Claire Delacroix (106 page)

Rowan’s belly churned restlessly as the sounds of casting off echoed through the ship. The vessel lurched, the oars ground, the wood creaked, and the water splashed against
the hull. The ship rocked, finding its own rhythm as it lurched out of London’s docks and out to sea.

And when the first wave of the sea crashed against the prow, rocking the ship from stem to stern, Rowan could not withhold his response any longer.

He fell to his knees and vomited in the bucket left for the steeds, recalling its location all too well. It helped naught that the shipman laughed.

’Twas Ibernia’s fault that he was at sea again in such quick succession, Rowan thought furiously, Ibernia’s fault that he was trapped upon this specific ship. Aye,
she
had challenged him, she had chosen this vessel.

And she owed Rowan compensation for what she had wrought.

If Ibernia had any doubt as to what sound she heard, it was quickly dismissed. The moaning grew louder as they moved out to sea, clearly distinguishable from the creaking of the ship.

The hold of this vessel was filled with slaves. ’Twas a little too close to her own experience for comfort. Ibernia’s breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes, her ears filling with the sound. She could nigh feel that cursed rope around her neck again, and she itched to bring freedom to those below.

She knew she could not do it, just as she knew she should not be so foolish as to try. But that moaning tore at her heart.

She wondered how many of them there were.

She wondered where they had come from.

She wondered how many of them were ill or wounded, or heartbroken; how many separated from their families; and how many terrified.

When someone began to cry loudly, their wail winding through the ship, Ibernia could stand it no longer. Rowan’s advice was forgotten, her hand was on the latch. She opened the door only to find the captain himself standing before it, his hand raised to knock.

He smiled at the sight of her. “Ah! I knew you would come to seek me out,” he purred. His eyes gleamed as he stepped forward, his smile flashed in the darkness. “You are perhaps not so devoted a wife as your
husband
might suppose. And truly, there is naught awry with a lady seeing to her own pleasure.” He arched a brow, obviously certain where Ibernia would find that pleasure.

She straightened and forced a thin smile, well aware that alienating her host would not be clever. “Indeed, I sought only a last sight of London.”

Baldassare shrugged eloquently. “Ah, but ’tis inappropriate that you should walk the deck in such humble garb, despite your spouse’s lack of generosity.” His smile turned predatory and Ibernia took an unwilling step backward into the cabin. “I have a gift for you,
ma bella.
”

Only then did Ibernia look past the captain, and when she did, her heart nigh stopped. Baldassare’s smile did not falter, though the small woman behind him looked terrified. She was tiny, her dark hair matted, her dark eyes too wide for her face. She was trembling in her tattered garb and her feet were bare.

But ’twas the iron shackled around her neck, no less the length of chain held easily by Baldassare that made Ibernia’s mouth go dry. She deliberately stood straight, hoping to hide her response, though her nails dug into the wood frame of the portal.

The captain nodded, apparently acknowledging that Ibernia could only be delighted by his generosity, then ducked past her into the tiny chamber. He locked the other
end of the chain to a loop on the wall nonchalantly, tossed the key once in the air, then shoved it into his purse.

Ibernia had already wondered about that loop on the wall. Now she knew its purpose. The very thought made her feel ill with her own unwelcome memories. The woman watched the path of the key avidly, and Ibernia could understand her fear and suspicion.

Aye, they had much in common, they two.

“I had thought ’twould be fitting for you to have finer garb to wear,” Baldassare said, his tone fitting for more social circumstance than this. “And thus I bring to you a length of wool more suitable to accent your beauty.”

He snapped his fingers and a young boy bowed as he stepped into the room in turn. ’Twas becoming quite crowded in these small quarters! He presented a bolt of fine wool, woven in the tonal stripe typical of the weavers of Flanders, and dyed in wondrous hues of blue. Ibernia assessed its value despite herself and was impressed by the gift.

She knew this man would expect something in return for what he granted. At the same time, she doubted she could reject the gift without causing offense. Once again Ibernia was caught between two poor choices.

Baldassare gestured grandly to the wool. “ ’Tis enough for a woman’s kirtle, and my gift to you.”

“I could not be so bold,” Ibernia protested.

“I insist. ’Tis a fitting token of my admiration and one that I will not accept being refused.”

“But I have no skill with a needle,” she lied.

Baldassare gestured to the slavewoman without glancing in her direction. “This one is said to have talent. You may use her services.”

“But …”

“But surely you would not wish to risk insulting my generosity?” He smiled warmly, a man looking to be indulged.

Ibernia knew she would not win at this, but still she would try. This was the manner of man who would force his choice upon one, if not given some challenge. She would at least make her unwillingness clear.

“You are indeed most generous,” she acknowledged tightly. “But I fear the gift is too rich to be suitable.” She touched the cloth, uncertain she should voice a question about the terrified woman crouched behind the captain.

“ ’Tis a fine weave.”

“Aye, only the best will do.”

Ibernia flicked a glance through her lashes. “My husband might be insulted, should I accept.”

Baldassare’s jaw tightened. “Then his argument would be with me,” he said with sudden ferocity, then bowed with such graciousness that Ibernia thought she had imagined his fearsome expression. “If I might be so bold as to touch your fingertips?”

