Claire Delacroix (119 page)

This would not be a foul task to be endured! He halted her with a touch, the vulnerability in her eyes making his heart clench.

“There is no need for haste. Does it hurt you?”

Tears glittered in her eyes. “Less than before.”

Rowan smiled to reassure her. “ ’Tis not good enough.”

“Let us see the deed done.”

“Nay, there is only one way we shall see this done, and that is when we both find pleasure together.”

She stared at him as if she could not comprehend his words. Rowan reached between her thighs and touched her again, his own erection swelling within her when she trembled with desire.

She whispered his name, the unsteadiness of her voice feeding that unfamiliar protectiveness again. Rowan gritted his teeth and compelled himself to wait until the lady was ready.

Oh, he had never been so chivalrous as this, and the shame of it was that his mother would never know. This deed could never be counted in his favor. This deed was only between himself and Ibernia.

And that—oddly enough considering his mother’s current threat to disinherit him for his unworthiness—suited Rowan well. He had no opportunity to consider the puzzle further.

For Ibernia sat up and leaned back, her head falling back and her fine breasts jutting forward. ’Twas a sight to feast upon, one that scattered any thought beyond desire. Rowan could have stared at her for all his days.

He touched her with gentle persuasiveness, fighting his body’s demand for release. He watched the flush spread from her breasts, watched her bite her lip. She moaned softly and then her hips rocked against his of their own accord. She gripped his hand demandingly, her lips parting soundlessly, her neck arching.

Ibernia stiffened with a tiny cry, then fell forward. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her gaze blazed into his. “More,” she whispered. “I want more of you.” And she rolled herself against Rowan, driving him to a frenzy.

Rowan was only too happy to comply. He gripped her hips and let her set the pace, easing farther into her with each stroke. Her heat seemed to swallow him, to cradle him, to coax him closer. They moved together, each stroke driving them higher and higher.

And just when he thought he could endure no more, Ibernia framed his face in her hands and kissed him. Her tongue tangled with his, her hunger unmistakable. Rowan fleetingly thought she would devour him whole, then there
was naught but her tongue, her lips, the heat of her surrounding him.

Aye, he was overwhelmed by the most beguiling woman he had ever known. His hands were full of her, he wanted as he had never wanted before. Her womb tightened around him convulsively as she shivered from head to toe, and in that same moment, Rowan slackened his reins of control.

There was naught but Ibernia. Rowan broke their kiss and arched back, gripping her buttocks and roaring as his own release filled his veins with Stardust.

Aye, Ibernia was his alone.

Ibernia collapsed atop Rowan, her thoughts spinning incoherently. She could do naught but feel, and what she felt was fine enough to satisfy.

The first thought she managed was the acknowledgment that she had never felt so marvelous.

She had never imagined that there could be such pleasure, that a man and a woman could grant each other such a gift. She steadied her breathing and realized that there was something of merit in lovemaking, after all.

Especially with this man. Ibernia opened her eyes and studied the profile of the man beneath her. She was still lying atop Rowan, he remained on his back, his hands warm on the back of her waist. He was breathing as heavily as she, his eyes were closed, and she could see the erratic leap of his pulse at his throat.

His heart hammered nigh as quickly as her own. Ibernia swallowed a smile that she had been able to please this man, this man who was clearly no stranger to pleasure. He opened his eyes and smiled at her in that moment, his gaze so warmly appreciative that Ibernia blushed.

Rowan heaved a contented sigh and ran one hand up her
back with evident admiration. His hand slid to her breast, that nipple still responding pertly to the caress of his thumb.

He cupped her jaw, smiling to himself as he studied her. “And there is that bewitching smile again,” he teased softly. “I knew ’twould be worth the wait.” With that, he drew her down to kiss her again.

They parted reluctantly some moments later, only because of the discomfort of their position, and Ibernia could barely catch her breath. Who knew she would rise to his touch again so quickly? Indeed, this was a day of marvels. She sat up and folded her knees together shyly, aware of her nudity but not wanting this moment to end.

Rowan watched her as if she were the greatest marvel in all of Christendom, a heady sensation indeed.

“I cannot imagine that I knew naught of such pleasure,” she confessed, feeling her cheeks heat.

Rowan shrugged and grinned, pushing to his feet easily. Ibernia watched the ripple of his muscles unabashedly, knowing full well that he preened slightly before her.

“ ’Tis only because you have not coupled with me before,” he said cheerfully, grimacing when he found the water had chilled. His attention moved to the door, and he appeared to be deciding whether to call Thomas for another bucket.

Ibernia could not believe his audacity. “You have a confidence in your own charm!”

Rowan cast a sparkling glance her way. “Practice makes for perfection,” he confided with a merry wink, then reached for his chemise as if he had not a care.

Ibernia regarded him in shock. She had been naught but another willing woman to him—and he had shaken her to the core! ’Twas unfair to realize in this moment that she had been right in guessing that naught mattered to this knight beyond himself.

“And how close have you come to perfection?” she asked coldly.

Rowan grinned wickedly. He crossed the cabin and caught her face in his hands, bending to kiss her deeply, his move so smooth that she had no chance to evade him. Much to her own disgust, Ibernia felt her annoyance with him fade.

Curse the man, he knew the moment she yielded to him. He lifted his lips from hers, a knowing gleam in his amber gaze. “My technique is fully perfected,” he purred, then bent to fetch his abandoned chemise, a whistle on his lips.

“Well, I have had better,” Ibernia retorted, purely to prick his pride.

Rowan granted her a confident smile. “I should think not.” He hauled his chemise over his head, that victorious whistle making Ibernia grit her teeth.

