Claire Delacroix (117 page)

“Nay.”

“Then why imagine I would now?”

Ibernia swallowed. “ ’Tis unavoidable.”

Rowan chuckled and treated himself to another taste of her lips, letting his mouth tease her lips until she parted them in response. “Only to clumsy fools.” He lifted his gaze to hers once more. “Do you believe me a clumsy fool?”

“Nay.” Her word was breathless, but that fear still lit her magnificent eyes.

“An inexpert lover?”

Ibernia released a soundless laugh, though still there was no smile. “Nay.”

“A man whose kiss is offensive?” Rowan treated her to his most engaging grin. “Poorly executed?”

“Nay,” she whispered, then caught her breath when Rowan stole another tiny kiss. “And nay.”

He grazed his lips along her jawline, noting how her lips parted and her eyes closed. Her body at least seemed amenable to his plans. Rowan could work with that.

And indeed, he would. Slowly, languorously, thoroughly.

Ibernia’s breath caught as he kissed beneath her ear. He let his hand trail down her neck on the other side, his fingertips enchanted by the softness of her skin. He cupped her jaw in his hand, kissed her ear, her temple, her cheek. He hovered just above her lips, waiting for her to open her eyes and acknowledge him before he claimed her lips again.

Her eyes flew open, all wide clear blue. Her gaze raked over him, and she seemed to recall herself. She straightened, her first instinct clearly to fight or flee, but Rowan had seen this in her before.

He would see her shaken of these impulses before he halted. He bent, pleased that she did not pull away. He closed his mouth over hers, his kiss slow and deliberate. There was no rush this day, and he continued his leisurely kiss, coaxing her lips to part, touching his tongue to hers, urging her to embrace him in return.

He knew the very moment she responded. Her gasp was like a flint being struck. She shivered and rose against him, her hands tentatively twining around his neck.

But ’twas how Rowan favored this lady. Determined to grant and to have her own share. She must have been sorely used to abandon that stance in any facet of her life, and its return fed his desire as naught else could have done. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, ensuring that he pushed no further than she was willing to go.

When he finally lifted his head, her cheeks were flushed. There was a sparkle in her eyes that he glimpsed just before she averted her gaze.

“No smile?” he teased.

Ibernia flicked a quick half smile his way, though her gaze fixed on the steaming buckets with apparent fascination.

“You should grant the gift of your smile more often,” he said softly. “ ’Tis bewitching.”

The lady stepped away, her smile fading to naught. “You do not fool me,” she charged, though her tone was more breathless than scathing. “ ’Twas the obscene gesture—or better yet, its import—that bewitched you.”

Rowan laughed, he could not help it. “Nay, I was bewitched afore,” he admitted, his words turning more husky than he had anticipated. “When you smiled on the docks.”

Ibernia pivoted and stared at him, apparently uncertain whether to believe him. Their gazes locked and held for a timeless and telling moment. Indeed, neither of them took a
breath; the cabin seemed suddenly overwarm from the steaming water.

Rowan knew ’twas true, there had been something about Ibernia that touched him as no other woman had done, even on that first day. He hoped he saw a similar acknowledgment in her eyes but could not be certain whether his hope colored his vision.

But either way, he was concerned that he not disappoint the lady. He told himself that was only because he took pride in his labor, even a labor of love, but Rowan knew that was a lie. ’Twas the way Ibernia’s eyes widened, the flick of fear that she quickly suppressed, the hundreds of tiny signs that told him she had not savored her adventures abed. She was uncertain, but she was forcing herself to trust him.

Him.
Rowan had never felt the weight of responsibility quite so acutely. To his astonishment, the burden was not so ungainly as he had always expected it to be. Perhaps that was only because their objectives were as one in this.

And Rowan knew, without doubt, that his fascination with Ibernia would end with the having of her. If he was not sated the first time, then the third or the sixth or the tenth would see it done. ’Twould be easy to walk away once they reached Ballyroyal, both he and Ibernia having won their desire.

Rowan looked into the fathomless sapphire of her eyes and was not quite as certain of that as he would have liked to be.

He made a jest to cover the moment, as was his wont. “What man of merit would not be intrigued to know what lingered beneath this gravy-embellished garb?”

He lifted his fingers to the knotted tie of Ibernia’s chemise. He bent and pressed a kiss beneath her ear, feeling her tremble and feeling less alone in his trepidation.

“We must hasten before the water cools,” he whispered.

“Aye,” she agreed breathlessly, and pushed away his hands. Her own dropped to the ties of her chausses and shook
as she undid the knot. As Rowan watched in surprise, she wiggled out of those chausses and kicked them aside, rolling to her back on the narrow pallet and parting her thighs.

He did not even have the chance to enjoy the lean perfection of her legs, the hued tan of her flesh, the glimpse of the treasure between her thighs.

“I am as prepared as ever I will be,” she said briskly. She closed her eyes, clearly expecting him to leap atop her and do the deed, then turned her face to the wall.

Rowan’s enthusiasm waned in the face of her manner. He turned away crossly and hauled his tabard over his head. “Indeed,
ma demoiselle
, I have had whores who showed more desire than this.”

“Is enthusiasm not what they are paid to feign?”

“That is not the point,” Rowan retorted, then took a deep breath. When he continued, his voice was more steady. “You misunderstood my meaning. I intended that we bathe first.”

“Ah, my lack of clean garb disgusts you. I understand.” Ibernia’s words were toneless. She straightened and reached for a cloth, but Rowan caught at her hand.

“You have misunderstood me,” he said in a low voice when her gaze rose to his in alarm. “I ask that you cease in your efforts to hurry events.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is no need for haste,” Rowan assured her. “I ask only that you cease to fret, that you savor the moment.”

