Claire Delacroix (115 page)

“By my word!”

“Which will set the measure of your own compensation?” Rowan shook his head. “I think not.”

Baldassare took a step forward, his expression grim. “You will pay, or you will swim.”

Rowan deliberately gauged the distance to the shoreline misted in the distance, as if he had a choice. In truth, he had none, and Baldassare knew it, but Rowan would not be extorted so readily as that. “You have my deposit already.”

“And ’tis clear I may need its reassurance, given the damage already sustained. Indeed, we are but a single day out of London’s port. St. Mark himself could not guess what you might manage in the three days passage remaining!”

Rowan hoped ’twas less than it had been thus far. “Surely ’tis only reasonable to consider my wife’s tale of events?”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Do you call me a liar?”

“Nay, but ’tis clear you held this glass in affection and, like any token held in esteem, you may have overrated its charms.” Rowan softened his charge with a smile, though he held the captain’s gaze steadily. “I would have my wife’s assessment to compare with your own.” He shrugged. “ ’Tis simply good business.”

“This is no business wager!” Baldassare cried. “This is an
insult
, an insult that requires compensation. The longer you wait, the higher the price will be.”

He clamped his lips tightly and seemed to rein in his emotions, then leaned closer. His eyes were so cold that Rowan stifled a shiver. “Do not imagine, sir, that you could not disappear from this vessel, never to be seen again.”

“How much?” Rowan put as much impatience into his tone as he dared, as if he bored of the discussion.

Baldassare named a price and Rowan, even though he had braced himself, very nearly flinched.

“And I thought you were a merchant, not a thief,” he muttered.

Baldassare held out his hand.

Rowan exhaled mightily, then dug in his purse, cursing Ibernia under his breath. The woman would see him beggared.

And had she not said she would love to see him lose his suit for this Bronwyn’s hand? Rowan’s fingers stilled in sudden realization.

Had she done this apurpose?

He could not discredit the possibility, given her obvious desire to win her wager. ’Twas a tactic fitting of his usual deeds with his brothers! Ye gods, he would teach her not to push him overmuch!

The other man snatched up the coins as soon as Rowan presented them. Baldassare would have marched away, but Rowan hailed him. “The glass, if you please.”

“ ’Tis of no use to you!”

“I would argue that. And indeed, I have just paid a hefty price for it.”

“I would keep it.”

“Then you truly are a thief, not a merchant, as you so claim.”

The men glared at each other for a long moment, then the captain spat once on the deck. He tossed the crockery vessel to Rowan, then marched away, his mood not visibly improved. He ran one hand over his tabard, evidently intending to smooth its rumpled state, then looked at his hand in horror.

Rowan, however, was not interested in whatever souvenir Baldassare had found. He shook the contents of the pot until they jingled and felt his lips thin.

He had other matters to resolve.

Before Ibernia spent every last coin he possessed.

ince she could not sleep, Ibernia spent the night mustering her resistance. Aye, if she did not steel herself against Rowan, she would yield to his touch and lose the possibility of early freedom. ’Twould be too painful to be home and be unable to remain—and who knew where this unpredictable man might find himself in a year and a day? Ibernia did not even want to imagine.

Nay, she had to
win.

So she could not afford to think about Rowan. Not the gentleness of his touch, not the languor of his kiss, not the way his eyes gleamed when she brushed her lips across his.

Certainly not the pleasure of his lips exploring hers.

Nay, anything but that!

Ibernia rolled over in the narrow cot. She could not think about how tall or how broad Rowan was, how alluring his smile, how cursedly cocky he was about his handsome features. She would be better to not even acknowledge that he was handsome, certainly not to admit that he was the most handsome rogue she had ever met. The twinkle in his eye tempted her to smile too readily, so she had best ignore her recollection of that.

She certainly could not afford to think about the weight of his hand upon her bare breast.

Ibernia shivered involuntarily and rolled to her other side.
If her flesh had burned from his kisses, that was naught compared to the tingle in her nipple that would not cease. Aye, it throbbed, even now, as if it yearned for his touch again. His hand had been so warm, his fingers so strong, yet his touch was tempered with tenderness.

’Twas all a ruse, and Ibernia knew it well. The man manipulated her with his charm to bend her to his will. But she would not fall prey to Rowan de Montvieux. Nay, not she. She was clever enough to foil his plan. She knew the truth of relations between women and men, she had experienced enough of how men were.

Even if Rowan defied expectation at every turn. Ibernia gritted her teeth, stared at the ceiling, and mustered her resistance with every increment of determination she possessed.

But ’twas all for naught in the end. For the very moment that Rowan sauntered over the threshold of the cabin, that resistance abandoned her.

Completely.

Ibernia sat up, fighting her urge to study Rowan openly. Instead she lifted her chin and met his gaze, hoping hers snapped with defiance. “What do you want of me?”

Rowan smiled and shook his head, that wicked twinkle in his eyes not aiding Ibernia in the least. “Now, there,” he murmured, “is a weighted question indeed.”

Their gazes locked and held across the narrow space. Ibernia could not seem to take a breath; she could not halt her gaze from dropping to his lips. Her own burned in recollection of his kisses, she felt her nipple rise to a point, as if it would welcome his touch once more.

Curse its betrayal—’twould beckon him closer.

Rowan had the audacity to smile. He smiled slowly, as if to remind her of how his lips felt against her own.

’Twas a practiced feat, no doubt.

Ibernia rose abruptly and folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to stifle the annoying tingle. “Why did you return this morn? If ’tis for more kisses, you are destined to be disappointed.”

