owan watched the sun rise the next morning, his mood grim. He should have been pleased and he knew it well. He had achieved his lifelong objective, and that with scarcely any effort on his part. He had naught to his name, no steed, no hauberk, no blade, no coin, not even a saddlebag or a cloak to call his own. He had naught but the garb upon his back.
And he had no decent prospect of changing that state.
’Twas precisely what Rowan had always desired, or so he had long told himself, but the achievement was less than satisfactory.
Aye, he could not help but think of his lost cloak when he saw Bronwyn shiver in her sleep. He could not help but think of those two lost gold coins and how much bread they would have bought for all these hungry captives, now freed upon a foreign shore.
He would not fret over how he might fulfill his obligation to Thomas, nor even how he might see Bronwyn safely home without coin or blade. He certainly would not think of that great destrier swimming valiantly in the wrong direction, nor indeed that he would miss the fool creature.
The cut upon Rowan’s thigh burned like hellfire, teaching him the agony of salt pressed into a wound, but he ignored that as well. He struggled to be unaware of Bronwyn, sleeping beside him, though it was difficult not to steal the occasional glance at her, her lovely features so soft in sleep.
But she was not so soft as that He knew now what she expected of marriage, of men, of the life before her. He knew she demanded more than he could ever give and that she would never compromise. Rowan knew he was not the man for her.
He was not prepared for how irksome that realization was. Indeed, he was unaccountably restless as the sun pinkened the sky and turned the sea to glittering glass. He was irritable and anxious to be on his way.
Wherever he was going.
’Twas impatience, no more than that, impatience with the obligation he felt himself to have to all these slumbering souls. Rowan pushed to his feet, careful not to wake any around him, and set out to pace. The beach was long and narrow, the gentle lapping of waves luring his footsteps closer.
The sky had cleared over the night, and the rain had stopped. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with the salt of the sea, yet also with the verdant scent of rich grass. Rowan walked along the lip of the sea, marvelling that it could lode so harmless after all that had happened the day before. He checked the summit of the cliffs and still saw no hint of hut or fire.
It might be days of walking before they found a hearth, let alone that of one inclined to grant alms. Rowan remembered all too well the skepticism of the locals when he set out on Brianna of Tullymullagh’s bride quest nigh a year past They were dubious of foreigners, and fairly so, given the invasions this land had recently weathered.
But Rowan was already cursedly hungry, though he supposed he was not alone in that He also was not alone in looking more like a beggar than a knight, a fact that would do little to aid his cause.
Rowan ambled close to the lapping waves, letting the water slap over his boots and telling himself to appreciate the lack of burdens he bore, even if that was more challenging to do than he might have expected.
The tide was retreating, leaving a line of debris upon the beach that he was not interested in studying. Rowan thought of Bronwyn as he walked, the spirit in her eyes and the valor that made her risk her own life to see others safe. Ye gods, the woman could not even swim and she ventured into the hold of a ship to help strangers.
Rowan kicked at the sand and decided that he would see her home, if only to ensure that she had no further misadventures.
’Twas only good sense, no more than that. Perhaps Bronwyn’s father would introduce him to another heiress, though Rowan had to admit that he had little taste for his brothers’ quest any longer. That was surely why the prospect did little to improve his spirits.
Better yet, perhaps he would find again that travelling troupe of entertainers, the ones he had sent to Tullymullagh to coax a princess’s laughter, and join their ranks. Was that not the fate he had oft longed for? To join a troupe, to travel wherever his footsteps turned, in the way he had known as a child.
Of course. Rowan could juggle reasonably well, and he had been known to coax a laugh or two in his time. Perhaps Bronwyn’s father would see to Thomas’s return home and remove the last obligation that rested upon Rowan’s shoulders. Aye, the prospect of disappointing Thomas alone stood in the way of his enthusiasm for this course.
Rowan’s stomach grumbled and he recalled only now how often he had been hungry as a boy.
Frightened and uncertain.
Not that any of that was of import, for a man with his wits about him could ensure he had a hot meal once in a while. A child was prey to the whims of those around him. Indeed, ’twould be good not to set foot upon a ship anytime soon. Rowan should be relieved to be here, alive and in possession of an opportunity to make his life what he would.
Then why did his footsteps feel leaden? Lack of sleep, he reasoned, lack of a hot meal, exhaustion in the wake of an ordeal. No more than that. He would soon feel hale again.
