arika watched the man escorting her, unable to decide why he inspired her trust so readily. He had kindly eyes, and he moved with such restraint that naught he did was alarming. There was a tranquility about his manner that coaxed her to relax in his presence.
His low voice was soothing, though, indeed, she could not understand what he said. She had grown accustomed to that, and found herself listening to the rise and fall of his words.
’Twas like music, the way this man spoke. Perhaps that was what entranced her, for Marika dearly loved music and had heard precious little of it of late.
She followed him around the building that was clearly Ibernia’s home, marvelling at the gentle green beauty of the hills on all sides.
“Well, now, you would be hungry after all the journeying you have been about and no wonder ’tis.” The man’s words flowed over her uncomprehended. He opened a gate and gestured Marika through it, as if she were a fine lady, not a peasant enslaved and stolen across the seas.
She found herself smiling at his gallantry, then caught her breath at the array of herbs and flowers growing in the enclosed space. He whistled and she glanced back, watching as he deliberately fastened the latch. He gave her a sharp look, tapping the latch, and Marika understood.
She was never to leave the gate unlatched. She echoed the locking gesture with her hands and nodded, winning a fleeting smile from the man.
“Have to keep the gate fastened, as you can see, for my lady’s horses are nibblers of the worst sort. Lost nigh all of the elecampane last month, if you can believe the fact of it, and who would have been guessing that a horse would savor the taste of elecampane upon his tongue!”
He waved broadly to the hills beyond the garden walls and Marika noted the number of horses grazing in the meadow. She had no eye for horseflesh, but their coats were glossy with good health.
“Cursed stupid beasts they are, perhaps they do not taste at all, for, indeed, they trample every single thing flat in their haste to make a meal of what they should not be eating.”
He bent then and with gentle fingers lifted a snapped blossom. The tiny blue flower was trodden upon and he clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
“Borage,” Marika said, naming the flower in her own tongue before she thought.
The cook looked up with surprise. “You know this plant then, do you?”
’Twas obvious what he asked, and Marika was suddenly anxious to prove her usefulness to this household. She repeated the name of the plant, mimicked the making of a tisane and drinking it deeply. Then she straightened, giving as good an impression as she could of a knight emboldened by the brew. “Valour,” she insisted, and tapped her heart. “Borage is for courage.”
Her companion chuckled and named the plant in his tongue. She repeated his word carefully, taking several tries to get it right. She knew when her pronunciation was correct, for he smiled.
He straightened then, his gaze drifting over the garden as he visibly saddened. “Reminds me of my Anna, it does, every time I am crossing the threshold to this place. Loved her plants, did my Anna, though she did not know what to do with the half of them.” His voice dropped low and he fingered a blossom absently, sorrow in his blue eyes. “She loved the flowers so.”
Marika did not know what had happened, though she feared she had done something to offend him. Quickly she scanned the garden and found another plant with which she was familiar. He had been pleased that she knew the borage; perhaps ’twould work again.
“Feverfew!” The plant heavily laden with tiny daisylike blooms could have been naught else. “For the headache.” Marika tapped her temples emphatically, rolled her eyes at the feigned pain, then pretended to nibble the leaves of the feverfew plant. She blinked, as if her headache cleared, spread her hands, then looked to him.
“Truly?” He strolled closer and eyed the plant. “Indeed, I had no thought of its usefulness, for surely ’tis a foul-tasting plant and I would never put it into a stew.” He made to seize a handful of leafs but Marika quickly stopped him, deliberately counting three into his palm. She gestured that he could have no more.
Understanding dawned on his features. “Ah! ’Tis of import how much is consumed. Aye, there are many a plant beneficial in small doses and less than beneficial in greater. That foxglove now, I know well its charms and its danger.”
He pointed to a tall bloom Marika did not know and tapped his heartbeat. He indicated a tiny measure, then fluttered his hand against his breast as if his pulse raced. He marked a larger measure, then pretended to freeze in shock before toppling to the ground. His tongue was hanging out and his eyes wide open in a parody of death.
’Twas not a reminder Marika needed. She nodded once and turned away, haunted by the memory of her murdered baby, not a month old and stolen away from her. Bile still rose in her throat at the memory of the blood, so much blood from such a tiny child.
