Claire Delacroix (133 page)

“I am sorry,” Bronwyn whispered.

There was no pity in her manner, nor even any scorn for his weakness. Instead of moving away, as might have been his first choice, Rowan was tempted to linger by her side.

“ ’Twas his own choice,” he said heavily. “There was naught anyone could do when he took a thought into his head. He was cursedly stubborn.”

Bronwyn chuckled under her breath. “ ’Twas not a trait he shared with his master?”

Rowan almost smiled, her words so close an echo to his earlier thoughts. “Aye, I always suspected ’twas no coincidence that he was chosen as a gift for me.”

“Two of a kind.”

He shrugged again. “It seemed that we were matched in temperament at least.”

“And well accustomed to each other.”

“Aye.”

Bronwyn held his gaze and Rowan knew ’twould be a question of import that fell from her lips. “Did you love him?”

Rowan would have preferred to deny such an emotion, but he did not have the resolve within him to lie to her. Not here, not now. His gaze trailed to the empty sea, before meeting hers once more.

“I suppose I did,” he admitted softly. “But then, there was naught at stake between us, naught one could win from the other. There was no declaration that might have been a lie, no need for such a pledge. We simply were together.”

Rowan stared out over the sea for a long moment, mustering his ability to grin with insouciance before he turned. When he thought he could manage the deed, he did turn, though the smile felt unwelcome on his lips.

And Bronwyn’s steady gaze saw too much.

Rowan propped one hand on his hip and made a jest before she could read too much into his concession. “I suppose
such whimsy is worthy only of mockery.” He spread his hands, inviting her to make a jest at his expense.

But Bronwyn stepped closer and framed his face in her hands. She smiled when he looked down at her in surprise, the glow of admiration in her eyes nigh stealing Rowan’s breath away.

“You forget,” she chided softly. “I am the one who holds love in high esteem.”

Before Rowan could reply, she stretched to her toes and kissed him, her salute so gentle and coaxing that he could not step away.

He parted his lips and closed his eyes, accepting solace from her tenderness. She slanted her lips across his and leaned against his chest, her warmth a welcome weight against him. There was no need to hasten, her leisurely kiss seemed to whisper, no need to apologize, no need to be anything other than the man he was.

Acceptance was the most seductive gift she might have offered.

Rowan locked his hands around her waist and deepened their kiss, marvelling at all Bronwyn had learned when she flicked her tongue against his own.

She met him, touch for touch, returning his kiss with a vigor that weakened his knees. She twined her hands into his hair, urging him closer, her kiss beguiling and bewildering him as never before.

Bronwyn kissed Rowan as if she could not get enough of him, as if she would devour him whole, and Rowan responded in kind. He was harder than he had ever been in all his days, his blood pounded in his ears, he could feel the twin nubs of her nipples against his chest.

When she pulled her lips from his, they both were breathing erratically. “I seem to recall we had a wager,” she said, her words ragged.

Rowan could not conceive of what she meant, his thoughts clouded from her passionate kiss.

She smiled and flicked a fingertip across the tip of his nose, echoing his favored gesture. “A shower of kisses for every slave freed,” she murmured, some mischief lighting her sapphire gaze. “I counted forty-two on the beach.”

Rowan stared, incredulous, even while his blood heated.

“Here,” Bronwyn insisted. Her eyes shone and she smiled with such ardor that Rowan’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. “Here and now, I want you, Rowan de Montvieux.” She ran one hand through his hair, her lips twisting at the sight he knew he must be. “Precisely as you are.”

Her words redoubled his desire, but Rowan tried to think with good sense.

’Twas not easy. “The others will see.”

“They are asleep and distant.” Bronwyn’s eyes sparkled and her lips quirked as she pulled back to study him. “Surely I do not have to
dare
you to see my will in this?”

She was beguiling as never a woman had been. She was at once strong and vulnerable, determined and feminine. Her eyes sparkled, her hand rose to trace a path across his jaw. Rowan turned his head without breaking their gaze and caught her fingertip in his lips, loving how her eyes widened.

And Bronwyn smiled, welcoming and unafraid, offering all he could ever imagine wanting.

Rowan chuckled and caught her close once more. “Consider me at your service.” He bent and took his teeth to the tie of her chemise, then burrowed beneath the cloth. He captured her hardened nipple between his lips, inhaling deeply of her sweet scent and savoring her gasp of delight.

Rowan gasped in turn when her fingers found the tie of his
chausses, her hands busily freeing him to the breeze from the sea.

Before he could speak, Bronwyn peeled off her kirtle and chemise to stand bare before him, the sight chasing all thought from his mind. The sunlight turned her flesh to gold, her laughter sparkled like the sea shining behind her.

And when she pivoted, as gorgeous as a mythic woman made flesh, and beckoned to Rowan, she did not need to make the invitation twice.

