Claire Delacroix (120 page)

And he kissed her so quickly that she had no time to escape his touch.

“You!” she cried when he stepped away. “You have an audacity, and ’tis most unwelcome!”

But Rowan, laughing, was already tying his chausses and ducking out the door. When she heard him whistling a moment later, Ibernia glared after him.

Well, she had already surrendered to his touch, and though it had been a marvel, Ibernia did not welcome the sense that she had been naught but the next wench in a long line of Rowan’s pleasures. Nay, she would have a surrender from him, she would coax his astonishment as he had hers.

Or she would die trying.

Aye, perhaps she could so astound him that he would grant her freedom at Ballyroyal, after all. Or indeed, he might be inclined to indulge her, if he grew fond of her. The very possibility made Ibernia smile.

For if Rowan intended to court Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, the goodwill of Ibernia could not be underestimated. Aye, in the end, ’twould be she who outwitted this cocky knight.

That was consolation indeed.

f revenge was a dish best served cold, then Baldassare’s serving would be most satisfactory. He was within grasp of settling a debt that had gone due for over twenty years, and he was anxious to redress the balance.

For the sake of his father’s memory.

Fortune had deigned to smile upon Baldassare of late, after long turning her attention away. He had a ship, he had a cargo that would see his debts paid, he even had a rumor of the man who had set his course on misfortune. Baldassare was hot on the trail of vengeance and knew Fortune would not fail him now. He stood, impatiently scouring the horizon for the first glimpse of Ireland.

Where debts would finally be settled. Oh, he had been wise to defy the advice of others and seek his prey beyond the shelter of the Mediterranean. He had taken a chance, and Chance would see him rewarded.

Baldassare was still there when the woman who had caused him such trouble the night before came on to the deck. She was a barbarian, of course, as he had learned all too well, yet she was not without some appeal. Her silhouette was decidedly feminine against the grey hue of the sea and sky, the faint sunlight glinted in the gold of her ridiculously short hair.

The blue wool favored her, better even than he had anticipated, though Baldassare was not surprised. He had an eye for trinkets that pleased women, and to be sure, anything that made them look their best was always a welcome gift.

He scowled with the recollection of how his gift seemed to have done little to soften Ibernia toward him. Nay, she had not been helpful. The more Baldassare reflected upon the matter, the less he was persuaded that she was as much of a fool as she would have had him believe.

Anger had a way of blinding Baldassare to anything beyond it, and he had been sorely angered by the shattering of the token of his homeland. He had gone through much to preserve that pitcher and glasses, so seeing their loss had enraged him beyond reason.

The jingle of coin did salve the wound, though.

Baldassare might have hauled into a port and dumped them all ashore, if he was not increasingly certain that Ibernia knew something that could aid his quest. He watched her for a long moment, noted that the knight did not join her, and deigned this as good a time as any to approach her again.

There were things he had to know, after all, and Ibernia was the one most likely to know them.

“Good afternoon,
ma bella,
” he murmured when he reached her side. She jumped slightly, then turned, her smile as cautious as the glint in her eyes. Baldassare was startled anew by the change in her appearance.

Not only was she garbed in a kirtle fitting of a lady, but she was clean. Her features were more fairly wrought than he had imagined, her complexion clear, her eyes bright and luxuriantly lashed. She stood like a lady of the court, her chin high, her gaze steadily meeting his. Indeed, the trepidation he had sensed had already been dismissed.

If it had ever been there. How had he ever imagined that this one was not high-born?

Indeed, there was something elusive in her appearance—the line of her jaw perhaps or shape of her eyes—that vaguely reminded him of a man he had sought off and on for two decades.

Was she related to Niccolo? Was that why he spied a fleeting ghost of his old enemy in this woman’s features? Baldassare’s heart skipped a beat, and he wondered whether he truly could be so fortunate as that.

Or did he see what he desired to see?

“Good afternoon,” she said crisply, her gaze wary.

Baldassare claimed her hand and raised it to his lips. “Your beauty leaves me speechless,
ma bella.
”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “It seems not, sir.”

Baldassare chuckled despite himself, much more at ease with her dressed this way. “ ’Tis a shame you have no fine jewels to ornament your beauty.”

She lifted a shoulder carelessly, her gaze slipping back toward the sea. “They are but trinkets, and their possession oft fleeting.”

Baldassare leaned on the rail beside her, fully aware that she would have preferred to dismiss him. “As you learned on London’s docks.”

Her gaze flicked to him so quickly that he knew he had found a lie. So, there had been no theft in London! He had suspected as much.

Was Ibernia truly the knight’s wife? There was a chafe on her neck left visible by the cut of the kirtle—such a mark as might have been wrought by a rope tied too tight—that hinted otherwise.

Who was this woman truly? More important, did she know what he sought to learn?

She recovered herself as he pondered his course and inclined
her head in acknowledgment. “As you say,” she agreed carefully. “I had tried to push that tragic theft from my thoughts.”

“Then I am a knave to have reminded you.” He granted her a smooth smile, and after a moment’s consideration of him, she responded in kind.

“ ’Tis naught.”

Baldassare looked out to sea and waited for the question he knew would come. Let her draw the information from him—it was less likely to rouse suspicion than if he had willingly confessed all.

“Do you sell spice in Dublin?”

“Nay. ’Twill fetch a better price in the ports of northern France.” Baldassare watched her from the corner of his eye, nearly smiling when she swallowed visibly. Her curiosity about his intentions was a fine portent.

“The slaves, then?”

“Nay. They are destined for the south, for Mediterranean nobles who will appreciate their fair skin.” Baldassare shrugged. “I am thinking that Granada might be a suitable stop, as there is much wealth to be had there.”