Her babe was dead and she was alone as she had never been alone before. To be sure, Marika had been alone even within her village, but that was naught compared to this. She had not been inclined to make a life among those who had shunned her for bearing a child without a spouse, even in this new land.
But she would never cease to mourn her child. At least they two might have faced the others together—if the babe had been granted a chance to survive.
Marika felt the weight of a hand upon her shoulder and might have hidden her tears, but her companion turned her to face him. Eyes filled with compassion, he truly had the most expressive features she had ever seen. Marika was amazed that a man could look so strong and reliable yet have his gaze tempered with understanding.
She had never met the like of this man. He was pleasant to look at, but that was not the root of it. She had a sense that he had endured much, for he did not accept his own good fortune with the foolish confidence of one who does not understand that matters could easily be otherwise. Yet no man with eyes so clear could be embittered by what had been his due.
Indeed, the lines in his tan indicated that he oft laughed.
“Aye, ’twas not too wise of me, was it then?” he said now. “If you were taken slave, then you must have seen those you loved die before your very eyes. I apologize to you, Marika, for that was less than thoughtful of me, and I know well enough the burden that the loss of a loved one can be.”
Clearly he was sincere, and he apologized for surprising her. Marika nodded and might have turned away, but the man before her bent slightly to hold her gaze, an appeal in his own.
“Apology accepted then?”
He smiled tentatively and she tried to respond in kind. This seemed to relieve him, though he did not release her shoulders from his warm grip. He was slightly taller than she, though he was not a big man, and Marika found herself noticing the way the sunlight glinted in his fair hair. She had never seen hair such as these people possessed.
“Was it your husband that was killed, then, Marika? You are a pretty girl and I cannot imagine that you were not happily wedded wherever ’tis you were living.”
Marika eyed him blankly, the cadence of his voice indicating a question, though she could not imagine what he asked. He grimaced and frowned, then shrugged. “Well, the truth of it will come out soon enough, I suppose, though only if we learn to speak properly to each other. Are you hungry, then?”
Marika stared at him, feeling like a fool for not understanding whatever he asked so earnestly.
He rubbed his belly, then wiggled his fingers as he made a funny growling sound. He looked to his belly, as if it had made the sound and startled him, and Marika laughed despite herself at his antics.
He grinned. “Hungry?” he repeated, and she knew what he meant.
She tapped her belly and nodded agreement, not because she was hungry but because it seemed to matter so much to him. “Hungry,” she echoed carefully, and he smiled.
“Marika is hungry.”
’Twas clear enough what that meant, given that she knew two words he uttered, so Marika repeated the phrase. They smiled at each other, both well pleased with what they had managed, then he was off.
“Well, there is much to be done this day, that much is certain, and if you are not minding a bit of a delay, I would have your help in bringing some herbs into the kitchen. Then I might labor while you eat your fill.”
Marika trailed behind him, not certain what he was doing.
He tugged at an herb. “For a stew of chicken?” At her blank stare, he tucked his thumbs into his underarms and began to cluck like a barnyard fowl.
Marika laughed again and quickly indicated the sage she recognized. It grew lavishly along the edge of one bed, thyme directly behind it. She gestured to both, and he took his knife to generous handfuls of each as he taught her the names of the plants in his tongue.
She asked his name, just as she had done with Ibernia, and he grinned in that boyish way that was starting to affect the beat of her heart.
“Connor,” he confessed, and Marika was glad she could say his name correctly the first time.
Indeed, Connor was so charming and attentive that it was easy to forget her painful memories for the moment. Marika found herself enjoying the sunlight and the plants, remembering her garden and wishing she could stay in this place forever.
But she did not know whether her mistress intended to remain or to continue on, though she knew that Ibernia was known here. Marika would remain with the woman who had won her freedom, for truly, she owed no greater loyalty to anyone else.
They were leaving the garden, their arms laden with herbs for the meal Connor must be preparing, when a child shouted from afar. Marika turned at the cry, the way Connor’s eyes lit telling her much.
The young boy’s resemblance to Connor told her the rest. He could have been no more than five summers of age, his hair the same golden hue as Connor’s. She might have hated this child, if he had been closer in age to her own, or darker of hair as her own had been, simply for the crime of being alive.