Rowan deliberately lifted his chin and strode down the beach, rounding a little jut of land. He took a deep invigorating breath of the morning air, told himself he was happy and let the sun fall on his face.
It did not work, so he tried harder.
So engrossed was Rowan in his efforts that he tripped over the debris on the beach before he saw it. He frowned and turned to give whatever had tripped him up a hearty kick, sending it back to the sea and venting his annoyance with his own dour mood, but one glance stopped his foot.
Rowan halted and stared at his own saddle.
His own caparisons still clung to it, though the silk was shredded and part of the length was gone. The sea gently wafted around the saddle, the silk billowing as the water advanced, then falling flat against the sand as each wave retreated.
Rowan bent to run a hand over the curve of its seat. The leather had come from Milan, the saddle itself had been fashioned near Montvieux. It had been a gift from his foster mother when he won his spurs, a gift to match the destrier that she also granted him.
It had been a gift he knew he did not deserve, just as he had not deserved those spurs. Nay, he had jested his way through the bulk of his training and played practical jokes on all the household. He had tried everything once, bested every dare, astounded his patron’s household with his audacity time and again.
Rowan had been severely reprimanded by his patron more than once, that man apparently being the only soul in Christendom immune to Rowan’s charm. Aye, the old cook had chided him before the others, as had the marshall, though both indulged Rowan when he was alone.
’Twas typical of all of Rowan’s life—a jest and a smile always set the worst crimes to rights.
His patron had argued with his foster mother, refusing to knight Rowan, though Rowan had shown the old cur wrong in the final accounting. Rowan had excelled at the test devised to prove his incompetence, not because he deeply desired to be a knight, not because he cared for his patron’s respect, but because he dearly wanted to prove that man wrong.
He had not been prepared for Margaux’s pride—nor, indeed, his own rush of pride in her display of affection. His foster mother showed her feelings not with gesture or word but with the opening of her purse, and the treasury of Montvieux had yawned wide on the day Rowan had been granted his spurs.
Rowan bowed his head in recollection and crouched down beside the saddle. He ran his hand across the leather, now worn smooth in places, wet from the sea and encrusted with salt. In his mind’s eye, he saw a younger version of Troubador, a wild glint in his eye and a rakish white star on his brow.
And one white sock. Rowan smiled and shook his head. How had Margaux known that only the most feisty stallion in her stables would do? How had she guessed that the steed’s unruly nature would meld so well with Rowan’s own? How had she guessed that racing on this beast’s back, his knees gripping tight and the wind in his hair, would become Rowan’s greatest pleasure?
Here he thought he was unpredictable, but it seemed his foster mother knew him overly well.
Rowan lifted his head and looked out across the shimmering sea, knowing he should not. The water danced beneath the sunlight, unmarred as far as the eye could see.
This part of his life was over and Rowan knew it well. He would never be so indulged again. He told himself not to mourn what was lost, reminded himself that he had never truly wanted it anyway.
Even if the loss did sting.
Rowan turned away from the sea and his memories, only to find Bronwyn lingering behind him.
Her hem was torn high and revealed her bare feet in the cool of the sea. Her kirtle was wrinkled, its hue somewhat less than the fine blue it had only recently been. Her skin was dirty again, her eyes yet as vibrantly blue as when first they met.
His heart clenched once, hard, at the sight of her.
Bronwyn gestured aimlessly with one hand. “I did not want to disturb your thoughts.” Her gaze fell to the saddle and Rowan nudged it with his toe.
“ ’Twas mine,” he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. He offered her a smile that he knew was not as cavalier as he might have liked. “But I do not have need of it any longer.”
Rowan looked away, ashamed to find tears rising, but Bronwyn came to his side. She laid a hand upon his arm and he had to glance into her eyes, though the compassion he found in those blue depths surprised him.
And then he could not look away. Why could this woman alone prompt him to abandon his own intent?
“I am sorry,” Bronwyn whispered.
There was no pity in her manner, nor even any scorn for his weakness. Instead of moving away, as might have been his first choice, Rowan was tempted to linger by her side.
“ ’Twas his own choice,” he said heavily. “There was naught anyone could do when he took a thought into his head. He was cursedly stubborn.”
Bronwyn chuckled under her breath. “ ’Twas not a trait he shared with his master?”
Rowan almost smiled, her words so close an echo to his earlier thoughts. “Aye, I always suspected ’twas no coincidence that he was chosen as a gift for me.”
