here was something about Bronwyn of Ballyroyal that made a man lose his course toward his goals, that much was certain.here was something about Bronwyn of Ballyroyal that made a man lose his course toward his goals, that much was certain.
Typically—at least in this woman’s maddening presence—Rowan had thought only of saving her from the fate she did not desire and had not considered matters beyond that. She did not want to wed Matthew, so Rowan intervened.
’Twas simple enough.
The delight of holding Bronwyn close again surprised him with its intensity, as did the feel of her curves pressed against him and the taste of her kiss. Rowan realized he had never yearned for any other woman as he had for her, especially not after several bouts of lovemaking. But everytime he touched Bronwyn, it seemed he only wanted all the more.
This was more than desire at root. Aye, he loved the sound of Bronwyn’s laughter, he loved how her eyes flashed when she was angered, how she pursed her lips when she puzzled a matter through. He loved her concern for others, regardless of their rank, and he loved how she made a gesture akin to flicking back her hair.
She had no hair to flick, since it had been shorn so short, but the gesture hinted that her tresses had once been long like her mother’s. Indeed, he wondered how she would look with silken locks of red gold and was tempted to remain in her company long enough to see.
When had he ever wanted to remain years by a woman’s side?
Rowan looked down at the lady, flushed and wary, and his heart skipped a beat. He loved more than the sum of these attributes—he loved the lady herself. And that love, a love he was so very afraid to trust, was what prompted Rowan to act against his own interests, time and again.
He loved Bronwyn.
There was a light in her eyes that made him wonder whether she might love him. The very possibility was staggering. A treasure Rowan had not even known he coveted was offered to him, with no price upon it except his declaration of love.
He stared into the lady’s eyes and his confusion gave way to clarity. Rowan loved Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, which made his course remarkably obvious.
Meanwhile, the chattering of servants had risen to a din that was nigh enough to drive a man mad. Bronwyn’s father shouted, his wife tried to interject a voice of reason, Marco frothed about the unsuitability of Bronwyn for his son.
Nicholas turned upon Rowan. “And what,” he demanded frostily, “do you intend to do about this circumstance?”
“I shall wed your daughter, of course,” Rowan said smoothly, and heard Bronwyn catch her breath before chaos reigned anew.
“What?” She gasped.
“What?” Nicholas demanded.
Adhara stepped past her spouse, her gaze glittering as her daughter’s own often did, and asked the most pertinent question to Rowan’s mind. “Why?”
Rowan grinned, then looked down into Bronwyn’s wary gaze. “Because I love her,” he declared. “And I would wed her.”
But if Rowan imagined that his sweet pledge would make all come aright, he was sorely mistaken. Bronwyn’s eyes flashed and she planted both hands in the middle of his chest, giving Rowan a push that startled him with its strength.
He fell back and she bounded to her feet, seizing a length of linen and wrapping it around her nudity with a savage gesture. “You lie like a hide before the hearth!” she cried. “You do not love me!”
“Bronwyn!” her parents chided in unison, even as the servants pressed closer for a better view.
“Bronwyn,” Rowan appealed as he got to his feet. “I do love you, I swear it to you.”
The lady’s marvelous blue eyes narrowed. “Were you not the one to warn me that a pledge of love cannot be trusted, especially when one wants something from the other?”
Rowan did not flinch from the accusation in her eyes, though he immediately guessed the root of it. “I told you that I had sworn off my quest.”
“Until you had sight of Ballyroyal,” Bronwyn retorted bitterly. “ ’Tis a fine holding, is it not? And one upon which a man could live at leisure, if his wife turned a blind eye to his roving?”
She made to push past him, but Rowan seized her arm. “I know I said many things, ma demoiselle, but they are no longer true …”
“But words once uttered cannot be recalled, can they, chevalier?” she demanded, tossing Rowan’s own words back to him. She lifted her chin, the valkyrie with the cold eyes he had admired all those weeks ago. “I am not your demoiselle,” she said with resolve. “You had best seek your heiress elsewhere.”
She pulled out of his grip and strode out of the bathing chamber, the servants parting before her like a biblical sea. The lady had stated her terms, and Rowan needed only a chance to persuade her that she had convinced him of their merit.
But it seemed he was not to have it. Rowan gritted his teeth and lunged after Bronwyn, determined to have his hearing, but her parents closed rank against him.