But Marika was fiercely glad that she did not. She watched the play of emotions on Connor’s face, though, and felt like a voyeur. She felt she lived vicariously by watching him.
And envying him.
The boy burst into the garden, a torrent of incomprehensible words falling from his lips and a tears upon his cheeks. He went straight to Connor and pointed to the line of blood upon his knee.
Connor crouched down before the boy after hugging him tightly, his words flowing low and soothing once again. “ ’Tis hardly a scratch, though I can imagine it hurts like the very devil.”
He ran a thumb across it and the boy winced. “Were you out in the brambles again? You know well enough that you are not to go there alone. The river is too close at hand and who knows what manner of mischief a boy can find himself within.”
As Marika watched, Connor reached up and affectionately wiped a purple stain from the boy’s chin. He smiled. “You were there, were you not?”
The boy shuffled his feet, clearly caught at some crime, then looked to Marika for the first time. Connor followed his gaze. “This is Marika.” Marika bobbed her head at the sound of her name. “She has come to live here but does not understand all we say.”
The boy studied her with open curiosity. “Why not?”
“She is from far away.”
The boy’s eyes rounded with wonder and Marika wondered what was being said of her. Her grip tightened on the herbs she carried and she did not doubt that Connor noted her uncertainty. The boy opened his mouth, no doubt to ask more questions, but Marika pointed to his wound. It was not overly deep but could do with some tending to halt the bleeding.
With Connor’s encouragement, the boy followed Marika. She quickly found the plant she sought, plucked a few leaves, and crumpled them in her hands. Connor spoke to the boy, perhaps endorsing what she did.
They were in the kitchen shortly, the boy’s eyes round with curiosity as Marika bruised the leaves, cleaned his cut, then bound the leaves over them. He thanked her prettily, then Connor dispatched him to some errand.
They stood, this man and woman, eyeing each other in the shadows of the kitchen. Before he could ask any questions, Marika pointed after the boy. She pointed to Connor, then rocked her arms as if she held a babe.
Connor smiled. “Aye, he is my son, that is the truth of it.” He looked after the boy and his smile faded. “Though ’tis true enough that God gives with one hand and takes away with the other. ’Tis a sorry price to pay, to gain a son and lose a wife, but I cannot say that I would have preferred to be without him.”
He smiled sadly and Marika wished desperately that she could have understood what he confided in her. “ ’Tis the nature of all of us, I suppose, to want only all that is good and naught that is bad. I do miss Anna sorely, that much is for certain, but I cannot imagine not having my son.”
He looked to Marika, as if asking for her endorsement of words she had not understood. Clearly he told her much, and she was suddenly impatient to explain herself to him.
She touched her own heart, she indicated the roundness her belly had taken, then rocked a babe again. “Vassily,” she said, naming her child for this man who listened so well.
He nodded, his gaze intent. Then Marika snatched the knife from the counter, her vision blinded with tears as she slashed at the mock babe in her arms. She choked on the tide of her tears and bowed her head as they flowed, ashamed to have shown so much of her pain to a virtual stranger.
But Connor stepped closer. He touched her shoulder, his expression sympathetic beyond all, and Marika found herself turning into his embrace. She found comfort there against his warmth, and she let herself weep for all she had lost.
When she was done, Connor wiped her tears and took her hand. He cupped her chin in his hand and spoke to her earnestly. “It seems we have much in common, though the fates have been more cruel to you. We have both lost what we held dear—come with me, Marika, and let me try to explain.”
But Marika understood all too well when Connor bowed his head before the green mound marked by a wooden cross. And when his expressive eyes clouded with tears for Anna—a woman’s name, without mistake—Marika offered solace this time.
’Twas no wonder she felt drawn to Connor, for this man understood how it stung to lose a loved one.
The sky was darkening when the family retired to privacy from the chaos of the hall, Rowan and Marco among their select number. Ale was brought in as well as bread, cheese, and a hot stew. Rowan ate his meal with gusto, as, he noted, did Bronwyn. The conversation rolled around him in that Irish tongue, but Rowan cared little for what was said.
Bronwyn was glad to be home, no doubt of that, and her family were more than delighted to see her again. She flitted around the table, sharing laughter with this one and another, spreading the delight of her smile. She had been sorely missed, Rowan could see the truth of it.
