Claire Delacroix (107 page)

The slavewoman’s face burned crimson. Her mouth worked silently as she touched the apex of her thighs through the worn kirtle. Her tears rose, a silent testimony to the pain she had endured.

Rowan felt ill, though ’twas not due to the movement of the ship this time. The woman spoke quickly, one sentence falling from her tongue in a rush. They were hot words, foreign yet filled with such anguish that any fool could have understood her pain. She curved her arms, as if cradling an invisible child, then flung out her hands with a cry.

She had been raped and she had lost a child; it did not matter whether that had been two separate incidents or one of cause and effect. Rowan shook his head in horror and dared not interrupt.

The woman inhaled sharply and bit her lip, clearly fearing she had said too much. Her wide eyes fixed on Ibernia, who murmured something low, reassuring by its very tone. A lone tear broke from the slavewoman’s lashes and fell with a splash upon her interlocked hands.

Ibernia opened her arms. The slavewoman fell into her embrace and wept, while Ibernia cooed softly to her. She closed her eyes and held the smaller woman close, letting her pain spend itself in tears.

Rowan noted that Ibernia’s cheeks were dry, and he marvelled at her strength. Maybe she had wept all of her tears already, though Rowan doubted it. Nay, ’twould be like Ibernia to never permit herself the weakness of tears. He leaned back against the wall and thought about this, content to grant the women whatever time they needed.

Moments later, the slavewoman pulled out of Ibernia’s embrace. She rubbed her tears from her cheeks and took a few shaky breaths. Rowan held his breath, fascinated by this glimpse of Ibernia’s compassion and not wanting to break the spell she had woven.

She touched her breast. “Ibernia,” she said softly.

Then she reached across to the other woman. The woman inhaled sharply but she did not pull back, even when Ibernia’s fingertips hovered a mere thumb’s breath away from her own chest.

The woman’s lips parted, but no sound came forth. ’Twas as if she had not uttered her own name in so long that she had forgotten it.

But Ibernia waited, infinitely patient, impossibly still. The woman licked her lips, she took a breath and swallowed, she tried again.

“Marika,” she said hoarsely.

“Marika,” Ibernia repeated, the name fluid on her tongue. She sat back on her heels and gestured to each of them in turn, speaking as one would speak to a child. “Marika and Ibernia.”

A flush rose in Marika’s cheeks and she lifted one hand hesitantly toward her companion. “Ibernia,” she said softly.

Hesitantly she repeated the cradling gesture, those tears rising again. “Vassily,” she whispered, her voice husky, and Rowan knew she named her lost child.

“Vassily,” Ibernia repeated, and crossed herself. “God bless his tiny soul.”

Marika crossed herself in turn, Ibernia’s blessing of her child apparently understood and appreciated.

And when Marika tentatively smiled, Rowan knew that Ibernia had smiled first. Indeed, he wished he could have glimpsed that smile himself, but the lady still had her back to him.

All the same, he was touched by Ibernia’s desire to forge a bond, however fleeting, between herself and this slave. He felt that he had glimpsed something that was not his to witness. But when he might have left the two to their new acquaintanceship, his stomach rolled ominously.

Marika glanced up, paling at the sight of him. She must have assumed him responsible for Ibernia’s wounds, for she clutched Ibernia’s hand, as if she would draw her close.

Ibernia herself started at the sight of Rowan but quickly lifted her chin with defiance. She eased to her feet, her leisure implying that she had meant to do so all along, and placed herself deliberately between Rowan and Marika.

Her implication that he could not be trusted was not welcome.

Rowan felt his lips thin. “You must have charmed our host, for him to share one of his slaves with you.”

Ibernia’s eyes narrowed. “There are more?” she asked, no question in her tone.

“Perhaps a hundred.” Rowan folded his arms across his chest and leaned in the doorway. “They are sealed below, out of sight and thus impossible to count.”

“Marika would know.”

The woman started at the sound of her name, her anxious gaze flying between the two of them.

Rowan had a sudden feeling of dread. Surely Ibernia would not challenge the captain over his cargo?

He disliked that he could not be certain of that.

