or a day that had begun well enough, this one seemed intent on abandoning any promise at all. Indeed, Rowan heartily doubted he would survive it.or a day that had begun well enough, this one seemed intent on abandoning any promise at all. Indeed, Rowan heartily doubted he would survive it.
He could hear an infuriated Troubador wreaking havoc belowdecks and did not dare to imagine what that beast might accomplish before he got to the steed’s side. At least Baldassare would be unable to take issue with the damage.
Rowan refused to think about what had just happened, much less what he might do to set matters to rights.
First matters first.
To Rowan’s relief, they were not far from shore. A glance revealed that the ship had run aground on a rocky shoal. If the waves had not been whipped so high by the commencing storm, the ship might have perched there long enough to allow all to disembark.
As it was, the vessel creaked ominously and there was no telling when ’twould plunge into the sea.
Or shatter to a thousand pieces. The sea churned angrily, and Rowan already guessed that Dame Fortune had abandoned him the moment he accepted his brothers’ dare.
With the exception of finding Bronwyn. He could not think about that either, nor the wave of protectiveness that had so caught him unawares. There was proof that responsibilities were trouble!
And Bronwyn was trouble unrivalled.
Thomas came quickly, his manner sober. Marika was right behind him, her eyes wide in fear. She cringed with every shout from below, and Rowan realized that she might have friends or family still in the hold. Bronwyn cast him an appealing glance and he knew well enough what her expectation was.
He reminded himself that if he saved her from this disaster, he could have the pleasure of killing her himself. Murdering the captain! And distracting that man when they were so close to shore. Had he ever witnessed such foolery?
Even if for a noble cause. His heart twisted that she would take such a risk out of love for her father, then he forced such consideration from his thoughts.
Indeed, there was no time for it now.
“Take Marika and Thomas with you and make for the shore as best you are able,” he bade Bronwyn. “I will try to free steeds and slaves.”
She balked, as he should have expected. “I will not!”
“Is naught ever simple with you?” Rowan flung out his hands as the ship creaked and tipped a little farther into the sea. “I but request you save your hide!”
“And I but insist that we shall all be saved together.”
“Or, more like, all die together.”
“I will not leave you here to die alone.”
“You have no choice! I entrust you to see these two safe, and as a woman who welcomes responsibility, you should be delighted to ensure their welfare.”
Even with that, she hesitated, though Rowan could not imagine why. Surely she could not desire to die? “There is an opportunity to get yourself onto the shoal and thus make the shore, even if you cannot swim.”
Before the lady could protest further, Rowan caught her chin in his hand. “Go, Bronwyn, or I truly shall believe you are witless!” Her eyes flashed and he kissed her quickly, striding away before she chose to discuss the matter further.
For there was no time to argue. Rowan cut a quick path to the hatchway, threw it back, and nearly stumbled at the stench of terrified horse.
And terrified human. A pungent blending of sweat and fear and excrement assaulted Rowan, the pulse of rain doing naught to aid matters. Troubador evidently saw the light above—or Rowan’s silhouette—for he snorted and kicked with new vigor. His rear hooves slammed against the hull of the ship and wood splintered noisily. The palfrey whinnied, her feet stamping a staccato as she took the destrier’s foul mood.
Before Rowan could descend, Troubador snapped at his tether with vigor and the bolt to which his reins were secured was ripped right from the wall. The bolt clung to the reins, moving with vigor each time the destrier tossed his head. The bolt flew around the small space, threatening to dislodge an eye.
Better and better. Rowan gritted his teeth, not surprised the frightened beast did naught to aid in his own survival. The destrier was strong and more clever than most.
Except when he was afraid. Then there was no reasoning with him, nor even any way of swaying his conviction in whatever madness he took to mind. On this day, clearly the beast had decided to fight his way free.
Rowan hoped that neither of them was injured in the attempt. He threw an arm over his face and made his way to the side of the ship that had been closed behind the horses to make the exterior of the ship. The tipping of the vessel had left this side slightly skyward and Rowan’s fingers worked madly as he sought the seal.
Troubador frothed. The bolt caught Rowan once in the back of the shoulder. He winced at the brutal sting but knew there was naught that could calm the steed.
Naught but freedom. Seawater pooled in the far corner. Troubador began to snort and stamp that his feet were in the chill water. That was no good reminder to this beast that did not favor the sea.
The palfrey screamed and shook, her frenzied cries nearly shattering Rowan’s ears. The slaves cried for mercy in an incoherent babble for which Rowan needed no knowledge of foreign tongues to understand.