Nicholas’s expression was considering. “I would expect then that you will withdraw your suit?”
“Of course not,” Rowan retorted, annoyed that Bronwyn’s father should think his affections so fleeting as that. “She will wed me in the end.”
He was so busy looking after the departed Bronwyn and plotting his course that he did not notice the smile Adhara cast sidelong at her spouse.
Matthew had not taken the news well.
But then, Matthew never took news well that was not to his own clear advantage. Marco sat in his establishment near Dublin’s wharf, amid all the lengths of cloth, a day after departing from Ballyroyal and wondered how he might have explained the situation better.
He sighed and rubbed his temples, certain that his son would have stormed into the night no matter how he had presented the truth. Though Niccolo’s daughter was impetuous, Marco could not have said that his son was of any more stable temperament. Increasingly, Matthew was vocal about his dissatisfaction the change in a once-shy child most startling to Marco.
Perhaps it was better Matthew and Bronwyn would not marry.
But then there were practical matters. Marco was skeptical that this knight who would wed Bronwyn could manage Ballyroyal, once Niccolo was no more. The noble class was oft beyond such mundane concerns, and this knight seemed less sensibly inclined than others.
Though Matthew might have done no better. Marco supposed he should not have kept the boy and his new moods hidden from Niccolo. Aye, Marco had been convinced that the boy would grow out of his inclinations.
He had been wrong. It seemed Matthew would never be sensibly inclined. Though few were as sensibly inclined as Marco. His lips twisted with the certainty that his son was undoubtedly gambling and drinking already, the two least sensible activities in which he might have engaged.
Sweet Jesu, but where had Marco gone awry? He buried his face in his hands, puzzling over the possibilities—or distinct lack of them—as the sounds of activity faded beyond his doors. The wharf stilled as night fell, even the whores’ calls fading as the time passed. He did not know how long he sat there, but he straightened in shock when his heavy oak door was suddenly kicked open.
It slammed against the wall, revealing a slice of midnight sky that made Marco wonder whether he had slept. Then his fears returned and redoubled at the sight of his son, eyes alight with that fey optimism that oft seized him these days.
At times like this that Marco could not believe this man was his own child.
“Father! I shall have Ballyroyal in the end!” Matthew cried, punching his fist into the air. “You promised it to me, Father, and truly ’twill be mine!”
Marco shook his head. “Matthew, I have explained that matters have changed …”
“But we shall change them again. I will have the untold wealth of your concerns, I will be a king among traders.”
“Matthew,” Marco said wearily. “I have explained to you, and truly it may be for the best. You have never had much aptitude for trade, and ’tis clear I have indulged you overmuch …”
Matthew laughed and stepped farther into the chamber. “No aptitude? But I have a new friend, Father, a friend who insists I have precisely the qualities required. He insists that I should not stand aside and lose what is my rightful due.”
Marco rubbed his temples. But any admonition froze in Marco’s throat when his son tugged this new friend into the open portal.
It could not be!
He blinked, he looked again, and could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Marco gripped the arms of his chair and stared, struck dumb to find a spectre from the past before him.
He knew Vincente di Vilonte was long dead, yet it seemed that very man stood before him once again. Perhaps ’twas Vincente’s ghost, for he looked as if he had not aged a day.
Marco blinked and looked again, his good sense slow to assert itself. The answer, once it came to him, was painfully evident. ’Twas Vincente’s son who stood before him, Vincente’s son whose eyes filled with the same madness that had spelled his father’s demise.
Baldassare folded his arms across his chest and grinned wolfishly, no good intent in his expression. Vincente might be dead, but his son was not.
Worse, Baldassare was here.
A man of wits could guess why all too well.
“Sweet Jesu, Matthew,” Marco whispered. “What have you done?”
’Twas a fine summer morn, and on a day so clear, a man so fortunate as Padraig could have no complaints about his fate. Nay, Padraig had seen misfortune aplenty, and a fine little tavern upon the very wharf of Dublin and no lack for clients prepared to pay for an ale was a fine fine fate indeed.
He appreciated all that had come his way, that he did. Though a good measure of his success was due to solid labor, he did not forget to light a candle in the church each week, say his prayers, and let his Mary do whatsoever she felt was necessary to keep the fairy folk happy.
