Claire Delacroix (125 page)

She did not trust by half measures, after all.

“I was raised there,” she confessed. “ ’Tis home to me, so only natural that I would return there.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Then how did you find yourself in this fix? You must have been far from Ireland’s shores.”

Ibernia took a deep breath. “I ran away.” She almost smiled. “From an arranged marriage I found unsuitable.”

“And you thought to fare better on your own?” Instead of compassion for her circumstance, Rowan’s eyes flashed in anger. “Truly I thought you had more sense than this!” Rowan shoved a hand through his hair. “Ibernia, you could have been killed!” he declared, giving her shoulders a minute shake. “You could have fared worse than even you have! Look at Marika! You could have shared a similar fate and for what? Because the spouse chosen for you was too fat?”

“Too old,” she corrected mildly, marvelling at his anger with her.

No less her own response to his protectiveness.

But Rowan swore. “Whimsy!” he declared. “What seized your thoughts that you should endanger your very hide for such foolery?” He shook his head, his glare still fixed upon her. “Truly, I thought you were more clever than that!”

Ibernia shrugged, unable to explain that she could ever have been so foolish as she had been. “ ’Tis abundantly clear in hindsight that mine was a sheltered life. As you say, I was fortunate to have fared no worse.” She shrugged as if her experience mattered less than it did. “I knew naught of what I would find and acted like a fool.”

Rowan’s expression softened, the look in his eyes making Ibernia’s heart clench. He bent to brush his lips across her brow, and what little resistance she had melted to naught.

“To be innocent is not the same as to be a fool,” he whispered, his words like balm on a wound.

Ibernia closed her eyes, hating that the weakness of a warm tear slid from beneath her lashes. She felt drawn to this man in a way she had not expected, and she was oddly tempted to confess every vestige of the truth to him.

“I do not have to endure the burden of innocence any longer,” she admitted, meaning to make a jest, but her voice broke over the words.

Rowan drew back slightly, cupping her face in his hands and compelling her to look at him. “Innocence is overrated,” he declared, then smiled slowly. “You are remarkable, a strong and resilient woman unlike any I have ever known before. That is more alluring than innocence or even foolery ever could be.”

Ibernia managed a smile, though her vision clouded with
tears. Again she tried to jest. “And you have known a great many women, so would know the truth of it.”

Rowan grinned and flicked a fingertip across the tip of her nose. “Aye, I have, many of them remarkable indeed.” He sobered then, bending to touch his nose to hers. His golden gaze searched hers, as if he would reassure her of her own worth.

“Do not underrate yourself, Ibernia,” he murmured, his words low and intent. “You are incomparable.”

Ibernia caught her breath. When he regarded her with that admiration in his gaze, that teasing curve upon his firm lips, a glint of seriousness in his manner, she could have easily surrendered her heart. She could have been the only woman in all of Christendom, the only one worthy of his attention, the only one to whose charms he would ever fall prey.

Her heart skipped a beat as she wondered whether he had called any others
incomparable.
She had to know, and she had to know immediately.

Rowan bent to kiss her, but Ibernia halted him with one hand on his chest. He met her gaze, his own filled with a question.

“Tell me of the woman whose ring you carry,” she urged, hating her breathlessness. “Was she incomparable?”

Rowan stiffened, he caught his breath. He looked as if he would evade her question, then he glanced down to her eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Of course!” She responded lightly, pretending his answer did not matter overmuch to her, but Rowan studied her for a long silent moment. Ibernia did not know what he saw, but that slow smile curved his lips once more, as if his uncertainty was allayed.

“Then I shall make you a wager,
ma demoiselle.
”

She held his gaze, well prepared to meet any challenge he offered and not caring if he knew. “What is that?”

He winked. “Tell me a tale and I shall tell you one in exchange.”

“Your tale will be of the ring.”

Rowan inclined his head in agreement. “And yours will be of your journey to slavery.”

Ibernia exhaled and might have looked away, but Rowan caught her chin in gentle ringers. The ship rocked slightly, the wood groaning as the wind rose, but there was naught in her world beyond the steady gleam of this knight’s eyes.

“All of it,” he insisted grimly, apparently sensing her impulse to decline. “And I shall tell my tale first to show you that you will not lose in this bargain.”

Ibernia nodded, wanting to know more of this ring he treasured yet at the same time uncertain she wanted to know details of the woman who so captured his heart.

Aye, her wits were addled this morn!

Rowan rolled to his back abruptly, carrying Ibernia with him, and she ended up nestled against his side. He settled back and stared at the ceiling. Ibernia propped herself upon his chest, intent upon watching his expression change, for clearly this tale would not be an easy one for him.

Though his tone was light when he began.

“Once upon a time, long ago and far away, there was a man who lived in a fine castle. He had a wife and a son and wealth incomparable, but he was the manner of man who wanted all he saw. He made his trade as a mercenary, fighting for a share of the spoil, and had been successful enough over the years that he owned estates throughout Christendom. His wife was noble, his son was handsome, but this man wanted only more.

“Perhaps it was because he was universally loathed that no amount of treasure would suffice. At any rate, his temperament
was perfect for his chosen profession—his loyalty could be bought, his temper was ferocious, his manners were appalling, and he spared no concession for morality or ethics.”

He spared her a significant glance. “He was said to never laugh, which tells you as much of the man as anything else.”

Ibernia shook her head in mock severity, relieved that this story seemed less emotional than she had feared. “A true barbarian.”

“Indeed.” Rowan frowned, his fingers beating a staccato against Ibernia’s hip. “One day, a travelling troupe of entertainers came to the gates of his castle. A tragic miscalculation on their part, for none within those gates would spare hard coin to be entertained, but they had no way of knowing as much.

