Claire Delacroix (116 page)

“And you have already accused my rank of being faithless.” Rowan’s tone was most reasonable. “What little ’twould cost me to prove you right in this. Truly, my purse could use the coin.”

“But there is none to whom you could sell me,” she challenged, her eyes widening in realization as Rowan smiled.

“
Ma bella,
” he murmured, his gaze filled with mischief.

Ibernia’s mouth went dry. “You would not. You could not.” She sought a reason why he should not do this thing and found none. Indeed, she had relied heavily upon his sense of honor, and could think of no other compelling reason for him to keep her.

Because the problem was that she could not guess what Rowan would do.

And he knew it, curse him!

He arched a brow, his eyes gleaming, as if he would dare her to tempt him. What a vexingly unpredictable man he was!

Oh, she should have sacrificed herself to his touch last evening! Perhaps then he would believe she had value.

Though none of her other masters had.

She met his gaze and summoned her most challenging stare. “I do not believe you would do this thing,” she declared. “I believe you have more honor than that.”

Rowan chuckled, not the most reassuring sound he might have made. “Why do you not dare me?” His words were silky soft and Ibernia guessed that any challenge would do little to change his mind. He was determined to win the
wager already made with his brothers, and that alone would guide his choices.

Regardless of how that affected her.

But still she had to try to sway his choice. Ibernia could not quickly compose the dare to ensure her goal was achieved, the fact that Rowan eased closer doing naught to aid her concentration. He halted before her, her mouth went dry, and she stared at the floor as she tried to muster the words she needed.

Sadly, the lean strength of his legs interrupted the view and distracted her from the argument.

“You intrigue me,
ma demoiselle
” he whispered, and she closed her eyes against the waft of his breath far too close to her ear. “Other women would offer kisses or more to win their way, but you argue like a man.” His lips feathered across her cheek and Ibernia felt herself tremble. “Do you think your feminine charms so little worthy of merit as that?”

The heat of his mouth closed over her earlobe and Ibernia’s resistance slipped dangerously. All too soon, she sagged against the wall, felt herself turn to touch her lips to his.

Rowan’s lips closed over hers and Ibernia’s will dissolved beneath his sure touch. For the moment, she did not care that he manipulated her apurpose. For the moment, she wanted naught but Rowan’s kiss.

Though, indeed, that kiss granted her the answer she sought.

Ibernia told herself that she had to surrender to stay his hand. Proving her value to Rowan was far preferable to becoming a possession of Baldassare di Vilonte. Even a year and a day beneath Rowan’s hand—a man who had shown himself to be reasonably fair—was far preferable to lifetime
in slavery to one who had proven himself precisely the opposite.

’Twas no more than a sensible decision that had Ibernia opening her mouth to that kiss. She immediately felt dread well up within her, for that deed between men and women had never been a sweet moment for her, but Ibernia knew what she had to do.

A woman of resolve could endure anything once.

Rowan had never expected Ibernia to welcome his touch. He certainly had never expected her to surrender with a sweet yearning that made him both anxious to please her and desperate to have her.

’Twas too tempting to have his desire find an echo within her. Rowan slanted his mouth across hers possessively, fully expecting her to twist away, but Ibernia opened her mouth to him.

She lifted her hands to his shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed and, almost as an act of will, she leaned against his chest.

Rowan’s heart thundered. He felt her trepidation, sensed her uncertainty, was awed that she put her trust in him. There was a plea in her kiss, an entreaty for tenderness, that a man less experienced in the arts of love might have missed.

But Rowan heard it and it tore at his heart. His certainty that he was glimpsing a vulnerability that Ibernia would have preferred to hide made him feel protective of her. She was by no means a weak woman, yet he could wound her deeply, at least in this moment.

Rowan had no intention of doing so. Clearly she had been hurt by her couplings with men in the past. If naught else, he would leave her with an understanding of both her own allure
and the pleasure that could be found between a man and a woman.

