was not often that Rowan was surprised, even less often that he was surprised by a woman. They were cursedly predictable in his experience—especially to one so perceptive as he.was not often that Rowan was surprised, even less often that he was surprised by a woman. They were cursedly predictable in his experience—especially to one so perceptive as he.
With one notable exception.
That exception stood on the deck, her pose defiant and her eyes flashing, as if she would dare him to question her claim. She knew little about him if she thought he would simply walk away from this!
For she had not only surprised him, she had deceived him. Ibernia had used him for her own ends, and Rowan did not like the revelation.
Not Ibernia. Bronwyn. Her name was Bronwyn.
He was appalled at what remarkably good sense it all made. She wanted to go home. He wanted to find an Irish heiress. She named herself, challenged him to press his suit, which incidentally ensured that she would be home quickly. When he might have lingered, she goaded him to depart sooner. She insisted that she knew Bronwyn would not have him, challenging him to prove her wrong.
Rowan had never guessed how she could know so well what Bronwyn thought. What a fool he was to fall for such artful trickery! She had addled his wits.
The deck rolled beneath his feet as Rowan strode toward her. He saw suddenly the ominous clouds gathering quickly overhead, noted the churning shadows of the sea.
Rowan nearly growled. The last thing he needed was a tempestuous sea. He had best deal with Bronwyn first, before illness claimed him again.
The prospect did naught to improve his sour temper. How dare she best him at his own game? Rowan came to a halt before the lady in question, met her rebellious gaze, and felt a wave of admiration so strong it nearly took him to his knees.
She was incomparable. At least he had not called that amiss.
Though that was small consolation in this moment.
Rowan glared as well as he was able, but Bronwyn was undaunted. He took a step closer and glowered—she held her ground.
“You did not think it pertinent to tell me the truth sooner?” he demanded coldly.
“If I had my wits about me, I would not have told you at all!”
Naught she could have said could have restored Rowan’s mood more readily than that admission.
She was addled by him as well. Now, there was encouragement!
“Indeed?” Rowan leaned against the rail, watching her as he grinned with undisguised satisfaction. “And what happened to your wits, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal?”
“Naught of import.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the distant coast. A faint blush tinged her cheeks, the sight heating Rowan’s blood.
Rowan was most reassured to know that he was not alone in losing the battle against sensation here. He leaned closer and whispered so that his breath feathered across her throat.“What could have distracted you from your clear thinking?”
“I said, naught of import.” She took a step away and cast an arch glance his way. “Though you may have distracted me once, rest assured that you will not do so again.”
“A challenge!” Rowan made to close the distance between them, but she moved away before he could capture her in his arms. He considered her for a long moment, then stepped quickly after her.
But not quickly enough. Indeed, her eyes began to dance with mischief that she vexed him again, the sight dismissing any sense of victory he might have felt.
How irksome that she could guess his intent so readily as that! He greatly preferred to be considered unpredictable and did not care that this lady seemed able to read him so well.
Rowan folded his arms across his chest and glared at her, a choice that Bronwyn seemed to find amusing.
“Truly. When did you intend to tell me the truth?” he demanded.
She arched a fair brow. “With luck, never.”
“Never!” The word exploded from Rowan’s lips. “And how did you intend to manage this deed? How did you anticipate that you would lie to me when we crossed Ballyroyal’s threshold? Do you imagine I would not notice that you and my intended were one and the same?”
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “Oh, you are not so blind to all around you as that.”
“I thank you for that meager credit.”
“But you would never have come to Ballyroyal.”
“What is that to mean?”
“Only that I would have fled your side in Dublin and you would have found some other kirtle to chase in my stead.” She shrugged and turned out to sea. “You are, after all, a man unenamoured of obligation.” She cast another glance his way. “Why would anyone imagine that you would keep any pledge?”
Rowan scowled, uncertain what to say. To live a life unfettered by obligation was indeed his ambition, though it sounded far less noble a pursuit when Bronwyn stated it so.
“I mean to win my quest,” he insisted.
“Aye, purely so that your foster mother does not disinherit you. How noble an intent! What manner of fool are you to not perceive that winning this quest will only win you all you say you do not desire?”
“What nonsense is this?” Rowan took a step back.
“Oh, do not feign ignorance with me!” Bronwyn’s eyes flashed like sapphires in the sun. “If you win this heiress bride, then Margaux will not cast you out, is this not so?”
