The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (26 page)

Or rather, she was trying to accept it.

Trying to be the dutiful, responsible
princess she was supposed to be.

Her throat tightened as she gazed at him in
the pale light of dawn. He lay on his side, his chiseled features
relaxed in sleep, his sword not far from his hand. The warrior at
rest. Except for a stray lock of dark hair tangled over his
forehead that ruined the image, adding a hint of boyish charm,
making him look so sweet. Almost innocent. A wave of tenderness
stole over her.

Tenderness and this other, stronger feeling
that she had been resisting for some time now. The one she did not
want to explore or even acknowledge.

Because it was destined to end, and
soon.

Silently, she slipped from the bed, wrapping
herself in a sheet, and crept over to him. They had been doomed to
part even before they met, she and this dark swordsman. Their
destinies had been decided by forces much larger and more important
than the happiness of one woman and one man.

And now they had but a few days left
together, a mere handful of hours.

Unable to resist a single stolen touch, she
brushed the hair from his forehead with her fingertips. And felt
her heart turn over as the gold ring on her hand glimmered in the
dawn light.

She had almost forgotten she was wearing the
wedding band, she had grown so accustomed to its weight on her
finger. It had come to seem a natural part of her. So right. So
real.

With her hands no longer bandaged, the
engraved circle of metal caught and reflected the sun. Kneeling in
the rushes, she remained there by his side, indulging in a brief,
sweet fantasy….

How wonderful it would be if the ring were
truly hers, if she were Royce’s wife.

How it would feel to wake beside him each
morn, to share his life, ease his pain, know his joy. To let him
tease her. Let him love her. To be free to love him in return, in
every way a woman could love a man.

To carry his children inside her, just
beneath her heart.

She lifted her hand to her mouth to hold in
a soft sound of yearning, of anguish—and she saw, remembered, the
ring’s inscription for the first time in days.

You and no other. The heart conquers
all.

Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision.
The words seemed to mock her, the first part true … the second
impossible.

Impossible for her. For them.

She rose, forcing herself to turn away from
him, from all the dreams she dared not dream. More than ever, she
knew she had to carry out her duty and fulfill the betrothal
agreement. Not only for her country, her people, and her father,
not only to ensure peace and to honor the memory of her
brother.

But for
him
, for Royce. Only when
their journey ended safely and she was wed to Daemon could Royce
reclaim his lands, his title, his family name and honor. She could
not share his future, but she could give back to him what he had
lost in the past.

She could help him return home.

With quiet steps, she moved to the ewer and
basin on the corner table and dampened a cloth to wash the tears
from her cheeks. She tried to set aside her melancholy thoughts and
resolved that she would not waste the time she had left with him.
She would cherish every moment, every memory the next few days
might bring.

Quickly performing her morning ablutions,
she donned the leggings and tunic Royce had purchased for her
yesterday. Both garments were large and loose enough to conceal her
feminine shape, the brown homespun material scratchy against her
skin. It was the first time in her life she had ever worn masculine
garb. A few days ago, she would have been shocked at the very
suggestion, but now it did not seem outrageous to her at all.

Not compared to some of the other things she
had done recently.

Blushing, and banishing that thought, she
plaited her hair. It did not take long, for ‘twas much shorter than
it had been.

Royce had brought her a small looking glass
from the market square yesterday, and she had squeaked in dismay
upon viewing the damage to her formerly waist-length tresses. His
pickax had not created a particularly becoming style.

He had apologized again and loaned her one
of his small, sharp knives so that she could even the ends. Her
hair barely touched her shoulders now.

Finished with her braid, she tiptoed back to
the bed, putting the sheet back in place, straightening the
blankets and the fur coverlet.

And wondered how she and Royce would pass
the time today.

Sitting on the newly made bed, she drew her
knees up under her chin, looking at him again. Feeling her heart
beat too fast. Last evening, they had filled the awkward silences
with talk of the weather, the kinds of shops he had seen in the
marketplace, the fact that the innkeeper seemed a kindly sort.

And Anteros. Royce was as worried about his
destrier as she was about her puppy. He hated that he would
probably never know the brave stallion’s fate.

Ciara felt a sad smile curve her lips. It
was so like Royce to worry about his horse and to speak of his
concern openly. He had to be the most softhearted, expressive man
she had ever met.

Not traits one would expect to find in such
a battle-hardened warrior.

Certainly not traits
she
had expected
to find when she first saw him in the abbey’s chapel.

Had it been only days ago?

She shut her eyes, remembering the scars she
had seen on Royce’s chest and arms and back. Marks that bespoke how
many battles he had fought, how much pain he had been forced to
endure in his lifetime. Yet instead of becoming cold or cynical, as
some men did when surrounded by death and violence, he remained
kind and honorable and …

Noble.

Despite all that had been taken from him,
Royce Saint-Michel remained a true
noble
man. Far more so
than the prince who would be her husband.

A noise outside the window distracted her.
Sneaking over to unbar the shutters, she opened one just a crack to
peek out. Daylight sliced in, blinding her for a second, but then
her eyes adjusted and she could see that the narrow streets were
crowded with peddlers and peasants and carts laden with goods.

It must be the weekly market day. She had
read about such things: free farmers and serfs who had surplus to
sell came to offer meat and cheese, grain and livestock to the
townsfolk, while itinerant peddlers sold salt, tools, firewood,
shoes, and other necessities. The town gates must have opened at
dawn. At the moment, each vendor was scrambling to claim the best
space to erect his stall.

The town’s craftsmen were also opening their
workshops to customers, folding down the hinged panels over their
windows to form display tables, piling them with tempting arrays of
goods meant to lure customers inside.