Life was good and Padraig savored every moment. His girth and his three chins were a testament to his success, as were Mary’s padded hips. Aye, life was good, and since it could well be short, neither Mary nor Padraig was inclined to deny themselves whatever pleasure they might seize.
Padraig had unlocked the door facing the wharf and was just in the act of pouring himself a measure of his own ale—just to ensure that it truly fine enough for those inclined to pay—when a shadow fell across the doorway.
He took a hasty gulp, then pivoted with a welcoming smile. Mary whistled over the hearth in the room beyond, the smell of her meat pasties already wafting through the air.
The man who entered the tavern was no more grizzled than most, his ruddy beard shot with a healthy sprinkle of grey. His eyes were narrowed with impatience, and looked as if they were seldom any other way, though it might well have been the sunlight on the water that forced his expression. He scanned the room, as if he were half certain foes awaited him in every corner. To be sure, the man had seen more than one fight, for there were scars upon his face and his leather jerkin.
But Padraig was used to all types. Tough they might well be, and he bad seen more than one bloody fight, but every man alive liked a cool measure of ale in his throat and a warm morsel in his belly.
“Good morning to you, sir!” Padraig cheerfully rattled through his offerings and associated prices, his first guest silent.
“Ale,” that man said succinctly when Padraig finally finished. He chose the one chair that backed against the wall and sat down, his eyes gleaming in the shadows when he looked to Padraig again. “And whatever ’tis I am smelling.”
“Ah, my wife is a marvel of a cook, that she is. ’Tis a pasty like none other she conjures, ’twill melt in your mouth and make your heart sing from here to eternity.”
Padraig filled a crockery mug with ale and presented it to the man. The man nodded once, sipped, then nodded again. He cast a glance through the door to the bustling wharf, then leaned back against the wall. He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, looking dangerous indeed.
Perhaps his silence was unnerving, perhaps it was simply Padraig’s nature to talk, or perhaps just that keeper’s merry mood was at root. Whichever way, Padraig found himself chattering.
“You would be a foreigner, then, by your garb.” The man glanced up, but Padraig only grinned. “Ah, do not be looking so very surprised. ’Tis a busy wharf and I have eyes in my head enough to know who is of here and who is not. And truth be told, there are foreigners aplenty in Dublin these days—and many folk who think ’tis not as matters should be. Me, though, I have no quibble, for ’tis good business when foreigners come to town.”
Padraig leaned on a table. “Aye, the locals, they go home to eat or to their friends for an ale, but those from abroad, even the cursed Normans, have need of a sip and bite. ’Tis what binds all of us together, shows a man that there is little difference between men, and truly, if you sailed all the way to Jerusalem, well, I imagine even they would have need of a sip and a—”
“Have you had many foreigners of late?”
Padraig was startled by the interruption, though he recovered himself quickly. “Oh, aye! To be sure, down Wexford way it has been worse, but we have had our measure here, that much is certain. More Normans than a man can shake a stick at, although I have to be wondering how ’tis they are different from the Vikings.”
Padraig set to rinsing his crockery mugs. “Aye, there were tales aplenty when I was a child, of Viking raids in days long past and thieving of the churches and all, but every Norseman I have known here has been decent enough. Tall and blond they are, though, big men, if you take my meaning, and truly there are many among these Normans with much the same look about them …”
“Any other than Normans and Norse?”
Padraig blinked. “Well, the Welsh, of course, though they are a wickedly roguish lot. Always chasing the women, they are, and leaving their debts unsettled. Surly with coin, if I must say as much, and deceitful beyond other races. ’Tis something in their blood, I think, to covet what is not their own and to take what is not their right to take. Why, that Strongbow himself has a hearty measure of Welsh blood in his veins, ’tis said, which is proof enough for any thinking man of …”
The stranger cleared his throat pointedly. Padraig glanced up and realized to his dismay that this man’s ruddy coloring might put him among Strongbow’s countrymen. Before he could summon a question, the stranger asked another.
“Any other foreigners?”
Padraig felt his eyes narrow in turn. “And why would you be wanting to know? You have a merry lot of questions this morn, for a man disinclined to share so much as his name.”
The man smiled, an expression that did not seem at ease upon his harsh features. “I seek a friend.”