“Aye,” Rowan agreed warily.
“And so, you will be indebted to the bride and her father, no doubt answerable to various duties and responsibilities. And this Margaux will burden you with an estate, or an inheritance, or some matter that persistently requires your attention.”
“Nay, not Margaux …” Rowan began to argue, but then he recalled that Burke had declined his mother’s legacy. And Luc had his own mother’s holding to call his own, not to mention that of his heiress bride.
Margaux had no heir. Rowan’s heart stopped at the truth of it.
Ye gods, this could not be right! Margaux would not entrust him with anything of value.
Would she?
But even if she did not, there was the matter of the heiress’s holdings. He supposed it was not unreasonable to conclude that duties might be expected of him there.
Though he had never thought that far.
Bronwyn lifted her chin in triumph. “You will have responsibilities if you win this wager, Rowan de Montvieux, of that there is no doubt. Fortunes do not fall into hands unwilling to labor for their maintenance.”
Rowan stared at her, marvelling that he could have missed something so painfully evident. It seemed rather foolish to admit in this moment that he had seized upon the challenge of his brothers and thought no further than that. He had been dared and he had accepted the terms, purely because the odds of success were so long.
But Bronwyn’s explanation made it clear that he was striving to win the one thing he was certain he did not desire.
She stepped closer and tapped a fingertip in the middle of his chest. “Do not offer me the lie that you did not see the truth of it,” she said softly. “You are keener of wit than that.”
He apparently was not, but Rowan was not inclined to make his lack of intellect clear—though he would not question why he cared what she thought of him.
“I do not want any responsibilities and Margaux knows the truth of it,” he declared, his calm tone in marked contrast to his pounding heart. “She would never entrust anything of import to me, at least not if she wished to see it maintained.”
He grinned, hoping he achieved some measure of his usual disregard. Bronwyn did not smile, and Rowan had the distinct sense that she was disappointed in him.
Not that that was of any import at all.
“Well, you should know that Bronwyn of Ballyroyal is not the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland.” Her tone was cool and composed, as if she were discarding naught of greater import than an old stocking. “I lied to you to ensure you took my dare.”
Rowan found this appalling, no less that she so readily admitted to her crime. That must be why her claim stung.
’Twas not often that Rowan was tricked, and never so successfully. Perhaps this was admiration he felt for her. Clearly he felt something, for his heart hammered and he could not summon a clever word to his lips as he regarded her.
“You can seek your fortune elsewhere, now that we understand each other.”
That she could dismiss him as readily as that, as readily as he was wont to dismiss former lovers, was not welcome in the least.
Rowan propped his hands on his hips, feeling the need to argue the point. “But I pledged to win you.”
“But you must succeed by the Yule.” Bronwyn looked him straight in the eye. “I assure you, Rowan de Montvieux, you will not win me before this Yule or any other. You had best seek to win your wager elsewhere.”
“Do you imply that my word is worthless?”
Bronwyn laughed. “Aye! What else would I assume of a man who desires no responsibilities! To keep a pledge or fulfill an oath is an onerous weight indeed. Nay, you are not the manner of man to cling to mere words.” She smiled brightly, her acceptance of this annoying as naught else could have been.
Rowan glared at her, but the lady was untroubled by his response.
“ ’Tis fair enough that you cannot find what you desire in me,” Bronwyn declared, her manner so blithe that Rowan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. “And truly, ’tis enough for me to be so close to home. We should part in Dublin and each pursue our own path.”
Rowan could not find the precise argument as to why this course would be unsuitable. He certainly had no particular affection for this vexing creature, even if Bronwyn was unlike any woman he had ever known.
Aye, he should seize this chance and abandon the entire quest! He should let Margaux disinherit him, he should find a troupe of travellers and live unfettered as he so desired. Bronwyn was right—he desired naught he could win by success in this.
But Rowan could not summon the words to declare he would do precisely that. He supposed that was because he owed Thomas a decent training as a knight. Aye, an obligation at root! Once Thomas won his spurs, then Rowan would walk away from this knightly life.
But ’twould be five years before that was done.
Rowan leaned his elbows against the rail, ensuring he was close to Bronwyn’s side but not touching her. He could smell her skin, and the lazy thread of desire that unfurled in his belly brought words other than a ready agreement to his tongue.
