The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (13 page)

“Nay, Ciara, you cannot blame yourself.”

“I should have known what to do. I should
not have run to him. He died trying to save me!”

Royce felt an almost overpowering urge to
take her in his arms, to comfort her, soothe her.

He fought it by turning his back and pacing
away. “Daemon and his mercenaries killed him, Ciara. Not you. Your
brother gave his life for a cause he believed in, for the country
and the people he loved.” When he reached a safe distance, he
turned, locking his gaze onto hers. “I knew him well, milady. And I
know he would not have wanted it any other way.”

She did not reply, did not argue, simply
sank down onto the pallet, as if exhausted. Emptied.

He stared at her in silence, sensing that
this was the first time she had ever admitted her true feelings to
anyone. Mayhap even to herself.

And for reasons he did not understand, did
not want to examine, he felt a need to ease her sorrow. Her
loneliness. He knew from experience that such a deep loss could
never truly heal.

But a bit of gentleness might help.

“I am sorry about your brother,” he said
softly. “I should have expressed my sympathies earlier, Ciara.
Christophe was a good man. And a good friend.”

She nodded, her gaze still downcast. “He
would have made a good king one day.”

“Aye.” Royce’s own grief made his throat
tighten. “One of the finest Châlons ever knew.”

She closed her eyes, as if lost in some
memory. “There is something I should have told you earlier as
well.” She took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with trembling
fingers. “I … I am not sure why I did not.”

“No doubt because you were ready to push me
off the nearest cliff.”

The barest hint of a smile tugged at her
mouth, as if he had guessed correctly. “Mayhap.” She folded her
hands in her lap. “It is something my father told me, at the abbey
before you arrived. He said that if my brother were still alive …
“ Her voice faltered, but only for a moment. “He said that
Christophe would have been the one to escort me to Thuringia. But
with Christophe gone, you were the only other man he would ask to
be my guardian. The only one he could trust.” She lifted her gaze
to his. “The only man he would want to take Christophe’s
place.”

Royce swallowed hard, moved that Aldric
still felt such esteem for him, in spite of everything. Moved and
astonished—for when they had talked at the abbey, the king had
hidden his feelings completely.

By nails and blood, mayhap Ciara was not the
only member of the royal family he had judged too harshly. “Thank
you for telling me.”

“You were my brother’s best friend,” she
said simply. “Christophe thought very highly of you. My father does
as well. I … I thought you should know.”

Nodding, he reclaimed his seat before the
door, watching her, feeling as if he were truly meeting her for the
first time. Feeling guilty that he had been so quick to condemn her
today. He had accused her of being spoiled and childish, but in
truth she was merely sheltered, inexperienced. He had thought her
uncaring when in fact she possessed more warmth and kindness than
many of noble birth.

Mayhap, he thought with chagrin, it was
his
attitude, not hers, that needed changing. “Tell me,
Ciara … where did you learn to perform magic?”

“From my father, when I was small.” Her lips
curved in a wistful smile. “The trick with the disappearing coin
was always my favorite. While young Warran was observing my left
hand, I slipped the silver into his pocket with my right. I think
he will be pleased when he discovers it there later.”

She picked up the cloak and blanket she had
tossed aside earlier in her heated burst of fury, and her smile
faded. A hint of color darkened her cheeks. “I am sorry that
I—”

“Nay, do not apologize for your anger,
Ciara. You are not at the palace anymore. No one will think ill of
you for acting like—”

“A normal woman?”

He winced, regretting the heedless insult he
had flung at her earlier. “For being yourself,” he corrected. “You
are wearing no crown at the moment, milady. You need not fear that
people will judge you.”

“That is all you have done since we met,”
she pointed out quietly. “Judge me.”

Guilt made him want to look away, but he
forced himself to hold her gaze. “You are right. I have.” He made
no attempt to defend himself, calmly accepting her censure. “I am
sorry, Ciara. It was wrong of me.”

