The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (27 page)

“… and you would have marked her
appearance,” the customer was saying. “She is tall and most fair,
her hair reddish brown, her eyes a pale gold like …”

Royce froze, his every muscle clenched taut
just as the man turned to look at him while finishing his
sentence.

“… topaz.”

Their gazes locked across the scant paces
that separated them. Royce’s hand tightened on the hilt of his
sword.
A rebel.
He did not recognize the blue-eyed,
sandy-haired stranger—but did the man recognize him?

Was this one of the four who had been at the
cliff? One of the traitors who had tried to kill him and Ciara in
the avalanche?

“You are looking for someone?” he asked,
trying to sound merely curious, helpful.

“I am,” the fair-haired man replied with
equal caution.

Royce saw no light of recognition in those
eyes. And something else gave him hope: if the rebels were still
searching the town, asking questions, it meant they did not have
Ciara.

“Mayhap I can help you,” he offered.

“Indeed, good sir?”

Royce managed a rakish smile. “I am well
acquainted with the women of this town.”

“The lady I seek is not from this part of
Châlons.”

“Oh?”

The man had a height and build similar to
his own, Royce noted, but looked several years younger. Experience
might give him the advantage in a fight.

“She is the daughter of my liege lord, and
has run away from a marriage she does not wish.” The sandy-haired
rebel moved away from the table. Royce noted that he kept his hand
on his sword. “We have been sent to bring her home.”

“We?”

“My comrades and I.”

Comrades.
Royce wanted to spit in
disgust.
Traitors. Assassins.
He kept his expression bland.
“Mayhap you could describe her.”
And mayhap you could tell me
how many “comrades” you have and where they are.

“Gentlemen, please.” The mandolin maker rose
from his seat, his eyes darting from one to the other, his fingers
nervously turning the small hammer in his hands. “Would you prefer
to discuss this matter outside? I have already told you, sir, that
I have never seen this lady you seek.”

That piece of information was most helpful,
Royce thought, his gut tightening into a knot. Ciara had not been
in this shop.

So where in the name of all that was holy
was she? Safely in their room?

Or in the hands of one of this man’s
“comrades”?

The rebel never took his gaze from Royce’s.
“I thank you for your help, sirrah,” he said to the proprietor. “So
sorry to have interrupted your work.” He nodded toward the door.
“Mayhap this would be best discussed outside.”

“Aye,” Royce agreed, with a smile he hoped
was more friendly than feral. He politely gestured for the stranger
to precede him.

The younger man hesitated, just for an
instant.

Then he stepped past him and out the
exit.

Which allowed Royce to fall in close behind
him. They had barely cleared the doorway when he pressed a small,
sharp knife into the rebel’s back.

“Do not call for help,” he said with soft
menace. “This blade will spill your guts in the street before you
finish the first word.”

The man froze. “What do you want?”

“I want you to keep your hands where I can
see them. And keep walking.” He nudged him with the point of the
knife. “Toward that alley.”

They reached the dark space between
buildings in only a few steps. Once within the shadows, Royce
disarmed his opponent and shoved him away. When the young fool spun
to face him, he lifted the point of the man’s own blade to his
throat.

“I congratulate you on the excellent
condition of your weapon.” He pressed it closer, drew a bead of
blood. “It is very sharp. Possibly sharp enough to take a man’s
head off in a single stroke.”

The young rebel wisely remained absolutely
still, hands raised, gaze on the sword. “Who are you?”

“I think you already know the answer to
that. I am not going to waste time playing games.”

“If it is money you want—”

“Do not pretend ignorance with me, you
traitorous bastard. The only reason you are still alive is because
you may be able to provide answers to a few questions. Starting
with how many
comrades
are here in town with you.”

“It seems there has been some
misunderstanding. I do not know what you—”

He lost the rest of his sentence in a gasp
of alarm as Royce backed him into the wall. Shifting the blade to
press the long edge against the rebel’s throat, Royce lifted the
small knife he still held, positioning it beneath the young man’s
ear.