If he had had any wits, he would have fled and seen to his own safety. But Rowan scrabbled at the edge of the door. Too late he realized that it was nailed from the outside and he could not open the hatch by himself.
Troubador raged and kicked again, Rowan just barely escaping the impact of those flying feet. He pressed himself back into the corner, watching as the beast kicked again and again and again, evidently recalling even in his fear how he had come to be trapped in this place.
And the wood was beginning to fall prey to the stallion’s assault. Rowan cringed back into the corner, hoping against hope that the beast could achieve what he could not.
’Twas then that he saw the key. It hung from a hook, dangling just above his head, in a corner that would be out of sight when all was at rights. Rowan seized it, guessing its purpose immediately, and fell upon the lock that secured the slaves in the hold.
He had no sooner turned the key than the base of the gangplank shattered beneath the destrier’s assault. The rain slanted in coldly, the sea rushed in to swirl around his feet.
A trio of bedraggled men raced out of the confining hold, their eyes wide with fear. They headed directly for the light and put their shoulders to the broken wood, so fearful that they were oblivious to the panicked horse. The infuriated destrier shoved his way through them, intent on reaching freedom as soon as the hatch fell open, the palfrey immediately behind him.
Rowan found Bronwyn unexpectedly by his side. He had no time to chastise her before she plunged into the bowels of the ship, her questions flying quickly in a succession of languages.
He would not admit that her ability was of any aid.
“Bronwyn! The ship is easing free of the shoal! You must flee.” Rowan lent chase, only to have the lady in question press a child into his arms.
“We cannot abandon them,” she chided, undeterred by his displeasure. “Quickly, Rowan. Many have not the strength to walk.”
She spoke aright. Rowan blinked as she faded into the shadows and the babe in his arms began to cry. He was achingly aware of the unsteady rhythm of the ship and did not trust it to hold its place for long.
Which meant only that they must hasten.
A man spoke to him from behind. Rowan turned and passed the child. He won a grateful smile that settled around his heart with a glow.
“Hurry!” Rowan cried, the rushing water now past his knees.
They settled into a rhythm quickly, each able-bodied slave coming free of the hold as quickly as possible. To Rowan’s relief, none here was shackled, the security of the hold apparently deemed sufficient.
But there were so many of them and they were so weakened by what they had endured. His heart clenched as he lost sight of Bronwyn yet again.
As if in echo of Rowan’s thoughts, the ship gave a shuddering moan. “We must be gone,” Rowan cried.
“I heard a moan,” she insisted, her voice distant.
Rowan rolled his eyes and dove into the darkness in pursuit. ’Twas dark as pitch within and the smell was enough to turn his belly again. The water had joined with countless other substances here to make a mire that now rose to his waist. Something bumped against his leg and he feared it was too late already for many here.
The ship began to creak loudly.
And he did not know where the lady was.
“Bronwyn!”
“Here!” Rowan reached back and found her hand in the same instant that the ship shuddered and creaked ominously. There came a shout from overhead and Bronwyn cried out.
The ship was slipping off the shoal!
Rowan recognized a last chance when he saw it. They would never survive if the ship sank with them in its belly. He caught Bronwyn in his arms and lunged for the light. The seawater suddenly rushed against them in an angry grey torrent, keeping them from the portal. Bronwyn clung to his neck and Rowan snatched at the wooden frame, fighting with all his might to see them free.
’Twould not be his fault if Bronwyn died trying to save the lives of strangers.
For a man disenchanted with responsibility, Rowan de Montvieux showed a remarkable drive to ensure all who were his responsibility—and a great many who were not—lived to tell of this day. Bronwyn was astonished by his determination, no less by his strength.
And she was grateful for it. After his confession, she had not been certain that he would aid the slaves in escaping, but he had already released them when she arrived in the hold.
She could not blame him for not guessing their sorry state. ’Twould be beyond his experience to know the circumstance of slaves.
But Bronwyn knew all too well. Rowan’s shocked expression and his grim resolve once he witnessed the truth told her that she had called the matter aright.
When the wave rolled through the portal, Bronwyn was glad that she knew the truth about his character, even if that was the last thing she would ever learn.
But Rowan was not so inclined to cede defeat. Bronwyn could never have moved so quickly as he did, even with her caught in his arms. Even as Rowan raced forward, she feared that she would keep him from surviving.
They reached the opening as the ship rolled into the sea and the cold water closed over them with a vengeance. Bronwyn knew they were lost forever beneath the silver waves, trapped within the maw of the sinking hold.
