The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (11 page)

Not spoiled, willful, and quarrelsome. And a
scholar
, of all things.

Yet Ciara had him so on edge, he could not
keep from snapping at her like a starving hound. In a single day,
she had robbed him of his reason.

And of his appetite. He could summon no
enthusiasm for the hot soup or stew or fresh bread on the table
before him, though he had not eaten since this morn.

Whispering an annoyed curse, he snatched up
the goblet of wine the innkeeper had provided, and drank a long
draught. Ciara only tempted him because she was
forbidden
to him, he decided. ‘Twas the only possible explanation.

And it was too late now to change his mind
about this mission. Not simply because he wanted to return home and
restore his family name—but because if he walked away, the people
of Châlons would pay the price.

His gentle countrymen were far better at
tending their flocks and fields than they were at warfare, and he
wanted to give them back the life they cherished. To secure the
peace that he had not secured four years ago.

Even if it meant having Ciara within arm’s
reach at all times, spending the night in her bedchamber. Every
night.

For more than a dozen nights.

He shut his eyes, wondering whether it was
possible for a man to die from unrelieved arousal. He had heard
stories, some of them gruesome.

A low groan escaped his throat. He was
doomed.

“Are you unwell?”

He opened his eyes to find Ciara standing at
the end of the corridor that led to the inn’s chambers, her head
tilted to one side, puzzlement in her eyes. He could not respond to
her question for a moment, his attention arrested by the dark blue
gown she now wore. The color only made her skin look more pale and
flawless, and without her cloak, he could see the slim, fluid
curves of her body much more clearly.

He forced himself to lift his gaze, only to
notice that the bodice dipped a bit too low in the front, revealing
the smooth skin at the hollow of her throat. And though she had
tamed her long braid, a few stray tendrils still caressed her
cheeks … as if awaiting someone’s hand to tuck them back into
place.

God’s blood, if he did not know better, he
would swear she was tormenting him apurpose. He suddenly, urgently
wanted to know what her spice-colored hair would look like unbound,
tumbling to her hips. Whether it would be smooth and silky or
tickle her back in curly waves. How it would feel in his hands if
he—

“I am quite well,” he lied. His voice
sounded dry and strained even to his own ears. “Finished with your
toilette so soon?”

“I dared not take too long,” she replied
coolly, “for I did not think you would have the courtesy to knock
if you came back to
collect
me, as you put it.”

Royce could not form a reply as she crossed
toward him. He felt grateful no one else was present—because there
could be no mistaking her regal walk and royal bearing. Despite the
badly wrinkled gown and the lack of jewels or crown or robes, she
was every inch a princess.

He would have to mention that to her. Later.
He did not trust himself to discuss the way she moved at the
moment. Fortunately, they had the keeping-room to themselves.

“Had you taken much longer,” he said,
picking up his spoon, “I would have eaten all this myself.”

“It looks as though you have hardly touched
your food.”

“I was waiting for you.” Another lie. He
refused to feel a whit of guilt.

She came to stand on the opposite side of
the long trestle table, looking at the bench he was sitting on,
which was closer to the hearth.

He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth,
wondering whether she would sit beside him. Praying she would not.
He had endured enough torment for one day.

After a moment, she sat down where she was,
arranging herself elegantly on the bench across from him.

He gulped down the hot broth, not caring
that it seared his throat. It could not match the heat that burned
lower in his body.

Especially when her scent drifted across the
table to tease his senses. She must have refreshed her perfume.
God’s teeth, had he known she carried a vial of the stuff in her
belongings, he would have tossed it into the snow with her books
and her hats. ‘Twas more dangerous than a rebel blade, that
fragrance.

It could make him lose his head.

“What is this?” Ciara bent over the bowl
that the innkeeper had left on her side of the table.

“Barley soup,” he informed her between
mouthfuls, trying to keep his gaze and his thoughts on the food.
“It may not be roast pheasant served on golden plates, but you will
find it filling.”