Indeed, Rowan could not have thought of a candidate more perfect for the task than himself. He caught Ibernia against him, deepened his kiss, and revelled in her unwilling moan of pleasure. Oh, he would be thorough, he would make the most of this opportunity. ’Twould take a goodly measure of the morning, or perhaps the day, to see matters set to rights.

He almost smiled in anticipation of the way she would thank him.

Rowan lifted his head reluctantly when Thomas knocked on the door. He watched Ibernia’s eyes open, noted her quick glance upward and the faint flush that stained her cheeks. Rowan smiled down at her, taking his leisure in ensuring that she understood he, too, was pleased.

“My lord?” Thomas cleared his throat.

’Twas only when Ibernia tore her gaze from Rowan’s and swallowed that he turned to his squire with a grin. He surrendered the lady’s embrace with reluctance, anxious only to ensure their privacy once again.

With certain amendments to the current situation.

“Good morn, Thomas.”

“You are better this morn, sir?”

“Aye, I am as hale and hearty as ever I was.” Rowan winked. “Though whether ’tis the open sea or the pleasure of the company, I cannot begin to guess.”

Rowan watched Thomas look between the two of them and grin. “I trust you slept well?”

“Aye, my lord.” Thomas bowed. “The steeds are tended already this morn and seem well enough, though Troubador is feisty.”

“ ’Tis only natural he be restless in such confinement, though there is little that can be done for it. And Marika?”

The slavewoman peeked out from behind Thomas, offering a shy smile. “She seems well enough, my lord, but …” Thomas’s brow knotted in a frown.

While Rowan could imagine that the boy did not appreciate the woman’s company, he was disinclined to do much about it in this moment.

“But naught, Thomas,” he said firmly. “You do me a great favor in ensuring she is well. I have a task for you this morn, and then you may amuse yourself.”

“Aye?” The boy’s countenance brightened.

“Aye. Ibernia and I have need of a decent bath.” Rowan heard Ibernia inhale and almost smiled. ’Twould be a fine way to spend the morn, and telling that she was too shocked to protest.

“Several pails of hot water will suffice, if you can persuade the cook to part with the water. I suppose we could bathe in salt water if naught else can be had. But it must be hot, and I will part with no more coin to see it done.”

Thomas nodded and bowed, and Rowan beckoned to Marika as the boy darted away to complete his task.

Rowan gestured to the pieces of wool and made a stitching motion with his hand. “You must finish this today,” he told her, uncertain how much she understood. He gestured to Ibernia. “So the lady has something to wear.” He touched Ibernia’s chemise and grimaced.

Marika nodded in quick agreement and undoubtedly would have sat on the floor to take up her work, but Rowan shook his head. “Nay, you must take the work with you.” She looked up at him, her expression blank, and Rowan gestured to the door.

Marika promptly abandoned her needlework and made to leave.

“Nay!” Rowan scooped up the wool and pressed it into her hands. Marika considered him with some confusion,
then shrugged and sat down again, preparing to thread a needle.

Rowan looked up and found Ibernia smiling. The very sight quickened his blood and made him anxious to have Marika on her way. He quickly repeated his gestures, confusing the slavewoman all over again.

Rowan refused to concede that his mother had been right when she counselled him to be more diligent with his studies, that awareness of languages would serve him well. Though French was his first language, he fared well enough in the common tongue of England.

Marika, sadly, seemed familiar with neither of his options. Rowan gritted his teeth, preparing to repeat the whole ordeal once again for lack of other choice, but Ibernia intervened. She flashed Rowan a sparkling glance so unexpected that it struck him silent for a moment.

Then he realized that she was laughing at him, at his incompetence, and was doubly irked. Trust all to go awry when he meant to seduce this woman! ’Twas one thing to tempt a woman’s laughter by choice, another to unwittingly prompt her laughter by one’s inabilities.

