The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (10 page)

“What an excellent idea. That way, when the
rebels carry you off, my sleep will not be disturbed.”

Ciara shivered. “I … I see your
point.”

Her mind and vision finally cleared long
enough for her to see the logic in what he was saying. He could
hardly guard her from a distance.

His voice gentled a bit. “The ring will help
ward off any questions or unwanted attention you might attract. The
rebels may be seeking information on your whereabouts, but no one
will think to mention a young wife traveling in the company of her
husband. If anyone asks, we will say that I am a tradesman from
France who has come here to buy garnets.”

She frowned, still holding the ring in her
palm. “Will they not wonder why you would bring your wife along on
a trading journey?”

She felt his shoulders lift in a shrug. “I
suppose they will think that you are so irresistible, I could not
live without you.”

“In other words, we will lie.”

He started to say something, then did
not.

Ciara peered down at the ring, still
hesitant. The moon was not yet bright enough for her to see it, but
her fingertips told her it was a wide, heavy band, with some sort
of raised pattern. The metal had been warm when he placed it in her
hand. He must have been wearing it against his skin.

“Princess, I am merely trying to protect
you.”

“Aye,” she said softly, “that is what you
are being paid to do.” Giving in at last, she slipped the ring onto
the correct finger of her left hand.

And noticed that it fit. It was a woman’s
ring.

Why would he be wearing a woman’s ring
around his neck?

She banished the question, told herself it
was no affair of hers. “If we are to keep my identity secret, I
suppose you had better stop calling me Princess.”

He chuckled ruefully. “Aye. Mayhap we should
choose a new name for you.” His laugh deepened. “How do you
like—”

“Ciara will do,” she said flatly, stopping
him before he could suggest something awful. “It is common in
Châlons. Many parents consider it lucky to name their daughters
after the princess.”

“Very well … Ciara.”

A warm tingle chased down her body. She
could not remember any man ever calling her by name, with no title
before it. All her life, she had been Princess Ciara, or Princess,
or Your Highness. Never just … Ciara.

Somehow it was more intimate than even the
physical closeness between them.

Especially spoken in that deep, soft
voice.

It struck her that
all
the outward
signs of her rank had now been stripped away. But instead of
feeling happy about that, she was beginning to feel terribly
…

Exposed.

“Just remember, Ciara, you are supposed to
be a commoner,” he warned as they neared the town gate. “Try to act
accordingly.”

***

She would prefer to sleep outdoors on the
grass, Ciara thought, standing in the doorway of the chamber where
she would spend the night. Or mayhap she could persuade Anteros to
make room for her in his stall.

Either would be more appealing than this …
this … she could not even think of a word for it.
Room
was
far too complimentary.

Mouth open, she followed Royce inside,
setting down her satchel. When she failed to shut the door, he
frowned and closed it securely behind them before he inspected the
chamber.

Pushing back the hood of her cloak, Ciara
watched, lifting the stubby candle the innkeeper had grudgingly
provided. The light illuminated a single pallet in one corner,
covered with a threadbare blanket, its mattress stuffed with a
scant handful of straw. A four-legged stool with one leg missing
sat beside it.

Glancing down, she realized that the floor
beneath her soft leather boots was not made of stone or wood, but
hard-packed dirt. And there were no rushes to lend the chamber
warmth, no hearth, no torches. An oily goatskin served as a rug.
Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell. There was not even a
window to provide fresh air.

Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion and
dismay pressed down on her. She had hoped for soft pillows and a
warm bed at the very least. How could Sir Royce—or rather, Royce,
she corrected—have called this a pleasant place?

No wonder the innkeeper had laughed at her
when she had inquired about a hot bath.

“This will do,” Royce said tiredly, sitting
on the bed, raising a cloud of dust.

Ciara sneezed. “Please tell me you are
jesting.” She spied a ewer of water on the floor in one corner.
Picking it up, she warily peered inside.