Padraig did not believe him, not for a moment, though there was something about this man that reminded him of another. “A friend is it, then? Well, there was only one that put me in mind of you, that much is certain, and I suppose there is little harm in setting one foreigner after another.”
“Aye?” The stranger leaned forward, his curiosity obvious.
“Aye, and a strange one he was, I have no quibble in telling you as much as that. A Venetian, ’twas my guess, though the boys they had a wager upon it, one that was never resolved. Dark of hair and dark of eye, but not of these parts. His eyes were nigh black, not that merry brown as the girls are oft having here. Nay, and there was something about him, something that put one in mind of a snake was what my Mary said of him, and she left the room when he was here. I cannot blame her—when the man looked upon you, you were wanting to shiver.
“Come to be thinking of it, he was asking after strangers as well.” Padraig regarded his guest with newfound suspicion. “Is it another invasion then?”
The man sipped and shrugged, his gaze unswerving. “I would know naught of the doings of Venetians, much less any desire they might have for Dublin.”
Padraig snorted. “Well, to be sure, he was not very mysterious about it all. That was why I did not wager upon him being from Venice, for he was the most outspoken foreigner I have heard in years. Aye, he went on and about, fairly hounding me with his questions of some knight or other.”
Padraig tapped his ample chin. “The name, now, the name. A French name or a Norman one, though one I had not heard afore.” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux, that was it, and how would I be knowing a knight with a name the likes of that, let alone where that man might be found?” Padraig snorted at the foolishness of it all. “Though I suppose in the end I did aid him, for I knew well enough where Ballyroyal could be found, though any fool in this town could have told him that.”
“Ballyroyal?”
“Aye, ’twas where he intended to go, though I cannot imagine why. Truth be told, though, Nicholas of Ballyroyal has that same uncommon coloring.” Padraig leaned against the counter and drummed his fingers. “I shall have to be asking after that, for perhaps they too were old friends and I was wrong to be so suspicious. Goodness knows that Nicholas is a fine and generous man, his wife was born and raised on that fair holding, though indeed her parents came oft to town. I would not want to be offending Nicholas of Ballyroyal, for ’tis said that his arm is long and though he seems amiable enough—”
“Where is Ballyroyal?”
Padraig started, telling himself he should become accustomed to this one’s abrupt manner. “Oh, a good day’s ride north and west. ’Tis a fine old holding, though one that benefitted greatly from the bounty Nicholas brought to the marriage with the holding’s daughter. Aye, ’twas said that Adhara of Ballyroyal was a beauty so beyond compare that men would come from across the seas merely to gaze upon her. Why, would that not be a marvelous tale if Nicholas had done precisely that?”
Padraig chuckled to himself. “I had not thought of it before, and, indeed, there is something about Nicholas that prompts a man to refrain from asking bold questions, though perhaps when he is next in town, I shall ask him of his origins …”
Padraig turned to find the stranger gone. He frowned and crossed the tavern, then poked his nose out the door.
There was no sign of the man or indeed any evidence of his passing.
Padraig ducked back inside and checked the crockery mug, noting that it was empty. He snorted and picked up the vessel, the experience doing naught to disprove his opinion of Welshmen.
But there was single coin left beneath the mug. Padraig picked it up and turned it in the sun, bit the silver and was pleasantly surprised.
“Mary, you will not be believing this, but that man paid for both ale and pasty, without ever having the latter.”
Mary came to the door to the back room, her expression surprised, her hands busily wiping on a cloth. “Aye?”
“Aye.” Padraig spared another glance out the door. “He cannot have been a Welshman, after all.”
Three days after Rowan’s feat, Bronwyn was still furious.
She paced her chamber, uncertain whether to kiss or kill a certain russet-haired knight. Aye, she loved him despite all he had done, and truly her heart had stopped cold when he confessed to loving her. ’Twould have been a sweet moment, if not for one critical detail.
Rowan sorely wanted to win his wager with his brothers. That was impossible to forget. As much as Bronwyn would have preferred to believe his sweet confession, it came at too convenient a moment to be credible.
Her mother had been and gone several times, having extricated the entire tale and tried her mightiest to convince Bronwyn to grant Rowan a chance. Bronwyn was surprised to learn that Rowan had not already departed from Ballyroyal, to seek another more biddable heiress, but then he could be cursedly stubborn.
And he wanted to win this wager.
