Claire Delacroix (126 page)

Ibernia squeezed his hand and saw an opportunity to present her defense of love. “Because she loved you?”

Rowan snorted. “Nay! Margaux merely recognized that she could not reform Gavin, that that cause was lost. She thought to shape a child to her own ends.”

Ibernia was not fooled by his dismissiveness. Rowan was grateful to this woman and there was affection lurking in his tone when he spoke of her. Margaux might have been uncompromising and unyielding, but he appreciated what she had done for him.

Regardless of how he might pretend otherwise. Aye, Ibernia was learning to read this man, who was not nearly so indifferent to emotional ties as he would have all believe.

“And I would guess that you took pleasure in defying her expectation?” she asked with a smile.

Rowan grinned outright. “It was too tempting by half! Indeed, there was no risk in disappointing her, for she had already a perfect son and heir. Burke was a golden boy, he could do naught amiss, and Margaux clearly had ambitions for him.” He shrugged as if indifferent. “She did not need me. Perhaps it was a greater gift to live among those who are open about their selfishness than to be caught in an illusion that the world is otherwise.”

He frowned and looked away, but Ibernia nestled closer. She plucked the ring from his restless grasp and pushed it on to the smallest finger of his left hand.

“ ’Tis the only token you have of your mother,” she
chided. “You should wear it as a reminder of her love for you.” She let him think about the matter, settling against his shoulder again. “Just as Margaux loved you in her turn, regardless of what she said of the matter.”

Rowan looked alarmed. “I should think not!”

“Why else would she keep you and clothe you, feed you and educate you? Rowan, use your wits! Someone paid for you to earn your spurs, for that fine destrier, someone ensured that you should have coin in your purse. Obligation does not open a purse with such vigor. She loves you, else she would desire something in exchange for her largesse.”

Rowan grimaced. “Well, you are wrong in that, for Margaux’s gifts are
not
without their price. She has called an accounting.”

“What do you mean?”

He flicked a heavy glance her way. “I am to be disinherited by the Yule if I do not follow her bidding.”

“Aye?” Ibernia propped herself up on her elbow to watch him. “What would she have of you?”

“A bride.” Rowan winced. “I must return to Montvieux with a bride, one that my half brothers have decreed should be the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland.”

“Half brothers?”

“Aye, I have two: Burke, the son of my foster mother Margaux and my own father; and Luc, the son of my father and his first wife. ’Tis Burke, though, I know best, Burke with whom I have matched dares all my life.”

“And they together have dared you to find this bride?”

“Aye. They think I cannot do it.” He grinned impishly. “And I, I was fool enough to accept their dare, if only because it seems so hopeless. It makes the matter rather more interesting than it might be otherwise.”

Ibernia could not believe that he sought a bride for no more than that woman’s dowry, even though he had said as
much before. How like Rowan, she now perceived, to hide his emotions behind insouciance.

On this day, she wanted the truth between them.

“So you would bind yourself to a woman for the rest of your days, solely on the weight of her father’s purse?” she scoffed, hearing her hope that conclusion would be denied.

But Rowan laughed. “ ’Tis a good sensible foundation for my match.” He winked and she could not glimpse any seriousness in his manner. “Ah, you should see how I can dispense with coin when in a feckless mood!”

Ibernia straightened, dismayed by his manner. “I have already seen you cast coin to the winds with unholy abandon,” she retorted, hearing her father in her words. “What will be left of your marriage when the coin is gone?”

Rowan grinned. “But that is why she must be
incomparably
wealthy—to ensure that the coin is never gone.”

The use of that particular word, the one he had so recently used to compliment her, annoyed Ibernia to no end. He could not know who she was, he could not know the weight of her father’s purse. He could not have tricked her.

Could he?

“Why would this heiress have you, if you have no other desire than to spend her inheritance?” she demanded, feeling suddenly cold. “An heiress oft has a measure of intellect.”

Rowan smiled slowly, his hand sliding over Ibernia’s flesh, clicking his tongue as he chided her. “I do possess some charm, Ibernia. The lady will not lack for pleasure in exchange.” He bent to kiss her, but she evaded him.

Ibernia sat up hastily, not liking the glint of humor in his eyes. Surely this could not be all a game to him? “This then is the wager you would make for marriage? Pleasure for coin? ’Tis a bargain for whores, or courtesans!”

Rowan laughed merrily. “I suppose ’tis, but the wrong
way around.” He pursed his lips. “Do you think my bride will keep me as pampered as a prized courtesan? ’Twould not be a bad way to live out one’s days. And truly, I am not a man enamoured of obligations and responsibilities. ’Tis better to live unfettered, in my estimation, as those entertainers did.”

Rowan leaned back against the wall, folding his arms behind his head and looking supremely male. “Aye, that is the way a man should live. Do you think my heiress bride will be persuaded to indulge me in exchange for savoring my charms?”

Ibernia stared at him, incredulous that she could have misunderstood him so much as this. “But what of love?”

Rowan shook his head, as if she was dimwitted child. “Love is not to be relied upon, Ibernia.”

“Of course it is!”

“Nay, it is not.” There was naught in his eyes but total conviction, a conviction that chilled Ibernia to her marrow. “Love is fleeting, at best, and an empty claim, at worst. A claim of love is too oft used a tool to win an end to have any merit at all. Everyone sees to their own advantage alone—why should I not do the same?”

There was disappointment in his voice that Ibernia did not miss. “You must have known love at some point in your life.”

“Who is to say? ’Tis not a claim that can be validated—and truly, in my experience, all who swear to it want something in exchange.”