But Rowan grabbed the wooden frame and held fast as the ship rolled. He fairly shoved Bronwyn through the opening, and her heart leapt at the aqua gleam of salvation high overhead. Rowan kicked and urged her toward the surface.
’Twas far, much farther than she could have imagined, and she was not a swimmer by any definition. When she might have faltered, Rowan caught her beneath his arm and pulled them higher with bold strokes. Bronwyn’s chest ached and she thought she would faint for lack of air, but she kicked valiantly, trying to aid his efforts to save them.
They broke the surface as one, gasping with painful vigor. Rowan’s arm still locked around her waist, holding her afloat.
They both gulped greedily of fresh air and Bronwyn trembled in the wake of their escape. She had never been so glad to feel rain on her face as she was in that moment. She felt Rowan’s muscles move so close against her own and realized he was keeping them both afloat.
“I can manage this,” she insisted, not wanting to be more of a burden than she already was. Bronwyn moved her arms in mimicry of his movements, and Rowan released her with a nod.
Bronwyn had a moment to gasp in alarm before she sank like a stone. Rowan dove after her, his arm locking around her waist with resolve as he hauled her again to the surface.
“You cannot swim,” he declared through gritted teeth.
“I could not know until I tried,” she answered, trying to lighten the mood. Rowan flicked a glance her way and she smiled. “Thank you.”
Rowan averted his gaze quickly, though it might only have been because of more pressing matters at hand. He moved through the water with surety and an elegance she envied, then hauled her to an outcropping of rock.
“Hold on here,” he instructed, and Bronwyn gripped the stone. It was a rocky tip of the shoal that had claimed the ship. Through the mist of the rain, she saw others clinging to rock as they could, a few heads in the distance, and—praise be!—many standing upon a shore that was not too distant. Bronwyn nearly wept in her relief.
Bronwyn looked over her shoulder, her heart clenching at the ship’s masts protruding from the sea. They were at a hard angle, the rest of the ship already hidden by the waves. She shivered at their close escape, not wanting to think about those who had not been so fortunate. She caught her breath when she realized Rowan had slipped away from her.
“Fool horse,” he muttered, his brow dark. “Rest here a moment. The tide will not change so fast as that.”
He swam with powerful strokes, cutting through the water, his chemise clinging to his muscles. Bronwyn looked beyond him to spy a pair of steeds, resolutely swimming in the wrong direction.
“Troubador!” Rowan shouted.
The destrier started, then swam on with increasing speed, the palfrey fast behind. Bronwyn knew enough of horses to see that the steed was terrified.
Which meant he would heed naught.
Rowan muttered something foul that even Bronwyn could hear, and she bit her finger as he ventured out farther in his steed’s wake. “You fool creature!” he roared. “Are you so witless than you cannot even smell the shore?”
He swam after the horses with determination, though Bronwyn was dismayed by how far he went. Rowan plowed through the water and managed to seize the rein that trailed behind the horse. He gave it a tug.
“That way, you mad beast!” He tried to direct the steed back toward the shore.
The palfrey broke ranks with the larger stallion, her nose rising as she turned shoreward. Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief that the horse had forgotten her fear long enough to smell the lush grass of Ireland.
But the destrier fought the bit and shied in the opposite direction. Knight and steed both slipped lower in the water as Bronwyn watched and chewed her lip in fear. The stallion began to swim in a broad arc, clearly a horse determined to swim until he could no more.
The horse would continue until he was so exhausted that he faltered and drowned, Bronwyn could see the truth. Indeed, if the destrier kept that course, that sinking would be inevitable.
The stallion whinnied indignation when he realized that the palfrey had left his side. That steed folded her ears back and swam steadily for the shore.
“That way!” Rowan bellowed in frustration, his voice fading slightly.
The destrier seemed oblivious to him, and, indeed, moved away from his voice as if frightened by the sound. Rowan swam after the beast when the rein pulled from his grip, but his strokes grew less powerful. Bronwyn straightened, knowing with sudden certainty that the knight swam too far.
He must be tiring. Rowan could not be lost trying to save a steed! Not after all he had done this day.
“Rowan!” she cried, her fingers clenching together. He turned, clearly alarmed by her cry, and a wave crashed right over his head.
She screamed his name as he disappeared from eyesight. The destrier redoubled his speed in the opposite direction. Bronwyn clung to the rock, though she could not leave this spot until she knew.
