Claire Delacroix (112 page)

Too late, she feared he would awaken, but Rowan only grunted and slumbered on. Ibernia spilled the purse’s contents into her palm. There were half a dozen gold coins, a few silver ones, a single key.

And a golden ring.

Ibernia’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat on that ring, a ring clearly too small to fit Rowan’s hand. She was almost curious, then told herself that his liaisons had naught to do with her. She took the key, poured coins and ring back into his purse, and replaced it as it had been.

Marika’s eyes lit as Ibernia stretched to unlock the shackle. She was half afraid ’twould be the wrong key, that either Rowan deceived her or Baldassare had deceived him.

But the key turned smoothly in the lock. The shackle fell from the wall as Marika cried out in delight. The same key
proved to open the shackle at her neck, the expression of joy on the small woman’s features tearing at Ibernia’s heart.

Then Marika fell on her hands and knees and kissed Ibernia’s feet in gratitude. Ibernia felt the woman’s tears fall on her skin and bent to hug her, her gaze straying to the sleeping knight.

Rowan had truly won her dare.

Even if he had done this purely to prove her wrong, purely to win her “shower of kisses,” ’twas no less a fine deed for all of that.

Now she knew that he was not blessed with inexhaustible coin. Nay, if Rowan meant to court a wealthy bride and then return to France, then he had sorely cut into his finances to do this deed. And this while he was ill.

Despite herself, Ibernia’s poor opinion of this knight was revised for the better.

Indeed, Ibernia’s resistance to him softened in the lantern light. Aye, she knew what she had to do. She would keep her wager, just as she had pledged, just as Rowan had kept his.

But she would render her shower of kisses now, while Rowan slept, as tousled and harmless as he might ever manage to be.

He would not be able to argue whether her payment was sufficient. All the same, Ibernia was less than confident in her skill and did not savor the thought of witnesses.

No doubt Thomas would be highly amused, for he must have witnessed many an elaborate seduction and would find her efforts laughable.

Ibernia urged Marika toward the door. “Go with Thomas,” she instructed, gesturing with her hands until the woman nodded. “Go and find what food you can, then go with Thomas.”

“Would you not have her return to you?” Thomas asked.

“Nay.” Ibernia smiled. “I have a debt to render to your master, and ’tis a deed best done in privacy.”

The boy grinned, then chuckled. He bowed to Marika, indicating that she should precede him, then paused on the threshold.

“Be gentle with my lord and master,” he counselled, a wicked glint in his eyes. “He has lately been ill and might not be able to withstand a lengthy shower of kisses.”

Ibernia’s smile was tight. “I shall keep that in mind.” She latched the door behind the two and faced the knight, still sleeping peacefully.

How many was a shower of kisses, precisely? Rowan had said hundreds.

Ibernia’s belly quivered. She rubbed her stomach, then looked down at herself. She was smeared with gravy, stained with wine, and wearing a measure of the compote’s sticky sauce. She was still dirty from her travels, her clothing was torn and disreputable. The sight almost made her chuckle, though surely ’twould be unappealing to the knight should he awaken.

Perhaps she risked less here than might be imagined.

Ibernia glanced to him again, watching his chest rise and fall. Even in sleep, there was something about this man that defied expectation—and she was not as certain of her undesirability to him as she might have hoped.

Nor was she so certain that she did not find him desirable. Nay, the sight of Rowan, all long and lithe strength, his jaw stippled with a day’s growth of russet beard, his hair tousled, made Ibernia tingle deep inside. Her lips already burned, just as her neck had burned where he pressed those kisses, and she knew that she must truly be falling ill.

Ibernia heaved a sigh. ’Twas better she delivered her due while she was mostly hale, no less while the man was
asleep. There was no telling how he might turn her own touch against her otherwise.

A woman could endure a task only once ’twas begun, she told herself grimly, and stepped forward.

Rowan dreamed of chickens.

Aye, he was in the kitchen garden of Montvieux, all of six summers again. The sun was shining, Marie was scolding him for stealing a pinch of bread, complaining to the cook that Rowan would never escape the taint of his roots. Her prized chickens scattered as Rowan fled across the garden, then returned to their incessant pecking of the ground.

Marie cast grain across the ground, venting bitterly about the trouble young boys made underfoot, then let the chickens in the green of the garden proper. They clucked and fluttered and scurried, then they pecked at the pests on the crops growing there. They scratched and clucked, their necks working as they greedily gobbled up grubs and insects.

Rowan watched in horror, wondering what ’twas like to be an unfortunate grub, destined for a chicken’s belly. He watched them peck and peck, imagining the surprise of the insects that were merrily enjoying themselves when disaster struck unexpectedly from above. He even protested, but Marie swept his words aside, her attention bent on encouraging her flock to become fatter.

They pecked and gobbled and pecked some more, pecking the ground, pecking the grubs, pecking the insects.

And then they began to peck at him. Rowan could feel them. They began gently at first, then with increasing fervor. They pecked at his brow, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw. He twisted and turned, but the chickens could not be deterred.

Rowan felt the sweat trickle down his back. They would
peck him to death! He tried to run, he realized ’twas naught but a dream, he fought to escape its clutch.

Yet all the while, the chickens mercilessly pecked.

His eyes finally flew open. His heart was pounding. Rowan clutched the sides of the narrow bed nowhere near Marie’s garden, momentarily uncertain where he was.

