Claire Delacroix (130 page)

“I can manage this,” she insisted, not wanting to be more of a burden than she already was. Bronwyn moved her arms in mimicry of his movements, and Rowan released her with a nod.

Bronwyn had a moment to gasp in alarm before she sank like a stone. Rowan dove after her, his arm locking around her waist with resolve as he hauled her again to the surface.

“You cannot swim,” he declared through gritted teeth.

“I could not know until I tried,” she answered, trying to lighten the mood. Rowan flicked a glance her way and she smiled. “Thank you.”

Rowan averted his gaze quickly, though it might only have been because of more pressing matters at hand. He moved through the water with surety and an elegance she envied, then hauled her to an outcropping of rock.

“Hold on here,” he instructed, and Bronwyn gripped the stone. It was a rocky tip of the shoal that had claimed the ship. Through the mist of the rain, she saw others clinging to rock as they could, a few heads in the distance, and—praise be!—many standing upon a shore that was not too distant. Bronwyn nearly wept in her relief.

Bronwyn looked over her shoulder, her heart clenching at the ship’s masts protruding from the sea. They were at a hard angle, the rest of the ship already hidden by the waves. She shivered at their close escape, not wanting to think about those who had not been so fortunate. She caught her breath when she realized Rowan had slipped away from her.

“Fool horse,” he muttered, his brow dark. “Rest here a moment. The tide will not change so fast as that.”

He swam with powerful strokes, cutting through the water, his chemise clinging to his muscles. Bronwyn looked beyond him to spy a pair of steeds, resolutely swimming in the wrong direction.

“Troubador!” Rowan shouted.

The destrier started, then swam on with increasing speed, the palfrey fast behind. Bronwyn knew enough of horses to see that the steed was terrified.

Which meant he would heed naught.

Rowan muttered something foul that even Bronwyn could hear, and she bit her finger as he ventured out farther in his steed’s wake. “You fool creature!” he roared. “Are you so witless than you cannot even smell the shore?”

He swam after the horses with determination, though Bronwyn was dismayed by how far he went. Rowan plowed through the water and managed to seize the rein that trailed behind the horse. He gave it a tug.

“That way, you mad beast!” He tried to direct the steed back toward the shore.

The palfrey broke ranks with the larger stallion, her nose rising as she turned shoreward. Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief that the horse had forgotten her fear long enough to smell the lush grass of Ireland.

But the destrier fought the bit and shied in the opposite direction. Knight and steed both slipped lower in the water as Bronwyn watched and chewed her lip in fear. The stallion began to swim in a broad arc, clearly a horse determined to swim until he could no more.

The horse would continue until he was so exhausted that he faltered and drowned, Bronwyn could see the truth. Indeed, if the destrier kept that course, that sinking would be inevitable.

The stallion whinnied indignation when he realized that the palfrey had left his side. That steed folded her ears back and swam steadily for the shore.

“That way!” Rowan bellowed in frustration, his voice fading slightly.

The destrier seemed oblivious to him, and, indeed, moved away from his voice as if frightened by the sound. Rowan
swam after the beast when the rein pulled from his grip, but his strokes grew less powerful. Bronwyn straightened, knowing with sudden certainty that the knight swam too far.

He must be tiring. Rowan could not be lost trying to save a steed! Not after all he had done this day.

“Rowan!” she cried, her fingers clenching together. He turned, clearly alarmed by her cry, and a wave crashed right over his head.

She screamed his name as he disappeared from eyesight. The destrier redoubled his speed in the opposite direction. Bronwyn clung to the rock, though she could not leave this spot until she knew.

’Twas an eternity before Rowan broke the surface again, more pale than before. He shook out his hair, checked that she still was safe upon the rock, then looked after the steed. She could see his arms moving beneath the surface as he stared after the stubborn if misguided horse. When the knight turned back in her direction, his expression was grim.

He swam back to her, every stroke that brought him closer reassuring Bronwyn. She would not consider why she was worried for him. ’Twould just be the injustice of his not surviving a noble deed, no more than that. Though injustice could not have explained the relief that flooded through Bronwyn when Rowan’s hand landed heavily on the rock beside her.

His expression was strained, and it was some commentary on his state that he accepted her aid in climbing on to the rock.

“Fool beast,” he muttered, turning to stare after the creature again. He breathed so heavily that Bronwyn thought he must be exhausted beyond all.

“I thought you might not have the strength to swim back,” she confessed without any intention of doing so.

Rowan looked at her quickly, his expression uncharacteristically
serious. Then he winked merrily. “Ah, but you owe me a tale.”

“What?” she demanded, incredulous at his manner.

“This morn we agreed to an exchange. I have yet to hear the tale that you promised to me.”

“I am surprised you recall as much, after all of this,” Bronwyn said crisply, and turned away. How could he make a jest at such a time as this?

“Oh, I may be a faithless wretch,” Rowan countered cheerfully, “but I am not a man to miss out on a story I am due.”

Bronwyn looked up in surprise. He grinned so broadly that she nearly smiled in turn. His hair clung to his brow, all dark and disorderly, and his skin was still pale.

There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes, though, and she was very glad to be by his side. Rowan was vibrantly alive, and she saw that he savored every challenge his life had cast his way. Naught seemed to halt his course and she found herself admiring him.

Something must have shown in her expression, for Rowan eyed her intently. The twinkle in his eyes faded to something that made Bronwyn’s mouth go dry.

“I owe you thanks,” she admitted softly. “I should never have survived without your aid.”

Rowan shrugged as if he had done naught. “It seemed only fitting,” he said lightly, “since so many others lived because of your aid.” He flicked a playful finger across her chin and winked. “Incomparable.”

