Claire Delacroix (142 page)

Her chamber was flooded with moonlight, a beam falling through the open window. The sounds of the evening carried to her ears, the muted rustling of insects, the occasional nicker of horses. The stars were out in abundance, and the warm breeze held the promise of rain.

But the man lying beside her, so annoyingly sure of himself, seized Bronwyn’s attention.

“You!” she managed to utter before Rowan poked something into her mouth. Her eyes widened in astonishment, but he tapped a fingertip upon her lips, his eyes sparkling.

“ ’Tis a fig, a rare treasure to find so far abroad,” he confided, the low cadence of her voice making Bronwyn’s pulse speed. ’Twas far too private here and she yearned too much for this man to trust herself alone with him.

But Rowan stretched his length out beside her, crossing his booted ankles on her fine linens, and grinned down at her. That fingertip tapped gently on her lips.

“And I know that you are too well bred a lady to waste such a luxury, no less to speak despite a mouth full of food.” His fingertip traced the outline of her lips, the way the moonlight etched his handsome features almost enough to make Bronwyn imagine she dreamed.

But dreams were not irksome in forcing one to eat figs. And dreams did not touch one’s lips with such gentle heat that one longed for more.

“And of course,” he continued with a crooked confident smile “ ’tis unthinkable that you would be so vulgar as to spit it out.”

Bronwyn made to pull the dried fruit from her mouth with one hand, but Rowan entangled their fingers, easily holding her hands above her head.

Bronwyn made a wordless of protest and struggled
against him, but to no avail. She knew he would not hurt her—it was simply that he bested her so readily that annoyed.

Indeed, the man knew her too well.

“
Ma demoiselle
!” Rowan chided, enjoying himself far too much. “I am appalled that you would even consider such a course. My own foster mother swore that a lady of merit swallowed whatever she bit, regardless of what it might be.”

Rowan leaned down and kissed Bronwyn’s earlobe, teasing her with his touch. “And I had so hoped that the lady I would take to wife might comport herself as a lady of merit,” he whispered.

Bronwyn wriggled to no avail, took one look at the mischief in his eyes, and began to chew with a vengeance. She was not his
demoiselle
, she would not wed him, and she would have her say!

“No doubt you are wondering why I have come to your chambers so boldly as this,” Rowan said easily, as if they held a conversation in perfectly normal circumstance.

There was naught normal, though, about the press of his length against her, nor the quickening of Bronwyn’s pulse at his presence. There was certainly naught normal about the tremble that spread through her when his free hand landed on her waist, nor the way she could feel the heat of his palm there despite the layers of linen between.

’Twas the toughest fig she had ever had the misfortune to eat.

She did not doubt that he had chosen it apurpose.

“But you see, if you would not come to me and hear my case, then I could only come to you.”

“Because you do not intend to lose your dare,” Bronwyn declared. She managed no more before Rowan rummaged between them, then dropped another fig into her mouth.
Bronwyn protested but Rowan grinned, his teeth flashing in the moonlight.

Then he dropped a sack upon her belly, Bronwyn’s heart sinking with certainty at its contents. ’Twas not a small sack, by any accounting. She chewed with haste, even as she knew he would best her in this.

“I intend to be heard,” Rowan declared, his voice low. “And I come prepared to keep you silent until ’tis done. You may chew quickly, or you may chew slowly, but you will hear me out.”

Bronwyn soundly cursed his determination. She heaved a sigh meant to be heard, but Rowan’s grin did not waver.

“Then we understand each other.” He propped himself up on his elbow, his gaze running over her with obvious appreciation. Bronwyn wiggled against his sure grip once more, her back arching slightly, and watched Rowan catch his breath. ’Twas encouraging that she was not alone in being acutely aware of the intimacy of this situation.

“You should not distract me so,” he murmured, his free hand falling upon her breast as she swallowed her fig. “I might forget my chivalrous intent.”

“Lust is no mark of chivalrous intent!” Bronwyn declared, winning another fruit for her outspokenness. She granted her knight a mutinous glance and chewed with vigor.

