Claire Delacroix (109 page)

Baldassare’s eyes lit with challenge. “Then you shall send her to my cabin, that she not miss her evening meal.”

Rowan held his gaze. “We shall both be delighted to accept your invitation on the morrow.”

“You will still be ill.”

“Nay, I have no complaint upon the open sea,” Rowan lied. ’Twas better for his belly there, but hardly ideal. He pursed his lips and scanned the sky, determined to needle this cocksure captain in exchange for the shocking amount of coin he had just cast aside. “Indeed, I would not have been in such discomfort had our departure been timed to the tides.”

Baldassare’s features darkened at this reminder. “One cannot completely trust the charts of foreigners,” he snapped. “Particularly those of little experience upon the seas.”

There was an edge to his words that awakened Rowan’s curiosity. Venetians, he knew, plied their trade upon regular routes, often between ports where they maintained their own communities.

And Baldassare had already admitted to having no connections in Dublin. Now that Rowan thought about it, ’twas most odd that the Venetian had ventured this far. Venetian traders were much more likely to do business within the Mediterranean. Indeed, Rowan had never seen their ships in the northern ports of France.

“You had no Venetian charts for this port?” he asked with apparent idleness.

“None.” Baldassare sneered. “And these foreigners know naught of timing a tide properly. ’Twas my own error for trusting their observations instead of making my own.”

“And your ship is not Venetian either,” Rowan mused.

Baldassare’s eyes flashed. “An inconvenience, I assure you.”

Why was Baldassare here? Was there something special about this cargo of slaves? And why did he desire Ibernia’s assistance in Dublin? Rowan had assumed that Marika’s price was high simply because Baldassare intended her to be too expensive for his purse, but perhaps there was more at root.

But he would have no chance to ask further. “If you will excuse me, my labor summons me once more.” Baldassare bowed and walked away.

Rowan knew ’twas no coincidence that, within moments, they turned directly into the wind. High waves broke against the prow, rocking the ship so hard that it seemed it would shatter.

His belly turned again, even the prospect of Ibernia’s shower of kisses doing little to ease his misery.

At least for the moment.

’Twas late in the day when Rowan finally returned, the meagre light within the cabin having faded yet more. Ibernia and Marika had made quick work of cutting and piecing the kirtle and were nigh completed. More hands, as Ibernia’s mother oft said, made less of any task.

Though the work was a challenge as the ship pitched through the waves. Ibernia had more than one prick on her finger and feared staining the lovely wool with blood. In the shadows and without a lamp, such stains could not be readily discerned, if indeed they were there.

The waiting, the growing certainty that Rowan would return to claim his due, the knowledge that she had no clever ploy to avoid his touch, did naught to calm Ibernia, and she pricked her finger again.

And again, as she started at the jiggle of the door latch, though she had been listening for his return all the day long.

“Ibernia?” Rowan demanded gruffly. “Open the door, if you please.”

“And if I do not please?” she taunted.

This time, though, her jest met with naught more than a growl of irritation. With a quick glance to Marika, who watched with alarm, Ibernia rose and unlatched the door.

“And what ails you this night?” she asked, striving not to sound like a discontented fishwife. “You have been long enough abroad to suit any torn.”

Rowan frowned and staggered directly for the bed, not troubling himself with a reply. He collapsed on the thin pallet and closed his eyes, looking more like a cadaver than a cocky knight.

Ibernia had seen enough of men to know what trouble was at root. She had been right to insist upon leaving London rather than going to that tavern! Aye, a drinking man could not be trusted to keep his pledge.

She inhaled sharply and drew herself to her full height, exuding disapproval—though, indeed, she was more disappointed that Rowan had proven himself like all the others than disgusted with his choice of weakness.

“Drinking!” Ibernia declared, picking up her needlework with a sweeping gesture. “I should have known to expect as much. Aye, you wanted an ale so badly that you would have missed the sailing of this vessel.”

“Aye, and what a crime that would have been,” Rowan muttered, his tone uncommonly sour.

Before Ibernia could say more, he rolled to face the wall
of the ship, turning his back to her and ending the conversation. She exchanged a look with Marika.

Ibernia folded her arms across her chest and glared at Rowan. “Where am I to sleep, if you claim the only pallet for your own?”

“The bed is wide enough for two,” he declared, without turning to face her.

How dare he assume she would join him so readily as that?

She tossed down her stitching, then leaned over him, her hands propped on her hips. “You do not fool me, Rowan de Montvieux,” she declared. “Nay, I will not join you on this narrow pallet this night! I will not aid your quest to seduce me.”

“Suit yourself” came the reply.

Ibernia glared at him for a moment, but his breathing deepened. Surely he did not go to sleep?

But sleep apparently was what he did.

Ibernia frowned. ’Twas not like Rowan to so readily abandon an argument. Aye, he was one who would have every eye in the place upon him, unless she missed his guess.

This must be a ploy to win her sympathy!

“You will not twist my heart,” Ibernia informed him. “You will not win my compassion by looking so woebegone as this. I know well enough your objectives.”

Rowan snored softly.

’Twas not precisely the manner of a man bent on seduction. Ibernia looked around the cabin, seeing that she still held Marika’s attention.

“Well, at least you have shown the true measure of man that you are. A gentleman,” Ibernia said haughtily, “would have granted the pallet to the lady.”

She would have returned to her needlework, her chin high, but Thomas’s unexpected words made her halt midstep.
“ ’Tis a lofty ambition for a slave,” he commented, his gaze bright, “to be treated as a lady.”

Ibernia blinked and felt her cheeks heat. She had not realized the boy lingered in the cabin door. No less, her indignation with Rowan had been great enough that she momentarily forgot she was supposed to be no one of merit.

Instead of her father’s privileged daughter.