“Two of a kind.”
He shrugged again. “It seemed that we were matched in temperament at least.”
“And well accustomed to each other.”
“Aye.”
Bronwyn held his gaze and Rowan knew ’twould be a question of import that fell from her lips. “Did you love him?”
Rowan would have preferred to deny such an emotion, but he did not have the resolve within him to lie to her. Not here, not now. His gaze trailed to the empty sea, before meeting hers once more.
“I suppose I did,” he admitted softly. “But then, there was naught at stake between us, naught one could win from the other. There was no declaration that might have been a lie, no need for such a pledge. We simply were together.”
Rowan stared out over the sea for a long moment, mustering his ability to grin with insouciance before he turned. When he thought he could manage the deed, he did turn, though the smile felt unwelcome on his lips.
And Bronwyn’s steady gaze saw too much.
Rowan propped one hand on his hip and made a jest before she could read too much into his concession. “I suppose such whimsy is worthy only of mockery.” He spread his hands, inviting her to make a jest at his expense.
But Bronwyn stepped closer and framed his face in her hands. She smiled when he looked down at her in surprise, the glow of admiration in her eyes nigh stealing Rowan’s breath away.
“You forget,” she chided softly. “I am the one who holds love in high esteem.”
Before Rowan could reply, she stretched to her toes and kissed him, her salute so gentle and coaxing that he could not step away.
He parted his lips and closed his eyes, accepting solace from her tenderness. She slanted her lips across his and leaned against his chest, her warmth a welcome weight against him. There was no need to hasten, her leisurely kiss seemed to whisper, no need to apologize, no need to be anything other than the man he was.
Acceptance was the most seductive gift she might have offered.
Rowan locked his hands around her waist and deepened their kiss, marvelling at all Bronwyn had learned when she flicked her tongue against his own.
She met him, touch for touch, returning his kiss with a vigor that weakened his knees. She twined her hands into his hair, urging him closer, her kiss beguiling and bewildering him as never before.
Bronwyn kissed Rowan as if she could not get enough of him, as if she would devour him whole, and Rowan responded in kind. He was harder than he had ever been in all his days, his blood pounded in his ears, he could feel the twin nubs of her nipples against his chest.
When she pulled her lips from his, they both were breathing erratically. “I seem to recall we had a wager,” she said, her words ragged.
Rowan could not conceive of what she meant, his thoughts clouded from her passionate kiss.
She smiled and flicked a fingertip across the tip of his nose, echoing his favored gesture. “A shower of kisses for every slave freed,” she murmured, some mischief lighting her sapphire gaze. “I counted forty-two on the beach.”
Rowan stared, incredulous, even while his blood heated.
“Here,” Bronwyn insisted. Her eyes shone and she smiled with such ardor that Rowan’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. “Here and now, I want you, Rowan de Montvieux.” She ran one hand through his hair, her lips twisting at the sight he knew he must be. “Precisely as you are.”
Her words redoubled his desire, but Rowan tried to think with good sense.
’Twas not easy. “The others will see.”
“They are asleep and distant.” Bronwyn’s eyes sparkled and her lips quirked as she pulled back to study him. “Surely I do not have to dare you to see my will in this?”
She was beguiling as never a woman had been. She was at once strong and vulnerable, determined and feminine. Her eyes sparkled, her hand rose to trace a path across his jaw. Rowan turned his head without breaking their gaze and caught her fingertip in his lips, loving how her eyes widened.
And Bronwyn smiled, welcoming and unafraid, offering all he could ever imagine wanting.
Rowan chuckled and caught her close once more. “Consider me at your service.” He bent and took his teeth to the tie of her chemise, then burrowed beneath the cloth. He captured her hardened nipple between his lips, inhaling deeply of her sweet scent and savoring her gasp of delight.
Rowan gasped in turn when her fingers found the tie of his chausses, her hands busily freeing him to the breeze from the sea.
Before he could speak, Bronwyn peeled off her kirtle and chemise to stand bare before him, the sight chasing all thought from his mind. The sunlight turned her flesh to gold, her laughter sparkled like the sea shining behind her.
And when she pivoted, as gorgeous as a mythic woman made flesh, and beckoned to Rowan, she did not need to make the invitation twice.