Ciara wished she could persuade Royce to
take her outside for a quick visit to the shops. They could both do
with some fresh air after being cooped up so long in this room. But
she knew he would never allow it.

She was about to close the shutter when she
spied an irresistible temptation, directly across from their
window, only a few paces away: a silversmith’s shop, its display
table glittering with brooches and baubles …

And one item that she simply had to have for
him.

She bit her lip, an idea forming in her
mind. Nay, she could not. ‘Twas too reckless. Outrageous …

Then again, those two words no longer
deterred her as easily as they once might have.

It would only take a moment, she reasoned,
peering out at the silversmith’s shop. And she was dressed as a
boy. Concealed beneath the hooded cloak Royce had bought for her,
she would be completely disguised. And she would be back before he
even stirred from his sleep.

The decision made, she moved from the window
to quickly don her boots and the cloak, pulling the hood close to
hide her face. She paused only long enough to take a few marks from
Royce’s coin purse on the table.

Then she stole back to the window, opening
both shutters, her heart thrumming with excitement and a little
fear. Pulling herself up onto the wooden sill, she glanced back
once, making sure Royce had not noticed.

And slipped out into the bustling
street.

***

The flood of sunlight on his face woke
Royce, made him groan and throw an arm across his eyes to block it
out. He came to awareness slowly, resentfully, for he did not want
to leave behind the dream that had enveloped him in a pleasant
fog.

A dream of a keep, familiar and yet strange,
of a great hall with a roaring fire and Ciara by his side, their
children playing nearby. A young girl with her mother’s golden eyes
and bright smile, and a small boy, just learning to walk, with
black hair like his.

It had been so vivid, it took Royce a moment
to remember where he was. As reality seeped in with the sun, he
remained still, eyes shut, wishing he could recapture the
dream.

But it was gone.

And as it faded, he felt empty. Gradually
opening his eyes, he let his arm drop to his side and remained on
the floor. He could not bring himself to look toward the bed. To
see her there, so close to him, yet so impossibly beyond his
reach.

He had decided this would be their last day
here. Tonight they would continue their journey under the cover of
darkness, at least until they were safely away from the town. After
that, they would either have to risk traveling by daylight—or risk
dying at the bottom of a crevasse or a cliff.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his
palms, hating that he was being forced to choose between such
deadly alternatives. But there was no other way out of here. None
that would guarantee Ciara’s safety.

Except for one. An insane idea that had
occurred to him last night as he watched her sleeping. In truth, he
did
have one sure way to keep her safe from the rebels.

He could give them what they wanted: take
her away from Thuringia, from Mount Ravensbruk. From Daemon and her
wedding. She would be safe if he changed directions and took her
far away with him.

He sat up, gritting his teeth, recognizing
the true motives behind that mad plan. The impulse was selfish,
impossible, unthinkable. He could not simply steal Aldric’s
daughter and disa—

As he glanced at the bed, his thoughts
stilled abruptly.

Because Ciara was not in it.

The sight of the unoccupied covers, so
unexpected, held him paralyzed for an instant. Just long enough for
his heart to pound a single, horrified thud.

Then he sprang into motion, jumping to his
feet, snatching up the sword. The rebels! How could he have slept
through—

His looked at the window, noticed the wooden
bar on the floor. Knew that his first guess had been wrong.

The shutters had not been smashed from
outside but unlocked and opened from the inside. He realized, too,
that the bedclothes had been neatly tucked in place—not left
rumpled, as they would be if she had been snatched from her
sleep.

And her boots and the garments he had bought
her were missing.

He stalked to the window, already filled
with dread.

It was market day, the streets jammed with
peasants and peddlers shouting their wares, housewives and servants
haggling over bargains, beggars pleading for alms. As he stared
into the crowd, fear tore at his heart. Ciara could be
anywhere.

What could have possessed her to venture out
in such a throng? Had the woman lost her senses?

Did she not remember that there were men out
there who sought to kill her?

Ice trickled down his spine. “By nails and
blood, Ciara,” he choked out under his breath, already turning to
grab his homespun cloak and his weapons. “Where the devil are
you?”

Muttering every curse he knew, he returned
to the window, wondering whether any woman could possibly make it
more
difficult for a man to protect her. He pulled himself
up onto the sill and leaped out.

An hour later, he was still searching the
streets and alleyways, stopping at every stall and shop. He had
begun his search in those establishments offering musical
instruments and books for sale, but he had found no trace of
her.

What else would Ciara have been tempted to
buy? Stepping out of a perfumer’s workshop, he squinted in the
bright light and moved into the bustling street, his pulse
unsteady.

She could have been found by those searching
for her.

She might be dead already.

Shoving that possibility to the back of his
mind, he pushed through the throng, heading back toward the inn,
praying every step of the way. Mayhap she had merely gone out for a
moment and returned. And he would find her waiting for him, sitting
on the bed, smiling at her own audacity, eyes sparkling with
delight over her adventure.

If so, she would be treated to the
tongue-lashing of a lifetime.

Before he kissed her breathless.

Mayhap
after
he kissed her
breathless.

He hurried past fishmongers offering the
latest catch from mountain streams, women struggling to balance
laden baskets on one hip and babies on the other, peddlers
extolling the virtues of their spices, fabrics, dyes, candles, or
meat pies. Rounding the last corner, he came to the street where
the inn was located. He almost reached their room when he noticed a
shop he had not seen earlier: a tiny place with no sign to
advertise its wares—only a single mandolin displayed by the
door.

Of course.
If Ciara had peeked out
their window and seen that, she would have found it impossible to
resist. Royce headed straight for the shop and darted through the
door.

Inside, he found the proprietor seated at
his worktable amid a clutter of tools and wood, already engaged in
a discussion with another customer, a well-dressed man who stood
with his back to Royce.