The maids had told of Marco’s departure and her father’s annoyance with the whimsy of women, both tales that Bronwyn did not particularly care to hear. She paced her chamber, impatient with its confines and even more impatient with Rowan for not simply leaving. There was no chance of forgetting him while she knew he lingered in the hall.
Perhaps there was no chance of forgetting him at all, but Bronwyn chose to see him and his presence as the obstacle. How like Rowan to capture her attention and not relinquish it. She drummed her fingertips on the furniture and cursed that knight soundly for tying her innards in knots so readily.
’Twas late before Bronwyn finally fell asleep that night, and perhaps because of her recent restlessness, she slept more heavily than was her wont. At some point, she was vaguely aware of the chamber door opening and was certain another maid or her mother was intent on persuading her to abandon “this stubborn course.” Bronwyn frowned and rolled over sleepily, having no intention of arguing the issue again.
When the feather mattress dipped beside her her eyes flew open, but by then it was too late.
None other than the knight who so determinedly occupied her dreams stretched out beside her, his confident manner implying that there was naught untoward with visiting a lady in her own chamber. Bronwyn gasped and might have sat up, but Rowan leaned across to kiss her deeply.
’Twas unfair by any accounting, and, curse the knave, he knew it. Bronwyn melted beneath his embrace, despite her urge to do otherwise, and by the time the knight lifted his head, she could not recall what she might have said.
Her chamber was flooded with moonlight, a beam falling through the open window. The sounds of the evening carried to her ears, the muted rustling of insects, the occasional nicker of horses. The stars were out in abundance, and the warm breeze held the promise of rain.
But the man lying beside her, so annoyingly sure of himself, seized Bronwyn’s attention.
“You!” she managed to utter before Rowan poked something into her mouth. Her eyes widened in astonishment, but he tapped a fingertip upon her lips, his eyes sparkling.
“ ’Tis a fig, a rare treasure to find so far abroad,” he confided, the low cadence of her voice making Bronwyn’s pulse speed. ’Twas far too private here and she yearned too much for this man to trust herself alone with him.
But Rowan stretched his length out beside her, crossing his booted ankles on her fine linens, and grinned down at her. That fingertip tapped gently on her lips.
“And I know that you are too well bred a lady to waste such a luxury, no less to speak despite a mouth full of food.” His fingertip traced the outline of her lips, the way the moonlight etched his handsome features almost enough to make Bronwyn imagine she dreamed.
But dreams were not irksome in forcing one to eat figs. And dreams did not touch one’s lips with such gentle heat that one longed for more.
“And of course,” he continued with a crooked confident smile “ ’tis unthinkable that you would be so vulgar as to spit it out.”
Bronwyn made to pull the dried fruit from her mouth with one hand, but Rowan entangled their fingers, easily holding her hands above her head.
Bronwyn made a wordless of protest and struggled against him, but to no avail. She knew he would not hurt her—it was simply that he bested her so readily that annoyed.
Indeed, the man knew her too well.
“Ma demoiselle!” Rowan chided, enjoying himself far too much. “I am appalled that you would even consider such a course. My own foster mother swore that a lady of merit swallowed whatever she bit, regardless of what it might be.”
Rowan leaned down and kissed Bronwyn’s earlobe, teasing her with his touch. “And I had so hoped that the lady I would take to wife might comport herself as a lady of merit,” he whispered.
Bronwyn wriggled to no avail, took one look at the mischief in his eyes, and began to chew with a vengeance. She was not his demoiselle, she would not wed him, and she would have her say!
“No doubt you are wondering why I have come to your chambers so boldly as this,” Rowan said easily, as if they held a conversation in perfectly normal circumstance.
There was naught normal, though, about the press of his length against her, nor the quickening of Bronwyn’s pulse at his presence. There was certainly naught normal about the tremble that spread through her when his free hand landed on her waist, nor the way she could feel the heat of his palm there despite the layers of linen between.
’Twas the toughest fig she had ever had the misfortune to eat.
She did not doubt that he had chosen it apurpose.
“But you see, if you would not come to me and hear my case, then I could only come to you.”
“Because you do not intend to lose your dare,” Bronwyn declared. She managed no more before Rowan rummaged between them, then dropped another fig into her mouth. Bronwyn protested but Rowan grinned, his teeth flashing in the moonlight.