“So sorry if the lodging does not meet your
lofty expectations, milady.” He gave her an annoyed look. “It is
the best that a town as small as Edessa can offer. I have stayed in
worse places.” Under his breath, he added, “I have
lived
in
worse places.”

She wanted to ask him to explain that
comment, but knew he would not comply. “I suppose if we will only
be here one night …” There seemed to be a film of ice on the
water. Trying to dislodge it, she turned the ewer sideways, hoping
to find enough liquid to wash her face and hands.

Instead she was rewarded with a solid block
of ice, which slid out and shattered on the floor.

Royce started to chuckle.

Ciara wanted to cry. The crystalline shards
and Royce’s laughter were more than she could endure after this
long and trying day. She had always wanted to experience the life
of an ordinary woman, but
this
was not at all what she had
imagined.

Still, she would not give in to tears, she
thought fiercely. Nor would she give in to the urge to throw the
empty pitcher at her amused guardian’s head.

Keeping her expression neutral and her hand
steady, she held the ewer out toward him. “If you would be so kind
as to fetch some water. And find a way to make a fire so that we
may have a bit of heat.” With her other hand, she pointed at her
satchel, which was still in the doorway. “And you may place my
things on the—”

“I may?” He leaned forward, his gaze as hard
as his chiseled features. “I am not your servant, Ciara. How long
will it take to disabuse you of that notion? I will not be treated
like a lackey or a lady-in-waiting, and I have
no
interest
in playing nursemaid to a spoiled, demanding child who cannot do
the least little thing for herself.”

Startled, Ciara withdrew the pitcher,
holding it against her as if the metal might provide armor against
his barbs. Dampness burned in her eyes. She felt worn out,
frustrated, and sick of being mocked and insulted. She had phrased
her request politely. What more could he want? Could he not be the
least bit kind?

She bit her tongue to hold the questions
back, knowing there was no point in asking for the impossible.

“Very well.” Still holding the pitcher, she
walked over to the door, picked up her satchel, and carried it
inside. “I will manage on my own. If you would send in a serving
woman—”

“There are no serving women here. Only the
innkeeper and his wife.” Royce got to his feet, brushing dust from
his clothes. “If you want your skirt mended, your hair brushed, or
your royal feet rubbed, you will have to use your own two
hands.”

Ciara turned her back on him, fighting a hot
retort. She mentally recited the first ten letters of the Greek
alphabet before she trusted herself to speak. “I suppose there are
no laundresses about, either?”

“None. You will have to grow accustomed to a
bit of dirt here and there. Like the rest of us commoners.” He
moved past her, toward the door. “But your toilette can wait.
Supper is being served in the keeping-room, and I for one am
starving.”

“Keeping-room?”

“The group of tables near the entrance.
Surely you noticed when we paid for our chamber. There was a
hearth? With a soup cauldron? And platters on the tables?”

“Aye, but I do not think I should—”

“We will be perfectly safe, Ciara. There is
no one staying at the inn tonight but an elderly man and woman and
two small children. I asked the innkeeper’s wife while you were
busy pestering the poor innkeeper about a bath.”

“But I do not wish to—”

“This is not the palace, milady.” He turned
on his heel, his voice sharp. “If you want food, you will eat like
everyone else. In the keeping-room.”

She did not flinch, regarding him with her
most regal cool. “I am perfectly willing to eat with everyone
else.” She pronounced each word distinctly, enjoying his expression
of surprise. “What I was about to say—before you interrupted—was
that I do not wish to eat until
after
I have washed and
changed.”

“There is no need for that.”

“I have never worn muddied garments to
supper and I see no reason to start now.” After a pause, she added,
“You have my permission to await me in the keeping-room.”

She purposely said it like a royal
dismissal.

His jaw tightened and a muscle flexed in his
tanned cheek—and he did not obey her.

He leaned back against the door, crossing
his boots at the ankle and his arms over his chest.

“What are you …” She blinked at him in
confusion. “Not even you could be so bold as to—you are
not
staying in this chamber while I change!”