She would win Rowan’s heart, Bronwyn knew it well. Aye, their mating had been explosive, for she had given every measure that she had. ’Twas like touching a match to the tinder, for Rowan had responded with a passion that left them both exhausted in its wake.
It had been no small thing for him to admit that he cared for the destrier, and Bronwyn intended to reward the knight for that admission. Aye, and she would encourage him yet further along the course of love. He cared for her, she guessed, for he was protective of her, concerned for her fate, and defensive when she questioned as much.
The way to disarm Rowan was with her touch, for when they mated Bronwyn saw more of the secrets within his heart. She would seduce him a hundred times a day, and with each coupling come closer to making him her own.
She only hoped that she did not run out of time.
After their return to the others, the entire party walked that day along the narrow beach, finally finding a narrow niche where they could climb to the summit of the cliffs.
’Twas not a long climb, which was of splendid fortune, since the weaker of the ex-slaves had to be carried to the summit. Bronwyn could not imagine how they would proceed from there, for all were growing tired and the day drawing long, but reaching the summit provided no solace.
There was naught but endless green to the north and south, those mountains erupting to the west. The sea lapped on the shore behind as Bronwyn strained her eyes, trying to find some hint of habitation.
But there was none.
The ex-slaves clearly assessed their predicament as well and many might have faltered there. But Rowan made a jest and seized Bronwyn’s hand, leading her in a merry dance.
“North to Dublin?” he murmured.
“ ’Tis my best guess.”
“Then, north we shall go.” Determination flashed in his eyes before he conjured a flower from behind one woman’s ear. He juggled a trio of stones and had Thomas join him in a bawdy song.
Though the slaves did not understand the words, with Rowan’s encouragement, they were soon doing their best to join the chorus. Bronwyn watched as he coaxed smiles and lifted spirits with effortless ease. And when Rowan gestured north, every ex-slave rose to match their steps to his.
’Twas a far cry from Rowan’s recollections of a life lived unfettered. He stared at the stars above long after the others were asleep that night and thought hard about his choices. Truly, he had always believed that this life had been perfect.
But he was hungry and he was cold, and there was naught he could do about either. A song seemed a paltry entertainment in such circumstance, and, indeed, Rowan was starting to wonder what he might do for a fine meal and a warm hearth.
How could such a life have been fostered by the life he recalled? He watched the stars overhead and wondered, for the first time, whether happiness had flourished in his mother’s troupe not because of their circumstance but in spite of it.
Midmorning brought new hope. Not far away, perhaps half a mile inland, Bronwyn spied the silhouette of a keep. She cried out, the ex-slaves cheered at the sight, and all found new strength to reach their objective.
And not a moment too soon. All were tired and haggard, all were starving, Rowan alone still smiling and singing as they walked. But then, this was the life he adored. Bronwyn watched him from the corner of her eye and could find no hint of dissatisfaction in his manner.
While she was ready to cede anything for a meal and a warm hearth. Truly she had led a sheltered life!
A new doubt took root in her heart. What if they were too different to ever find common ground in love? Would she lose Rowan to this troubador’s life?
Bronwyn hated that she did not know for certain.
Once they arrived at the small holding, Rowan’s charm stood them in good stead, for the gatekeeper might have turned them away immediately. But with astonishing haste, Rowan had convinced the gatekeeper to dispatch a runner to fetch the lord himself to hear his plea.
He winked at Bronwyn and urged her to his side while they waited, his attention making her pulse leap. “You are a dangerous man,” she charged beneath her breath, as much in reference to his skill with the gatekeeper as his effect upon her.
Rowan looked surprised, though he smiled. “Aye?”
“Aye. You have a gift for making one do the opposite of one’s intention, and proceeding to do so willingly.”
He chuckled, his gaze rising to the advancing noble party. “I thought this was your weapon of choice.”
“Me?” Bronwyn protested, though her heart warmed. “There is none who could compell you to proceed as you did not desire!”
Rowan turned a sparkling gaze upon her and dropped his voice low, his fingertip brushing her cheek. “Nay, keep that smile in reserve, ma demoiselle. Twill blind and befuddle our potential host if you loose it too soon.” And he kissed her quickly, before stepping forward to address the glowering lord.
Bronwyn dared to be encouraged by his compliment.
The lord was not a small man, nor a young one. A scar adorned his cheek, and his eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the bedraggled party. Bronwyn guessed that he saw them as an army of beggars, come to fleece him. He was broad and tall, his leather jerkin dark from use, his arms and legs sheer muscle.