Not that Rowan had many of those. Ibernia seemed to bring out the worst of them. He folded his arms across his chest and watched as she bent over the slavewoman.

He would not admire the ripe perfection of Ibernia’s buttocks. Rowan thought again of her intent to pass as a boy and nearly snorted aloud.

It seemed he was not alone in foolish whims, and that realization did much to restore his mood.

Ibernia spoke softly and though she said much the same thing as Rowan, she gestured differently. She pointed to Marika and the needlework, then made a sewing gesture. Marika nodded with enthusiasm, then chattered away in some incomprehensible tongue, her hands moving like
quicksilver. Ibernia nodded approval, then took the woman’s hand, lilting her to her feet and ensuring that all of the sewing was in her arms.

Marika looked confused and Rowan folded his arms with satisfaction. Here was where the matter became troubled! He knew Ibernia would fare no better than he.

But she pointed to the door, giving Marika a little push, ensuring she held on to the wool when she might have put it down. Marika frowned. She pointed to the floor, then repeated the movement of sewing. Ibernia pointed to the hall, following with the same gesture. Marika’s gaze slid between Ibernia and Rowan and she pursed her lips.

She indicated herself once more, made the sewing gesture, and pointed emphatically to the floor. Ibernia shook her head, pointed to Marika and the hall. Then she indicated herself and Rowan, pointed to the narrow pallet, and pushed her right index finger into the loose fist she made of her left hand. She pumped it a couple of times, to ensure the meaning was not lost.

Marika gasped. Both women blushed. It seemed Marika could not look at Rowan any longer, and though he dearly wanted to laugh, he did not dare to do so. The slavewoman hastily gathered up all of her materials, then fled out the door without a backward glance.

Before Rowan could say anything, Thomas returned with two steaming buckets of water, his expression mutinous. “I have to haul slops in exchange,” he said darkly.

Rowan’s grin finally broke free, though Thomas undoubtedly thought it poorly timed.

“ ’Tis not amusing in the least!” the boy complained.

“Nay ’tis not,” Rowan agreed, and bit back his errant smile again. “Take but one bucket and disappear. The cook has no business demanding your aid. And after all, you must
ensure Marika’s safety. If he troubles you about the matter, tell him to speak with me.”

“Aye, my lord.” Thomas grinned then ran back out into the shadowed corridor. “Marika!”

Rowan flicked the door shut with his fingertips. The latch fell into place with a click. “Now, where were we?” he mused, leaning back against it and surrendering fully to his impulse to grin. “Ah, I know. You were teaching Marika obscene gestures.”

Ibernia did not smile. “It worked, did it not?”

“Indeed.” Rowan bowed low. “I am much impressed with your cleverness.” He stepped closer and caught her hand in his. Ibernia stared at him, her eyes wide and the flicker of a pulse at her throat. “As I was impressed by your fleeting smile.”

The lady looked away.

“Smile for me,” Rowan cajoled.

“I cannot.” Ibernia shook her head, her expression grim. “Not now, not when this prospect is before us.”

“Ah, but that is precisely when you should smile.” Rowan bent and bestowed a feather-light kiss on one corner of her mouth. Ibernia watched him, almost poised to flee.

’Twas galling to realize how she dreaded this, no less what must be at root of her fears. Rowan’s admiration for Ibernia’s resolve redoubled.

He kissed her on the other corner of her mouth. “ ’Tis not so very difficult to smile,” he whispered, his lips a finger’s breadth from hers. “I have seen you do it.”

She was pale with the fear of what they would do, and Rowan knew they would do naught unless she could summon some enthusiasm for the deed. He brushed his lips across hers gently and she shivered.

“I would never hurt you,” he murmured, holding her gaze as if he would persuade her with his own steady glance.
Her uncertainty might have been unflattering to a man less convinced of his own abilities than Rowan.

He brushed another fleeting kiss across her lips, lingering tellingly for the merest heartbeat. “Have I ever hurt you?”