’Twas a concession, but a small one. Ibernia quickly debated her options and decided to grant this small favor. Baldassare, after all, could force them from his ship, and she wanted more than anything else to be home.

Surely she could keep his attentions at bay for the duration of this short journey?

Ibernia offered her hand, embarrassed at the state of her nails when Baldassare lingeringly kissed each fingertip in turn. He straightened and smiled genially. “Do not be so foolish as to grant her a knife,” he said with a quick gesture to the woman behind him. She flinched tellingly at his gesture, a move Baldassare did not notice. “These people have no scruples whatsoever.”

With that, he took his leave, the boy scurrying behind
him. Ibernia pivoted to eye her new charge, leaning back against the wall as she did so.

The woman was breathing heavily, her expression wary, She did indeed resemble a cornered creature in the wild. The ship rocked as the two women stared at each other, the bolt of cloth lying on the pallet to one side.

Ibernia wondered whether she had looked as frightened as this when Rowan found her on the dock.

“What is your name?” she asked gently.

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she said naught at all, her gaze darting over the cabin as if she sought escape.

Ibernia could not begin to imagine what she had endured.

Indeed, she did not want to.

Ibernia took a deep breath, striving to show herself harmless as she took a step closer and squatted to look the woman in the eye. She left her hands open on her knees. The woman watched her, easing back into the corner, her expression uncertain.

“Do you speak?” Ibernia kept her voice soft, all too familiar with the terror this woman was obviously experiencing. “Are you alone here? Where did you come from?”

When her questions merited no response, she tried Gaelic, though indeed the woman did not look like a Celt. She tried the dialect of the Venetians and noted only that the woman’s expression grew more mutinous.

If she spoke or understood that tongue, she would not allow it to pass her lips. Ibernia eyed the heavy shackle and could not blame her for that.

But that shackle gave her an idea of how to proceed.

Though the sealed hold composed the better part of the galleon, the captain’s chamber and those of his officers were built upon the back third of the deck, where a small kitchen
was secreted. Here was where Ibernia should be awaiting Rowan behind a locked door.

Even Rowan was not fool enough to believe that.

He made his way back there, well aware of Baldassare’s mocking gaze following his progress across the deck. Rowan had no doubt the tale of his illness had already reached the captain’s ears. Thomas, well accustomed to his duties, emptied the pail over the side and followed Rowan without abandoning that pail.

Aye, ’twould be needed again, of that Rowan was certain. His ears burned at Baldassare’s mocking smile, and he did not deign to acknowledge that man.

At least Rowan made it across the deck without having to flee for the rails. ’Twas a small victory, though likely one that had more to do with the hollow emptiness of his belly.

Rowan blinked at the darkness as he stepped into the tiny corridor, the smell of salt fish on the boil nigh enough to make his belly heave with all haste. With an effort, he swallowed his bile and made for the door near the end on the right.

Open. Of course.

Rowan gritted his teeth and stepped forward, intent on telling Ibernia of her foolishness, but the murmur of her voice brought him to a sudden halt. He frowned, surprised at her gentle tone, and gestured to Thomas to hang back. Rowan sidled closer, touching the door with one fingertip to ease it open wider.

Neither of the women within noticed. Aye, there were
two
women, one small and dark, shackled to the wall and as terrified as a cornered hare; the other, Ibernia, striving to reassure the first. A bolt of wool lay between them, and Rowan knew who had been so bold as to bring it.

First Ibernia, he resolved,
then
Baldassare.

As Rowan watched, Ibernia lifted her chemise away from
her neck, speaking softly to the other woman. Though Ibernia’s back was to him, Rowan knew she showed the slavewoman the rope burns upon her own neck.

He was astonished that Ibernia of all women would admit to any manner of weakness, the very unexpectedness of this making him halt. He lingered in the protective cloak of the shadows, watching.

Her companion was evidently also astonished. The woman’s eyes widened, her hand rose to the iron fastened around her neck. Ibernia nodded, her words falling low and fast, the cadence foreign and lyrical. Though the sound was pleasing, Rowan could not understand her speech, and neither apparently could the slave.

But on the matter of bondage, the women clearly understood each other.

Ibernia pulled up the hem of her sleeve, revealing a sorry welt on her left wrist, a sight that made Rowan’s gorge rise.

Clearly Ibernia sought to reassure the terrified slave, sought to show the commonality between them to calm the woman’s fears. ’Twas an act of compassion and one that left Rowan even more intrigued about his newly acquired captive.

The slave caught her breath and stared at Ibernia. Slowly her tiny fingers found what might have been called the hem of her tattered kirtle and she lifted it slightly, displaying an angry gash upon her leg. The wound had scabbed but would undoubtedly leave a scar.

Ibernia clicked her tongue and shook her head.

She squared her shoulders then, and Rowan knew she would reveal something even more painful than what she had thus far. How he wished he could see her features! Ibernia’s hand landed on her belly and moved downward before it suddenly halted. She made some gesture with her fingers and averted her face from the slavewoman, as if her
confession mortified her so that she could not look another in the eye.

Rowan’s mouth went dry in sudden certainty of what had happened to her. No wonder she insisted she would never willingly turn to a man!