This was a man who fought for what he desired, and oft won. Browyn feared they would find no shelter here.
“Aye?” that lord demanded. “And who might you be to disturb my midday meal so boldly?”
Rowan bowed low, apparently untroubled by his garb or the other man’s manner. “Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux, sir.”
“You are no knight!”
“I most certainly am, though the tale of my misfortune is a long and complicated one. I should not trouble you with the details, as you are at the board.”
Curiosity flickered through the lord’s eyes. He frowned as his gaze dropped and Bronwyn knew he noted Rowan’s spurs. “You have no blade, no steed, no squire. No doubt you have stolen those spurs!”
“Stolen! Sir, I assure you I am no thief, simply a knight in less than ideal circumstance.” Rowan made to turn away. “Please, do not let me keep you from your meal.”
The lord gripped the wooden portcullis. “But how did you come to be here? And without your steed?”
“We took passage on a ship destined for Dublin, which sank just off the coast.”
The lord folded his arms across his chest. “I have heard a tale this morn of a ship floundering.”
“Well, ’tis sunk now, you have my personal assurance.” Rowan stepped back with a smile. “But by all means, return to your meal. I would not trouble you with a tale of adventure.”
The lord surveyed them silently, then frowned. “You could tell who the rest are.”
“I would not delay you overlong. Does the meat grow cold?”
The lord’s eyes flashed and Bronwyn appreciated how Rowan had guessed he might be anxious for bold tales. “Tell me!”
Rowan snapped his fingers and Thomas bounded to his side. “My squire, Thomas of Deneure.” Thomas bowed low. “Surely you know of the Deneure clan?” And he descended into a dizzying recitation of genealogy that even Bronwyn could not manage to follow.
It ended with a link to the Norman throne and Thomas’s proud smile. Bronwyn could not tell whether he told the truth or not, though she suspected the latter by Thomas’s silence.
The lord’s eyes narrowed. “So, you would have me shelter you and this fleet of beggars, purely on a tale of a link to the king? Presumably with no compense to me or my house?”
“No compense! Why, I have a tale which will entertain those at your board mightily.” Rowan offered a confident smile.
The lord snorted, the glimmer in his eyes belying his stern words. “A tale is a fleeting gift and one which does naught to assure my holding.” He turned and walked away, sparing a heavy glance for the gatekeeper. “Pray do not disturb my meal again for such frivolity.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged. She wondered how far they would have to walk when Rowan cast a merry glance her way.
“Ah, well, then,” he said with a shrug. “I shall have to offer this prize of a tale to your neighbor.”
“My neighbor!” The lord spun, his eyes flashing. “That fool would not appreciate a fine tale.”
“And ’twill be his all the same.”
The lord hesitated, his hands bunching into fists at his sides. “You could tell me some of it, then I could better assess the merit of the tale.”
Rowan scoffed. “I know the merit of the tale. ’Tis well worth a meal and accommodation for all of my party.”
The lord’s gaze sweeping over the ranks of the ex-slaves. “Why should I feed all of them? They are fit for naught.”
“Because they are hungry, tired, and dirty,” Rowan retorted. “Is it not your Christian duty to show compassion and hospitality? And they travel with me, so my tale sees to their welfare.” He made an expansive gesture. “Not that ’tis of concern to you. Nay, your meat chills even as we linger. I would not presume to delay you further.” He cleared his throat. “Thomas, run ahead to that neighboring estate and warn the lord that we are fast coming to his gates.”
“Aye, my lord.” Thomas bowed and made to duck away, no doubt to do Rowan’s bidding, even though Bronwyn could not imagine where that neighboring estate might be.
The lord hesitated for only a moment before he strode back to the gates. Bronwyn could see him counting their ranks. “I could take their burden from your hands. How much do you want for them?”
“Me?” Rowan looked astonished. “Naught!” The lord grinned before Rowan leaned closer. “For they are freemen again and freemen they will remain, wherever they abide.”
The lord gritted his teeth. “I would have slaves.”
“Then you will not have these men beneath your hand. They are contented enough with me and my tales. Why, your neighbor will undoubtedly welcome us.” Rowan turned to walk away, beckoning the party with one hand.
They made no more than a dozen steps before the lord cried out. “Come within the hall and savor the fare. I would hear your tale!”