She forced a smile. “A man of measure does not concern himself with such ranks of circumstance,” she retorted, a poor reply that did little to mollify Thomas. Indeed, the squire snorted and rolled his eyes, though he said naught more to her.

He went instead to Rowan, carefully removing that man’s boots and setting them aside. Oddly enough, the boy carried a bucket, which he set on the floor beside his lord’s shoulder.

“We should see your hauberk removed,” he murmured.

Rowan snorted softly. “ ’Tis an unnecessary risk in this den of iniquity,” he muttered, his words fading even as he uttered them. “I shall keep it.”

Thomas sighed and frowned, clearly seeing that he could do naught more. He unfolded a blanket that was stuffed beneath his arm and carefully laid it over his lord with a care usually reserved for those incapable of seeing to their own needs.

“The bucket is here,” the squire murmured. “I shall see the horses fed, then return.”

Rowan grunted and Thomas turned away.

“He is drunk so often as that?” Ibernia asked archly. “You seem well used to accommodating him in his besotted state.”

“My lord is not drunk,” Thomas said sharply. “As anyone with wits can see, he is ill.”

Ibernia’s gaze flew to the knight once again, an array of
hints suddenly making great sense to her. He had looked pale upon his return, and his manner was not his usual one.

But she would not be persuaded so quickly as that. “How can he have fallen ill so quickly?”

“ ’Tis the sea. His innards do not like its rhythm.” Thomas shrugged. “ ’Tis no doubt why he would have preferred to remain at least an hour on London’s shore before departing anew. He has eaten little of late.”

Accusation hung in the boy’s words, and Ibernia realized that ’twas her dare that had prompted Rowan to depart so quickly. And against his own comfort.

She stared at the knight’s sleeping figure as the squire departed and chewed thoughtfully on her lip. Perhaps Rowan was not quite the selfish man she had assumed him to be.

Or perhaps he merely sought to win her confidence. ’Twas quite a price to pay, however, and Ibernia could not credit that.

Perhaps she should not have been such a shrew. Perhaps she should have asked why he did not want to leave so quickly, why he wanted the bed this night, why he had remained on deck—instead of assuming the worst.

Perhaps Rowan de Montvieux
was
different from other men.

Ibernia got no further before there was another sharp rap upon the door. She started and Marika jumped back when Baldassare’s voice echoed through the wood.

“Ma bella
?”

Ibernia rose slowly. Rowan slumbered on, unlikely to aid her in this, so she smoothed her chausses and summoned her best smile. She opened the door a crack, unable to quell her urge to shelter Rowan from the captain’s view. “Aye?”

Baldassare smiled broadly. “Ah, to look upon your beauty is like seeing the sun after a long spell of rain,” he
said, embellishing his claim yet further with a bow. “Dare I hope that your husband called matters amiss?”

“Which matters?”

“Ah, that you would not be interested in a fine meal this evening. To be sure, I tried not to offer offense in extending my invitation that both of you join me for an evening repast.”

Food! Suddenly Ibernia realized that she was remarkably hungry. When had she eaten last? And when had she last eaten the fine fare of a captain’s board?

All the same, she did not fully trust Baldassare, not with that lecherous gleam in his eye. “My husband is not disposed to dine this evening,” she said, the lie nigh sticking in her throat.

The captain smiled. “Though ’tis most unfortunate that your spouse does not share my affection for the sea, still it seemed”—Baldassare apparently sought the right word—
“selfish
for him to decline on your behalf.” His expression turned guileless. “Surely you are not so enamored that you cease to eat when he is ill?”

“Nay, of course not.”

“Then surely we could share a meal together? I assure you,
ma bella
, that my intentions are purely honorable.” He smiled wolfishly, his expression doing little to reassure Ibernia.

In fact, she would guess that his intentions were far from honorable. Ibernia decided to trust her instincts.

“I could not think of it,” she said crisply and made to close the door.

But Baldassare slipped his boot into the space, his smile quick. “Then I must insist that you join me.” Though his tone remained cajoling, Ibernia heard a thread of steel there. “ ’Tis not often that we have the delight of feminine company on our humble vessel.”

She dug in her heels, though she smiled in turn. “I have naught to wear.”

“Your presence alone will be ample grace for my board.”

“Ah, but I could not so insult your hospitality.”

Baldassare leaned closer, his eyes glinting. “Surely your husband called it awry to insist that you would prefer to pine for his recovery?”

Ibernia hesitated still.

Baldassare pushed open the door slightly, his expression turning scornful as he looked over Ibernia’s shoulder. “Surely you can do naught for him while he sleeps like a child?” He looked Ibernia in the eye and his voice dropped low. “And surely,
ma bella
, you are hungry?”

Hungry? There was temptation difficult to deny.

“We have beef from London,” Baldassare murmured, “and though ’tis rich and succulent, I fear it must be consumed this night before it spoils.”

Ibernia’s doubts wavered. How long since she had had meat?

Baldassare evidently saw that he had found a weak spot, for he pressed his case. “Fine young potatoes, ah, they are so sweet when they are small! And the last fresh bread we shall have before Dublin. A compote of raisins and dates, a young wine—surely,
ma bella
, you will not leave me to indulge in such luxury alone?”

Ibernia’s mouth went dry. Her belly was empty beyond all and there was truth in what the captain said. What could be the harm in joining him? Surely there would be others there?

She licked her lips without immediately realizing she did so. Baldassare’s smile flashed and he stepped away. “Of course, if you feel you must watch your husband slumber instead, the cook can send you some biscuits from our stores.”

“Biscuits?” They did not sound as delicious as the hot meat.

“Aye, they are decent enough fare.” Baldassare shrugged. “A bit hardened after all our days at sea, but not so filled with worms that they cannot be consumed.”