Claire Delacroix (139 page)

“Nay!” she cried. “This is not my desire!”

“You have a responsibility and you will see it done,” Nicholas retorted.

Adhara stepped forward when father and daughter glowered at each other. “All are tired,” she said with a gracious smile to the assembly. “And all are surprised by what has been witnessed this day.”

Adhara laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Bronwyn, you know that your father wants only to ensure your future comfort, that you are wed to a man upon whom you can rely. I beg of you, do not set your thoughts so surely on refusal before you have considered the matter fully.”

Bronwyn’s lips set stubbornly, no good sign to Rowan’s thinking.

“Consider this agreement until the morrow,” Adhara proposed. “ ’Tis all we ask of you.”

“And on the morrow?”

“After all have slept well and tempers have soothed, we shall discuss this choice, as a family, and decide our course.”

Bronwyn took a deep breath, looked between her parents,
then nodded once. “Until the morrow,” she agreed, then turned to march into the hall.

“You bend to her will in this,” Nicholas muttered.

“And you will drive her away,” his wife retorted in an undertone. “I have persuaded horses to mate who would not tolerate each other’s presence when I began. Trust me in this.” She cast a brilliant smile at Marco and raised her voice slightly. “All will be resolved to your satisfaction in the end.”

But Rowan was not so certain of that. Nay, Bronwyn was not the kind of woman who readily changed her thinking, and certainly not over a single night. She did not want this spouse, and given the disapproving manner of that man’s father, Rowan could not truly blame her. Though clearly her parents meant well, it seemed a travesty that after all she had endured, the lady would be denied the only thing she wanted.

Impulse—or perhaps too many years in chivalrous company—demanded that Rowan do something about the matter.

All for naught.

’Twas all Bronwyn could think as she returned to familiar chambers, a familiar bath in a familiar tub, familiar maids, familiar garb, familiar rituals, and an all-too-familiar dilemma.

After all she had experienced, her father was still determined to wed her to a man she did not want to marry. She did not love Matthew any more than she loved his father, Marco.

And there was the crux of the matter. She had made her plea and it had been rejected. Beyond fleeing Ballyroyal
again, a course she was reluctant to take, Bronwyn did not know what to do.

’Twas not a situation she savored.

The bathing chamber was at the back of the hall, the timbered ceiling low to hold the heat. The room was wedged between the kitchen and the hall proper, so that the warmth of both hearths would heat the air.

But the stone floor and lack of sunlight in this windowless chamber made the room dark. The maids had lit a trio of lanterns and a pair of braziers, the golden light and sputtering heat turning the chamber into a humid retreat.

The great wooden tub had already been rolled in, the liner inserted to ensure no slivers found their way into Bronwyn’s hide. Maids were filling the tub to the brim with steaming water, chattering all the while. The steam clouded the air of the room, and the trio of lanterns flickered fitfully in the dampness.

Such a familiar scene should have soothed Bronwyn’s agitation, particularly considering how dire her need for a good bath had become. Her mother’s maid brought brushes for her nails and a finely milled soap, displaying them with pride, as well as lengths of linen for drying herself afterward.

No expense was spared, but instead of being pleased, Bronwyn simmered. She supposed she should not blame her father for wanting to ensure her future security, but still his choice rankled. How could he have made this commitment without her consent? How could he have failed to understand the root of her complaint against Marco as a spouse?

’Twas unfair, given that her parents had wed for love themselves! Too much at stake, indeed. Bronwyn fairly growled over the injustice of it all and thought rather more favorably of Rowan’s disregard of obligations.

Her responsibility to her family’s wealth was at root here, the truth of that more than clear.

And Bronwyn’s happiness was as naught in the bargain. Oh, she was certain her parents believed she would find happiness in any match and that they longed only to see her well cared for until her dying day.

But ’twould be impossible to be happy in any match other than one with the man she loved.

And that man had made it most clear that he did not want her. Curse Rowan de Montvieux!

Bronwyn smiled thinly for the maid, who was not to blame for any of this. She shed her blue striped kirtle, wrought of a gift from Baldassare, and shivered at the unwelcome reminder of what she had done. Indeed, she never wanted to see the garb again.

“Oh, the wool is so lovely a hue!” that maid cooed. “I have oft heard tell of the weaving of Flanders—and to be sure, I have glimpsed on occasion the fine wares that my lord Nicholas does exchange. Never though have I had the chance to touch—why, even filled with salt and dirt, the cloth is wondrously fine!”

“ ’Tis yours,” Bronwyn said, sinking into the hot water with a sigh. The girl gasped with delight. Bronwyn accepted her gratitude politely but found herself glad when she was finally alone.

Though soon enough she would not be.

She frowned, realizing that she had been so disappointed that she had not even asked her father about the date for the wedding. Would it be soon? Bronwyn guessed as much, for no one would want to chance her fleeing in defiance again.

She scowled further at the realization that she could not even recall Marco’s son particularly well. That was not a good sign! To be sure, Matthew had visited Ballyroyal, but he was quiet and had a tendency to linger behind his father.
Bronwyn grimaced, unable to help thinking of a man who insisted upon having all eyes upon him. She doubted she could even come to love a man whose presence was as substantive as a shadow.

Bronwyn splashed unhappily in the bath, her thoughts filled with memories of a certain roguish knight. It was all too easy to recall the last bath she had had. Never mind the pleasure Rowan had introduced to her that afternoon. She almost wished he were here, that they could share this moment and each other.

But that was not to be. Indeed, he had probably left Ballyroyal already.

