Claire Delacroix (121 page)

The lady pulled her hand from his grip and looked away. “ ’Twould be inappropriate. My husband would not approve.”

Aye, she did not like the thought of him being near.

Baldassare shrugged easily, though he sensed he was finally close to victory. “Ah, well, I shall find other accommodation.”

“Surely you do not intend to linger in Dublin?”

“I see no harm in spending a few days seeking this friend of mine. After all, we have come so far—’twould be a shame to miss encountering him again.” He smiled. “Perhaps a week in Dublin should see my goal achieved.”

Ibernia looked at him with such shock that Baldassare nearly rubbed his hands with glee. Anger began to simmer in her gaze.

Better and better. She sought to protect Niccolo by urging Baldassare away, but he was not so easily swayed as that. He bowed again and excused himself, having no doubt that he left the lady with much to consider.

Aye, she would flee to warn Niccolo of Baldassare’s arrival, of that the captain had no doubt, perhaps as soon as they touched the shore in Dublin. He would follow her, of course, to settle a debt that had festered overlong.

Niccolo would finally pay for his treachery.

Ibernia feared she would be ill. She hung on to the rail and stared into the distance, desperately wishing she knew how long it might take to arrive in Dublin.

’Twas daunting even to consider an attempt to outwit Baldassare di Vilonte. The man toyed with her, as a cat did with a mouse, and she was not entirely certain he had not read her thoughts. He had a streak of cruelty that could not be ignored.

But yet, Ibernia could not do
naught
when a life so precious to her hung in the balance. How quickly could she make her way home? Could she evade Rowan? ’Twould mean breaking her word, but she did not have a year and a day to wait! She would have to steal a steed, perhaps she would take Thomas’s palfrey. If naught else, she could return the beast later. Somehow.

What was critical was that she return home with even more haste than she had expected. For home was where the man who had once been Niccolo the Falcon believed himself to be safe.

Her father was wrong.

He was not safe, not in the least, and against every assurance he had ever granted her mother, his past returned to claim its due.

Ibernia had to warn her father.

She stared out to sea, her gaze tracing the distant silhouette of land even as she strove to recognize some curve of the coast. ’Twas impossible, though, and she could not gauge their distance from Dublin. She wanted to pace the decks in frustration, she wanted to shout, but she dared not give any hint to the watchful Baldassare that his words reminded her of an old tale.

Ibernia considered briefly the idea of confessing all to Rowan, for that would surely win his quick wits to her dilemma at least. It might be of aid to have a knight like Rowan by her side, instead of facing adversity alone.

What addled her wits? Rowan would not take her cause to his heart! He would certainly not risk his life to see Baldassare thwarted in this. Nay, Rowan was a man who valued lovemaking and pleasure, not a warrior intent on setting matters to rights.

Rowan would ensure his own ends, no more than that If there was any chance that Bronwyn of Ballyroyal could not be his bride, or if he discovered that Bronwyn was not the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland, or if the truth itself came to light, Rowan would be gone in the blink of an eye. He had impressed upon Ibernia that he would not lose this wager with his brothers, not at any cost. If she relied too much upon him, his inevitable departure could prove most inopportune.

It would be better to not rely upon him at all. Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and hugged the truth to herself. She stared out to sea, chilled to the bone, and wondered how quickly she would be able to flee home.

’Twas then she realized that fleeing home was precisely
what Baldassare expected her to do. After all, he
knew
she had understood him. If she raced to warn her father, he would simply follow her.

Ibernia gripped the rail, her knees suddenly weak. She could prove to be the link that provided her father’s destruction. Nay! It could not be thus! But she had to return home, for she had no other means of earning her keep.

Except upon her back. Her lips tightened. She knew that starving in the streets of Dublin was no guarantee that Baldassare would not find her father anyway.

And kill him.

Ibernia’s throat tightened. She had to do
something.

She must not lead Baldassare home. That was what he expected, that was what he waited for. If Ibernia could not warn her father, there must be another solution that would save his life. Her mother had always said that a woman with wits about her could find the key to the riddle.

What if Baldassare could not follow her?

What if Baldassare met with an
accident
?

The possibility of violence falling from her own hand nigh stopped her heart. Ibernia closed her eyes and forced herself to think of her kind-hearted father, a man who had wanted naught but to step away from the shadow of his past. She thought of her gentle mother, the woman who glowed in that man’s presence. She thought of the home those two had made, the happiness they had found in each other, the love they shared.

And she deliberately thought of Baldassare di Vilonte stealing it all away. She could not let him do that. She
would
not let this mercenary captain steal so much away from the two people she loved most in the world.

Not at any cost. Yet as long as he was alive, ’twas clear that was what Baldassare intended to do. Ibernia knew that
her father would not return to Venice willingly; he had sworn as much long ago.

Which left only one choice.

Ibernia wondered what had happened to the wickedly sharp blade that had been granted her for the cutting of the wool. She had not seen it when Marika finished the kirtle.

Indeed, she had not seen it since the day before.

“Do not tell me that you are falling ill now,” Rowan teased as he leaned on the rail beside Ibernia. Though her new kirtle favored her wondrously, she was deathly pale and her hands were knotted upon the rail so tightly that the knuckles shone white.

“I am fine,” she declared, and made to brush past him.