“It matters little, for there is naught we can do.” Ibernia’s eyes flashed at this claim, but Rowan held up one hand for silence. “You chose this vessel,” he reminded her sternly, “and I have already parted with a goodly measure of coin to see us upon it. Do not imagine that I have the wherewithal to buy the freedom of an entire ship of slaves, especially from a Venetian well aware of their worth. And do not imagine
that your friend Baldassare will sacrifice their value in any way.”

“You could set them free,” Ibernia suggested, her words confirming Rowan’s worst suspicions. “You could begin a rout …”

“And have the Venetians put a price on my head? I think not!” Rowan flung out a hand angrily. “Do you know naught of the world? You must understand that the Venetians are everywhere, in every port, in every town. I would not survive a year!”

Ibernia squared her shoulders, her eyes taking a glint Rowan did not find encouraging. “But indeed, you said yourself that you loved a challenge. Perhaps I should dare—”

“Do not even say it!” Rowan roared, at the limit of his patience as he had never been in all his days. “ ’Twould be senseless foolery!”

Marika shrank against the wall as Rowan stepped into the room and glowered at Ibernia, marvelling that she could turn his mood so foul so very quickly. “I will not take such a dare, even if you are so foolish as to utter it.”

Ibernia, supremely unconcerned, shrugged. “Ah, then I see you are not the man you pledged to be, after all.”

She had done it again.

Rowan swore thoroughly, though it did naught to aid matters.

Had he ever met a more irksome woman? Rowan was quite certain he had not. He shoved a hand through his hair, paced to the portal, and swore again.

Rowan spun to face Ibernia and found her beginning to smile. “You are an astonishingly vexing woman,” he muttered, and she grinned outright.

“I thank you, sir,” she said with a mocking little bow.

Her eyes sparkled with beguiling mischief and yet again,
Rowan was enchanted by her spirit. She defied even his own expectations, and he found himself sorely tempted to take her dare, to prove her wrong, to conquer the odds set against Marika and however many of her companions were locked in the hold.

’Twas folly of the worst kind. But Ibernia’s eyes, eyes that glowed from within like fiery sapphires, tempted Rowan to do just that.

He braced one hand in the door frame and watched the lady, even as he tried to figure a way to best her in this. “And what if I did meet your challenge?” he demanded softly. “What would you grant me in exchange?”

Ibernia’s smile faded. “The satisfaction of a match won.”

Rowan shook his head, reassured that the balance had shifted once again. Now she was wary and
he
called the tune.

This was infinitely preferable to the opposite circumstance.

“Nay,” he said calmly. “ ’Twill not do, not for such high stakes.”

“I have no fortune to grant you.”

“Save your favor.” Rowan grinned wickedly. “A more earthy satisfaction would be in order.”

Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and her eyes narrowed. He knew she had already guessed the direction of his thoughts. “What do you want?”

“A kiss is all, one kiss from your sweet lips.” Rowan blew the lady a kiss, to no visible effect.

“But,
husband
, you have the right to claim a kiss at any moment you so please.” Ibernia’s tone was as hard as a whore’s heart, but Rowan was not fooled. She was afraid he would make precisely that claim, and as tempted as he was, he would prove that expectation of hers wrong.

He would prove her understanding of men and their desires wrong if ’twas the last thing he did.

Rowan let his smile broaden and leaned closer. Ibernia held her ground, as he had guessed she would, though he heard her quick intake of breath when he brought his lips close to her ear.

“Aye,
wife
, that I could,” he whispered, and felt her shiver. “But the meal is so much sweeter when ’tis served willingly.”

“I have told you that I will never surrender willingly!”

“Nay?” Rowan met her bright gaze. “I dare you to accept my challenge.”

“What challenge?” Her voice was breathless, her eyes wide.

“For each slave I set free, you will shower me with kisses.”

Ibernia’s eyes narrowed to a sliver of blue, but not so quickly that Rowan did not note the way her gaze dropped to his lips. Indeed, a tinge of pink claimed her cheeks.

“One kiss,” she argued breathlessly.

“Nay, ’twill not do.” Rowan leaned closer, savoring how she caught her breath. Aye, she
was
aware of him. If he led her easily, she would follow him down the path of seduction.