’Twas good to he here, and in such company. He glanced up once or twice, smiling to himself at the way Bronwyn fairly glowed. He had thought her a beauty before, but surrounded by the love she so treasured, she shone like a rare jewel.
The very sight made his heart ache with the knowledge that he would depart, never to see this lady again.
Suddenly Rowan guessed that the topic had changed, for Marco’s comment brought silence over the board.
“What did he say?” Rowan asked Adhara.
She did not smile, and her words came low. “You will be wedded now, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, he said. It must indeed be why you are coming home.”
Bronwyn straightened and looked to her father, who sobered in turn. He did not reply in Irish and Rowan wondered if this was so he could understand, or whether Nicholas preferred not to speak that tongue.
“I understand, daughter of mine, that you did not want a spouse as old as me,” Nicholas said carefully. Rowan noted how tightly he held Adhara’s hand, how solemn that woman was. “I thought only of securing the future of all I had built and did not consider your feelings on the matter.”
Bronwyn bowed her head.
“I wish that you had spoken to me before you fled.”
The lady’s chin shot up and her eyes flashed. “I did speak to you, but you would not listen!”
Nicholas cleared his throat and looked at his fingers entangled with his wife’s own. “ ’Tis true enough, I fear.” He looked at his daughter again. “But now I have listened. I have cancelled your betrothal agreement, at not inconsiderable cost.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief and Rowan noted how Marco stiffened. The man was not surprised, though, making Rowan wonder what had been agreed.
“And I have made another arrangement, one equally suitable to me and one that you will hopefully find more fitting.”
“Another!” Bronwyn gasped, twin spots of color burning in her cheeks. “But I had thought to make a love match. I had thought to wed for love as you did!”
Adhara shook her head. “There is too much at stake for such frivolity, Bronwyn, and you know the truth of it well.”
“But—”
“But naught,” Nicholas interjected. “Your opinion has been heard and my choice adjusted accordingly. You will wed Marco’s son Matthew, a man but two years your senior.”
Bronwyn paled, as sure a sign of her dissatisfaction with the new arrangement as any. Before Rowan could protest that she should have some right to name her future after all she had endured, the lady lifted her chin and spoke. “I cannot.”
“Whyever not?” Nicholas said impatiently.
“I am no longer virginal,” Bronwyn declared, standing straight and tall even as the assembly whispered in horror. “I would not shame Marco or his son thus.”
Nicholas swore. Marco swore. All gazes pivoted to Rowan, but Bronwyn spoke clearly and distinctly. “This knight showed me naught but courtesy, after I was raped by an unscrupulous sea captain. The blame for this lies at my own door alone, for being an impetuous fool and losing what I had to bring to a wedding as a result.”
Nicholas ran a hand over his brow and muttered something under his breath. Adhara took a deep breath and turned to Marco. “Marco, what do you say to this?”
That man, though he looked older than he had moments past, nodded grimly. “It does not affect the intent of our agreement. I shall speak to my son and ensure he understands the greater import at stake here.”
“Matthew will see sense,” Nicholas agreed. The two men held each other’s gaze, then nodded once, their course agreed. Nicholas cast a glance back to his daughter, one that was not without affection for all its steadiness. “Indeed, Bronwyn, you may find that Matthew is a good match for you.”
“Nay!” she cried. “This is not my desire!”
“You have a responsibility and you will see it done,” Nicholas retorted.
Adhara stepped forward when father and daughter glowered at each other. “All are tired,” she said with a gracious smile to the assembly. “And all are surprised by what has been witnessed this day.”
Adhara laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Bronwyn, you know that your father wants only to ensure your future comfort, that you are wed to a man upon whom you can rely. I beg of you, do not set your thoughts so surely on refusal before you have considered the matter fully.”
Bronwyn’s lips set stubbornly, no good sign to Rowan’s thinking.
“Consider this agreement until the morrow,” Adhara proposed. “ ’Tis all we ask of you.”
“And on the morrow?”
“After all have slept well and tempers have soothed, we shall discuss this choice, as a family, and decide our course.”
Bronwyn took a deep breath, looked between her parents, then nodded once. “Until the morrow,” she agreed, then turned to march into the hall.
“You bend to her will in this,” Nicholas muttered.