“How many?” he demanded through clenched
teeth. “And where might I find them?”

“Threatening me will avail you naught. I can
reveal nothing. I took an oath.”

“How unfortunate for you.” He moved the
knife upward.

“Wait! You are making a mistake, I tell you.
It is all a misunderstanding. Our … our intentions are
peaceful—”

“Truly? Mine are not.” Royce smiled
humorlessly. It was amazing how quickly a man could spout creative
lies when his life teetered on the edge of a sharp blade. “Now tell
me what I want to know before I carve you a new face.”

“Karl!”

The shout came from the end of the alley.
Royce glanced over his shoulder.

And found one of the rebel’s comrades
running toward them, sword in hand.

Royce turned on his heel and yanked Karl in
front of him, keeping the sword at his throat. “Back away or this
one dies!”

That stopped the other man—a strapping blond
warrior with a longbow slung across his back.

“Back away,” Royce repeated, moving toward
the end of the alley, keeping Karl in front of him as a shield.

“Kill him and you will not leave here
alive,” the bowman replied coolly. “Your life is not particularly
important to us.”

“What a surprise. I am so deeply hurt.”

“We only wish to speak with you.” The man
made no move that would get his friend killed. “That is all we
wanted in the mountain pass.”

“Before or after you started the avalanche?”
Royce kept backing toward the street, toward freedom.

“Landers is telling you the truth,” Karl
said. “If you would listen—”

“And wait here for the rest of your
‘comrades’ to arrive? I think not.” Royce was only a few paces from
the crowds. He prepared to release Karl, planning to shove him
forward into his friend and run. “Now, I hate to cut this pleasant
rendezvous short, but I—”

He heard the sound behind him a second too
late.

Recognized the
thunk
of a crossbow
being fired at the same instant he felt the razor-sharp point of
the steel-tipped bolt bury itself in his right arm.

He shouted in pain and rage as agony shot
through his muscles. He lost his hold on the sword. And on
Karl.

He stumbled backward, into the crowd,
clutching at his blood-soaked arm, and turned to see his attacker
rushing toward him, still holding the crossbow. With the snarl of a
wounded, cornered animal, Royce drew his own sword with his left
hand.

The throng around them erupted in screams
and scattered in every direction.

Just as Ciara stuck her head out the window
of their room a few yards away.

“Royce!” Her gaze on his wounded arm, she
leaped from the window, heedless of her own danger.

“Nay!” he shouted at her. “Run!”

It was too late. The rebels had already seen
her.

Karl and Landers rushed toward her. Royce
whipped another knife from his boot, flung it with all his
strength—and sent Landers tumbling into the dirt.

He turned to face his third opponent even as
Karl reached Ciara. She screamed in fright.

But the third man was already on him,
swinging the crossbow like a war hammer, aiming a blow to the head
that Royce barely managed to dodge. He hit the ground and rolled
clear of the next blow, shouting in agony as the crossbow bolt in
his arm snapped off, the point driven deeper.

Burning in a haze of pain and fury, he
kicked out savagely with one booted foot as his attacker closed in,
landing a vicious strike to the man’s groin, sending him to his
knees. Ciara was shouting for him, mayhap fighting for her
life.

With no time to spare, he lunged to his
feet, grabbed the crossbow, and smashed the rebel over the head
with it, knocking him unconscious. He turned toward Ciara.

Karl was trying to subdue her, wrestling to
keep his hold on her—until she jammed her elbow into his gullet and
stomped sharply downward with her heel. Right onto the top of his
foot.

Karl howled in pain, taken by surprise just
long enough to let her go. Long enough for Ciara to remember the
third part of her training.

She ran for all she was worth. Straight
toward Royce.

He grabbed her hand and raced down the
street, dodging through the crowds, not pausing to look back and
see if Karl was following, if Landers or the other man had
recovered enough to give chase.