“Nay, that cannot be done,” he said amiably.
“What is this?” Something flashed in Bronwyn’s eyes then was quickly subdued, though Rowan knew he had struck a chord.
He smiled at her, feeling as if matters were shifting in his favor once more. “It cannot be done,” he insisted mildly, liking the way her eyes flashed in anger. “Though ’tis true that I hold naught in esteem and my word is worth less than naught, the same cannot be said of you.”
She took a sharp breath, her gaze fairly cutting him in half. “Me?”
“Aye, your sworn pledge is naught with which to trifle and, as I recall, you did pledge to serve me for a year and a day.” Rowan let his smile widen. “In exchange for your freedom.”
Crimson flooded her cheeks and steam high rose from her ears. “You would not compel me to that!”
“Indeed I would,” he agreed easily. Rowan told himself that his intent was solely to annoy her as she annoyed him, and there could be no doubt that she was infuriated.
He leaned closer, determined to twist the knife in the wound. “In fact,” he reminded her cheerfully, “you might recall that I granted you a chance to win your freedom sooner, yet you failed the test.”
She looked fit to kill him with her bare hands.
The very sight of her fury cheered Rowan immeasurably. He grinned at her, reached out, and flicked a fingertip across the end of her nose.
“Imagine, we have only just begun to explore the pleasure we can grant each other,” he teased, waiting for the flash of her eyes before he whistled between his teeth. “An entire year of satisfying each other’s every desire. It should grant you even your fill of me. Perhaps I should become a male courtesan, after that.” Rowan grinned, bracing himself for a spate of angry words condemning his vanity to hell and back.
He was not prepared for the slap of Bronwyn’s hand across his face.
Nor for the force of her blow.
He jumped back, affronted that she had struck him. “Ye gods, what was that?” He touched his burning cheek with his fingertips, but the lady was not ready to back away.
“That was for being even less worthy of merit than could be believed!” she snapped, her eyes flashing and her cheeks flushed. “That was for your shameless seduction, that was for feigning that you had any heart at all. And that was for denying me the one thing I want most in all the world, solely because you can!”
Rowan spread his hands. “I am all yours.”
She cast him a look so lethal that he took a step back. “Bastard!” she muttered through her teeth.
Rowan inclined his head in agreement. “Indeed.”
“Shameless knave!”
“Undoubtedly.” He grinned. Indeed, he was tempted to kiss her soundly, even if there was a risk of her slapping him again.
She leaned closer and whispered through her teeth. “Mercenary!”
That charge hit home as naught else could have done. Rowan straightened angrily. “Nay, ma demoiselle, it is you who used me for your own ends, seeing only to your own advantage.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes widening as she mocked him. “Woho, the pot calls the kettle black.”
“Then you do concede your trickery?”
“I concede naught to you.”
“You have before and you will again.”
She laughed then, as never a woman had laughed when faced with the prospect of Rowan’s lovemaking. Her eyes flashed as she leaned toward him, the creamy length of her throat leading his gaze to the top of her untied chemise. His chemise. She looked so desirable, so determined to challenge his every expectation, that Rowan could think of naught but dragging her back to their cabin once more.
“You will never touch me again, of that you may be assured, Rowan de Montvieux.”
’Twas not precisely what the knight longed to hear. “You desire me, you know you do,” he insisted, but her arched brow said otherwise.
Her eyes, though, were bright, and he knew that anger such as this did not come from naught. Nay, she cared for him, she desired him, and Rowan knew the truth of it.
Why else was she so concerned that he hold love in esteem? Rowan chuckled at the truth of it. Aye, he would have Bronwyn begging for his touch before they were done! He stepped closer, savoring how her eyes narrowed assessingly at his move.
Oh, she would be his again within moments.
The captain’s voice rose as he changed the course and Bronwyn raised her gaze to look over Rowan’s shoulder. A faint smile teased her lips and her expression turned welcoming, that look bringing his advance to a halt. When she waved and smiled, Rowan spun to find the captain granting her a salute.
Something dark twisted in his gut, though Bronwyn’s next words stole his breath away.
“I desire a man of substance, not some knave whose word cannot be trusted,” she declared under her breath. “Is Baldassare not a handsome man? Aye, a man with fine manners and a fat purse, a man who knows how best to treat a lady.” She sighed. “Perhaps ’tis the call of blood to blood, but I cannot resist the allure of a Venetian man. And now that you have shown me the pleasures to be found abed, well, I cannot resist him.”