“And you will drive her away,” his wife retorted in an undertone. “I have persuaded horses to mate who would not tolerate each other’s presence when I began. Trust me in this.” She cast a brilliant smile at Marco and raised her voice slightly. “All will be resolved to your satisfaction in the end.”
But Rowan was not so certain of that. Nay, Bronwyn was not the kind of woman who readily changed her thinking, and certainly not over a single night. She did not want this spouse, and given the disapproving manner of that man’s father, Rowan could not truly blame her. Though clearly her parents meant well, it seemed a travesty that after all she had endured, the lady would be denied the only thing she wanted.
Impulse—or perhaps too many years in chivalrous company—demanded that Rowan do something about the matter.
All for naught.
’Twas all Bronwyn could think as she returned to familiar chambers, a familiar bath in a familiar tub, familiar maids, familiar garb, familiar rituals, and an all-too-familiar dilemma.
After all she had experienced, her father was still determined to wed her to a man she did not want to marry. She did not love Matthew any more than she loved his father, Marco.
And there was the crux of the matter. She had made her plea and it had been rejected. Beyond fleeing Ballyroyal again, a course she was reluctant to take, Bronwyn did not know what to do.
’Twas not a situation she savored.
The bathing chamber was at the back of the hall, the timbered ceiling low to hold the heat. The room was wedged between the kitchen and the hall proper, so that the warmth of both hearths would heat the air.
But the stone floor and lack of sunlight in this windowless chamber made the room dark. The maids had lit a trio of lanterns and a pair of braziers, the golden light and sputtering heat turning the chamber into a humid retreat.
The great wooden tub had already been rolled in, the liner inserted to ensure no slivers found their way into Bronwyn’s hide. Maids were filling the tub to the brim with steaming water, chattering all the while. The steam clouded the air of the room, and the trio of lanterns flickered fitfully in the dampness.
Such a familiar scene should have soothed Bronwyn’s agitation, particularly considering how dire her need for a good bath had become. Her mother’s maid brought brushes for her nails and a finely milled soap, displaying them with pride, as well as lengths of linen for drying herself afterward.
No expense was spared, but instead of being pleased, Bronwyn simmered. She supposed she should not blame her father for wanting to ensure her future security, but still his choice rankled. How could he have made this commitment without her consent? How could he have failed to understand the root of her complaint against Marco as a spouse?
’Twas unfair, given that her parents had wed for love themselves! Too much at stake, indeed. Bronwyn fairly growled over the injustice of it all and thought rather more favorably of Rowan’s disregard of obligations.
Her responsibility to her family’s wealth was at root here, the truth of that more than clear.
And Bronwyn’s happiness was as naught in the bargain. Oh, she was certain her parents believed she would find happiness in any match and that they longed only to see her well cared for until her dying day.
But ’twould be impossible to be happy in any match other than one with the man she loved.
And that man had made it most clear that he did not want her. Curse Rowan de Montvieux!
Bronwyn smiled thinly for the maid, who was not to blame for any of this. She shed her blue striped kirtle, wrought of a gift from Baldassare, and shivered at the unwelcome reminder of what she had done. Indeed, she never wanted to see the garb again.
“Oh, the wool is so lovely a hue!” that maid cooed. “I have oft heard tell of the weaving of Flanders—and to be sure, I have glimpsed on occasion the fine wares that my lord Nicholas does exchange. Never though have I had the chance to touch—why, even filled with salt and dirt, the cloth is wondrously fine!”
“ ’Tis yours,” Bronwyn said, sinking into the hot water with a sigh. The girl gasped with delight. Bronwyn accepted her gratitude politely but found herself glad when she was finally alone.
Though soon enough she would not be.
She frowned, realizing that she had been so disappointed that she had not even asked her father about the date for the wedding. Would it be soon? Bronwyn guessed as much, for no one would want to chance her fleeing in defiance again.
She scowled further at the realization that she could not even recall Marco’s son particularly well. That was not a good sign! To be sure, Matthew had visited Ballyroyal, but he was quiet and had a tendency to linger behind his father. Bronwyn grimaced, unable to help thinking of a man who insisted upon having all eyes upon him. She doubted she could even come to love a man whose presence was as substantive as a shadow.