’Twas an eternity before Rowan broke the surface again, more pale than before. He shook out his hair, checked that she still was safe upon the rock, then looked after the steed. She could see his arms moving beneath the surface as he stared after the stubborn if misguided horse. When the knight turned back in her direction, his expression was grim.
He swam back to her, every stroke that brought him closer reassuring Bronwyn. She would not consider why she was worried for him. ’Twould just be the injustice of his not surviving a noble deed, no more than that. Though injustice could not have explained the relief that flooded through Bronwyn when Rowan’s hand landed heavily on the rock beside her.
His expression was strained, and it was some commentary on his state that he accepted her aid in climbing on to the rock.
“Fool beast,” he muttered, turning to stare after the creature again. He breathed so heavily that Bronwyn thought he must be exhausted beyond all.
“I thought you might not have the strength to swim back,” she confessed without any intention of doing so.
Rowan looked at her quickly, his expression uncharacteristically serious. Then he winked merrily. “Ah, but you owe me a tale.”
“What?” she demanded, incredulous at his manner.
“This morn we agreed to an exchange. I have yet to hear the tale that you promised to me.”
“I am surprised you recall as much, after all of this,” Bronwyn said crisply, and turned away. How could he make a jest at such a time as this?
“Oh, I may be a faithless wretch,” Rowan countered cheerfully, “but I am not a man to miss out on a story I am due.”
Bronwyn looked up in surprise. He grinned so broadly that she nearly smiled in turn. His hair clung to his brow, all dark and disorderly, and his skin was still pale.
There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes, though, and she was very glad to be by his side. Rowan was vibrantly alive, and she saw that he savored every challenge his life had cast his way. Naught seemed to halt his course and she found herself admiring him.
Something must have shown in her expression, for Rowan eyed her intently. The twinkle in his eyes faded to something that made Bronwyn’s mouth go dry.
“I owe you thanks,” she admitted softly. “I should never have survived without your aid.”
Rowan shrugged as if he had done naught. “It seemed only fitting,” he said lightly, “since so many others lived because of your aid.” He flicked a playful finger across her chin and winked. “Incomparable.”
Bronwyn did not know what to say to that. She felt her cheeks heat beneath Rowan’s steady regard, then he studied the distance to the shore.
“We should hasten ourselves before we both are swept away.”
Then Bronwyn recalled the blow he had taken. “Is the cut deep on your leg?”
Rowan shrugged. “It seems well enough. If naught else, the salt-water will have completely cleared the wound.” He made a grimace that was too fierce by half, and Bronwyn laughed, though she knew that was why he had done it. “I shall live to seek my pleasure on another day, ma demoiselle. Now, come along, before you grow chilled.”
There was naught to argue with in that.
The outcropping was a long shoal wrought of sand. The fact that it disappeared quickly beneath the waves was what had caused the ship’s misfortune. From the location of the wreck and beyond, the shoal was hidden beneath the turbulent sea, but to the left, its arc could be clearly seen. It proved to be increasingly shallow, the other survivors having walked its length back to the shore.
They made their way toward the shore in silence, Bronwyn puzzling whether Rowan’s concern was protective or merely polite. His salute left a warm glow in her belly that was not unwelcome, though she knew that Rowan sought naught from her beyond the victory her hand could give him.
She knew more than enough of Rowan de Montvieux’s expectations and dreams, did she not? He had told her the truth. He might well be more nobly inclined than he cared to admit, he might hold emotion in greater esteem than he acknowledged, but his view of wedlock was abundantly clear. Aye, she was not the bride for him.
Even if the conclusion did hang on her heart like a leaden weight.
The rain, now gentled, fell on the unfamiliar beach, low cliffs adorned with verdant grass rising beyond. The air was sweet and warm, more strongly so with every step. Bronwyn was close to home and glad to be so.
But her jubilation was not matched by her companion’s mood. Nay, Bronwyn did not miss the way Rowan periodically glanced back, frowning at the bobbing head of his destrier swimming determinedly for England’s far shores.
“Do you think he has turned?” he asked finally, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps he will follow the palfrey this time.”
Bronwyn did not even trouble to look. Willful destriers—like knights—did not change their ways so readily as that. She took Rowan’s hand silently and led him toward the shore, his sigh telling her that he knew the beast was lost. The palfrey had vanished into the distance and one could only hope she reached shore.
Bronwyn thought it a poor time to remind Rowan that ’twas his desire to live a life unfettered.