She sniffed at the broth while the innkeeper
came in carrying a flask and a tray.

“Good eventide, madame.” He poured wine into
her goblet. “Do you find your chamber to your liking?”

“Aye.” She bestowed one of those courtly
smiles upon him. “It will do quite well.”

“And what of the meal?”

“The food looks most tempting,” she said
cheerfully.

“My thanks, madame.” He set a platter of
dried mutton between them and headed back to the kitchen. “Call for
me if I can be of further service.”

“Thank you, good sir.”

Royce observed her over the rim of his
goblet. “So you
can
be courteous to the common folk,” he
murmured, “provided they are waiting on you.”

“Most people are deserving of courtesy.” She
daintily picked up one of the shriveled bits of meat from the tray
and took a cautious nibble. “Only a rare Mongol beast here and
there is not.”

“You must forgive my surprise. It is merely
that the innkeeper managed to bring out a Ciara l have not yet
seen. Kind, sweet-tempered—”

“Could you mayhap find some way to entertain
yourself that does not involve provoking me?” Setting the mutton
aside, she lifted a spoonful of broth. “I would greatly appreciate
it if you would allow me to eat in peace.”

“My apologies,
madame
. I shall take
the innkeeper as an example and try to remember my
place
.”

She let that remark pass without comment,
without reaction. Pursing her lips, she blew on the soup.

Which was a far better revenge than any
caustic retort she could have uttered. Royce felt a shudder pass
through his body, as if her breath had touched his skin.

He could not tear his gaze away from her
mouth. Time seemed to slow as he watched those lips parting to
taste the steaming liquid … her tongue, small and pink and
satiny, rising to cradle the hot spoon so tentatively. Something
deep inside him wrenched painfully tight.

He must have made some sound, because she
glanced up at him after she had swallowed. “Are you certain you are
well?”

“I am fine.” He reached for the bread and
ripped out a large chunk, using his bare hands instead of the knife
that had been provided.

She observed his violence against the
innocent loaf with a perplexed look. “Must you always be such
pleasant company, even at mealtime?”

“If I were you, milady,” he warned, chomping
down on the bread and biting off a mouthful, “I would choose
another topic of conversation.”

“I merely wish to understand
why
you have been in such ill humor all day. Are you concerned about
our journey? Is there something I should know?”

Aye, there is a great deal you should know.
Starting with a few creative uses for that mouth of yours, all of
which you would find more pleasurable than blowing on soup.

“The only thing I am concerned about at the
moment,” he growled, “is that you hurry up and finish your meal.”
He wolfed down the bread in three bites. “I need to get some
sleep.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then
apparently thought better of it. “As you wish.” She returned her
attention to her food. “Mayhap the morn will find you in better
spirits.”

“I would not wager on it.”

She glanced up at him from beneath her
lashes. “Do you take
pleasure
in being disagreeable?”

“I must take my pleasure where I can,” he
said with a meaningful smile that was completely lost on her.

“You seem to take a great deal of it in
being rude and contemptuous to me.” She set her spoon down with a
clatter. “You would try the patience of a saint.”

“‘Tis a gift.”

“‘Tis a most perverse trait. Never have I
met a man so wholeheartedly devoted to boorishness.”

“Ciara, eat your—”

“Nay, I will not eat my soup and I will not
be quiet. All day, I have followed your orders while you have
ignored mine. I will have no more of it. I would know what I have
done to merit this churlish treatment.”

“The fault is not yours,” he snapped. “I
will say no more.”

“Indeed? That would be a great relief. But I
doubt you will keep your word. You seem unable to keep your
opinions to yourself for longer than ten minutes at a time.”

“Take care, Ciara. If you insist on pointing
out my faults, I might be tempted to name a few of yours.”

“Do you mean I have
more
faults than
the ones you have already thrown in my face this day? Saints’
blood—”

“Watch your language, milady. One might
begin to mistake you for a
normal
woman instead of a
pampered little girl more concerned with her belongings, her
comfort, and her appearance than with—”

“How
dare
you!” she gasped. “You
ill-mannered, overgrown oaf—”

“Good eventide,” a voice called from the
opposite side of the room. “May we join you for supper?”