She brushed past an astonished Rowan, her gaze fixed on the other man. “I would guess his lovemaking would not be mediocre,” she murmured.
Nay! This was not right! Bronwyn’s desire could not be so fleeting as that! Her desire could not be so fleeing as his own oft was!
Could it?
“You cannot do this!” he bellowed
“Watch me,” she muttered through her teeth, casting him a glance so stubborn it nigh stole his breath away.
Rowan lunged after her. “You cannot go to him! You cannot leave me to pursue him.”
Bronwyn resolutely kept her gaze fixed on the captain, a smile upon the ripe curve of her lips. “ ’Tis precisely what I intend to do.” She untied her chemise a little more, casting Rowan an arch glance.
But Baldassare was not a man of honor and Rowan knew it well. Neither was Rowan, at least by his own claims, but that seemed of less import in this moment. The ship rolled beneath his feet, but he gritted his teeth and fought back a wave of nausea, knowing only that he had to keep Bronwyn from doing something foolish.
Again.
Rowan stepped into her path and seized her shoulders in his grip, forcing her to meet his gaze. The determination he found in her eyes stunned him. “You cannot go to him! You know he is not a man of merit.”
“I thought you were a man of merit, though now I know better.” She shrugged. “It seems my perceptions go awry. And what does it matter in the end? I have naught to lose by coupling with as many men as I might desire.” Bronwyn smiled up at him. “Is pleasure not the only thing that can be relied upon?”
“You cannot believe that!”
“Can I not?” Her eyes were as bright as a cat’s, her expression one that dared him to prove her wrong.
But her argument was too close to his own thinking for Rowan to summon an argument against it. “He will take advantage of you.”
Bronwyn tilted her head to regard him, her own filled with that mingled intelligence and spirit he found so beguiling. “As you would not?” she scoffed. “Tell me what other reason is there for you to compel me to remain by your side for another year? You mean to trick me at some point into wedding you so you can win your cursed dare. Why else would you want me to remain?”
Her tone pricked at Rowan’s pride, her gaze locked with his own. He sensed that she would urge him to claim something other than what he knew to be the truth, some false reliance upon her presence, some need to have her by his side.
But that was nonsense.
“I would merely hold you to your sworn word,” he insisted, and the lady’s gaze flickered before she looked away.
Her lips tightened to a grim line. “Then I will break it. I am told—by a knight, no less—that it is not a matter of import.”
“Ibeirnia!” Rowan shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. “Bronwyn,” he growled. “What makes you imagine that Baldassare will make a pledge of love to you?”
“Ah, but there is your error,” she said, sadness clouding her eyes. “There is something other than a pledge of love that I would have from Baldassare di Vilonte.”
Rowan blinked at her, completely confused by her words. Why did she go to him, then? Was love not the sole thing she desired? He shook his head in confusion, but the lady abruptly gripped the hilt of his dagger.
“You did say I might borrow this,” she reminded him, and moved the dagger into her own belt before he could protest.
Rowan frowned but the captain called again and the ship changed course once more. Immediately their passage became rougher, the waves breaking against the hull with shuddering blows.
The bottom dropped out of Rowan’s gut just as Bronwyn brushed past him. He would have called after her, but he made the mistake of looking to the sea.
The waves swirled and tossed, their rhythm nearly enough to make him lose his footing. He seized the rail and surrendered the contents of his belly, shuddering as he leaned his brow against the wet wood.
By the time he turned to lend chase, Bronwyn and Baldassare were too absorbed in each other’s company for his taste.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Bronwyn realized belatedly that that could have been the theme for much of her life and certainly all of her choices in the past sixmonth. All the same, she kept walking toward Baldassare, holding his gleaming gaze, unwilling to back down from her course.
She knew what she had to do. Indeed, when she was feeling murderous, it had seemed good sense to put the impulse to throttle Rowan to better use.
She fingered the hilt of Rowan’s dagger, overly aware of its unfamiliar weight in her belt. Indeed, she would not have minded if he came after her in this moment and halted her impulsive course, though she would never have told him as much.
But there was no sound of Rowan giving chase. She glanced back quickly and noted that he was bent over the rails. Compassion unexpectedly shot through her, but Bronwyn steeled herself against it.