Then Ibernia bent to bestow another kiss upon him. Her eyes were tightly shut, her lips were puckered so tightly that they paled. Her entire expression was one of distaste.

When she bent and pecked a tight kiss upon his brow, Rowan could not help but laugh aloud. This was the chicken who would peck him to death!

Ibernia’s eyes flew open and she jumped back, her wary expression quick to cover her surprise. “ ’Tis so amusing as that to find me rendering
my
debt?”

“What debt?”

“A shower of kisses.”

Marika! Rowan glanced to the place where the woman had been shackled and saw her gone. “Thomas?” he asked, and Ibernia nodded.

There was no delight in her expression, though, and Rowan was momentarily irked that he had slept through her discovery.

Rowan swung his feet around so he was sitting on the bed. To his delight, his belly seemed to have settled. “That was a kiss?”

Ibernia propped her hands upon her hips. “Ninety-eight kisses, to be exact.” She lifted her chin and stepped closer. “If you should be so kind, I will pay the remainder of my due and have this labor behind me.”

Rowan sobered, wishing he had not missed the other ninety-eight kisses. Though, if they had been of the same ilk as that last one, he had not missed much. Indeed, it appeared he was to have little credit for his good deed.

Which only meant the remaining kisses had to be worth remembering.

Rowan shoved a hand through his hair and offered the lady his best grin. “And I am to simply sit here, while you drop one hundred and two more such kisses upon my brow?” he asked.

Ibernia’s eyes narrowed. “Two and two alone it shall be.”

“Hundreds,” Rowan retorted, emphasizing the plural and enjoying how her eyes flashed before she hid her response. He pushed to his feet, noting her quick step backward. “Although even I have little appetite for a hundred and two more kisses like that.”

She lifted her chin, those eyes bright with defiance. “ ’Tis all you will have of me. That or naught at all.”

Rowan eased closer. “I shall settle your debt for two kisses alone, on one condition.”

“We agreed on no conditions.”

“That we did not.” Rowan halted a mere step away from her, noting how her breasts rose and fell more quickly now that he was so close. “But I offer to lessen your obligation in exchange for a small consideration.”

The lady arched one fair brow. “Small to you, no doubt, but considerable to me.”

“Oh, I shall do my best to ensure ’tis not so onerous as that.” He leaned closer, savoring the way she straightened, and blew softly on the side of her neck.

She shivered, then stepped aside. “You try to force yourself upon me.”

“With a breath? I think not. ’Twas only your strange adornment that captured my curiosity.” Rowan traced the line of her throat with a single fingertip, lifting a spot of gravy while he did so. He held her gaze and slipped his finger into his mouth, licking the sauce from it thoroughly and enjoying how she blushed.

“Delicious,” he purred, and she abruptly looked away.

“What do you want of me?”

“Two kisses, ’tis all.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Naught but those two kisses,” Rowan insisted. Ibernia looked back at him, curiosity lighting her eyes. “The condition is merely that I grant you the first one and you return the second in kind.”

Ibernia rolled her eyes. “Aye, no doubt that first kiss will involve more than merely a kiss. You would ensure you win your other wager, one way or the other, but I will not succumb to your touch!”

“Kisses only,” Rowan insisted. “And naught shall I touch but my lips to yours.”

“Liar!”

Rowan smiled slowly. “Coward,” he charged in a whisper. The lady’s eyes flashed fire, the sight quickening his blood. “But if you are so very afraid that you might enjoy that kiss, that you might want more than one other, then take the easier path. We shall count the hundred and two due together.”

She stared at him and Rowan decided to push her just a little more. “Do you not think that a shower should cover a man from head to toe? Not merely his face?”

“You!” Ibernia exhaled hotly. She stepped closer and raised her chin, her eyes bright with challenge, her lips set. “Do your worst,” she invited in a low voice. “Truly, you love yourself enough for two.”

Rowan refused to take offense, knowing she would not be so annoyed if she were not tempted by the prospect of his touch. He stepped closer, letting his gaze rove over her features, bracing his hands against the wall over her shoulders. He leaned closer, until they were nearly nose to nose, and watched her anger fade into fear.

His heart clenched and he knew that he must persuade her of the merit of men, of himself, of the pleasure of touch, and all of this with a single kiss. Even Rowan, after all the kisses he had shared, felt a increment of doubt in his abilities.

So much rode on a single embrace!

“Fear not, my Ibernia,” he whispered, his own smile gone. “I shall do my best, not my worst.”

Her eyes widened slightly, she stiffened. Rowan grazed her full lips with his once, twice, thrice, and felt her soften slightly.

He touched his lips to hers ever so gently, felt her quiver of fear as surely as if it had been his own. He moved his lips slightly, coaxing and cajoling. Ibernia made a little sound in the back of her throat, she shuddered, then she parted her lips.

Rowan was not a man to decline such an invitation as that. He slanted his mouth across hers, swallowed her gasp, and set to the labor he did best of all.

homas peeked around the edge of the portal and surveyed the disarray of the captain’s quarters. Even with the spilled food and shattered pottery, ’twas clear the captain lived well.

Though that was hardly Thomas’s concern. He could smell stewed meat, and that was enough to make his belly complain. Marika’s stomach grumbled from behind him, and he glanced back to find her hand clamped over her midsection. They shared a smile and Thomas indicated she should remain outside the chamber. At her nod, he crept into the room.