Claire Delacroix (132 page)

“And you have the will?” he asked, the glow in his eyes making Bronwyn’s heart pound.

“Aye. Aye, I do.”

Rowan smiled. “Incomparable,” he whispered, then brushed his lips across hers, leaving a burning tingle in the wake of his touch.

Bronwyn looked back to the sea, stunned by the wave of desire that swept through her, and pulled free of the welcome weight of his arm. She knew she should not encourage this man’s touch, knew she should not rely upon him, knew she should not let herself be seduced.

But she also knew that she loved him.

The realization stole her breath away and left her blinking blindly at the rhythmic lull of the sea. She loved Rowan, a man who knew little of love, who did not trust love, who did not hold love—as she did—in greatest esteem.

’Twas foolish, more foolish perhaps than anything she yet had done, but Bronwyn could not deny the simple truth of it.

Nor did she know what to do about it.

The silence stretched between them and Bronwyn grew certain that Rowan had drifted off to sleep. Indeed, the man had earned a rest, and she was tempted to slumber herself.

So, when Rowan finally spoke, his low words startled her. “I would have a promise from you, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”

She looked back to find his gaze dangerously bright and not sleepy in the least. “What is that?”

“That you will confide in me, from this moment until our paths part, instead of resolving matters yourself.”

Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. “Why?”

He smiled then with his usual confident air, when a sweet confession might have changed all. “Because I would not want to reckon with your father, if you arrived home in worse condition than you are now.”

“You are not returning home with me!”

But Rowan shook a playful finger at her. “A year and a day, my lady. We have a wager, and I shall hold you to it.”

She did not have it in her to ask why.

Indeed, Bronwyn feared that if she did, he would tell her a truth that she did not want to hear. She might be no more than the spoils of a wager to Rowan, he might well walk away a year hence as if there had been naught between them, she might have to watch him win another heiress for his own.

But she would not compell him to tell her as much. She folded her arms across her knees and watched the waves rise and fall, achingly aware of the man behind her.

Perhaps Rowan was wrong about himself. Perhaps he knew more of love than he would admit. Perhaps he secretly yearned for love yet did not know how to pursue it. Bronwyn closed her eyes and found the image of a young Rowan in her mind.

’Twas all she needed to chart her course. Aye, if Rowan showed any hint that he was coming to hold love in esteem, if there was any indication that he was prepared to abandon what path he had taken through his life thus far, she would aid him. Bronwyn would step forward and show Rowan the way, for clearly he had no way of finding his path himself.

She knew enough of love to know that one could not force another to love in return, but she could show Rowan the prize he had been missing.

’Twas no more than he had done for her, when he dismissed her fear of lovemaking.

Bronwyn waited, hopeful and silent, but Rowan said naught more. The light changed as the sun moved, the shadows drew long, and when she finally dared to glance back, he was asleep.

owan watched the sun rise the next morning, his mood grim. He should have been pleased and he knew it well. He had achieved his lifelong objective, and that with scarcely any effort on his part. He had naught to his name, no steed, no hauberk, no blade, no coin, not even a saddlebag or a cloak to call his own. He had naught but the garb upon his back.

And he had no decent prospect of changing that state.

’Twas precisely what Rowan had always desired, or so he had long told himself, but the achievement was less than satisfactory.

Aye, he could not help but think of his lost cloak when he saw Bronwyn shiver in her sleep. He could not help but think of those two lost gold coins and how much bread they would have bought for all these hungry captives, now freed upon a foreign shore.

He would not fret over how he might fulfill his obligation to Thomas, nor even how he might see Bronwyn safely home without coin or blade. He certainly would not think of that great destrier swimming valiantly in the wrong direction, nor indeed that he would miss the fool creature.

The cut upon Rowan’s thigh burned like hellfire, teaching him the agony of salt pressed into a wound, but he ignored that as well. He struggled to be unaware of Bronwyn, sleeping
beside him, though it was difficult not to steal the occasional glance at her, her lovely features so soft in sleep.

But she was not so soft as that He knew now what she expected of marriage, of men, of the life before her. He knew she demanded more than he could ever give and that she would never compromise. Rowan knew he was not the man for her.

He was not prepared for how irksome that realization was. Indeed, he was unaccountably restless as the sun pinkened the sky and turned the sea to glittering glass. He was irritable and anxious to be on his way.

Wherever he was going.

’Twas impatience, no more than that, impatience with the obligation he felt himself to have to all these slumbering souls. Rowan pushed to his feet, careful not to wake any around him, and set out to pace. The beach was long and narrow, the gentle lapping of waves luring his footsteps closer.

The sky had cleared over the night, and the rain had stopped. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with the salt of the sea, yet also with the verdant scent of rich grass. Rowan walked along the lip of the sea, marvelling that it could lode so harmless after all that had happened the day before. He checked the summit of the cliffs and still saw no hint of hut or fire.

It might be days of walking before they found a hearth, let alone that of one inclined to grant alms. Rowan remembered all too well the skepticism of the locals when he set out on Brianna of Tullymullagh’s bride quest nigh a year past They were dubious of foreigners, and fairly so, given the invasions this land had recently weathered.

But Rowan was already cursedly hungry, though he supposed he was not alone in that He also was not alone in
looking more like a beggar than a knight, a fact that would do little to aid his cause.

Rowan ambled close to the lapping waves, letting the water slap over his boots and telling himself to appreciate the lack of burdens he bore, even if that was more challenging to do than he might have expected.