She stared at him in disbelief, as if an
apology was the last thing she had expected. The silence stretched
between them, filled only by the crackle of the torch and the
brazier.

She finally broke it, blinking as if she
were coming out of a trance. “And
I
am sorry if I have
treated you like a servant today. I am so accustomed to dealing
with royal retainers that I … it is not easy for me to adjust to
taking orders rather than giving them, but I …”

“We will both try to be more accommodating,”
he finished gently. “And since we will press on at first light,
milady, I suggest you get some sleep.”

She nodded, drawing her feet under her and
curling up on the bed. “I only hope we do not freeze tonight.” She
wrapped herself in the cloak and blanket, shivering. “I do not
suppose there is any way to make it warmer in here.”

“Not unless you care to share your
pallet.”

He regretted the words the instant he said
them, not only because the suggestion made her gasp instead of
laugh—but because it made him think of how very pleasant it would
be to share a bed with her.

“I am teasing,” he amended quickly.

“Oh.” She looked relieved, but still a
little wary. Apparently being teased was a foreign notion to
her.

“I gave you my word, Ciara. You may trust
me.”

“Aye, you did.” The reminder seemed to
satisfy her, for she lay down at last, drew the covers close, and
shut her eyes. “Good night to you, Royce.”

It was the first time she had called him by
name—at least without disdain or ire in her tone—and for some
ridiculous reason, it made him smile.

Standing to snuff the torch, he fought the
foolish grin, told himself he should not be happy. It would be far
easier to keep his distance from those exquisite lips and tempting
curves if he and Ciara were at each other’s throats.

Mayhap that was what he had been doing all
day:
looking
for reasons to dislike her. Building a
barricade of hostility and derision bristling with sharp points of
sarcasm.

But she had just struck a gaping hole in his
defenses.

And he had allowed her to slip inside and
make a tentative truce between them.

Gray smoke from the doused torch circled
around him as he tried to make himself comfortable in front of the
door, feeling uneasy. He did not like the fact that her pain struck
so readily at his heart, made him want to reach out to her with
more than words. Or the fact that he was already thinking of how he
might make up for the insults he had hurled all day, to show her
that she was not helpless or useless.

He had been far more comfortable thinking of
her as a haughty and pampered princess than as a woman—a complex
and vulnerable woman.

Gazing at her across the room, he realized
she was already asleep, her breathing deep and even. It made his
heart thud in his chest that she trusted him so easily.

He wished he could trust himself so
well.

Unsheathing his sword, he placed it close at
hand—not because he feared the rebels might attack this night, but
because the gleaming length of newly sharpened steel reminded him
of his duty. His promise to protect her, to keep his behavior
perfectly chivalrous. To deliver her to her betrothed
untouched.

He had given his word of honor to her
father. And to her.

But even as he remembered the vow, repeated
it in his mind word by word, he could not take his eyes from the
graceful curve of her cheek. Her long, black lashes were like
smudges of night against her moon-pale skin.

The handfuls of cinnamon curls spilling over
the edge of the bed made his fingers tingle with longing.

Had anyone ever told her that she was a
beauty? He doubted it. Aldric was not the sort to offer
compliments, even to his loved ones. And by the time she had
blossomed from child to woman, Christophe had been occupied
elsewhere, learning to become ruler of the realm. And no courtier
or commoner would have dared speak to her about a matter so
personal as her appearance.

She was as innocent as a woman could be, he
thought. No man had ever kissed her, or touched her, or even told
her that her lips were perfection, her scent beguiling, her hair
like copper and gold spun together …

And he would not be the first. Clenching his
jaw, he forced himself to look away. God’s blood, if he was going
to survive the next fortnight, he would have to stop tormenting
himself. From now on, he resolved, he would not think of her as a
woman at all, but as a precious object placed in his care. A
package to be delivered to Thuringia.

He whispered a curse, realizing only now why
Aldric had chosen him to be Ciara’s protector—not only because of
his loyalty to Châlons, or the sense of honor and chivalry that had
been bred into him. Or even because the king trusted him and held
him in high esteem.