“I sought only to ensure that your pride was not wounded,” she retorted haughtily. “But truly, the coupling was mediocre.”

Rowan stilled. Ibernia braced herself, but he pivoted slowly, his expression intent. “Mediocre?” His voice was dangerously soft, his eyes narrowed. That cursed whistle was silence. “None have ever called me a
mediocre
partner.”

Ibernia smiled, pleased to see that she had unsettled him. She reached for her own chemise, hoping she looked as if such encounters occurred every day of her life. “There is always a first, I suppose.”

Rowan’s eyes flashed. He crossed the cabin and caught her arm in his grip. “That was
not
mediocre!”

Ha! Now she had his attention. “Nay?” Ibernia shrugged and reached for her chausses. “If ’tis of import to you to believe as much, then I suppose I must agree.”

“You were pleased, I ensured as much!”

“Aye.” Ibernia kept her tone light. “As were you. But
truly, is that not the least of what one expects?” She turned away before he could see how boldly she lied, though she heard him mutter a curse.

“You expected far worse than what we shared,” he asserted, such conviction in his voice that Ibernia knew he had not been fooled. “You feared my touch.”

“Only because I was not certain you would be aware of anything beyond your own pleasure.” Ibernia cast a glance over her shoulder, only to find Rowan’s amber gaze blazing. “Some men are thus, you must surely know.”

He folded his arms across his chest, a chest she had been nestled against only moments past, a chest that was warm and reassuringly solid. Aye, she had felt sheltered in his arms.

But she had only been the next conquest.

She would not make this easy for him.

“And was I?” he asked, frost in his tone.

Ibernia summoned a chilly smile. “Your competence cannot be questioned.”

“Competence!” Rowan roared, more infuriated than she had ever seen him. “I am far more than
competent
in the arts of love! Never have I been so insulted!”

“Then perhaps you should put more effort into your labor,” Ibernia said lightly, bending her attention on the tie to her chausses. Her fingers were trembling still and she tried to fasten quickly before he saw the telltale hint of her response.

That was the only reason she was surprised when his hands landed on her shoulders. ’Twas no less surprising to find his breath on her nape, nor even his lips against her ear.

Ibernia shivered, much as she would have preferred otherwise.

“Mediocre,” he whispered, then rolled his tongue into her ear so slowly that Ibernia’s eyes closed. She felt herself
lean back against him, powerless to stop herself as desire flooded through her. Aye, he was wickedly talented in this, and when he touched her, she found it nigh impossible to resist him.

Especially after what they had just shared. His hand slid around her waist and under her chemise, those fingers rising to tease her nipple again.

Ibernia just barely managed to bite back the moan that threatened to fall from her lips. Her sole consolation was the press of Rowan’s erection against her buttocks, and she rubbed herself against him, like a wanton, before she knew what she was about.

“That was far from mediocre,” Rowan murmured. “And the next time, you will have to admit as much before I grant you release.”

Ibernia’s eyes flew open at that threat and she turned quickly to face him. “What do you mean? You have to release me in a year and a day, ’tis our bargain!”

Rowan’s slow smile only made her traitorous heart pound. “I meant your release abed,” he whispered, lifting one hand to trail his fingertips across her cheek. “Although you raise an interesting possibility.”

His lips landed on her cheek like a butterfly, but Ibernia swatted off his touch and danced backward, needing to keep her thoughts clear. She took a step farther away, though this seemed to amuse him mightily. “What madness do you talk now?”

Rowan arched a russet brow, untroubled by the fact that he wore no chausses as yet. Had she ever seen a man more at ease in his own skin? If naught else, such confidence was grating!

“You complain about my lovemaking. And truly the only way to improve any deed is with diligent practice.”

“One coupling was all I intended to grant!”

He chuckled. “But surely not a
mediocre
one? It would only be chivalrous of me to ensure you were”—he licked his lips and surveyed her slowly—“sated.”

Sated?!

“Oh, I am sated with you! You need have no fear of that!”

But Ibernia’s words fell too quickly to be believable. Rowan’s grin widened and he touched a fingertip to her lips. Ibernia caught her breath and knew he heard it. His eyes gleamed as he traced the outline of her lips, their gazes clung, his fingertip meandered over her collarbone.

Ibernia knew where that fingertip was destined, but she would not give him the satisfaction of stepping away. The moment that that finger and thumb found her nipple, she knew that her body at least would do naught to support her ruse.

The nipple came to an aching point with embarrassing speed. Rowan turned his gaze upon it, the admiration in his expression making Ibernia catch her breath. He slid his palm across her breast, then back again, as if he could not help but be fascinated.

The man was practiced in making a woman feel appreciated, there was no doubt of that.

Even if his attention was too fleeting for Ibernia’s taste.

She heaved a sigh deliberately and forced boredom into her tone. “Are you finished toying with me? I would check upon my new garb.”

He glanced up quickly, then his cocky smile returned with all its radiance.

“Liar,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “You are a liar,
ma demoiselle
, and I shall win the truth from you yet.”

She held her ground stubbornly, squeezing her eyes shut when he bent and kissed her erect nipple, even through her chemise. The sensation was exquisite, and made her want
him again. She had an urge to drive her fingers into his hair, to drag him back to that narrow bed and spend the entire day there.

But not if it meant so little to him.

A woman of merit had to have some pride.

To her dismay, Ibernia misjudged his timing and opened her eyes to find Rowan nigh nose to nose with her, his fingers having replaced his questing lips. He smiled slowly, his gaze dancing over her features as if he saw something there she would prefer to hide.

“Mediocre, indeed,” he purred, his tone almost affectionate. “I shall prove that you lie, Ibernia, regardless of what that task demands of me.”