But Rowan turned cautiously, his gaze running over the gates. “You shall give me your pledge, upon your own blade, that none will forget themselves and secure the gate behind us.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then the lord spun to stride away. “Agreed!” he roared. “Let it not be said that Leon of Aulnay does not keep his word!”
Bronwyn was tempted to shout with delight, but she kept her voice low. “You have found a home for them!”
“Not yet.” Rowan shrugged. “Let us hope some of them will choose to remain.”
“How did you know about his neighbor?”
Rowan grinned crookedly. “ ’Twas naught but a guess. In my experience, a petty lord most always has an equally petty lord as a neighbor and they two are fiercely competitive. He may desire the tale for its own merit, or purely to be the first to hear it.”
“Do you think he would be a cruel master?”
The blight looked after the lord, then shrugged. “I suspect he is one who bellows mightily but whose heart is good. Only time will reveal the truth, of course. In the end, if these people remain as freemen—and I shall ensure the documentation is correct—then they have the right to flee any onerous circumstance.”
“You intend to remain here?”
Rowan sobered. “Aye. They will need someone to negotiate terms.”
“What of our year and a day?”
He studied her carefully, his expression inscrutable. “What if I were to absolve you of that obligation?”
So, this then would be where they parted. Bronwyn’s heart sank to her toes. Far from winning Rowan’s heart, she had satisfied his desire for her and he would be rid of her. The end of their journey together came far too soon for Bronwyn.
’Twas no sweet revelation that he shed his pledge to her as readily as he shed all other obligations. Had her father not always said that a man could not be changed, however one might will it? Rowan confessed readily that he wanted naught to his name. She had been a fool to believe her touch could change his thinking!
Bronwyn averted her face, not wanting him to see how his dismissal hurt her. But Rowan touched her chin with a fingertip, coaxing her to meet his gaze.
“What would you do?”
She swallowed and tried to look indifferent. “Return to Ballyroyal, of course.”
“So soon? But I shall have need of your gift for language, in order that they are asked their opinion. ’Tis too long these people have been denied any choice in their circumstance, and I would not deny them that now.”
Rowan hesitated most uncharacteristically, then lifted his gaze to lock with hers. “I should be honored if you would accept my accompaniment to your home, even with that obligation between us dissolved.”
Bronwyn’s heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his eyes.
Then Rowan grinned mischievously. “After all, ’tis the only way to ensure that you indeed arrive there, let alone that you arrive hale and hearty. Truly, ma demoiselle, you have a gift for finding unwelcome circumstance.”
But Bronwyn could not take offense at his charge, not when he smiled so warmly at her.
Nor did she have it within her to decline. After all, it could be naught but encouraging that Rowan was so intent on ensuring her safe journey. Indeed, his protectiveness of her was one consistent thread since they had met.
And her father also said that a man strives to protect only what he loves.
Bronwyn could build upon that.
Leon of Aulnay’s motte and bailey fort was still being constructed, only the palisade complete at this point. The tenants’ huts were clustered in the distance, and the few fields that had been sown waved with crops coming to their fruition. There were few vassals about, though, and Rowan had guessed aright that Leon might had dire need of more helping hands.
’Twas good import for the future of these souls.
Leon stood at the doorway of his hall with his chatelain and greeted each ex-slave individually. They told him their names, at least Rowan assumed that was what they said, and Leon tried to repeat them, to much hilarity.
Inside the hall, the board groaned with dark bread and a wheel of cheese, pickled fish and pitchers of ale, all of which were met with delight. Rowan was pleased that matters resolved as well as they had, and was relieved that the lord was good to his word.
’Twas a good sign.
And ’twas a merry evening that ensued. Leon proved to have a pair of minstrels in residence, and they took up a celebratory tune once the ex-slaves were within the hall. Though all was simple, there was a joy bubbling from all of them that could not be denied.
This was the life Rowan recalled! Aye, there was ale and laughter, music and dancing, smiles upon every face. Rowan recounted the tale of Brianna of Ballyroyal’s bride quest, the adventure that had brought him all the way to this hall, and Leon was well pleased.
The ale flowed and lanterns were lit as night fell. The dancing began after Rowan’s tale was complete, no need of language to see the more hale ex-slaves on their feet. Truly, this arrangement suited both Leon and these homeless souls.
But it was not the ex-slaves the knight found himself watching. Rowan was captivated by Bronwyn’s laughter, her features alight with a happiness he had never seen in her before.