But because Aldric had known that he would
not break his word. Not this time. Not after what had happened
during the peace negotiations four years ago.

Not even if it meant death by slow
torture.

***

The midday sun felt warm on Ciara’s
shoulders as she sat in the grass, her back against a tree. A few
feet away, Anteros grazed placidly, and a few feet beyond the
destrier, Royce leaned one shoulder against a towering pine, his
attention on the slopes that stretched above them. After riding all
morning, they had stopped to rest in the trees that fringed the
foothills of the eastern range.

Despite the fact that Royce had allowed her
to sleep well past dawn, Ciara still felt restless and unsettled by
what had happened last night. She was not sure which bothered her
more: her outburst or his unexpected reaction. He had not shouted
back at her or mocked her. Had not chastised her as her father or
one of her tutors would have done. He had been understanding. Even
more surprising, he had been …

Kind.

She tilted her head to one side, studying
him while he stood there, as rigid and silent as the trees around
him, the sun glinting off his thick black hair. He was truly a
puzzle, this knight who was not a knight. When she had awakened
this morn, she had found herself covered with his sable-lined
cloak. Touched, she had thanked him for sacrificing his own comfort
so that she might be warm. But he had insisted he was merely doing
his duty.

The possibility that he had been kind seemed
to trouble him, almost as much as it troubled her. It was humbling
to realize she had been hasty in her judgment of him. That she had
been mistaken to think Royce Saint-Michel a black-hearted and
mannerless barbarian.

She dropped her gaze to the ring on her left
hand, turning the gold band on her finger. By daylight, she had
finally been able to make out the raised lettering. It consisted of
four words in French, followed by three in Latin: VOUS ET NUL
AUTRE, COR VINCIT OMNIA.

You and no other, the heart conquers
all.
She glanced from the band of gold to the dark swordsman
who had given it to her, wondering how he had come by the ring. It
looked quite old, and ‘twas clearly made to fit a woman’s slender
finger. And he had been wearing it around his neck. Over his
heart.

Was it a family heirloom?

Or a token of love from some fair maiden he
had left behind in France? Some lady who eagerly awaited his
return?

Ciara could not understand why that
possibility irritated her. Frowning, she folded her hands in her
lap and looked back over the lowland plain they had crossed this
morn, reminding herself that his life in France was none of her
affair. He had been clear that he did not wish to discuss his
past.

Besides, it should not matter to her where
the ring had come from or what it meant to him. Prince Daemon would
soon replace it with a real wedding band.

One that would bind her to him unto
death.

She shut her eyes, bleak images of her
future settling over her like dark clouds filled with bone-chilling
rain …

“Ciara?”

Startled, she opened her eyes to find Royce
standing before her. “I am sorry, did you say something?”

“I asked whether you were all right. You
looked as if you were in pain.” He reached down to help her to her
feet.

When he clasped her hand, she felt again
that strange warmth that seemed to heat the air around her. It
chased away the thoughts of Daemon—and made it difficult to think
at all.

Confused, she withdrew her hand quickly. “I
am fine. Is it time to ride on so soon?”

He regarded her with a curious expression,
but allowed her to change the subject. “Soon. I thought I might
first show you something. Or rather, teach you something.”

“Teach me something?” She furrowed her
brow.

“A skill you cannot learn from books. One I
doubt your tutors ever thought necessary for you to learn.”

She was intrigued. “What sort of skill?”

“How to defend yourself.”

She blinked, waiting for him to laugh, but
he appeared completely serious. She looked at him askance. “You are
teasing me again.”

“Nay, I am not.”

“But I cannot possibly learn to
fight
.” She pointed to his sword, which hung from Anteros’s
saddle. “I could not even lift a blade. I am not strong
enough.”

“You do not need a weapon. And you are
stronger than you know, milady. That is what I mean to show you.”
He took off his cloak and cast it aside. “Even if you are faced
with an opponent much larger and heavier than you, you need not
feel helpless.”