“There is no doubt in my mind that this mercenary intended to cheat them, to have his pleasure of them and send them on their way without a denier, but they were not so guileless that they did not take such possibilities into account. Truly, there is always an element of risk in what they do.”

Clearly he felt an affinity with these entertainers. “What manner of entertainers were they?”

Rowan smiled as if he had found a fond memory. “Ah, an old troupe with all the usual array of skills. There were musicians and singers, acrobats and conjurers, a storyteller and a jester. They entertained at weddings and festivals, they were quick and merry and very funny. Their garb was in a thousand colors, oft wrought of luxurious scraps sewn together.

“They were mad, of course, eccentrics all, but embued with a joy of life that could not be contained. They owned naught and they owed naught, they lived beneath the sky and
saw the wonders of the world as they labored. They danced and sang, even when there was none to pay for watching. They were happy, in their own ways.”

Rowan sobered. “Among them was a woman, a dancer so lithe and beauteous, so winsome that every lord’s heart was captured with a glance. Her hair was the color of a flame and it hung to her knees, moving with a grace all its own. She loved to dance as much as she loved life itself. She was gifted, there was no doubt of that, for she danced with the seductive grace of the East.

“Yet remarkably, she was a chaste woman, a clever woman, a woman determined to wed well despite the odds.” A smile touched his lips again. “They said she was a dreamer, a romantic and a fool, but she knew she was destined to be loved. She clung to the possibility that a man would sweep her away from the life she led and make her his wife.”

Far overhead, the crew shouted and Ibernia heard the heavy flap of the sails being unfurled to this new wind. She heard the cry of birds and guessed that they were close to some shore. The ship rocked again, then steadied its course.

She could not, would not think of what this particular woman meant to the knight beside her.

Rowan grimaced. “Of course, men do not think the same way as women. A man confronted with a beautiful woman dancing with sensual abandon knows he has found a whore. The dancer was always beset by offers, and the troupe, being protective as such groups often are, had learned to defend her chastity from her many admirers.”

Was the seduction of this woman a challenge Rowan had lost? ’Twould ensure he recalled the woman, of that Ibernia had no doubt, though she found the possibility of him dreaming of another most troubling.

Which made no sense at all.

“The mercenary was captivated by her.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed and he glanced away, his voice strained when he continued. “I do not know how it happened, indeed, I am not certain I desire to know how it happened, but he of all men consummated his desire.”

Ibernia caught her breath. “He raped her.”

“I do not know. It would not have been surprising if he had, for he was one concerned only with his own desires.” Rowan’s darkened gaze locked with hers. “But when the troupe left that castle, they fled while the mercenary slept. The mercenary’s wife was said to have orchestrated their departure, ensuring that they had no time to take even what few belongings they had. Nine months later, the dancer bore a son.”

Rowan gritted his teeth, clearly fighting for control of his emotions. Had this woman been his lover later? Had Rowan healed her fear as he had healed Ibernia’s?

He flicked a glance to her and their gazes held. “Four years later, the dancer died of an ague, her dream of marriage unfulfilled. Others in the troupe said that she had died of a broken heart, for her pregnancy had ensured that no man treated her with any courtesy again. I do not know, for I barely recall her.”

Ibernia frowned in incomprehension but had no chance to ask before Rowan hastened on, his words embittered.

“What I do recall is that the troupe decided that the boy could not remain among them without his mother. Perhaps they did not know how to care for a child. Perhaps they could not bear a reminder of the dancer in their midst. Perhaps the boy was right in believing their earlier affection for him had been a lie.

“It matters little. In the end, they deposited him outside the gates of that castle where he had been spawned, for they knew the mercenary was the child’s father. They left him
alone outside the gates, a child of four summers. He faced the most merciless man in all of Christendom, aimed only with a golden ring that the mercenary had entrusted to the dancer and the flaming red hair upon his head that so resembled his mother’s own.”

“You,” Ibernia breathed in sudden understanding, her gaze flicking to the auburn hue of the knight’s hair. Aye, red hair oft darkened thus over the years, she had seen it many times.

Rowan shrugged as if untroubled, but the shadows clung to his eyes. “Me.” He pulled his purse free of his discarded chausses and Ibernia had the definite sense that he was avoiding her gaze. He shook out the contents and picked up the tiny ring, turning it so that the gold caught the light.

When he continued, his voice was low. “Then I learned the lie that is called love, and ’tis a lesson I have never forgotten. The myth of love is used by others for their own convenience, and those who profess to it merely leave themselves open to exploitation.”

The silence hung between them. Ibernia did not know what to say, for though she did not agree, she doubted he would listen to her counsel. The pain in Rowan’s eyes startled her, the depth with which he felt this wound made her want to console him in turn.

How could she have imagined, even for a moment, that Rowan cared for naught? This rejection was as a fresh wound to him and evidently its bite was deep.

Rowan cleared his throat. “As you might imagine, the mercenary was disinclined to acknowledge the child—’twould only have been to his detriment, to be sure. But his wife was another matter. As fierce as a peregrine left hungered is Margaux de Montvieux. She demanded an accounting of her spouse, she demanded the truth about the ring, and even he did not have the fortitude to deny her.”

Rowan shook his head. “And then she cast him out.”

Ibernia leaned on his chest, entangling her fingers with his own. “What of you?”

“She raised me as her own, after dispatching her husband for his faithlessness.” He swallowed, turning the ring restlessly in his fingers. “I shall never forget it. She chose me over him.”