She would win Rowan’s heart, Bronwyn knew it well. Aye, their mating had been explosive, for she had given every measure that she had. ’Twas like touching a match to the tinder, for Rowan had responded with a passion that left them both exhausted in its wake.

It had been no small thing for him to admit that he cared for the destrier, and Bronwyn intended to reward the knight for that admission. Aye, and she would encourage him yet further along the course of love. He cared for her, she guessed, for he was protective of her, concerned for her fate, and defensive when she questioned as much.

The way to disarm Rowan was with her touch, for when they mated Bronwyn saw more of the secrets within his heart. She would seduce him a hundred times a day, and with each coupling come closer to making him her own.

She only hoped that she did not run out of time.

After their return to the others, the entire party walked that day along the narrow beach, finally finding a narrow niche where they could climb to the summit of the cliffs.

’Twas not a long climb, which was of splendid fortune, since the weaker of the ex-slaves had to be carried to the summit. Bronwyn could not imagine how they would proceed
from there, for all were growing tired and the day drawing long, but reaching the summit provided no solace.

There was naught but endless green to the north and south, those mountains erupting to the west. The sea lapped on the shore behind as Bronwyn strained her eyes, trying to find some hint of habitation.

But there was none.

The ex-slaves clearly assessed their predicament as well and many might have faltered there. But Rowan made a jest and seized Bronwyn’s hand, leading her in a merry dance.

“North to Dublin?” he murmured.

“ ’Tis my best guess.”

“Then, north we shall go.” Determination flashed in his eyes before he conjured a flower from behind one woman’s ear. He juggled a trio of stones and had Thomas join him in a bawdy song.

Though the slaves did not understand the words, with Rowan’s encouragement, they were soon doing their best to join the chorus. Bronwyn watched as he coaxed smiles and lifted spirits with effortless ease. And when Rowan gestured north, every ex-slave rose to match their steps to his.

’Twas a far cry from Rowan’s recollections of a life lived unfettered. He stared at the stars above long after the others were asleep that night and thought hard about his choices. Truly, he had always believed that this life had been perfect.

But he was hungry and he was cold, and there was naught he could do about either. A song seemed a paltry entertainment in such circumstance, and, indeed, Rowan was starting to wonder what he might do for a fine meal and a warm hearth.

How could such a life have been fostered by the life he recalled? He watched the stars overhead and wondered, for
the first time, whether happiness had flourished in his mother’s troupe not because of their circumstance but in spite of it.

Midmorning brought new hope. Not far away, perhaps half a mile inland, Bronwyn spied the silhouette of a keep. She cried out, the ex-slaves cheered at the sight, and all found new strength to reach their objective.

And not a moment too soon. All were tired and haggard, all were starving, Rowan alone still smiling and singing as they walked. But then, this was the life he adored. Bronwyn watched him from the corner of her eye and could find no hint of dissatisfaction in his manner.

While she was ready to cede anything for a meal and a warm hearth. Truly she had led a sheltered life!

A new doubt took root in her heart. What if they were too different to ever find common ground in love? Would she lose Rowan to this troubador’s life?

Bronwyn hated that she did not know for certain.

Once they arrived at the small holding, Rowan’s charm stood them in good stead, for the gatekeeper might have turned them away immediately. But with astonishing haste, Rowan had convinced the gatekeeper to dispatch a runner to fetch the lord himself to hear his plea.

He winked at Bronwyn and urged her to his side while they waited, his attention making her pulse leap. “You are a dangerous man,” she charged beneath her breath, as much in reference to his skill with the gatekeeper as his effect upon her.

Rowan looked surprised, though he smiled. “Aye?”

“Aye. You have a gift for making one do the opposite of one’s intention, and proceeding to do so willingly.”

He chuckled, his gaze rising to the advancing noble party. “I thought this was your weapon of choice.”

“Me?” Bronwyn protested, though her heart warmed. “There is none who could compell you to proceed as you did not desire!”

Rowan turned a sparkling gaze upon her and dropped his voice low, his fingertip brushing her cheek. “Nay, keep that smile in reserve,
ma demoiselle.
Twill blind and befuddle our potential host if you loose it too soon.” And he kissed her quickly, before stepping forward to address the glowering lord.

Bronwyn dared to be encouraged by his compliment.

The lord was not a small man, nor a young one. A scar adorned his cheek, and his eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the bedraggled party. Bronwyn guessed that he saw them as an army of beggars, come to fleece him. He was broad and tall, his leather jerkin dark from use, his arms and legs sheer muscle.

This was a man who fought for what he desired, and oft won. Browyn feared they would find no shelter here.

“Aye?” that lord demanded. “And who might you be to disturb my midday meal so boldly?”

Rowan bowed low, apparently untroubled by his garb or the other man’s manner. “Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux, sir.”

“You are no knight!”

“I most certainly am, though the tale of my misfortune is a long and complicated one. I should not trouble you with the details, as you are at the board.”