Then he dropped a sack upon her belly, Bronwyn’s heart sinking with certainty at its contents. ’Twas not a small sack, by any accounting. She chewed with haste, even as she knew he would best her in this.
“I intend to be heard,” Rowan declared, his voice low. “And I come prepared to keep you silent until ’tis done. You may chew quickly, or you may chew slowly, but you will hear me out.”
Bronwyn soundly cursed his determination. She heaved a sigh meant to be heard, but Rowan’s grin did not waver.
“Then we understand each other.” He propped himself up on his elbow, his gaze running over her with obvious appreciation. Bronwyn wiggled against his sure grip once more, her back arching slightly, and watched Rowan catch his breath. ’Twas encouraging that she was not alone in being acutely aware of the intimacy of this situation.
“You should not distract me so,” he murmured, his free hand falling upon her breast as she swallowed her fig. “I might forget my chivalrous intent.”
“Lust is no mark of chivalrous intent!” Bronwyn declared, winning another fruit for her outspokenness. She granted her knight a mutinous glance and chewed with vigor.
“Indeed, you have an uncommon affection for figs,” he mused. “I shall have to keep that weakness in mind that once we are wed.”
“We will not be wed,” she argued, disregarding the cursed fruit in her mouth. “And I loathe figs.”
Rowan chuckled. “Then I would advise you to chew slowly, for I am not nearly done.” He poked the bag he had brought. “And even one who adored figs would be heartily sick of them by the time all of these were eaten.”
Bronwyn laughed despite herself “You are stubborn.”
“ ’Tis a trait we have in common.” Their gazes locked and held, the moment stretching long and warm between them. “And there is that beguiling smile.” Rowan traced the curve of her lips with a fingertip, the glow in his eyes nigh stopping Bronwyn’s heart.
She thought he might kiss her, but suddenly he was unaccountably serious, his hand sliding to her waist once again. “ ’Tis not merely lust between us, Bronwyn, and you know it as well as I.”
A smile flickered across his lips as Bronwyn dared to hope. “Indeed, you probably guessed the truth of it sooner, given your greater familiarity with love. ’Tis a marvelous gift your parents granted you in creating this home so abundant in its love.”
Rowan paused for a moment, his brows drawing together, and Bronwyn did not have the heart to interrupt him. “Truly, I am more familiar with lust and its fleeting influence, and perhaps that is why I mistook my interest in you for a more base desire. ’Tis the nature of lust, though, to be readily sated.”
Rowan lifted his gaze to meet hers and she thought unaccountably of that boy who believed he was not lovable. Her heart twisted in a most unwelcome way and her hope redoubled.
“But my desire for you seems to only grow more each day,” Rowan confessed, his gaze searching hers. “And ’tis more than lust. ’Tis for more than your touch, ’tis for the simple pleasure of your company and the sound of your laughter.”
“You have a gift for pretty argument,” she said softly, wanting to believe but not daring to do so.
“Shh! I am not done.” Rowan pushed a fig into her mouth with a wink, then nodded acknowledgment. “ ’Tis true enough, though that has had little influence with you. My foster mother always said that the truth of a man’s intent was revealed in his deeds, and there are matters you should know.”
Rowan frowned and Bronwyn waited, her heart pounding in anticipation. “Your father is disinclined to grant your hand to man who travels with troubadors, and truly, I cannot blame him for this. All these years, I considered that life ideal, having forgotten how often I was cold and hungry as a child, no less how young those I loved did die.”
Rowan cleared his throat and spoke hastily, his gaze fixed upon the sack of figs. “I have decided that to live a life unfettered is a course overrated. To that end, I have accepted a task offered by your father—that of his marshall.”
Bronwyn blinked in astonishment. “You took a responsibility? Willingly?”
Rowan clicked his tongue with mock disapproval and dropped another fig between Bronwyn’s lips. “ ’Tis not so surprising as that. A man must be prepared to work for what he desires.”
“What do you desire?” Bronwyn demanded, despite the fig. Though her words were unclear, the knight seemed to understand.
“Such manners!” he chided. “I shall make you a wager, ma demoiselle. Pledge to hear me out and I shall rid you of that vexing fig you loathe so very much.”