There were about forty survivors upon the shore, most of whom were exhausted by their most recent ordeal and weakened by their incarceration. Bronwyn could not fathom a guess as to how many had not made it to safety, though the grim expressions on many faces were eloquent. Bronwyn and Rowan were the last to reach the shore, and she noted disappointment on more than one face that no more followed.
For a man who did not welcome responsibility, Rowan had a natural tendency to lead. Every soul on that beach turned to him, and Bronwyn watched, marvelling, as he coaxed smiles from even the most despondent among them. Only one or two seamen had survived, and they had been quick to separate themselves from the others and disappear.
Clearly many of the slaves believed they owed their lives to Rowan, but the knight shrugged off their expressions of gratitude, giving credit instead to Bronwyn. He made a circuit of the survivors, coaxing smiles while he ensured that none were sorely wounded. ’Twas equally clear that he did not intend to abandon these people to whatever fate might find them.
Rowan only glanced once to the horizon as he strode back to Bronwyn, and she could not keep her unruly heart from skipping when his gaze locked with hers. He smiled that slow smile and her blood heated, though she dropped her gaze when he came to a halt beside her. His words fell low between them and it took Bronwyn a moment to realize that he sought her council.
“No one here is injured,” he commented with a thoughtful frown. “Though they are tired and hungry. Do you think there is a village nearby?”
“I do not know where we are.” Bronwyn scanned the length of the beach, the distance obscured by the misty rain. She raised her gaze to the hills that she could just glimpse rising high to the west and wondered if they were the Wicklow Mountains.
And if so, how far along that range’s length they found themselves. “Though I assume we are to the south of Dublin yet. I smell no peat fire and see no easy course to where there might be a road above.”
“In this weather, ’twould be tricky to climb.”
“It could be a long walk to any sort of dwelling,” Bronwyn supplied. “This coast bore the brunt of Strongbow’s attack—though many died, many others simply left.”
“Your family?”
She smiled thinly. “Live beyond Dublin and have too many powerful connections throughout Christendom to have been targeted for attack.” She arched a brow. “We merchants are useful subjects.”
Rowan considered her for a long moment, then glanced over the survivors. Most had huddled in the lee of the cliff and were for the better part out of the rain. Thomas had slumped against the shallow cliff, his eyes barely open, and Marika dozed beyond him.
“ ’Tis not cold. I suppose ’twould hurt little to remain here for one night.”
Bronwyn could only agree with him. This party had not the strength to go far, and at least here, they were out of the better part of the downpour.
“I think ’tis the best course. Even if the rain does not cease, all will be stronger on the morrow.”
“Even you?” Rowan teased.
Bronwyn slanted a glance his way. “And what is that to mean?”
“I am not accustomed to you being so biddable,” he declared with a wicked wink. “It must be a sign of exhaustion.”
Bronwyn propped her hands on her hips. “As I recall, you were the one so intent on arguing! You were the one who called me witless.”
He rolled his eyes. “And I was to congratulate you on the splendid good sense of killing the captain? You are fortunate, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, nigh as lucky as I have been in all my days and nights, for the sinking of the Angelica has hidden your deed for all time.”
The bile rose in Bronwyn’s throat along with recollection of what she had done. “You know the truth of it,” she acknowledged, needing some reassurance from him of his intent.
His sidelong glance was quick. “And you think I will use this against you?”
“Would you? If there was something to be gained for yourself?”
But Rowan scowled. “What manner of man do you think I am?”
“A man who prefers pleasure to responsibility,” she echoed carefully, hoping against hope that he would prove her wrong. “Was that not what you told me of yourself?”
Rowan bent to study the wound on his thigh, but not so quickly that Bronwyn did not see his expression darken. “Well, I am not so shameless a cur as that,” he said gruffly. “I will tell none of your deed, upon that you can rely.” He impaled her with a quick glance. “But you will tell me the reason for it before our paths part. Surely that is not too much to ask.”
“Nay, ’tis not,” Bronwyn agreed simply, stunned by his offer to cover her crime. It was unexpectedly generous—and yet more unexpected that she did not doubt in the least that he would keep his word.
But then, her wits had been addled since this man showed her the pleasure his touch could bring. She watched his hands as he parted the cloth of his chausses, so focused on the gentle strength of his fingers and the recollection of them upon her that the blood surprised her.
Bronwyn felt a chill pass over her as she stared at the ribbon of red seeping from the long shallow wound. She could not tear her gaze away from the insistent trickle of blood.
She had murdered Baldassare.
Willfully. Deliberately. She had killed a man. Though she had done as much to save her father’s life, still she was certain that this sin could never be absolved.