“I would know naught of such matters,” she said hastily, and Baldassare smiled.

He patted her hand. “Ah, ’tis not so troubling as all of that to be a slave in such circumstance. Many of them have a finer life than they might have had in their own lands. The women, particularly, are much indulged in return for little but their favors. You have denied the pretty one of your choice much leisure, to be certain.”

Ibernia turned away, her words tight. “Do you not know her name?”

Baldassare laughed at the thought. “Of what possible use is her name? I know her worth and that is enough.”

The lady’s fingers tightened on the rail, the gesture amusing
Baldassare. Women were such fools in thinking the luxuries of the world were not assessed by their value in trade alone. Though he had known men who found such nonsense charming, fortunately he had been spared such misguided thinking.

He knew what was of import.

“Why
do
you sail to Dublin, then?” Ibernia’s voice was tight.

“There is a task I must fulfill,” Baldassare said, carefully watching her reaction.

“A task?”

Baldassare smiled and braced his elbows upon the rail. “You see,
ma bella
, I made a pledge many years ago.” He watched his companion avidly and suddenly realized something he should have noted sooner.

’Twas odd that this couple had known his destination, when he had told none, though Baldassare knew his men talked on the wharf.

But his men only spoke Venetian among themselves. Was it knight or noblewoman who understood that tongue? There was one way to discover the truth.

Baldassare dropped his voice and leaned closer, slipping easily into the Venetian dialect. He spoke low and fast, watching her eyes to see whether she comprehended him. “I seek an old friend, a Venetian, with whom I have a debt to settle.”

She caught her breath tellingly, then shook her head.

Before she could protest her ignorance, he continued. “He is a man who has seen fifty summers, he is tall and dark of hair, he has a merry laugh and heavy purse. Rumor is that he wed a woman with fair hair, not unlike yours,
ma bella
, and fled to the refuge of her family estate. Of late I have learned that she was of Ireland, perhaps from the vicinity of Dublin. Would you know a man by the name of Niccolo?
He was called the Falcon, because he traded so brilliantly and swept from port to port.”

The lady paled. “I do not understand,” she argued, though her voice lacked its previous resolve.

Baldassare nearly hooted with victory. He was so close!

“Would you know him, or know of him? ’Tis imperative, you see, that I find him.” Baldassare smiled, as if he were not talking about a man’s potential death. “I am a man who keeps his vows and this debt is long overdue.”

Ibernia’s fingers rose to her lips, then she abruptly straightened and shook her head.

“I cannot understand what you say,” she confessed, though there was a tremor beneath her words.

“Can you not,
ma bella
?” he demanded amiably in the tongue she favored. He bowed low, intending only to hide his smile. “My apologies. ’Tis the mark of a man abroad to slip into his mother tongue, without expectation.”

They eyed each other for a long moment, the wind whipping at her curls, hatred chilling her eyes. Oh, she had understood—he had said naught in this rough tongue of the English to prompt such sudden dislike.

“You have yet to tell me your mission in Dublin,” she chided, her smile forced.

Baldassare smiled easily. “I seek a friend, that is what I said. No more than that. It is always welcome to find a friend in a foreign port.”

The lady inhaled sharply before she turned away.

“Perhaps I know this friend,” Ibernia said, the way her voice hardened over the last word most revealing.

“His name is Niccolo.”

Her sidelong glance was cool and composed once more. “ ’Tis not a common name among the Irish.”

“Precisely why I thought you might recall him. He has
the dark hair of the Venetians, which must be uncommon as well.”

“There are many dark-haired Irish.”

“But not with skin of golden hue.” He smiled when Ibernia looked his way.
“Do
you know him?”

She shook her head quickly, too quickly. “I know of no man named Niccolo in Dublin. Perhaps you seek him in the wrong place.”

Baldassare was undeterred. This lady’s response hinted that he was close, very close, to his prey. “Perhaps he changed his name.”

“Why would your friend do such a thing?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps he wished to fit in among the local folk with less commentary. Perhaps his new neighbors could not say his name as he preferred. Perhaps his wife did not care for it.” He paused. “Perhaps his child could not pronounce it.”

Ibernia’s sidelong glance was hasty. “You know that he is married and has a child?”

Baldassare smiled. “Nay, I merely speculate upon the child.”

Ibernia shook her head again. “A man of your coloring would not go unnoted in Dublin. I should know of him—he must not be there.”

She turned a steely gaze upon him, as if she would will him away from the port by her own determination alone. The look alone nigh stole Baldassare’s breath away. Her expression was strangely reminiscent of the way a certain man had looked when he had struck the killing blow.

She was
kin
with Niccolo!

“You would be better served to seek your friend elsewhere,” she said crisply.

“Do you know all the men of Dublin so well as that,
ma bella
?” Baldassare teased, to cover his own surprise.

She had the grace to blush. “ ’Tis not a large burg.”

“And you are not there now. How long have you been gone from that port?”

The lady clamped her lips together and looked out to sea. “Not so long as that.”

“But long enough that a ship could arrive and a man could take up his abode in the town without your awareness of him.”

Ibernia’s lips thinned. She nodded barely and with obvious reluctance. Every line of her figure was tight with disapproval and anxiety—aye, Niccolo had been there when Ibernia left.

Played skillfully, she would lead Baldassare directly where he wanted to go.

“You have yet to tell me of your abode,” he prompted.

She flashed a glance his way, then veiled her alarm. “ ’Tis not pertinent,” she argued.

“Perhaps you could grant me accommodations,” he suggested, noting her terror even though it was quickly veiled. Baldassare captured her hand and lifted it to his lips, watching her as he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Perhaps I seek only the gift of seeing your smile again.”