The very prospect heated his blood, but Rowan strove to appear unaffected by her rejection. “Only hundreds of sweet kisses will compensate.”

“Never!”

Rowan shrugged and sauntered toward the door once more. “Ah, well. Perhaps Marika is accustomed to her shackles.”

“You!” Ibernia cried. Rowan glanced back to find her eyes flashing dangerously. “You would use one challenge to win the other.”

“I?” Rowan feigned affront. “You would accuse me of
such dishonorable intent?” He appealed to his amused squire. “Truly, Thomas, have you ever heard the like?”

“Oh!” Ibernia stormed after Rowan, shaking her finger beneath his nose. Her cheeks were flushed in a most intriguing way. “You will not best me in this! You will not trick me into falling prey to your charms!”

Rowan smiled. “Is that not odd? I was certain you believed I had no charms at all.”

Their gazes locked and held for a charged moment, then Ibernia looked away.

Rowan felt curiously compelled to reassure her. “Kisses are not the same as surrender, Ibernia,” he said quietly.

The lady’s gaze lingered on Marika, all the anger fading from her expression as that compassion stole to the fore. The softening of her features made her look younger, and unexpectedly vulnerable. She lifted her chin suddenly, a warrior princess yet again, and Rowan’s admiration surged.

“Marika first?” she demanded.

Rowan was humbled that she would face her own fears to see to the good of another. Such a markedly selfless gesture gave him yet another glimpse of this lady’s character. “Of course.”

Ibernia squared her shoulders. “I suppose a woman can endure anything once,” she conceded, with enough reluctance to prick Rowan’s pride. “I accept your wager.” Ibernia glanced up at him so quickly that Rowan had no time to hide his displeasure with her response.

“Because you think I will do it only once,” he retorted.

A smile lifted the corner of Ibernia’s full lips, the twinkle that lit her eyes nigh compensation enough for her insult. “Aye. Clearly. Indeed, I suspect that you may lose interest in the chase before ’tis won.” She arched a brow. “I might not have to pay my wager, after all.”

Her pert manner was enough to challenge Rowan’s control
right then and there. The half-light favored the perfection of her creamy complexion and hid the scars of the rope. When she held his gaze like this, her own sporting a winsome twinkle, her lips full and half curved into a smile, Rowan could not imagine losing interest in this clever beauty.

’Twas time she knew the truth of it.

“Indeed?” Rowan eased closer, putting the narrowness of the space to work in his favor. Ibernia moved back a mere increment and he knew the instant her back encountered the wooden wall, for she blinked quickly. Rowan braced one hand on the wall over her shoulder, sheltering her beneath his body. He drew close enough that he could feel the heat of her flesh so close to his own, yet he did not touch her.

Save with a fingertip.

He held her gaze as his fingertip grazed her temple, slowly circled her ear, then traced a circle against the soft flesh beneath her ear. He felt her pulse leap beneath his touch as his finger eased across her throat, tracing the line of her jaw. He tipped her chin up further with that fingertip and held her gaze.

She did not seem to even breathe. He watched a flush rise over her throat and stain her cheeks.

“Indeed,
ma demoiselle,
” he whispered. “You underestimate your own allure.” Rowan bent and pressed a gentle kiss beneath her ear, his fingertip still upon her chin. The flesh was so soft there, so sweetly scented and warm that he was sorely tempted to do more than leave that kiss there alone.

Well aware of her fears, though, and newly aware of the reason for them, Rowan left Ibernia ample room to escape. That she did not duck beneath his arm and flee might have been called a victory of sorts.

Or it might have been a sign that the lady was even more
stubborn than he. Rowan did not know and he did not care. She stayed. On some level, she began to trust him.

’Twould do, for the moment.

“Perhaps even as much as you overestimate my savagery,” he breathed into her ear. Rowan felt Ibernia shiver, indulged himself with another tiny taste of her sweet flesh, then stepped away.

She did not so much as move—let alone speak!—until he had left the cabin. Rowan heard the latch dropped and allowed himself a tuneless whistle.

Aye, she would succumb to him before this journey was done, he was certain of it.

bernia could not catch her breath.