“Indeed, you have an uncommon affection for figs,” he mused. “I shall have to keep that weakness in mind that once we are wed.”

“We will not be wed,” she argued, disregarding the cursed fruit in her mouth. “And I loathe figs.”

Rowan chuckled. “Then I would advise you to chew slowly, for I am not nearly done.” He poked the bag he had brought. “And even one who adored figs would be heartily sick of them by the time all of these were eaten.”

Bronwyn laughed despite herself “You are stubborn.”

“ ’Tis a trait we have in common.” Their gazes locked and held, the moment stretching long and warm between them. “And there is that beguiling smile.” Rowan traced the curve of her lips with a fingertip, the glow in his eyes nigh stopping Bronwyn’s heart.

She thought he might kiss her, but suddenly he was unaccountably serious, his hand sliding to her waist once again. “ ’Tis not merely lust between us, Bronwyn, and you know it as well as I.”

A smile flickered across his lips as Bronwyn dared to hope. “Indeed, you probably guessed the truth of it sooner, given your greater familiarity with love. ’Tis a marvelous gift your parents granted you in creating this home so abundant in its love.”

Rowan paused for a moment, his brows drawing together, and Bronwyn did not have the heart to interrupt him. “Truly, I am more familiar with lust and its fleeting influence, and perhaps that is why I mistook my interest in you for a more base desire. ’Tis the nature of lust, though, to be readily sated.”

Rowan lifted his gaze to meet hers and she thought unaccountably of that boy who believed he was not lovable. Her heart twisted in a most unwelcome way and her hope redoubled.

“But my desire for you seems to only grow more each day,” Rowan confessed, his gaze searching hers. “And ’tis more than lust. ’Tis for more than your touch, ’tis for the simple pleasure of your company and the sound of your laughter.”

“You have a gift for pretty argument,” she said softly, wanting to believe but not daring to do so.

“Shh! I am not done.” Rowan pushed a fig into her mouth with a wink, then nodded acknowledgment. “ ’Tis
true enough, though that has had little influence with you. My foster mother always said that the truth of a man’s intent was revealed in his deeds, and there are matters you should know.”

Rowan frowned and Bronwyn waited, her heart pounding in anticipation. “Your father is disinclined to grant your hand to man who travels with troubadors, and truly, I cannot blame him for this. All these years, I considered that life ideal, having forgotten how often I was cold and hungry as a child, no less how young those I loved did die.”

Rowan cleared his throat and spoke hastily, his gaze fixed upon the sack of figs. “I have decided that to live a life unfettered is a course overrated. To that end, I have accepted a task offered by your father—that of his marshall.”

Bronwyn blinked in astonishment. “You took a responsibility? Willingly?”

Rowan clicked his tongue with mock disapproval and dropped another fig between Bronwyn’s lips. “ ’Tis not so surprising as that. A man must be prepared to work for what he desires.”

“What do you desire?” Bronwyn demanded, despite the fig. Though her words were unclear, the knight seemed to understand.

“Such manners!” he chided. “I shall make you a wager,
ma demoiselle.
Pledge to hear me out and I shall rid you of that vexing fig you loathe so very much.”

“Gladly” was all Bronwyn had the chance to utter before Rowan rolled atop her. His lips captured hers, his tongue diving between her teeth to lay claim to the fig. He released her hands and Bronwyn wrapped her arms around his neck, sensing his need for reassurance on this unfamiliar course and determined to grant it. They were on the cusp of a confession, and she hoped against hope ’twas the one she longed to hear.

After all, Rowan had accepted an obligation.

Bronwyn giggled as he made a game of fetching the fig and losing it again, drawing out their kiss in a most pleasurable fashion. When he lifted his head and chewed despite his impish grin, she laughed aloud. “You are incorrigible.”

“Ah! So much for your pledge! I shall have to take a penance for the breaking of your word.”

And Rowan kissed her again, his touch so thorough and so gentle that Bronwyn forgave him much.

