Claire Delacroix (124 page)

In her desire to shackle her child to the servitude of her dream.

Nay, that truth would be too cruel, even for Margaux. Gavin dressed quickly, intending only to slip away from a place where he had never been welcome, his curiosity sated. But Margaux’s insistence upon her own failure echoed in his thoughts.

She had confided in him, as he had never known her to confide in another. He felt as if she would compel him to set matters to rights, as if she alone believed he could accomplish anything of merit. As if she still would demand of him the only thing she had ever said that she desired.

An heir for Montvieux.

How like Margaux to keep a reckoning, to remind him of his debt unpaid.

It would have been simple for the man he once had been to turn away. But Gavin was not the man he had been. He had fought all his life to create a fitting legacy for Burke, for the son he had always dreamed of having, only to have Burke decline the gift.

That refusal had shaken Gavin and forced him to reconsider all he had held dear. Now it seemed that he had matters backways ’round, as if he had always chased what in the end had no merit at all.

And abandoned what might have been his greatest treasures.

Gavin lingered when he should have gone, watching the dawn’s fingers creep through the window and paint a rosy hue over his wife’s flesh. It made her look like a girl again, though, indeed, Margaux had never been like other young girls.

There was some truth in her accusation that he had stolen Burke from her.

There was more truth in his reply that she had more than one son.

He had come to Montvieux, finding himself rootless, seeking some purpose, instinctively guessing that his estranged wife might hold the key. And she had indeed offered him a quest to guide his footsteps.

Aye, Gavin would ensure that Margaux did not confront the old bastard in the beyond as a failure, he would give purpose to his own days and make his last goal a noble one.

He would fetch Rowan back to Montvieux.

For Margaux.

His course decided, Gavin turned and left his lady’s chambers for the last time. He would never see her again, he
knew it in his very bones. Though the knowledge saddened him, for once he had no complaints of how they parted.

’Twas probably the sole time he could have said as much about himself and Margaux—and that prompted Gavin to smile as he seldom had within the walls of Chateau Montvieux.

Even the clatter of his steed’s hoofbeats had faded by the time the sun crested the horizon and shone upon Margaux’s lonely prize.

But Gavin Fitzgerald never looked back.

bernia snuggled drowsily against Rowan’s warmth and refused to think of more practical matters. The first pale light of the morning crept into the cabin and made the walls glow a pearly grey. She had been easily distracted from her mission, she supposed, but there was still time to ensure her father’s safety.

After all, while they were at sea, Baldassare could do naught.

The cabin was chilly, but Rowan’s heat was wrapped around her back, his cloak tossed over them both. The pallet was too narrow for two, but after all they had done upon it, Ibernia decided that sleeping should be no challenge at all. They had pleasured each other plenty, and Ibernia admitted to herself that Rowan’s sure touch had eased her consternation.

Rowan’s hand swept over her in a long lazy caress and she smiled without opening her eyes. He kissed her neck, taking his time as he explored the curve of her shoulder.

Truly, Ibernia had never imagined that coupling could be so fine. Trust Rowan to know the truth of it, and teach her of it. Though she would never admit to him that she was impressed. The man needed no reassurance of his own allure.

That he had a considerable measure of allure could not be denied. In fact, a woman could be fooled by Rowan’s light hearted
manner, fooled into believing that this knight held naught within his heart.

But Ibernia had seen his concern for Thomas, his determination to ensure that Baldassare did not take advantage of her, and she had a deep suspicion that Rowan was more honorable than he might have wanted anyone to believe.

She smiled to herself, imagining the look upon this knight’s face if she charged him of honorable intentions.

“It was enough to make one smile, was it not?” the man in question mused.

Ibernia sighed contentment.

A rap on the door and a whisper revealed Thomas’s presence, and Rowan rose, returning to the bed with biscuits. Ibernia surveyed hers critically, not having the heart to tell Rowan what she knew when he devoured his so quickly.

In the end, he ate hers as well.

Then he eased closer, muttered something under his breath. Ibernia felt him reach back and glanced over her shoulder to see him fighting to pull the end of his cloak out from beneath their weight.

“Little did I knew I slept with a thief,” he declared, the twinkle in his eyes mitigating his mock scowl.

“A thief?” Ibernia feigned innocence, though she guessed what he was about. The sleek strength of his buttocks were bare to the cabin’s chill air. She gave the cloak a playful tug, baring his thigh to the cold and cast an admiring glance over him.

“Aye, a thief of the worst order!” he charged. “One guilty of the lowest crime known to man—thievery of
covers
when ’tis cold.” Rowan gave the cloak a tug but Ibernia resolutely hugged it closer around herself.

“But the view is so fine!”

“Teasing wench!” he charged and she giggled.

“ ’Tis wondrously warm,” Ibernia purred, and deliberately
snuggled deeper into the cloth, flicking one corner of the cloak away from his feet and capturing it beneath her own.

Rowan cried foul, his eyes sparkled, then he dove against her just as she had known he would. He tickled her, and Ibernia laughed, managing somehow to keep the cloak wrapped around herself.

Rowan’s eyes lit when he found an opening and Ibernia cried foul in her turn when his cold fingers landed on her bare flesh.

“You are too cold!”

“ ’Tis your own fault.” He chuckled under his breath, his eyes dancing wickedly. “And I shall make you pay.”

Ibernia squealed and tried to retreat. Her move made the gap wider when Rowan made a sudden grab for her. He hooted in victory when he found a ticklish spot beneath her ribs and Ibernia squirmed to no avail.

Then she started to laugh and could not halt, gasping for breath as Rowan tickled her mercilessly. He granted her no quarter, and she laughed until she thought she would burst with it.