Ibernia’s heart chilled. Surely he did not count himself among their number? “But your mother …”

Rowan’s lips thinned. “Felt some obligation to ensure I did not die in her wake, no more than that. Perhaps she wished to have vengeance for my father’s deeds. It does not matter in the end.” He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming.
“Come back beside me. Let us make the pallet groan again.”

But Ibernia was immune to any such temptation, as she might not have been just moments past. She pushed from the pallet and hastily got to her feet, anxious to put distance between them. She donned the chemise he had granted her and glanced back at him, savoring the surprise in his eyes.

Her father had always said that what was bred in the bone would come out in the flesh. Here indeed was Ibernia’s proof of that. She had been charmed by this knave, as no doubt had countless others before her. Trust the son of a mercenary to see a pledge of love as a means to an end!

What was troubling was that she held the prize that this son of a mercenary wanted for his own. Was that why he bedded her? Was that why he sought to please her?

Oh, she had been such a fool!

“ ’Tis too early to rise.” Rowan patted the edge of the pallet. “Come back and be warm.”

“Nay. I would rather be cold than lie entangled with the likes of your father’s son.”

Rowan sat up hastily. “What is that to mean?”

“You would wed a woman for her legacy alone, as if she were naught more than a warm body beneath you when you so choose! What of what
she
desires of a match?”

Rowan folded his arms across his chest. “I should see her pleased. I should see her indulged!”

“With her own coin.” Ibernia heard her voice rise. “How romantic!”

His eyes flashed. “Romance is of no merit in this!”

“Clearly not!” Ibernia leaned closer, her fury bubbling to the fore. “Is it not the precise kind of match this Margaux made with your father?”

“I am not like him!” Rowan roared and bounded to his feet. “He is a ruthless scoundrel!”

“You are
precisely
like him, ’tis more than clear! You see only how matters can be wrought to your own advantage and care for naught else!”

“You know naught of what you speak!”

“I know that no woman should have to endure a match made for convenience alone, a match devoid of love, a match arranged to forge dynasties.” Ibernia’s words flowed low and hot. “I believe this in every fibre of my being, ’tis what brings me here to this circumstance, ’tis what compelled me to flee my father’s home.”

Rowan folded his arms across his chest to survey her. “You fled an arranged match with an older man.”

“A
loveless
match, one that would serve my father and his interests but not mine!” Ibernia stepped closer and lifted her chin in defiance. “My choice was borne of ignorance of what I might face, but even knowing all I do now, I would do it again.”

Rowan gasped, but Ibernia was not done.

“I would do it in a heartbeat to avoid a lifetime in a loveless match.” She glared at him. “I would do it to avoid a man seeking only a fortune, a man who saw a pledge of love as a necessary concession to his own victory, a mercenary just like you.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “ ’Tis fortunate then that I do not seek your hand.”

“ ’Twould be, if that were true.” Ibernia laughed, though the sound was cold and obviously disconcerted the knight before her. “My name is Bronwyn of Ballyroyal,” she declared regally. “And I assure you again that you will never win my hand.”

She might have lingered to savor the shock on his features but Ibernia was too furiously angry with herself. To think she had thought there was tenderness in this man, that they
might have something in common, that she could have been bending to his touch.

Out of the fat and into the fire. Truly she had a gift for such a course! Bronwyn was even more a fool than she had been six months before!

She hauled her kirtle over her head and stalked out of the cabin, not caring for the disarray of her garb and the glances of the busy crew. The sails were snapping overhead, the wind sending waves against the prow, the elements echoing her mood.

A smear of green marked land ahead, birds circled above, their wings silhouetted against the dark rolling clouds that hastened to obscure the sky. She knew a moment’s jubilation that Ireland was so close, for land so green could be nowhere else.

’Twas only when she gripped the rail and lifted her face to the bite of the wind that she realized the magnitude of the error she had made.

She had told Rowan her name. Now he would never release her willingly. Once again, impulse had steered her false.

She spun slowly as horror dawned, only to find a grim-faced Rowan striding across the deck, his burning gaze fixed upon her.

God in heaven, what had she done?

was not often that Rowan was surprised, even less often that he was surprised by a woman. They were cursedly predictable in his experience—especially to one so perceptive as he.

With one notable exception.

That exception stood on the deck, her pose defiant and her eyes flashing, as if she would dare him to question her claim. She knew little about him if she thought he would simply walk away from this!

For she had not only surprised him, she had deceived him. Ibernia had used him for her own ends, and Rowan did not like the revelation.

Not Ibernia. Bronwyn. Her name was
Bronwyn.

He was appalled at what remarkably good sense it all made. She wanted to go home. He wanted to find an Irish heiress. She named herself, challenged him to press his suit, which incidentally ensured that she would be home quickly. When he might have lingered, she goaded him to depart sooner. She insisted that she knew Bronwyn would not have him, challenging him to prove her wrong.

Rowan had never guessed how she could know so well what Bronwyn thought. What a fool he was to fall for such artful trickery! She had addled his wits.

The deck rolled beneath his feet as Rowan strode toward
her. He saw suddenly the ominous clouds gathering quickly overhead, noted the churning shadows of the sea.

Rowan nearly growled. The last thing he needed was a tempestuous sea. He had best deal with Bronwyn first, before illness claimed him again.

The prospect did naught to improve his sour temper. How dare she best him at his own game? Rowan came to a halt before the lady in question, met her rebellious gaze, and felt a wave of admiration so strong it nearly took him to his knees.

She
was
incomparable. At least he had not called that amiss.

Though that was small consolation in this moment.

Rowan glared as well as he was able, but Bronwyn was undaunted. He took a step closer and glowered—she held her ground.