“Rules, Your Highness. Remember?”

“Nay, this I will not endure! I must have at
least
some
privacy. Can I not have ten
minutes
to
myself?”

“Ten minutes is long enough for someone to
abduct you or—”

“But you just told me there is no one but an
elderly couple with two small children staying here tonight. Our
chamber has no window. And the keeping-room is next to the inn’s
entrance. The only entrance, if I recall. No one could possibly
reach me without going past you.”

He still made no move to leave. Ciara was
grateful she no longer held the pitcher—else she surely would have
hurled it at his stubborn head.

Which would have dented a perfectly good
pitcher.

They glared at each other, neither
budging.

“Ten minutes,” he grated at last. “No more.
If you are not in the keeping-room in ten minutes, I am coming back
to collect you.” Without another word, he grabbed for the door and
left, closing it sharply behind him.

Ciara stood there shaking, unable to move
for a moment, surprised—and relieved—that he had given in.

Then she walked over to the bed and let
herself go limp, sinking down onto the mattress. The straw stabbed
at places that already felt sore and bruised, and the dust made her
sneeze. She stared down at her skirt in numb silence. Anteros’s
flying hooves had left her cream-colored gown speckled with mud,
the wind had sculpted her hair into spiky disarray, and though she
could not be certain, she was fairly sure she smelled like a
horse.

Propping her elbows on her knees, she rested
her face in her hands and gave in to a soft sound of pure misery.
Thus far, the world beyond the palace walls—the world that had
intrigued her for so long, that
looked
so beautiful—was
proving to be dirty, rough, and thoroughly unpleasant.

Much like her guardian.

Vexing, perverse man. She did not understand
him at all. The more pleasant she tried to be, the more surly he
became.

Sighing, she reached behind her, feeling for
the laces at the back of her gown, tugging at them. She had best
hurry and join him in the tavern, lest he come back and bark at her
some more.

H
e was doomed.

Royce sat alone in the keeping-room,
oblivious to the barley soup the innkeeper had placed on the table
in front of him. The fragrant steam rising from the bowl made his
stomach growl, but he barely noticed. He sat with his back to the
roaring fire, a single thought circling round and round through his
mind.

He was doomed.

And the weapon of his destruction would not
be a rebel arrow or an icy mountain pass.

It would be the scent that had permeated his
tunic and his cloak—a delicate blend of rare roses and costly
myrrh.
Her
scent.

After riding with Ciara all day, he could
not even take a breath without being reminded of her. Of how soft
she was, how light she had felt in his arms. When he had lifted her
into the saddle, she had seemed no heavier than one of her veils,
as if she were made of the same gossamer silk.

And when she had fallen asleep, she had fit
against him so perfectly, her body curving into his as if she had
been made to be there, close to him, encircled by his arms.

By nails and blood, he never should have
left the abbey with her this morn. The moment he saw her in that
chapel, he should have turned to Aldric, declared that he had
changed his mind about this mission, and walked out a free and sane
man.

Instead, he had
confidently—foolishly—decided that he could deal with her. After
all, she was merely a woman. A beautiful woman, true, but he had
known more than his share of beautiful women. He had never been a
man to deny himself life’s pleasures, and lovely female
companionship had long been one of his favorites. Even during his
mercenary days, he had rarely spent more than a few weeks without a
pretty lady by his side to amuse him, enchant him, brighten his
days, warm his nights.

They usually floated through his life like
soft petals on a spring breeze, each one delightful and different,
each much appreciated and cherished while she was with him, and
soon forgotten after she left.

Never, in all his experience, had any female
taken such quick possession of his senses. Even now, when she was
not in the room, he could not push her from his mind, could not
subdue the desire searing through him.

He dropped his gaze to the bowl of soup,
seeing his own pained expression reflected back. It made no
sense
, this intense attraction. He usually preferred women
who were sweet, warm, witty, charming.