Rowan caught her arm in his hand, keeping her from walking away, and frowned at the chill of her skin. “You shall fall ill if you remain so cold for long,” he chided, and shed his cloak. He cast it about her shoulders, noting that she seemed uncommonly distracted.

And not by him. This was not precisely how a man hoped to meet a woman after they had loved with such passion. Aye, she ought to be recalling all they had done and be anxious to return to their cabin!

But Ibernia frowned and stared across the sea, apparently oblivious to Rowan’s presence.

He touched a fingertip beneath her chin, compelling her to glance his way. “Are you ill?”

“Nay.”

“Chilled?”

“No longer.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Thank you.”

Her gaze slid away from him once more. She nibbled her lip, evidently disinterested in his presence once more.

’Twas irksome how readily she could dismiss him, and even more irksome that he had been able to think of naught but her while they were apart. That she was spared the answering affliction did little to please the knight.

Rowan eased closer and redoubled his charm. “Does the kirtle please you? To my eye, it favors your coloring wondrously.” He bent and brushed his lips across her temple. He ran a fingertip down the side of her neck, frowning as he paused beside the chafe mark. “If you had a suitable chemise, ’twould hide this blemish. Does it still trouble you?”

“Nay.” Ibernia’s response had all the interest one saved for brushing away a fly. She frowned and drummed her fingers upon the rail, shooting a sudden and very blue glance his way. “Did you take the knife?”

Rowan blinked. “What knife?”

“The one Marika used to cut the cloth.”

“I did not even know there was a knife.” She pursed her lips and Rowan bent to offer a smile. “You are welcome to the use of my dagger, if you have need to cut more cloth.”

“Nay, ’twill not do.” Ibernia’s words were crisp. “It must be the other.”

“Why do you have need of it? Your kirtle is done and my blade is sharp enough for any task you have.”

But Ibernia shook her head impatiently and frowned. What in the name of God was she thinking?

She impaled Rowan suddenly with a glance, her eyes so bright that he thought her feverish. “How long until we reach Dublin?”

Rowan leaned against the rail to consider her, more than puzzled by the change in her manner. “Why?”

“I would simply know how long we are to be at sea.”

He spared her a winning smile. “What reason is there to care?” He lifted a finger to trace the line of her jaw, disappointed when she did not shiver as was her wont. “We have
each other and privacy—perhaps you are only concerned that we spend enough time abed.” He leaned closer, his own thoughts consumed with that very question, and kissed her temple with a gentle persuasiveness that never failed to win results.

To the knight’s surprise, Ibernia stepped abruptly away. She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “Is it so impossible to imagine that I might want to know something that did not concern bedding you?”

Rowan grinned cockily, reassured by her annoyance. “Aye, ’tis.” She rolled her eyes and might have stepped farther away, but he caught her in his arms and trapped her between himself and the rail. ’Twas good to feel her curves against him once more, though she seemed immune to the pleasure Rowan felt.

“Your affection is inappropriately timed.”

“On the contrary, ’tis perfectly timed. Do you think all of these seamen did not fail to note your solitary presence here? Or your lovely curves, so fetchingly displayed in your new garb?”

Rowan gathered her closer, taking satisfaction in ensuring that all aboard the
Angelica
knew this woman to be his own. Her back was against his chest and he folded his arms around her waist, leaning his chin on her shoulder as he followed her gaze across the sea. The curve of Ibernia’s buttocks against him awakened a part of him, and he guessed she knew her effect upon him.

Rowan nuzzled her neck. “Am I alone in seeing that there is no chemise beneath this kirtle and wondering how the wool feels against your bare flesh?”

“Rowan!”

He pulled back to look deliberately into her eyes. “Does it chafe your nipples? If so, ’twould only be chivalrous of me to soothe them with kisses.”

She flushed scarlet, not nearly so unaware of him as she might have had him believe. “Your attention is unwelcome.”

“Indeed? I have no doubt that any one of this crew would be pleased to offer his companionship instead, if you would prefer to be devoid of my company. Perhaps even Baldassare would take leave of his duties to entertain you.”

Ibernia stiffened and stared resolutely out to sea.

“He did come to speak with you,” Rowan guessed, a cold kernel lodging in his gut and tempering his desire. There was that protectiveness again, though, indeed, he had proof aplenty that Ibernia had no need of his protection.

The lady fared well enough on her own, it seemed.

Though that truth was surprisingly annoying.

“Did he trouble you? Did he touch you?”

“He but wanted thanks for his gift.”

Rowan heard the hard edge to his own words. “And how did he have that thanks?”

Ibernia shrugged. “As pretty words, no more than that.”

“That was the end of the matter?”

The lady averted her face. “More or less.”

That was not the end of the matter and Rowan knew it well. He knew equally well that she was not inclined to tell him of it.

“He said something to trouble you,” Rowan guessed, whispering the words into her ear.

Her reply was slightly breathless. “Nay, naught.”

“But you are troubled.”

“Nay, not I.”

Clearly she was not going to confide in him. Though the realization stung, Rowan knew one way to earn another increment of the lady’s trust—not to mention, to win her attention fully. He slipped a hand beneath the cloak she now wore and closed his fingers around the swell of her breast.
Rowan smiled when Ibernia caught her breath, satisfactory proof that he could be irresistible.