Bronwyn’s heart sank and she deliberately let herself think upon happier moments. Aye, she could fairly see Rowan’s strong hands upon her flesh, feel his reverential touch, taste the heat of his kiss. Bronwyn took a deep breath and closed her eyes, recalling the amber flash of his eyes when she surprised him, the way the sunlight danced in the russet waves of his hair, the way his lips twisted when he teased.

But Rowan was surely gone, his task completed and the desire for adventure hot in his chest. No need for farewell between them—nay, such a show of tenderness would not be his way.

Bronwyn sternly told herself not to be a fool and yearn for what she could not have. Truly, if Rowan were not precisely as he was, he might not have captured her heart so completely.

’Twas cold comfort.

Well, there had to be some merit in this adventure. At least Rowan had taught her that there was naught to be feared abed. And he had never pledged to do more than that. Rowan had not lied to her. He had not deceived her in any way.

But Bronwyn would miss him sorely, for all her days and nights, just the same. She suspected she would always measure men against Rowan’s standard, no less that Matthew would fall well short of the measure.

That was not a promising prospect for her wedded bliss.

The door to the bathing chamber opened behind her, but Bronwyn was not prepared to be sociable. She waved a wet hand dismissively, scattering water droplets across the floor. “Leave me be, if you please,” she said in the Irish used in the household. “I would have a moment alone.”

“I have no idea what you are saying,” the object of her thoughts retorted cheerfully, and she jumped. “Though I can make a decent guess by the way you are waving your hand.”

Bronwyn sat up hastily, certain her ears played tricks upon her, She cast a glance over her shoulder, only to find Rowan closing the door, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “What are you doing here? I thought you had left.”

“You thought wrong.” He winked and shed his tabard, kicking off his boots at the same time.

“What are you doing?” Truth be told, Bronwyn was delighted to find that Rowan had lingered at Ballyroyal. She might have protested his familiarity in coming to her side here, but no sound came out.

Nay, the sight of his bare chest silenced her.

How could she have forgotten how splendidly this man was wrought? Rowan winked, then dropped his chausses, granting her a sight guaranteed to ensure her silence. He leapt across the floor, showing the muscles of his legs to advantage, even while he made a face at the coldness of the stone.

“Ye gods, I should hope that bath is mightily hot! My feet shall be as ice by the time I am in it.”

The sight of his bare flesh distracted Bronwyn and quickened
her blood. Aye, she had missed him! Pleasure surged through her that her thoughts seemed to have summoned him here, that he was not gone after all. She wondered fleetingly if there was indeed a bond between them, despite what he said—or did not say.

In the tub
?

Too late, Bronwyn realized his intent and recovered her tongue. She gasped in outrage. “You are not sharing my bath!” She retreated to the far side of the large wooden tub, but Rowan showed no signs of halting his progress.

“Whyever not? We shared the bathwater before.”

Though that was true enough, matters had changed. “But not
here
!” Bronwyn flicked a glance to the door, half expecting her father to enter and chastise them. “You must leave!”

“Selfish woman,” Rowan teased, clearly having no intention of going anywhere. “A fine deep hot bath like this and you will not share.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully as he climbed over the side, though Bronwyn could not help but note the lean strength of his legs. “I should have guessed your measure when you stole the cloak that morn.”

“You cannot do this!”

“ ’Tis too late, for I already do.” Rowan winked, then caught his breath in appreciation as he sank beneath the steaming water. His eyes drifted closed as Bronwyn sputtered, unable to find words for his audacity. His expression was one of pure bliss. “Oh, this is marvelous indeed. A bucket does not compare.” He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Have you any soap?”

“I will not share soap with you. Now get out, before someone finds you here!”

Bronwyn was not surprised to find Rowan’s expression turn mischievous. She did not miss his quick glance toward
her breasts, nor indeed the way his gaze brightened, as if her nudity was visible through the water and steam.

Aye, a cautiously exploring toe brushed against her leg.

“You are overly audacious!” Bronwyn pulled back her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “You would make trouble for me in my father’s own house!”

“Me?” Rowan pouted with mock disappointment, the merriment in his eyes unceasing. “Surely there is no need for modesty between us,” he mused, then sidled around the tub, clearly intending to bump shoulders with her.

Oh, Bronwyn knew very well what he was about! Part of her was intrigued; the rest of her knew very well that she could not indulge in temptation. Not here in her father’s home with her betrothed’s father in the hall!

She scooted away from Rowan, knowing that if he touched her, she would be lost. “Do not touch me,” she warned, less conviction in her tone that she might have hoped to hear.

“Whyever not?” Rowan’s voice was low and unhurried, as though he would tempt her to tarry with him. “We have touched afore.” He eased alongside her, but Bronwyn darted away, the pair of them circling the perimeter of the tub like a pair of dizzy crabs. The warm water swirled around her, teased into currents by their movements, the steam and the lanternlight making the room impossibly intimate.

Bronwyn was only too aware of how tempted she was.

Rowan arched a brow. “What has changed?”

“Oh, the cheek of you!” Bronwyn cried. “Everything has changed and you know it well! I am to wed Marco’s son.”

Rowan sobered and stilled as he watched her closely. “And you do not want to.”

’Twas not a question, and Bronwyn supposed there was no
doubt of her opinion, after her very public protest. She shrugged as if her heart was not hammering at his proximity and apparent concern. “ ’Tis clear that my desire makes little difference.”

“Perhaps it should,” Rowan suggested silkily, his eyes dark. “What do
you
desire, Bronwyn of Ballyroyal?”

Her heart leapt and she met his gaze, the steam rising between them and making her hair stick to her brow. The golden light of the chamber suited him well, making him look virile and mysterious, less playful than Bronwyn had known him to be. Yet there was a glint in his eyes, a hint of unpredictability that was all too familiar.