She would rot in hell for this.
“You should bind that,” she said, her voice sounding unnatural even to her own ears. But she had to do something, she had to be rid of the sight of the blood. Her fingers trembled as she tore a length of cloth from the hem of her kirtle and faltered as she tried to tie it around Rowan’s thigh.
“You do not need to do this,” he protested, lifting her hands away. He frowned down at her, the chill in her fingers apparently seizing his attention. “ ’Tis not so bad a wound as that. Are you well?”
“I am well enough,” she argued, feeling faint. Her gaze fell to the blood once more, the sight reminding her of how Baldassare had bled. He had fought her, fought Rowan, well aware of the stakes. He had not slipped into death unawares, not as quietly as she had hoped.
And that was all her fault. She could at least have killed him quickly and painlessly. Bronwyn swallowed in recollection of how his blood had mingled with the rain and been slick on the deck.
Were it not for the sea, she would have the captain’s blood on her feet as well as her hands.
Bronwyn closed her eyes as the world cavorted around her and she felt her bile rise. Rowan caught her before she fell, and lay her in the minute shelter offered by the overhanging low cliff.
“What ails you?” he asked, with obvious concern. “Are you hurt?”
Bronwyn leaned her head back and kept her eyes closed, knowing that what troubled her would not cause a knight to turn a hair. After all, a knight made his living at war.
“Well?” Rowan prompted.
Bronwyn licked her lips. “I killed a man.”
She felt Rowan studying her, then he eased down beside her. He did not touch her, though she could feel his warmth. “And this sickens you?”
“Aye.”
“It seems a most natural response,” he conceded unexpectedly. “ ’Twould be more troubling if you enjoyed the deed.”
Bronwyn opened her eyes and looked at his profile. “Have you ever killed a man?”
Rowan seemed to find this amusing. He smiled and shook his head, bending his attention on binding his thigh. “I? Never. You forget that I avoid all unpleasantries with diligence. Murder is, after all, somewhat unpleasant.”
Bronwyn sat up to study him. “But you must have gone to war. You are a knight, after all.”
“I have not.” He grinned, as if proud of his achievement. “I always found an excuse, when Margaux would have put me to work, and truly I believe she tired of the game.”
“Because you did not wish to labor at all?”
He met her gaze steadily. “Because I did not wish to kill, regardless of who endorsed the matter.” He shrugged and looked to the sea again. “It seems there is no shortage of men anxious to kill others to win their own advantage.”
“Including your father?”
Rowan snorted. “He kills enough for an army. I told you I was not of his ilk.” Before Bronwyn could ask anything, he turned a bright gaze upon her. “And what of your father? You said you did this deed for him. What is his tale?”
“ ’Tis part of the tale you are owed.”
“Aye, and I would collect while I can.” Rowan smiled, though Bronwyn was not encouraged by the reminder that their paths would soon part.
Aye, he would seek another heiress, one more wealthy, one more biddable, one perhaps more incomparable. Bronwyn did not cherish the thought.
She drew her knees up beneath her chin, her gaze dancing over the others who had managed to reach the beach. The rain fell in a gentle, incessant patter, and the sea rolled in fathomless grey. Debris from the broken ship could be spotted periodically, then it disappeared again.
She was in no rush to hasten away from this place, nor indeed from Rowan’s side. She told herself that was only because she was tired but admitted in her heart that was a lie.
Bronwyn pleated the wool of her kirtle between her fingers, feeling how the salt was drying in the weave. ’Twould be stiff later, of that she had no doubt.
“You said that Baldassare wanted to kill your father,” Rowan prompted. “Why? Did they know each other?”
“Perhaps, once,” Bronwyn admitted. She shivered and did not protest when Rowan slid his arm across her shoulders. Its weight was welcome, his presence beside her comforting. She took a deep breath and decided ’twas past time she told him what she did know.
“My father’s name was Niccolo, at least before he came to these shores. He was a Venetian trader, a captain known for his skill in making new discoveries and ensuring his voyages made profits for his investors. He always saved the finest wares for his home port and was a man of wealth and repute there. He was called the Falcon, for his sharp eye and his ability to drive a hard bargain.”
“How did your father come from Venice to here?”
Bronwyn smiled. “He met my mother. She says he tried to cheat her, by paying less for her wool roving than its worth. He insists that he wanted only to draw out the negotiation to ensure that they spent more time together.”
She focused on her fingers busily pleating her kirtle and missed Rowan’s rueful smile.
