired his blood lighting her eyes. “And if I decline either option?”
Rowan grinned. “Then I shall have you here, and the crew will be vastly entertained.” He winked. “ ’Twill be a long and thorough loving, for I should be determined to ensure that you were pleasured beyond your wildest dreams.”
She flushed scarlet and flicked a glance over his shoulder to the crew. “You would not!”
He caught her against him with a wicked grin and let his voice drop low. “That sounds like a dare, ma demoiselle. Do you challenge me to prove you wrong?”
“Nay!” Ibernia jumped and might have darted away, but Rowan was not prepared to let her go. Indeed, he did not intend to release her from his embrace, not before he sampled her charms once again.
He caught her around the waist and saw the delight touch her face. She knew what he was going to do and laughingly began to protest, her expression captivating Rowan as naught else could have done. He tossed her over his shoulder, his grin broadening when she twisted to fight his grip. She muttered a string of insults in Gaelic, though there was a thread of laughter beneath her words.
The crew whistled and shouted approval, her hip bumped against his cheek. Rowan gripped her knees and waved merrily to the crew, whistling as he headed for their cabin.
“Beast!” Ibernia declared. “Incorrigible creature!”
Rowan laughed aloud, knowing she was not so incensed as she would have him believe. “ ’Twill be made worth your while and you know it well.”
“Aye, and you will be poorly served in exchange for your services,” she retorted so crisply that he laughed again.
“You were the one who declared it was mediocre,” Rowan retorted. “I would merely practice to ensure your pleasure.”
Ibernia growled though she did not fight to be released. Rowan found his anticipation rising with every step he took toward their cabin.
“Oh, I shall make you moan, Rowan de Montvieux,” she declared grimly. “I shall leave you so in awe of my touch that you will cede to my every whim.”
“Indeed, my lady, I challenge you to win that very result.” Rowan kicked the door closed behind them and dropped the latch into place before he put Ibernia down.
He deliberately reached beneath her kirtle, the bare silk of her skin beneath his hands firing his blood. He cupped her buttocks in his hands and let her slide down his front, halting her course when they were eye to eye. Her feet still dangled above the floor, her kirtle bunched around his wrists.
“You bold creature,” she charged, a twinkle lighting the sapphire of her eyes. That smile was what addled his wits, Rowan was certain. Not to mention her rare but merry laugh. Aye, he would make the lady’s eyes sparkle before this day was done!
Rowan feigned shock. “I, bold? ’Tis you who wear naught beneath your kirtle!”
Ibernia bit back her smile. “I had no choice. The chemise was so soiled that I could not don it beneath the new kirtle.”
“And too well used to stand another wash.”
She grimaced. “In all likelihood.”
“Then you shall have a chemise of mine,” he offered quickly, refusing to consider that he had never granted a woman a personal token before. Ibernia’s lips parted, perhaps to protest, but Rowan dipped his head and took advantage of the opportunity.
He kissed her deeply, gripping her buttocks in his hands and loving the press of her breasts against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to him immediately, her ready capitulation only feeding Rowan’s raging desire. She lifted her knees, the move making her buttocks into riper curves in his hands, and locked her ankles around his waist.
Only then did Rowan recall her threat—and realize he could hardly wait to savor whatever she chose to do to him.
By the time they were done, Ibernia would not be longing to reach Dublin; she would be begging to remain in his company yet longer. But this indulgence would ensure that Rowan was fully free of the intoxicating novelty of her touch by the time they reached Ireland’s shore.
’Twould be so much easier to set her free that way.
He was certain of it.