The tide was retreating, leaving a line of debris upon the beach that he was not interested in studying. Rowan thought of Bronwyn as he walked, the spirit in her eyes and the valor that made her risk her own life to see others safe. Ye gods, the woman could not even swim and she ventured into the hold of a ship to help strangers.

Rowan kicked at the sand and decided that he would see her home, if only to ensure that she had no further misadventures.

’Twas only good sense, no more than that. Perhaps Bronwyn’s father would introduce him to another heiress, though Rowan had to admit that he had little taste for his brothers’ quest any longer. That was surely why the prospect did little to improve his spirits.

Better yet, perhaps he would find again that travelling troupe of entertainers, the ones he had sent to Tullymullagh to coax a princess’s laughter, and join their ranks. Was that not the fate he had oft longed for? To join a troupe, to travel wherever his footsteps turned, in the way he had known as a child.

Of course. Rowan could juggle reasonably well, and he had been known to coax a laugh or two in his time. Perhaps Bronwyn’s father would see to Thomas’s return home and remove the last obligation that rested upon Rowan’s shoulders. Aye, the prospect of disappointing Thomas alone stood in the way of his enthusiasm for this course.

Rowan’s stomach grumbled and he recalled only now how often he had been hungry as a boy.

And cold.

Frightened and uncertain.

Not that any of that was of import, for a man with his wits about him could ensure he had a hot meal once in a while. A child was prey to the whims of those around him. Indeed, ’twould be good not to set foot upon a ship anytime soon. Rowan should be relieved to be here, alive and in possession of an opportunity to make his life what he would.

Then why did his footsteps feel leaden? Lack of sleep, he reasoned, lack of a hot meal, exhaustion in the wake of an ordeal. No more than that. He would soon feel hale again.

Rowan deliberately lifted his chin and strode down the beach, rounding a little jut of land. He took a deep invigorating breath of the morning air, told himself he was happy and let the sun fall on his face.

It did not work, so he tried harder.

So engrossed was Rowan in his efforts that he tripped over the debris on the beach before he saw it. He frowned and turned to give whatever had tripped him up a hearty kick, sending it back to the sea and venting his annoyance with his own dour mood, but one glance stopped his foot.

Rowan halted and stared at his own saddle.

His own caparisons still clung to it, though the silk was shredded and part of the length was gone. The sea gently wafted around the saddle, the silk billowing as the water advanced, then falling flat against the sand as each wave retreated.

Rowan bent to run a hand over the curve of its seat. The leather had come from Milan, the saddle itself had been fashioned near Montvieux. It had been a gift from his foster mother when he won his spurs, a gift to match the destrier that she also granted him.

It had been a gift he knew he did not deserve, just as he had not deserved those spurs. Nay, he had jested his way
through the bulk of his training and played practical jokes on all the household. He had tried everything once, bested every dare, astounded his patron’s household with his audacity time and again.

Rowan had been severely reprimanded by his patron more than once, that man apparently being the only soul in Christendom immune to Rowan’s charm. Aye, the old cook had chided him before the others, as had the marshall, though both indulged Rowan when he was alone.

’Twas typical of all of Rowan’s life—a jest and a smile always set the worst crimes to rights.

His patron had argued with his foster mother, refusing to knight Rowan, though Rowan had shown the old cur wrong in the final accounting. Rowan had excelled at the test devised to prove his incompetence, not because he deeply desired to be a knight, not because he cared for his patron’s respect, but because he dearly wanted to prove that man wrong.

He had not been prepared for Margaux’s pride—nor, indeed, his own rush of pride in her display of affection. His foster mother showed her feelings not with gesture or word but with the opening of her purse, and the treasury of Montvieux had yawned wide on the day Rowan had been granted his spurs.

Rowan bowed his head in recollection and crouched down beside the saddle. He ran his hand across the leather, now worn smooth in places, wet from the sea and encrusted with salt. In his mind’s eye, he saw a younger version of Troubador, a wild glint in his eye and a rakish white star on his brow.

And one white sock. Rowan smiled and shook his head. How had Margaux known that only the most feisty stallion in her stables would do? How had she guessed that the steed’s unruly nature would meld so well with Rowan’s
own? How had she guessed that racing on this beast’s back, his knees gripping tight and the wind in his hair, would become Rowan’s greatest pleasure?

Here he thought he was unpredictable, but it seemed his foster mother knew him overly well.

Rowan lifted his head and looked out across the shimmering sea, knowing he should not. The water danced beneath the sunlight, unmarred as far as the eye could see.

This part of his life was over and Rowan knew it well. He would never be so indulged again. He told himself not to mourn what was lost, reminded himself that he had never truly wanted it anyway.

Even if the loss did sting.

Rowan turned away from the sea and his memories, only to find Bronwyn lingering behind him.

Her hem was torn high and revealed her bare feet in the cool of the sea. Her kirtle was wrinkled, its hue somewhat less than the fine blue it had only recently been. Her skin was dirty again, her eyes yet as vibrantly blue as when first they met.

His heart clenched once, hard, at the sight of her.

Bronwyn gestured aimlessly with one hand. “I did not want to disturb your thoughts.” Her gaze fell to the saddle and Rowan nudged it with his toe.

“ ’Twas mine,” he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. He offered her a smile that he knew was not as cavalier as he might have liked. “But I do not have need of it any longer.”

Rowan looked away, ashamed to find tears rising, but Bronwyn came to his side. She laid a hand upon his arm and he had to glance into her eyes, though the compassion he found in those blue depths surprised him.

And then he could not look away. Why could this woman alone prompt him to abandon his own intent?