Bronwyn did not know what to say to that. She felt her cheeks heat beneath Rowan’s steady regard, then he studied the distance to the shore.

“We should hasten ourselves before we both are swept away.”

Then Bronwyn recalled the blow he had taken. “Is the cut deep on your leg?”

Rowan shrugged. “It seems well enough. If naught else, the salt-water will have completely cleared the wound.” He made a grimace that was too fierce by half, and Bronwyn laughed, though she knew that was why he had done it. “I shall live to seek my pleasure on another day,
ma demoiselle.
Now, come along, before you grow chilled.”

There was naught to argue with in that.

The outcropping was a long shoal wrought of sand. The fact that it disappeared quickly beneath the waves was what had caused the ship’s misfortune. From the location of the wreck and beyond, the shoal was hidden beneath the turbulent sea, but to the left, its arc could be clearly seen. It proved to be increasingly shallow, the other survivors having walked its length back to the shore.

They made their way toward the shore in silence, Bronwyn puzzling whether Rowan’s concern was protective or merely polite. His salute left a warm glow in her belly that was not unwelcome, though she knew that Rowan sought naught from her beyond the victory her hand could give him.

She knew more than enough of Rowan de Montvieux’s expectations and dreams, did she not? He had told her the truth. He might well be more nobly inclined than he cared to admit, he might hold emotion in greater esteem than he acknowledged, but his view of wedlock was abundantly clear. Aye, she was not the bride for him.

Even if the conclusion did hang on her heart like a leaden weight.

The rain, now gentled, fell on the unfamiliar beach, low cliffs adorned with verdant grass rising beyond. The air was sweet and warm, more strongly so with every step. Bronwyn was close to home and glad to be so.

But her jubilation was not matched by her companion’s mood. Nay, Bronwyn did not miss the way Rowan periodically glanced back, frowning at the bobbing head of his destrier swimming determinedly for England’s far shores.

“Do you think he has turned?” he asked finally, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps he will follow the palfrey this time.”

Bronwyn did not even trouble to look. Willful destriers—like knights—did not change their ways so readily as that. She took Rowan’s hand silently and led him toward the shore, his sigh telling her that he knew the beast was lost. The palfrey had vanished into the distance and one could only hope she reached shore.

Bronwyn thought it a poor time to remind Rowan that ’twas his desire to live a life unfettered.

There were about forty survivors upon the shore, most of whom were exhausted by their most recent ordeal and weakened by their incarceration. Bronwyn could not fathom a guess as to how many had not made it to safety, though the grim expressions on many faces were eloquent. Bronwyn and Rowan were the last to reach the shore, and she noted disappointment on more than one face that no more followed.

For a man who did not welcome responsibility, Rowan had a natural tendency to lead. Every soul on that beach turned to him, and Bronwyn watched, marvelling, as he coaxed smiles from even the most despondent among them. Only one or two seamen had survived, and they had been quick to separate themselves from the others and disappear.

Clearly many of the slaves believed they owed their lives to Rowan, but the knight shrugged off their expressions of gratitude, giving credit instead to Bronwyn. He made a circuit of the survivors, coaxing smiles while he ensured that
none were sorely wounded. ’Twas equally clear that he did not intend to abandon these people to whatever fate might find them.

Rowan only glanced once to the horizon as he strode back to Bronwyn, and she could not keep her unruly heart from skipping when his gaze locked with hers. He smiled that slow smile and her blood heated, though she dropped her gaze when he came to a halt beside her. His words fell low between them and it took Bronwyn a moment to realize that he sought her council.

“No one here is injured,” he commented with a thoughtful frown. “Though they are tired and hungry. Do you think there is a village nearby?”

“I do not know where we are.” Bronwyn scanned the length of the beach, the distance obscured by the misty rain. She raised her gaze to the hills that she could just glimpse rising high to the west and wondered if they were the Wicklow Mountains.

And if so, how far along that range’s length they found themselves. “Though I assume we are to the south of Dublin yet. I smell no peat fire and see no easy course to where there might be a road above.”

“In this weather, ’twould be tricky to climb.”

“It could be a long walk to any sort of dwelling,” Bronwyn supplied. “This coast bore the brunt of Strongbow’s attack—though many died, many others simply left.”

“Your family?”

She smiled thinly. “Live beyond Dublin and have too many powerful connections throughout Christendom to have been targeted for attack.” She arched a brow. “We merchants are useful subjects.”

Rowan considered her for a long moment, then glanced over the survivors. Most had huddled in the lee of the cliff
and were for the better part out of the rain. Thomas had slumped against the shallow cliff, his eyes barely open, and Marika dozed beyond him.

“ ’Tis not cold. I suppose ’twould hurt little to remain here for one night.”

Bronwyn could only agree with him. This party had not the strength to go far, and at least here, they were out of the better part of the downpour.

“I think ’tis the best course. Even if the rain does not cease, all will be stronger on the morrow.”

“Even you?” Rowan teased.

Bronwyn slanted a glance his way. “And what is that to mean?”

“I am not accustomed to you being so biddable,” he declared with a wicked wink. “It must be a sign of exhaustion.”

Bronwyn propped her hands on her hips. “As I recall, you were the one so intent on arguing! You were the one who called me witless.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I was to congratulate you on the splendid good sense of killing the captain? You are fortunate, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal, nigh as lucky as I have been in all my days and nights, for the sinking of the
Angelica
has hidden your deed for all time.”

The bile rose in Bronwyn’s throat along with recollection of what she had done. “You know the truth of it,” she acknowledged, needing some reassurance from him of his intent.

His sidelong glance was quick. “And you think I will use this against you?”