“ ’Tis good to be close to home,” she offered as explanation when he asked, then smiled so brilliantly that he was struck dumb by her beauty.
Leon demanded her hand to dance and Bronwyn was on her feet. The minstrels picked a complicated tune, the ex-slaves clapped in time, Leon and Bronwyn’s feet flew as they danced a merry dance, which was obviously traditional since both knew the steps. The lady’s cheeks were flushed and she danced with an exuberance that heated Rowan’s blood.
Aye, it reminded him of how much she had unexpectedly granted him on the beach. Rowan sipped his ale and found his thoughts turning to their splendid mating—no less how they would couple again this night.
There was a change in his lady, a liveliness that seized her step now that they were upon Ireland’s shores once more. He was fiercely glad that had he had offered to accompany her home, for this Brownyn was doubly intriguing. As he drank his ale and watched her dance, Rowan realized that their inevitable parting would not be an easy one.
Though he would never so much as hint to Bronwyn of the truth. Nay, he was not the man for her, regardless of this recent and undoubtedly fleeting assumption of duties. He had abandoned his own good counsel; while “Ibernia” might have been a woman with naught to lose and who expected naught of him, the same could not be said of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.
’Twould be infinitely better for the lady if their paths parted soon and forever.
Aye, Bronwyn had called the matter right. Rowan was no suitable spouse for an heiress like herself. He should find himself a dancing girl, one who would savor a life without responsibilities, as he did.
He drank deeply of his ale and refused to acknowledge the disappointment within him. Perhaps ’twould be easier to abandon Bronwyn to her fate if he had weaned himself from her seductive touch before they reached Ballyroyal. Rowan was by no means convinced of that, but he would try.
He was a man, after all, who was fond of long odds.
As night settled over the coast, the shadows falling long and cool on the beach, a length of the Angelica’s mast was finally washed against the shore. ’Twas farther to the north than the beach where Rowan and Bronwyn had come ashore, even farther than the spot when Troubador’s saddle had been cast.
Clinging to that length of wood was a certain Venetian man. He was pale from loss of blood, and his chattering teeth gritted against the chill that permeated his flesh.
He should have slipped from that length of wood long before. He should have drowned, as he had seen so many of his men drown. He had watched them weaken and slip beneath the waves, never to rise again. He had watched his ship fall prey to the crashing sea, even as his blood seeped from his body.
’Twas anger that kept him alive.
’Twas anger that kept his grip tight on the length of wood, anger that refused to let him fall into a slumber from which he would never awaken, anger that had him alone drifting toward Ireland’s shore. Baldassare di Vilonte had been deceived, he had been within a breath of winning all he sought, and he had been cheated of that victory.
Worse, he had been cheated by Niccolo’s own kin. Baldassare would ensure they all paid—Niccolo, Bronwyn, and all the rest of Niccolo’s kin. After all these years, justice would be served.
Baldassare di Vilonte, after all, was not the manner of man who accepted failure without a fight.
Baldassare nearly wept when his foot first brushed the sand below. He did weep when he opened his eyes and realized how close salvation lay, but that he was too weak to avail himself of it. He was yet a toy of the sea, destined to wait until the waves cast him fully upon the beach. Baldassare prayed, as he had never prayed before, that the tide would abandon him upon the coast, instead of tugging him back out to sea again.
He did not know whether it was a dream to feel sand beneath his feet, whether he imagined that his knees grazed solid ground. When he heard the woman’s cry, Baldassare knew that could not be truth. He drifted alone, after all, a victim of the sea’s caprice.
But the woman did not go away. Though her words were indistinguishable, he felt suddenly warm. Strong hands hauled him ashore, he heard someone run.
The woman murmured to him all the while. Gentle fingertips landed on his cheek. Heat caressed his face and Baldassare opened his eyes, nigh blinded by a golden glow.
A woman with hair the color of a flame bent over him, and Baldassare wept in truth at the realization that he had not survived his ordeal. Nay, this creature could be none other than an angel, an angel of mercy dispatched to save his soul.
But even as he was lifted toward the stars, Baldassare knew that eternal bliss would not be his own. Nay, his dark soul would not be easily retrieved—for indeed, hatred yet burned within him. He had been cheated, cheated by the kin of an old foe and a knight determined to defy him, and left to die.
Yet, even knowing he was to meet his maker, Baldassare di Vilonte still wanted vengeance, not salvation.