The sudden interruption made them both turn
toward the corridor that led to the inn’s chambers. Royce realized
only then that he was breathing hard and gripping his crust of
bread so forcefully that he had reduced it to crumbs. He had gotten
so caught up in his verbal duel with Ciara, he had forgotten to
keep an eye on their surroundings.

Forgotten that he was supposed to be
protecting her.

But by God’s mercy, the four strangers
filing in were clearly the inn’s other guests: an elderly man and
woman and two small children, all dressed in the rough,
fawn-colored broadcloth favored by lowland peasants.

“Indeed you may,” he said, sitting up
straight and giving Ciara a warning glance. “We would welcome the
company.”

The look in her eyes told him she would
welcome any company but his. She silently picked up her spoon
again.

The newcomers smiled and walked over to
share their table. “I am Nevin,” the man said, holding out his
hand, “and this is my wife, Oriel, and our grandchildren.”

Royce shook the man’s hand. “I am Royce.
This is my wife, Ciara.”

Oriel went to fill four bowls with soup from
the cauldron on the hearth while Nevin sat beside Royce. One of the
children, a boy, clambered over the bench to sit next to Ciara.
When the lad looked up at her, Royce half expected her to
recoil—the child’s face was badly scarred, as if he had been burned
in a fire.

But instead of flinching away, she remained
quite still, then smiled down at him.

Royce watched in stunned silence. It was not
the false, polite smile she usually relied upon, but a look of
genuine warmth and concern.

“And what is your name?” she asked
gently.

“I am Warran.” He pointed toward his
sibling. “This is my sister, Vallis. You are a pretty lady.”

“Thank you. What a chivalrous young
gentleman you are to say so.”

“Vallis says people are afraid of me now.
But you are not afraid, are you?” he asked in wonderment.

“Nay, Warran. I have always believed that
what a person is like on the inside is what is truly important.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some people can appear
handsome, but on the inside they are quite mean and black of
heart.”

Royce might have replied to that last
comment, but he could not stop staring in amazement as she
conversed with the young boy. Gone was the regal, remote princess
who had held herself so straight and proud in the saddle, who
flinched away from his every touch. This Ciara was relaxed,
caring.

Warm
.

The grandfather, Nevin, accepted a bowl of
soup from his wife and reached for the bread. “And where do you
come from, sir?” Frowning at the ravaged loaf, he picked up the
knife and cut a slice from the opposite end.

Royce reminded himself of the story he had
settled on earlier. Being secretive and mysterious would only raise
suspicions. “France,” he said easily. “I am a trader, come to buy
garnets.”

He still could not tear his gaze from Ciara,
who was now doing—of all things—a magic trick for the child.
Reaching behind Warran’s ear, she produced a silver coin.

“How did this come to be there?” she asked
with a smile. Placing the coin in her other hand, she closed her
fingers around it, holding out her fist toward the boy. “Can you
make it disappear again, Warran? Wave your hand over mine three
times and say ‘Be gone!’ ”

The boy complied enthusiastically. “Be
gone!”

Ciara opened her fist—which was now empty.
“Behold!”

Warran laughed with delight.

Royce blinked at her in disbelief and
realized Nevin was still speaking to him. “I am sorry, sir. You
were saying?”

“I said it will be a difficult task to find
any garnets.” The white-haired man handed some mutton to the little
girl who sat next to him. “I fear that Prince Daemon’s men left
little of value behind when they passed this way.”

“May his soul rot in hell,” his wife
whispered fiercely.

Ciara glanced at the woman beside her with a
look of surprise, “Prince Daemon’s men were here? In the
lowlands?”

“Aye,” Nevin answered. “The brutes sacked
every town. Edessa is the only one that escaped unscathed. After
hearing of what took place to the east, the villagers here
surrendered without lifting a blade.”