They ran until she was struggling for
breath, until he felt dizzy from loss of blood and the pain in his
arm. Unable to go any further, he led her into a thatched-roof
stable behind a small house and sank down in the hay, leaning back
against the daub-and-wattle wall, gasping for air.

She dropped to her knees next to him, her
voice tremulous. “Royce, you are hurt.”

“I know that,” he said dryly, grimacing as
he glanced down at his blood-soaked sleeve. The broken wooden shaft
of the thick crossbow bolt protruded from his upper arm, the point
buried deep in the muscle.

“Oh, Royce.” She touched his shoulder
gingerly, tears in her eyes. “I am sorry! This is all my fault. I
was gone only a few minutes, but when I returned you were not
there, and I wanted to go and search for you, but I knew you would
not want me to leave again and—”

“Ciara,” he breathed, struggling to think
clearly through the pain and dizziness. “You can explain later. We
have to buy a horse and get out of here before they find us.”

“But they know we are here and they know we
are going toward Mount Ravensbruk. How can we hope to lose
them?”

Royce stared hard at her. How indeed could
he hope to lose the rebels now?

How could he keep her safe—especially with
his sword arm injured?

There was only one answer.

“They
think
we are going to Mount
Ravensbruk, milady,” he said, barely able to believe he was saying
the words aloud even as he heard them. “Our destination has just
changed.”

“S
weet Mary,” Ciara
whispered, gazing down at the destroyed castle in the valley far
below, a light spring breeze tangling her hair. “Royce, this is
your home, isn’t it? This is Ferrano.”

She did not know what made her guess,
whether the vast size of the ruined stronghold or the fact that
Royce’s mood had grown increasingly somber with each passing hour
as they had traveled south.

When they had left Gavena last night, he had
said only that he intended to take her somewhere safe. After she
had tended his wounded arm, they had used the last of their coin to
purchase the best horse they could find—a finely boned, dappled
gray mare, smaller than Anteros but swift and used to the mountain
trails. She had carried them both all day without flagging.

Now they had halted at the top of a rise,
Ciara still perched in the saddle, Royce dismounted beside her,
holding the reins. They watched as the setting sun broke through
the clouds overhead to bathe the deserted fortress below in fiery
shades of red and gold.

“Aye,” Royce replied at last, his voice
strained. “This is—was my home.”

He tugged on the reins and led the horse
forward, down the gentle slope that flowed into a wide, shallow
vale.

The castle dominated the broad expanse of
land between two peaks, blocking what would have otherwise been an
easy passage into Châlons for any force coming from the east. Ciara
could make out an enormous keep surrounded by mural towers, in the
center of a labyrinth of walls and gates, fortified bridges and
outbuildings, all of it protected by a curtain wall and moat. The
size and majesty of this place must have once rivaled the royal
palace itself.

As they drew closer, she could name some of
the structures—garrison quarters, stables, a chapel, a mill,
falcons’ mews—most blackened by fire, many reduced to rubble.

She gathered her rough homespun cloak around
her, despite the fact that the weather had turned this morn. The
air felt warm, heavy with the promise of rain, of spring and the
new life it would bring to the mountains, but this place had known
no season but winter for some time.

Her throat dry, she glanced down at Royce,
remembering what he had told her about the surprise attack by
Daemon’s forces here, at the start of the war seven years ago.
About how his family had died that day, murdered without mercy.

She could not see his expression, but his
back was rigid, his fist clenched tight around the reins as he led
the mare into the valley. He remained silent until they reached the
edge of the stone causeway that spanned the moat.

He stopped at the foot of the drawbridge,
gazing up at the towers that flanked the gatehouse. She could hear
him breathing harshly, unevenly, as if every gulp of fresh air,
every beat of his heart pained him.

She dismounted, sliding from the mare’s back
to stand beside him, reaching out to touch him. “Royce.”

“We used to run footraces across this
bridge,” he said quietly. “Back and forth until we were breathless.
And every spring, my sisters would sit in the sun, there at the top
of that tower, and weave circlets of violets for their hair. And
for our mother’s hair.”