“And they fell in love. My mother would not abandon her family, so my father offered her passage on his ship. He wooed her all the way to Dublin, though she insists they went by way of the Atlantic. He says that was only because she was too stubborn to admit the truth.”
She glanced up to find Rowan smiling slightly. “They sound well matched.”
“Indeed, they are still smitten with each other, and these differences of opinion oft end with much laughter from their chamber.”
“So, Niccolo courted her, and he won her.” Rowan pursed his lips. “But why would a Venetian find himself so far north? ’Tis not common now and could only have been less common twenty years past.”
Bronwyn focused on the wool between her fingers. “My father was fleeing an enemy.” She felt Rowan’s gaze upon her and did not need his question to be prompted to continue. “Once upon a time, before my father left Venice, he had a trusted partner. They two had roved many a sea together, found many a new opportunity, and made a tidy living at their trade.
“ ’Twas my father who charted their course, listening as he did to rumor and intuition. He oft declared that he wished he had not heard the tale of a distant port where gold could be traded for salt. He and his partner agreed they would make this their next destination, and salt they loaded aplenty. They found the port and ’twas exactly as rumored. They were the first Venetians ever to visit, perhaps the first from Christendom, and the gold was of such quantity that the eyes of all the crew widened.
“The voyage went awry from that point, my father said the gold made his partner turn mad. He could not have enough of it. He swears his partner would have loaded enough to sink the ship like a stone. They argued heatedly, for the first time in all their days together, and in the end, their men drew sides. There was much bloodshed and many good men died before the ship had even left the harbor, including the partner who had so changed. In the interest of security, his discontented followers were put ashore, against their will, and abandoned in this foreign port.
“My father returned home to acclaim, but what he had witnessed weighed heavily upon his heart. He doubted that he could ever trust another fully, for he had shared so much with his partner, only for their companionship to come to ruin in the end. He had no desire to return to this port of gold. In fact, he wished never to set sail again, but his patrons insisted otherwise.
“My father’s investors would not outfit his ship without his pledge to return to the golden city, and my father refused to return or reveal its location. I think he believed the place itself was cursed and a source of wickedness, for naught else, to his thinking, could have turned such good friends against each other.”
“What was the partner’s name?”
“ ’Twas forbidden to utter his name in our home, so great was my father’s heartache.” Bronwyn shrugged. “At any rate, my father lingered in port too long. Word came that the rebels were making their way back to Venice, with vengeance hot in their words. My father decided he would not wait to hear their false accusations. If he could not leave with a ship, he would leave on foot. A trusted servant accompanied him.
“My father left his homeland. He left all he knew. He travelled north with naught more than he could carry, wanting only to put distance between himself and the lust for gold that made men mad.” She granted Rowan a smile. “Eventually, he reached the North Sea and his yearning for the sea reclaimed him. He and this servant who had become his friend worked on ships, and though my father told no tale of his past, his skills saw him quickly promoted.”
“And then he met your mother?”
“Aye. And when he won her, he changed his name, for he could not bear that she should undertake the burden of his past. Always in the back of his thoughts was the fear that his partner was not truly dead—he mentioned once that the man had a son who had been on that fateful voyage.
“My father promoted this servant and friend to captain in his own stead and made a new life for himself in Ireland. Eventually his friend returned to his side and tempted him into a new partnership. My father missed his trade and his travel, though now he only invests in his new partner’s journeys.”
Rowan looked surprised. “But he loved the sea, you said yourself.”
“Aye, but he feared for my mother—and later for me—if he was recognized.”
Rowan frowned, as if he could not imagine making such a choice.
“ ’Tis the power of love to sacrifice what you hold of import to see another safe, or happy,” Bronwyn insisted, seeing in Rowan’s eyes that he knew naught of such power.
Nor even of such love.
Her heart cringed a little for that small boy and all he had lost when his mother died so suddenly. Her gaze fell to the ring glinting on his hand as she realized that one twist of faith had shaken that child’s conviction that he was lovable.
And this was the crux of the matter. That boy had learned a telling lesson, that he should never treasure anything, that he should expect naught for himself, that he was of no merit to those around him.
The man he had become clung to that lesson as if ’twere the only certainty upon which he could rely. Rowan feigned indifference to all so that he might readily care for naught—or that he might pretend to care for naught.
But the truth might be that he cared too much. Bronwyn’s heart leapt to her throat at the prospect.
“And love is why you had to stop Baldassare?”