Nay, she knew the manner of man Rowan was—he had made the truth more than clear—and she was clearly best without him.
Which meant she must solve her own problems, including this one.
Bronwyn summoned what she hoped was an alluring smile for Baldassare and stepped closer, half certain the man could read her every thought. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, ma bella.” He bowed deeply, the wind tossing his dark hair and crisply white shirt sleeves. He was indeed a handsome man, though there was a chill in his eyes that unsettled Bronwyn.
When he smiled, there was no answering warmth in those dark eyes. His gaze dropped to the slight display of her cleavage and his smile broadened, the change making him look even more predatory. “Dare I hope that you have pondered my question?”
“Your question?”
“Aye, about Niccolo.” Baldassare studied Bronwyn as her heart hammered in her throat, then shook his head as if saddened. “Perhaps ’tis too much to hope that we might be reunited after all these years. I so hoped to see him again, for ’tis not often a man has a chance to relive old times. Perhaps another in Dublin can aid me in this quest.”
Anger rose hot in Bronwyn’s throat and she knew he would see the evidence of it in her eyes. Mercifully, a crewman called, his foreign speech readily comprehensible to her.
“Captain! The wind takes us too close to the shore!”
“Nay, there is naught to fear,” Baldassare called. “My chart insists there are no shoals in these waters. As long as we remain clear of the coast itself, all shall be well.” He waved to the crewman. “Hold our course!”
“Is something amiss?” Ibernia asked as if she had not understood.
Baldassare smiled and cupped her jaw with one of his hands. She forced herself to endure the gesture, knowing that ’twould infuriate Rowan if he saw it. “Nay, ma bella” he murmured. “There is naught that you need to fear. I am a man who can be relied upon to finish what he has begun.”
Bronwyn forced a smile, trying to hide her fearful response to his obvious reference. Aye, he would see her father killed and she knew it well. He was the one her father had tried to escape.
First, she had to ensure they were alone, that there were no witnesses to her crime. Bronwyn could think of only one way to manage that deed.
She would worry about managing the crime later.
“Baldassare,” she murmured. “There is something about your reassurance that makes a woman”—she sighed—“feel safe.”
“Aye, ma bella? And what cause have you to feel unsafe?”
Bronwyn flicked a glance over her shoulder, noting that Rowan was straightening and looking no less grim than before. He turned his steps in their direction, his eyes dark, and she spun back to face the captain.
“My husband!” she whispered, trying to feign panic. “He is a man of great passions, and I fear I have vexed him overmuch. There is no place I might hide from his fury!”
Baldassare’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you strike him.”
“Aye, and he will have vengeance for that blow!” She knotted her hands together, relieved when the captain glared at Rowan and drew her behind him. “Oh, I had hoped he would be ill again, but he already recovers.”
“You have no need to fear, ma bella. I will protect you.”
Bronwyn flicked a glance in Rowan’s direction, her heart taking a little skip at both his determined expression and his proximity. “If we could retire to your cabin, Baldassare, I should feel much safer.”
The captain frowned, he eyed the sky. “I am not certain that ’tis a good time for such a course …” he began, but Bronwyn clutched his arm. She brushed her breast against his arm, but his smile turned rueful. “Ma bella, there is no time for such pleasures on this day …”
But Bronwyn was not about to surrender this chance. “I must tell you about Niccolo.”
Baldassare’s eyes blazed and she had his attention fully. “You know him?”
“Aye! I remember!”
It took no more than that to have Baldassare seize her arm and turn her toward the corridor to his cabin. He strode so quickly that Bronwyn had a hard time matching his pace, and she knew the moment was nigh upon her. The crew called again, but Baldassare waved off their fears. Rowan shouted, but the captain only increased his pace.
She gripped the hilt of the knife, steeling herself for what must be done. The deck began to pitch in a wild manner, the first drops of rain fell heavily on Bronwyn’s cheeks. She spared a glance at the angry sky as a crewman cried a warning.
“Shoals! We will run aground!” roared a crewman, others shouting in the wake of his cry.
Baldassare spun in the shadow of the corridor. “Incompetent fools!” he cried. “I should never have relied upon these charts again!” He swore with a thoroughness unexpected and shoved Bronwyn aside. He might have returned to the deck, but Bronwyn seized the only chance she was likely to have.