Bronwyn splashed unhappily in the bath, her thoughts filled with memories of a certain roguish knight. It was all too easy to recall the last bath she had had. Never mind the pleasure Rowan had introduced to her that afternoon. She almost wished he were here, that they could share this moment and each other.
But that was not to be. Indeed, he had probably left Ballyroyal already.
Bronwyn’s heart sank and she deliberately let herself think upon happier moments. Aye, she could fairly see Rowan’s strong hands upon her flesh, feel his reverential touch, taste the heat of his kiss. Bronwyn took a deep breath and closed her eyes, recalling the amber flash of his eyes when she surprised him, the way the sunlight danced in the russet waves of his hair, the way his lips twisted when he teased.
But Rowan was surely gone, his task completed and the desire for adventure hot in his chest. No need for farewell between them—nay, such a show of tenderness would not be his way.
Bronwyn sternly told herself not to be a fool and yearn for what she could not have. Truly, if Rowan were not precisely as he was, he might not have captured her heart so completely.
’Twas cold comfort.
Well, there had to be some merit in this adventure. At least Rowan had taught her that there was naught to be feared abed. And he had never pledged to do more than that. Rowan had not lied to her. He had not deceived her in any way.
But Bronwyn would miss him sorely, for all her days and nights, just the same. She suspected she would always measure men against Rowan’s standard, no less that Matthew would fall well short of the measure.
That was not a promising prospect for her wedded bliss.
The door to the bathing chamber opened behind her, but Bronwyn was not prepared to be sociable. She waved a wet hand dismissively, scattering water droplets across the floor. “Leave me be, if you please,” she said in the Irish used in the household. “I would have a moment alone.”
“I have no idea what you are saying,” the object of her thoughts retorted cheerfully, and she jumped. “Though I can make a decent guess by the way you are waving your hand.”
Bronwyn sat up hastily, certain her ears played tricks upon her, She cast a glance over her shoulder, only to find Rowan closing the door, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “What are you doing here? I thought you had left.”
“You thought wrong.” He winked and shed his tabard, kicking off his boots at the same time.
“What are you doing?” Truth be told, Bronwyn was delighted to find that Rowan had lingered at Ballyroyal. She might have protested his familiarity in coming to her side here, but no sound came out.
Nay, the sight of his bare chest silenced her.
How could she have forgotten how splendidly this man was wrought? Rowan winked, then dropped his chausses, granting her a sight guaranteed to ensure her silence. He leapt across the floor, showing the muscles of his legs to advantage, even while he made a face at the coldness of the stone.
“Ye gods, I should hope that bath is mightily hot! My feet shall be as ice by the time I am in it.”
The sight of his bare flesh distracted Bronwyn and quickened her blood. Aye, she had missed him! Pleasure surged through her that her thoughts seemed to have summoned him here, that he was not gone after all. She wondered fleetingly if there was indeed a bond between them, despite what he said—or did not say.
In the tub?
Too late, Bronwyn realized his intent and recovered her tongue. She gasped in outrage. “You are not sharing my bath!” She retreated to the far side of the large wooden tub, but Rowan showed no signs of halting his progress.
“Whyever not? We shared the bathwater before.”
Though that was true enough, matters had changed. “But not here!” Bronwyn flicked a glance to the door, half expecting her father to enter and chastise them. “You must leave!”
“Selfish woman,” Rowan teased, clearly having no intention of going anywhere. “A fine deep hot bath like this and you will not share.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully as he climbed over the side, though Bronwyn could not help but note the lean strength of his legs. “I should have guessed your measure when you stole the cloak that morn.”
“You cannot do this!”
“ ’Tis too late, for I already do.” Rowan winked, then caught his breath in appreciation as he sank beneath the steaming water. His eyes drifted closed as Bronwyn sputtered, unable to find words for his audacity. His expression was one of pure bliss. “Oh, this is marvelous indeed. A bucket does not compare.” He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Have you any soap?”
“I will not share soap with you. Now get out, before someone finds you here!”
Bronwyn was not surprised to find Rowan’s expression turn mischievous. She did not miss his quick glance toward her breasts, nor indeed the way his gaze brightened, as if her nudity was visible through the water and steam.
Aye, a cautiously exploring toe brushed against her leg.
“You are overly audacious!” Bronwyn pulled back her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “You would make trouble for me in my father’s own house!”