They were both flushed when he lifted his head and she reached up to push the hair back from his brow, letting her fingers tangle within it. “You willingly took this obligation,” she mused, still marvelling. “Do you intend to fulfill it?”

“My word is not worth so little as that,” he teased, then sobered anew, his gaze searching his. He cupped her shoulders in his hands, bracing himself over her, his gaze searching hers. “Bronwyn, you have shown me that there is naught to fear in pledging oneself to another, naught to fear in admitting tender feelings. I would have you certain that the only treasure I seek in this match is your love in return for mine.”

Bronwyn stared at him, her heart thundering.

“I would wed Ibernia as readily as Bronwyn,” Rowan pledged. “For ’tis the lady I love, not what is linked to her name.”

Still she said naught, for she could not summon a word to her lips.

“Bronwyn,” Rowan murmured, his eyes bright. “I love you as never I imagined a man might love a woman. Will you be my bride?”

“I will not keep you like a courtesan,” Bronwyn warned, knowing full well that was not what he wanted any longer.

Rowan shook his head. “I would not be so kept. Indeed,
your father’s offer has appeal, as I have wasted a perfectly good education.”

“I will not share my spouse,” Bronwyn whispered, knowing she had to make matters clear and willing Rowan to see the strength of her feelings in this.

He sobered in turn. “And I will not share my bride.”

His sincerity could not be doubted, and Bronwyn’s heart began to sing with delight.

“Then I will wed you.” She smiled, loving the way his eyes lit with pleasure, but not quite prepared to grant him such an easy victory as this. “Indeed, I should dare you to love me for all your days and nights!”

Rowan laughed aloud. “Nay,
ma demoiselle
, the odds of failure are not nearly long enough.” Bronwyn’s heart sang as he dipped his head to kiss her and she knew she could ask for naught more than this. There was a new ardor between them, a spark that Bronwyn knew would burn for all their days and nights.

Rowan lifted his head all too soon, his expression rueful.

“What is amiss?”

“Naught yet, but soon a great deal.” At her puzzled expression, Rowan arched a brow. “Your father made it clear that a certain part of me would be forfeit”—he grimaced comically—“if I did more than talk to his beloved daughter before there was a ring upon her finger. He is protective of his womenfolk, your father.”

Bronwyn smiled, knowing that a similarly protective man was in her bed and liking that very well. “Aye, that he is. I am surprised he made no mention of a priest.”

Rowan’s expression turned thoughtful, then he chuckled. “As always, Bronwyn, you see to the root of the matter. A ring is an issue readily solved.” He pulled his mother’s ring from his finger, the band of gold catching the moonlight as he slipped it onto the middle finger of her left hand.

Bronwyn was touched that he would entrust her with such a treasure. “You are certain I should hove this token of your mother?”

“I can think of nowhere else it should be.” Rowan leaned closer, his eyes dancing wickedly. “Do you truly think a ring done will satisfy your father?”

Bronwyn smiled, liking that he concerned himself with her family’s approval. “Marriage is made in the heart, not at the altar,” she whispered. “ ’Tis what my mother always says.”

“Then our marriage is well and truly made,
ma demoiselle
” Rowan murmured, kissing her soundly. When he lifted his head, she had only a moment to note the troublemaking glint in his amber eyes.

Then the figs were tumbling beneath the linens, rolling across her flesh, and hiding in the dips of the feather pallet “Aha!” the knight crowed as he dove beneath the linens. “Fortunately for you, I do love figs. It shall be my Quest to find them all.”

Bronwyn closed her eyes in pleasure when he checked her navel with unexpected thoroughness, his tongue coaxing the heat to rise beneath her flesh.

’Twould be long before she slept this night, and Bronwyn did not care.

owan awoke to the cold edge of a knife against his throat.

The moonlight that had caressed Bronwyn’s flesh while they made love was gone, the sky greyed. ’Twas before the dawn, he guessed, and he was reassured that his lady still slept safely beside him.