She plunged the dagger into Baldassare’s midriff, into the space between his leather hauberk and his chausses. ’Twas harder than she expected to do so, and the knife did not go deep.
But a great deal of blood flowed almost immediately. Baldassare cried out in pain, blanching. His eyes widened when he saw the blade. He swore and grabbed for her. Bronwyn stepped backward, and Baldassare lunged after her. A panicked Bronwyn turned to flee and ran directly into Rowan’s chest.
Rowan quickly shoved her behind him and reached for his sword. Bronwyn realized in the same moment as he that it was still in the cabin beyond.
Baldassare did not miss the omission either. He roared and lunged at the knight. The dagger fell from Baldassare’s wound and danced across the floor as the men circled each other.
Baldassare dove for the knife. Rowan stepped on his hand. A bone crunched, the captain paled, and the dagger slid out of the way. The pair slipped and went down, each struggling for supremacy, roiling back and forth in the narrow space.
The knife scuttled out of their reach as the ship was tossed about the sea. Baldassare pounced on the dagger when the ship rocked again. When Rowan moved to deflect him, the captain came up with another knife.
Bronwyn gasped, for this blade must have been hidden on his person. Baldassare’s blade caught Rowan across the thigh, a thin line of blood showing on the knight’s dark chausses. Rowan kicked Baldassare’s hand with a growl, the knife bounced down the hall out of range, and they circled anew.
The ship groaned, Bronwyn falling against the wall as the deck tipped. The dagger skidded toward her, Bronwyn scooped it up and watched the fight, trying to gauge where she could best lend her aid.
“I will kill that deceitful bitch!” Baldassare roared. He leapt for Rowan, and the pair struggled mightily before Rowan slammed the other man’s head into the wooden walls. The captain sagged, Rowan leaned over him, but Baldassare’s hands locked around the knight’s neck with lightning speed.
“Nay!” Bronwyn cried, and leapt into the fray. She raised the dagger high and brought it down heavily into the captain’s shoulder. The blade sunk deep this time and Baldassare caught his breath.
He cried out and fell backward, his eyes rolling closed so slowly that time seemed to have stopped.
He did not move. Bronwyn stood with shaking hands, the trembling spreading through her entirety as she watched the captain grow even more pale.
His blood flowed onto the deck with alarming speed.
Rowan gripped the wall and watched the other man bleed for a long moment, the rasp of his breath filling the corridor. The skies burst open and rain pounded on the deck beyond, flowing into the corridor and mingling with the captain’s blood.
Rowan’s golden gaze rose incredulously to hers and Bronwyn found herself backing away. “What seized your wits?” he demanded. “If you did not want the man to touch you, then you should not have taken matters so far as this.”
Bronwyn bridled at his tone. “This was not because he meant to touch me!”
Rowan flung out a hand. “Oh, you simply thought it a good plan to murder the captain? Aye, none were likely to notice that! We shall have all of the republic hunting our sorry hides for this crime!” To her astonishment, he shouted at her. “Are you mad? Ye gods, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, I thought you were a woman of some sense!”
Bronwyn folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “He was going to murder my father. I had no choice.”
Rowan stared at her, stunned to silence. He shoved a hand through his hair and swore with a thoroughness unexpected.
When he stepped toward her, his eyes were flashing so furiously that she flinched from his touch. “I suppose ’twould have been too much for you to simply tell me the truth.”
“Aye, ’twould have.” She flung out a hand. “What would you have cared for the obligations of my blood?”
Rowan opened his mouth, no doubt to make an angry retort, but the sudden groan of ship stole his words away. The vessel lurched and shook from stem to stern, its unexpected halt throwing them both against one wall.
There was a sound of shattering wood, then the crewmen shouted to each other. The ship trembled mightily, waves thundered against the hull. Far below, the trapped slaves began to scream, and rushing water could be heard echoing in the hold.
And a destrier whinnied in terror just before he began to kick with resounding rhythm.
They had run aground.
“Are you injured?” Rowan demanded.
“Nay.” Bronwyn felt overwhelmed by all that had just transpired.
“Can you swim?”
“I do not know.”
The knight cast her a grin that was less cocky than usual but still managed to reassure her. “Well, ma demoiselle, I suspect we shall shortly find out. Fortunately for both of us, I can.” Then he stepped onto the chaos of the deck and shouted. “Thomas!”