Bronwyn met Rowan’s gaze steadily, seeing the question that lurked in those amber depths. He truly did not understand. Once she saw the truth of it, she could not hold his gaze. Bronwyn looked away, feeling suddenly more fortunate in having known her parents’ love than she ever had before.
She would not torment Rowan with fond recollections of a childhood so very different from his own.
“My parents are happy,” she said quietly. “My father is a good-hearted man, and I believe the tale as I have been told it. Baldassare could be none other than that partner’s son. When he declared that he sought my father and called him by his Venetian name, I knew the truth of it, I saw the wild hatred in his eyes. I could not have stood by and done naught.”
“You would protect your father from such a threat, regardless of the risk to yourself, without another thought?” Rowan gripped her shoulder, his touch prompting her to turn. “How could you put your own welfare aside? You could have been killed!”
He leaned closer, the flash of fear in his eyes taking Bronwyn by surprise. “Baldassare was not a weak man, not by any means. What if he had turned upon you? Or what if the ship had not sunk? His crew would have taken compense for his loss from your very hide.”
Bronwyn blinked and swallowed. “I had not considered the risk, and even if I had, ’twould not have stayed my course.”
He watched her so long that she wondered whether he had been struck dumb. Then he tilted his head, regarding her with narrowed eyes so that she could not discern his thoughts.
“Just as you did not consider the risk when you fled your parents’ home?”
Bronwyn felt suddenly like a willful child, determined to see her way alone. He must think her foolish indeed! “I suppose I have been impulsive in my time.”
Rowan chuckled and she looked up in surprise. “Impulsive is the least of it! I have never met a woman so persuaded that she can set matters to rights as you are.”
Bronwyn felt her cheeks heat, though she lifted her chin proudly. “I was taught that a woman could achieve all that a man might, if she but had the will to try.”
“And you have the will?” he asked, the glow in his eyes making Bronwyn’s heart pound.
“Aye. Aye, I do.”
Rowan smiled. “Incomparable,” he whispered, then brushed his lips across hers, leaving a burning tingle in the wake of his touch.
Bronwyn looked back to the sea, stunned by the wave of desire that swept through her, and pulled free of the welcome weight of his arm. She knew she should not encourage this man’s touch, knew she should not rely upon him, knew she should not let herself be seduced.
But she also knew that she loved him.
The realization stole her breath away and left her blinking blindly at the rhythmic lull of the sea. She loved Rowan, a man who knew little of love, who did not trust love, who did not hold love—as she did—in greatest esteem.
’Twas foolish, more foolish perhaps than anything she yet had done, but Bronwyn could not deny the simple truth of it.
Nor did she know what to do about it.
The silence stretched between them and Bronwyn grew certain that Rowan had drifted off to sleep. Indeed, the man had earned a rest, and she was tempted to slumber herself.
So, when Rowan finally spoke, his low words startled her. “I would have a promise from you, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”
She looked back to find his gaze dangerously bright and not sleepy in the least. “What is that?”
“That you will confide in me, from this moment until our paths part, instead of resolving matters yourself.”
Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. “Why?”
He smiled then with his usual confident air, when a sweet confession might have changed all. “Because I would not want to reckon with your father, if you arrived home in worse condition than you are now.”
“You are not returning home with me!”
But Rowan shook a playful finger at her. “A year and a day, my lady. We have a wager, and I shall hold you to it.”
She did not have it in her to ask why.
Indeed, Bronwyn feared that if she did, he would tell her a truth that she did not want to hear. She might be no more than the spoils of a wager to Rowan, he might well walk away a year hence as if there had been naught between them, she might have to watch him win another heiress for his own.
But she would not compell him to tell her as much. She folded her arms across her knees and watched the waves rise and fall, achingly aware of the man behind her.
Perhaps Rowan was wrong about himself. Perhaps he knew more of love than he would admit. Perhaps he secretly yearned for love yet did not know how to pursue it. Bronwyn closed her eyes and found the image of a young Rowan in her mind.
’Twas all she needed to chart her course. Aye, if Rowan showed any hint that he was coming to hold love in esteem, if there was any indication that he was prepared to abandon what path he had taken through his life thus far, she would aid him. Bronwyn would step forward and show Rowan the way, for clearly he had no way of finding his path himself.
She knew enough of love to know that one could not force another to love in return, but she could show Rowan the prize he had been missing.
’Twas no more than he had done for her, when he dismissed her fear of lovemaking.
Bronwyn waited, hopeful and silent, but Rowan said naught more. The light changed as the sun moved, the shadows drew long, and when she finally dared to glance back, he was asleep.