“Gladly” was all Bronwyn had the chance to utter before Rowan rolled atop her. His lips captured hers, his tongue diving between her teeth to lay claim to the fig. He released her hands and Bronwyn wrapped her arms around his neck, sensing his need for reassurance on this unfamiliar course and determined to grant it. They were on the cusp of a confession, and she hoped against hope ’twas the one she longed to hear.
After all, Rowan had accepted an obligation.
Bronwyn giggled as he made a game of fetching the fig and losing it again, drawing out their kiss in a most pleasurable fashion. When he lifted his head and chewed despite his impish grin, she laughed aloud. “You are incorrigible.”
“Ah! So much for your pledge! I shall have to take a penance for the breaking of your word.”
And Rowan kissed her again, his touch so thorough and so gentle that Bronwyn forgave him much.
They were both flushed when he lifted his head and she reached up to push the hair back from his brow, letting her fingers tangle within it. “You willingly took this obligation,” she mused, still marvelling. “Do you intend to fulfill it?”
“My word is not worth so little as that,” he teased, then sobered anew, his gaze searching his. He cupped her shoulders in his hands, bracing himself over her, his gaze searching hers. “Bronwyn, you have shown me that there is naught to fear in pledging oneself to another, naught to fear in admitting tender feelings. I would have you certain that the only treasure I seek in this match is your love in return for mine.”
Bronwyn stared at him, her heart thundering.
“I would wed Ibernia as readily as Bronwyn,” Rowan pledged. “For ’tis the lady I love, not what is linked to her name.”
Still she said naught, for she could not summon a word to her lips.
“Bronwyn,” Rowan murmured, his eyes bright. “I love you as never I imagined a man might love a woman. Will you be my bride?”
“I will not keep you like a courtesan,” Bronwyn warned, knowing full well that was not what he wanted any longer.
Rowan shook his head. “I would not be so kept. Indeed, your father’s offer has appeal, as I have wasted a perfectly good education.”
“I will not share my spouse,” Bronwyn whispered, knowing she had to make matters clear and willing Rowan to see the strength of her feelings in this.
He sobered in turn. “And I will not share my bride.”
His sincerity could not be doubted, and Bronwyn’s heart began to sing with delight.
“Then I will wed you.” She smiled, loving the way his eyes lit with pleasure, but not quite prepared to grant him such an easy victory as this. “Indeed, I should dare you to love me for all your days and nights!”
Rowan laughed aloud. “Nay, ma demoiselle, the odds of failure are not nearly long enough.” Bronwyn’s heart sang as he dipped his head to kiss her and she knew she could ask for naught more than this. There was a new ardor between them, a spark that Bronwyn knew would burn for all their days and nights.
Rowan lifted his head all too soon, his expression rueful.
“What is amiss?”
“Naught yet, but soon a great deal.” At her puzzled expression, Rowan arched a brow. “Your father made it clear that a certain part of me would be forfeit”—he grimaced comically—“if I did more than talk to his beloved daughter before there was a ring upon her finger. He is protective of his womenfolk, your father.”
Bronwyn smiled, knowing that a similarly protective man was in her bed and liking that very well. “Aye, that he is. I am surprised he made no mention of a priest.”
Rowan’s expression turned thoughtful, then he chuckled. “As always, Bronwyn, you see to the root of the matter. A ring is an issue readily solved.” He pulled his mother’s ring from his finger, the band of gold catching the moonlight as he slipped it onto the middle finger of her left hand.
Bronwyn was touched that he would entrust her with such a treasure. “You are certain I should hove this token of your mother?”
“I can think of nowhere else it should be.” Rowan leaned closer, his eyes dancing wickedly. “Do you truly think a ring done will satisfy your father?”
Bronwyn smiled, liking that he concerned himself with her family’s approval. “Marriage is made in the heart, not at the altar,” she whispered. “ ’Tis what my mother always says.”
“Then our marriage is well and truly made, ma demoiselle” Rowan murmured, kissing her soundly. When he lifted his head, she had only a moment to note the troublemaking glint in his amber eyes.
Then the figs were tumbling beneath the linens, rolling across her flesh, and hiding in the dips of the feather pallet “Aha!” the knight crowed as he dove beneath the linens. “Fortunately for you, I do love figs. It shall be my Quest to find them all.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes in pleasure when he checked her navel with unexpected thoroughness, his tongue coaxing the heat to rise beneath her flesh.
’Twould be long before she slept this night, and Bronwyn did not care.