But the expression on Ibernia’s face told him that she could not even conceive of doing that. Well, Rowan de Montvieux was not a man who surrendered a challenge readily, and, clearly, seducing Ibernia was going to be a greater challenge than even he had anticipated.

’Twas fortunate indeed that she had chosen the right man for this task.

bernia was terrified. Not only was Rowan going to take his pleasure with her, but he intended to take days at the task. She did not know how she would survive—indeed, what intimacy she had endured had lasted but moments and left her in pain for a long time afterward.

If he were as thorough as he threatened, she might never walk in comfort again. All the same, Ibernia knew that whatever Rowan demanded of her, ’twould be small in comparison with whatever Baldassare believed his due.

She would not question her faith in that, though she hoped hers was not some misguided optimism.

Or impulsiveness. She closed her eyes and cursed impulsiveness soundly.

Rowan had already discarded his hauberk, the clatter of its fall to the floor making Ibernia jump. She watched through her lashes as he shed his chemise with a casual gesture, his gaze averted from her own. Ibernia’s eyes widened at the sight of his nudity, the tanned expanse of his chest, the russet river of hair on his chest. He seemed to fill the cabin, even more than he had before. Ibernia could smell the heat of his flesh; she found herself watching the flex of his muscles as he lay his belt and scabbard aside.

And she was profoundly grateful that he seemed oblivious
to her presence. That alone granted her the opportunity to study him, a deed she would never have imagined to interest her, certainly not as much as it did.

He had folded his tabard and his chemise, much to her astonishment, and took care in laying his belt aside. The scabbard with its fine sword and his dagger were handled with even greater care, and she realized that though Rowan would have all believe he cared for naught, that was far from the truth.

She wondered what he valued most of all and knew she could die wondering. This man would confess naught to anyone, especially a slave with whom he took his pleasure.

She wondered whether he would tell Bronwyn of Ballyroyal such secret truths, then his efficient movements distracted her from that direction of thought.

He would soon be nude.

He would soon be atop her.

She would soon be hurting and unable to aid herself. Ibernia gripped the pallet in dread.

Rowan shed his boots and set them aside, then reached for the tie of his chausses. Ibernia swallowed, knowing full well what came next. Neither of her former masters had troubled to undress themselves fully, but Rowan would not differ in the deed itself. She stared at the wooden wall, bracing herself for the worst.

’Twas then she heard a splash. Ibernia darted a glance Rowan’s way to find him quickly washing himself. His back was to her, so she took the opportunity to study him, noting the strength of his legs, the tightness of his buttocks. He was tanned from head to toe, a sign that he was not afraid to let the sun touch all of him, but then, that boldness did not surprise Ibernia.

Rowan was not a knight interested in convention.

When he started to turn, she squeezed her eyes tightly
shut and waited for the worst. She thought she was prepared for anything, but soon learned differently.

For she was not anticipating the warm caress of a cloth on her foot. Ibernia jumped and she sat up in alarm, instinctively pulling her feet beneath herself.

Rowan crouched at the end of the pallet, a wet cloth in his hands and an impish twinkle in his eyes. But she could see his aroused state and knew that he was not so boyishly playful as he might pretend.

“Your feet are filthy,” he charged.

That was a fact. Ibernia heaved a sigh of concession and cautiously stretched her leg back out again. A harmless enough indulgence, she supposed. The cloth was rough, and Rowan stroked it across the bottom of her foot like a caress.

Ibernia leaned back, closed her eyes, and endured.

He scrubbed the bottom of her foot, then pushed the cloth between her toes, leisurely cleaning each in succession. Ibernia tried not to clench her foot; she sought to appear at ease with all of this. She was quite certain she failed—her grip on the sides of the pallet hinted at the truth—especially when his thumb eased across the nail of her second toe and she caught her breath. It was a move she felt she should have anticipated.

Ibernia took a deep breath. It was not so bad, truly, to have a man wash her feet. She gritted her teeth, deciding to savor this moment and not think of the one to come. This alone was rather pleasant, the thoroughness with which Rowan worked doing much to ease her agitation.

Aye, he was tranquil and oddly quiet. Ibernia listened to the rhythmic creaking of the ship. The men’s voices were so distant and muted that she and Rowan might have been alone. She could smell the spices from the bundles knotted overhead, the steam from the water apparently having loosened their exotic scents.

When Rowan completed one foot and moved his attention to her other one, repeating gesture for gesture, Ibernia resolved this
was
enjoyable. To be clean again was no small thing. Aye, she had felt encrusted with filth for the better part of a sixmonth, and this change would be a welcome one.

There might be some benefit to ceding to the touch of a fastidious man. The telltale splashing of water and absence of Rowan’s touch revealed that the cloth was being rinsed and wrung out.

Ibernia prided herself on the fact that she did not so much as stir when the warm cloth and Rowan’s hand closed around her ankle. He scrubbed the skin with gentle diligence, his thumb sliding into the nook beside her ankle bone with sensuous ease. Ibernia told herself it was just his manner to move so deliberately, that there was naught amorous about his touch.

She was proven wrong when he kissed the sole of her foot.

Ibernia gasped. She sat up and Rowan chuckled at her response. He watched her, a glint in his eyes that dared her to pull away once more. Ibernia’s heart was thumping but she would not prove him right in this. Though she stiffened, she did not retreat.

She did not miss his satisfied smile. He nibbled the side of her big toe, he kissed it, he slid his tongue between it and that next toe. He caught her foot in his hand, his thumb sliding across her instep with persuasive ease. His lips followed suit, caressing her instep, nibbling on her ankle bone, the heat of his breath driving her to distraction as he kissed every increment of skin.