“Am I?” Rowan strolled into the cabin, his presence making the space feel even smaller than it was. His eyes narrowed as he halted just a pace away from her, and it seemed his smile chilled slightly. “You may be fortunate to escape with merely a kiss after what you have just cost me.”

Ibernia knew better than to fear this man. He would never hurt her and she knew it well. “I cost you naught but an affront to your pride!”

He laughed then. Ibernia glared at him and jumped when he brushed the tip of his finger across the end of her nose. It was a surprisingly playful gesture, one that caught her unawares, one that still made her thrum with yearning for more of his touch.

And he knew it well. She set her lips and held his gaze as if unaffected, wondering whether he truly was fooled. Rowan seemed untroubled by her response, though he looked down so quickly that she could not see what lingered in his eyes. He lifted a crockery vessel and shook it between them.

The jingle made Ibernia look within it.

“I am told that you were responsible for the destruction of this particularly fine Murano glass.”

Ibernia flushed. She stared at the shards of glass, feeling Rowan’s gaze upon her. She swallowed as she noted the distinctive swirl of a goblet stem, the twist of a pitcher handle.

She glanced up to find Rowan considering her and did not doubt he had glimpsed her guilt.

One russet brow arched high. “Interestingly enough, it seems our captain did not lie.”

“Nay, but neither did he tell you all of the truth,” Ibernia replied. “What else could I do? He locked me in his cabin, he intended to have his due from me. I fended for myself as well as I was able.”

Rowan’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, his voice dropped low. “But what were you doing in his cabin,
ma demoiselle
?”

She swallowed. “I was invited.”

“I had already declined that invitation.”

“I know, but …”

Rowan’s eyes flashed. “You
knew
, but still you went willingly to a private meal with this man? What of your promise to remain in this cabin, with the door barred?”

“You cannot tell me what to do!”

“Nay?”

“Oh, indeed, you have
bought
me, so now you believe you can decree whether I eat a hot meal or not. How could I have forgotten?”

“Sarcasm does not favor you.” Rowan shoved one hand through his hair and frowned at her. “Ibernia, you were welcome to eat, but not with him.”

“Will you approve of all my activities? Truly I have never had a master so very diligent!”

“Ibernia!” Rowan bit back something and clearly fought for control. He backed her into the corner and she felt a flicker of uncertainty at the unholy blaze in his eyes. “Is it so reprehensible that I have concern for your welfare?”

’Twas not reprehensible and he knew it, just as Ibernia knew she had erred. She had broken her promise but she dared not admit it, for fear of softening to his appeal. “You would save me only for yourself,” she charged, though there was no heat in her words.

Rowan made a sound of frustration. “I thought you were a woman with some wits about her! Could you not see that
this man is concerned only with his own advantage? Merchants can be bought and sold like so much chattel—and our captain is no different!”

The insult against her own family’s class would not pass uncontested—if it was, Ibernia would look overlong into Rowan’s amber gaze and forget all her reasons to resist him.

She certainly would not admit to this man that he was right.

“You are quick to condemn the merchants!” she countered. “How many tales does one hear of
knights
changing loyalty to the side most likely to win? Of landowners caring only for their own advantage? Why, you have only to look at happenings in Ireland of late to see that nobles are not above seeing their own needs served first!”

“You pose a spirited defense of merchants.” Rowan’s voice was soft, his gaze assessing. “As if you have a personal interest in their dignity.”

Ibernia drew back and considered him, realizing too late that she had said too much. Her heart began to pound.

Rowan shook the glass between them. “I have had to pay recompense for this foolishness of yours, a payment which cuts yet again into my increasingly limited finances.”

“What do you want from me?”

“A better bargain.” He smiled, though the expression was not reassuring.

Ibernia thought of hungry wolves and backed into the wall without realizing that she did so. “I will not surrender to your touch.”

Rowan shrugged. “You will, but ’tis not of import to this discussion.”

His confidence did little to ease Ibernia’s fears. Indeed, the words she managed to force past her lips sounded too strained to be her own. “What do you desire then?”

Rowan set the pot between them on the floor and propped his hands upon his hips as he studied her. “Honesty.”

The word was so unexpected that Ibernia blinked and stared at him. This man wanted
honesty
from her?

Rowan’s sudden grin caught her by surprise. “And your aid in winning the hand of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”

“What could I do to persuade this stranger to take your hand?” Ibernia scoffed. “And what further honesty do you want of me? I have told you all you need to know.”

“Liar.” Rowan enunciated the word carefully, though there was no censure in his tone. “I do not condemn you for keeping your secrets to yourself. But you know more of the ways of Ireland than you admit, and I would wager my own blade that this Bronwyn is no stranger to you. Are you friends? Confidantes? You could do much to aid my suit.”

Ibernia lifted her chin. “But I would so like to see you lose,” she declared with a measure of her usual spirit.

Rowan chuckled. He braced his hands on either side of her shoulders, and Ibernia knew he heard her quick intake of breath.

To her surprise, his expression was deadly serious. “But I am not inclined to lose this wager, even if it costs me all else. You will aid me.” He nudged the crock with his toe. “For indeed, you have already seen my resources quickly depleted. You owe me this.”

“I owe you naught!”

Rowan shrugged and turned away. “As I truly owe you naught.”

Ibernia felt a sudden dread. “What is that to mean? You bought me!”

“And I can sell you.” Rowan seemed to be feigning indifference, and she wished she could read him well enough to be certain. “Is that not what merchants do? Buy and sell to suit their own advantage? Truly, Ibernia, you are woefully
expensive as a slave, particularly one who grants little value to her master.”

Ibernia caught her breath. “You would not do it! We have a wager and a bargain for my winning my freedom.”