Then he tickled her some more, his laughter mingling with own. Their legs tangled together, the forgotten cloak fell down around Ibernia’s waist. Rowan was atop her, his legs holding hers down as she kicked and wriggled.

Finally she arched her back and stretched out her hands. “I surrender!” she cried breathlessly. “Just cease tickling.”

“Ah, but for what price?”

Ibernia squeaked as his fingers found another ticklish spot. “Anything!”

Then he stopped. His hands froze upon her and Ibernia looked up, gasping, to meet the glow in his eyes. Her blood heated at his proximity and suddenly she felt the chill air no
longer. Rowan grinned slowly, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders and bending closer.

“Anything,” he echoed, the way his eyes widened making Ibernia’s heart skip a beat. “Now, there is an offer that cannot be refused.” He dipped his head and kissed her fully, swallowing Ibernia’s sigh of delight.

’Twas only then, when he virtually pinned her to the pallet with the weight of his body, that Ibernia realized she was not afraid. Not in the least. Not of Rowan, not of his obvious ability to overpower her, not of his weight atop her or his strength within her. She should have feared being trapped beneath him, especially after all she had endured beneath other men, but Rowan was different.

He was tender, he was gentle. Ibernia blinked, catching her breath as he nibbled a course toward her ear.

Rowan truly did desire her participation in this moment, and just as he had vowed, it did make the feast they shared much more enticing. He had granted her a wondrous gift, in slaying her fear and simultaneously teaching her of this pleasure. Ibernia studied the russet waves of his hair, raising her hand to tangle within its thickness and liking the look of her fingers in his hair.

She trusted Rowan, as astonishing and unexpected as that was. She wondered whether ’twould truly be so terrible if he did succeed at his bride quest.

The very prospect made her mouth go dry.

“I should have bought a longer cloak in London,” he muttered against her throat. “This one has ever been too short.”

“But ’tis wondrously fine,” Ibernia said absently, her fingers kneading the cloth into pleats as she pondered the root of her unexpected confidence in this man, of all men.

Rowan valued the merit of his pledge, he did what he swore to do, he protected her and savored her. He taught her
of wonders, he made her laugh. Truly, she had never matched wits with a more worthy opponent.

“You should never have found the same quality in London,” she continued with a small smile. “The weaving for sale in that port is shoddy indeed.”

“Indeed?” Rowan kissed her earlobe in that way that turned her bones to butter.

Ibernia gasped and arched her neck, fighting to hold the thread of the conversation—if only to challenge his own belief in the power of his touch. She could feel his smile and knew he deliberately teased her.

“Aye, their cloth is vastly inferior to that of Flanders,” she said breathlessly. “This twill could have come from nowhere else, given its fine weave and rich green hue.”

“Trust the daughter of a cloth merchant to know more of such matters than a mere knight,” Rowan mused, then closed his hand over her breast.

“You are no
mere
knight,” Ibernia protested before she realized what she had done. She gasped, just as Rowan propped himself above her on his elbows.

“Aha!” he declared, his eyes alight. “You
are
the daughter of a cloth merchant. I knew it well!”

Ibernia sputtered but could see no logical means of denying the truth. Instead, she took umbrage in his deceit. “You tricked me!”

“No more than you tricked me.” Rowan settled his weight over her again, grinning as he entwined her fingers with his own. “Your father is a Venetian cloth merchant, is he not?”

Ibernia’s heart hammered. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Grant me some credit, Ibernia!” Rowan rolled his eyes. “You comprehend the dialect and ’tis the most reasonable explanation. And how else would you know so much of
cloth? How else would you be so educated? Truly, I am not so witless as that.”

Nay, he was not. Ibernia stared at him, unable to think of a compelling lie with his length pressed against her. She could feel the hair on his chest against her breasts and her nipples tightened.

“ ’Tis clear enough that you are the victim of some adventure gone awry,” Rowan continued, not a shred of doubt in his tone. “Any fool knows that the loser in a battle against pirates wins only slavery, especially a beauty such as you.”

Ibernia opened her mouth and closed it again, silenced by the confusing rush of pleasure his compliment sent through her.

Rowan’s eyes filled with concern and his voice dropped low. “Was your father injured? Was that why he could not defend you?”

Ibernia swallowed and looked away from the compassion that she knew would loose her tongue. “He was not there,” she admitted, without having any intention of doing so.

Truly, her wits were addled!

Did it matter that Rowan knew her origins? If she trusted him, should they not have honesty between them? Or was her cursed impulsiveness advising her false again?

She could not think the puzzle through, not with his warm fingertips sliding down the length of her throat. Ibernia could fairly feel his gaze upon her; she swore she could hear him delving into her thoughts.

To trust Rowan with her touch was one matter, but could she trust him with her father’s life?

“What I cannot understand”—Rowan continued, his tone conversational and his breath warm against her throat—“is why you would choose to flee to
Ireland.
Surely Venice would be a more reasonable choice? But then, I hear the
training of a convent in your voice—perhaps ’tis in Ireland that you were consigned to the sisters and their education. Is this how you know Bronwyn of Ballyroyal?”

Ibernia glanced to him in alarm. The man was too quick-witted!

Rowan smiled engagingly. “ ’Tis clear you know her, for her name rose quickly to your lips. What harm is there in admitting your friendship? Truly, it aided me that you had such a ready answer.”

Ibernia swallowed. “I know her.”

“Are you friends from afore? ’Twould make sense. Or perhaps you believe your friend would shelter you, now that all has gone awry.” He smiled slightly, his eyes dark as if he were solving a trying riddle. “Is that why you would flee to Ireland? Do you hope to find safety there?”

Ibernia looked to the wall once more, gritted her teeth, and decided her course. She had had enough of lies and was not certain she could find another within her, at any rate.