“Me?” Rowan pouted with mock disappointment, the merriment in his eyes unceasing. “Surely there is no need for modesty between us,” he mused, then sidled around the tub, clearly intending to bump shoulders with her.
Oh, Bronwyn knew very well what he was about! Part of her was intrigued; the rest of her knew very well that she could not indulge in temptation. Not here in her father’s home with her betrothed’s father in the hall!
She scooted away from Rowan, knowing that if he touched her, she would be lost. “Do not touch me,” she warned, less conviction in her tone that she might have hoped to hear.
“Whyever not?” Rowan’s voice was low and unhurried, as though he would tempt her to tarry with him. “We have touched afore.” He eased alongside her, but Bronwyn darted away, the pair of them circling the perimeter of the tub like a pair of dizzy crabs. The warm water swirled around her, teased into currents by their movements, the steam and the lanternlight making the room impossibly intimate.
Bronwyn was only too aware of how tempted she was.
Rowan arched a brow. “What has changed?”
“Oh, the cheek of you!” Bronwyn cried. “Everything has changed and you know it well! I am to wed Marco’s son.”
Rowan sobered and stilled as he watched her closely. “And you do not want to.”
’Twas not a question, and Bronwyn supposed there was no doubt of her opinion, after her very public protest. She shrugged as if her heart was not hammering at his proximity and apparent concern. “ ’Tis clear that my desire makes little difference.”
“Perhaps it should,” Rowan suggested silkily, his eyes dark. “What do you desire, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal?”
Her heart leapt and she met his gaze, the steam rising between them and making her hair stick to her brow. The golden light of the chamber suited him well, making him look virile and mysterious, less playful than Bronwyn had known him to be. Yet there was a glint in his eyes, a hint of unpredictability that was all too familiar.
Bronwyn’s mouth went dry beneath Rowan’s perusal. She could not look away; she felt that the bath was suddenly too hot. And remarkably, she could not bring herself to utter the truth of what she did want.
Because she knew that Rowan would not grant her desire.
So Bronwyn held her tongue, though she could not look away. She did not know what Rowan found in her eyes, but finally he smiled that languorous smile that she knew better than to trust.
“I have a better solution,” he whispered wickedly.
Bronwyn’s breath caught in her throat, but she could not even form a question before he winked again.
“Trust me!” Rowan dove across the tub, a purposeful gleam in his eyes. His move launched a wave of water over the rim. He caught Bronwyn in his arms and she had time only to squeal in protest before the tub rocked on its considerable weight and slowly tipped. ’Twas not an easy deed to topple a full tub of this size, and she had no doubt that Rowan forced it over by his own choice.
Then everything happened very fast.
Bronwyn screamed as they fell backward, Rowan’s cursedly confident chuckling in her ear. He held her tightly against him, rolling them so that he landed beneath her. Bronwyn saw him wince when his back hit the floor, saw the tide of water roll across the floor and under the door. Servants cried out in the hall and the door was thrown open, just as Rowan rolled her beneath him and captured her lips in a soul-stirring kiss.
Then Bronwyn cared for naught else but his touch. His kiss was everything she recalled and more, as if he poured his heart into the embrace. He kissed her with a thoroughness unexpected, and Bronwyn could hold back no longer.
God in heaven, but she loved this man. If this was to be her last taste of him, she would make it a kiss to cherish always.
Her father, however, had a rather different perspective.
“What nonsense is this?” he bellowed in outrage.
His roar compelled Rowan finally to break their kiss. Bronwyn caught her breath, eyed the knight’s cocky smile, then followed his gaze to the portal.
The whole household had gathered around, their expressions uniformly shocked. Bronwyn realized belatedly that she was not only nude but entangled with a similarly nude man who was not her betrothed. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but Rowan seemed completely untroubled.
’Twas only then that she wondered what he did.
Rowan grinned confidently before her father’s glower, as if there was naught untoward about the circumstance, even as he shielded Bronwyn from curious eyes. Bronwyn closed her eyes at her father’s stunned expression and soundly cursed Rowan’s self-assurance. Twittering rolled through the ranks of the household, and she knew this moment would be the talk of half of Ireland before the week was through.
Aye, ’twould take every measure of Rowan’s charm to talk them free of this scandal!