The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (3 page)

“Miriam?”

“Your Highness …” Miriam reached out as if
to place a comforting hand on Ciara’s shoulder, then stopped
herself.

Ciara swallowed hard, reminded again that
her place set her apart and above, isolated from everyone around
her. Even Miriam.

By law, commoners were forbidden to touch
her royal person.

Miriam clasped her hands in front of her and
glanced toward the door, as if to make sure it was still closed,
that they were still alone. Then her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Your Highness, I have served you for six years now, and I care a
great deal about your happiness. I wish you to know that you do not
have to do this.”

“Take part in the betrothal celebration?”
Ciara looked at the door with a sigh. She could still hear the
merry music of harps and drums and viols on the other side. “Nay, I
should return to the festivities. I have been gone more than an
hour.”

“Princess, I do not speak of the betrothal
celebration. I speak of your marriage to Prince Daemon.”

Ciara’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Everyone has been talking of the peace
accord. There are … rumors.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“Of loyal subjects who wish to fight on,”
Miriam whispered quickly. “Of men who are making plans even
now.”

God’s breath, it could not be true!
Ciara sat up sharply. “Nay, Daemon would crush them. He would kill
every last man at the first sign of rebellion. And punish their
women and children in the bargain. What could they hope to …” Her
racing thoughts calmed just as quickly. “Miriam, you
know
there are always rumors in the palace. They fly about and then
evaporate like mountain mist in a strong wind.”

“Aye, Your Highness. And I have no evidence
that this is aught more than male bluster. But if it is true …”
She cast another nervous look at the door. “I could spirit you out
of the castle. Now. This night. You need not marry Prince Daemon.
You need not leave Châlons at all.”

Ciara gaped at her in shock.
Escape?
The possibility dangled before her like a sparkling gem on a golden
chain, urging her to reach out and take it.

But after a moment, she slowly shook her
head, her decision unchanged. “It is for the good of Châlons and my
subjects that I go. Our people have been strained to their limits.
Our supplies are low. Our knights are exhausted”—her voice dropped
to a whisper—“and the king is undone with grief.” She shut her eyes
tightly. “We
cannot
fight on. Under the circumstances, we
should be grateful that Prince Daemon’s terms were lenient.”

“But, Your Highness, have you not heard the
tales of Daemon’s greed? His ruthlessness? It is said that he had
his own mistress stripped and beaten to death in front of his men
when she pilfered but a few coins from him.”

“Aye, I have heard.” Ciara shuddered at the
frightening image, one of many that had haunted both her waking
hours and her nightmares. A year ago, when she had heard of that
particular bit of cruelty, she had pitied Daemon’s poor victim,
pitied any woman who fell into his clutches.

Never realizing that she would soon be one
of them. His bride. Bound to him for the rest of her life.

She stood abruptly. Miriam rose with her,
dipping into a curtsy.

Ciara paced into the darkness of the room
and back again, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. It was not
the lack of a fire on the hearth that caused a deep chill to settle
over her.

She returned to the window, looking out into
the night, searching for something solid to hold on to. Something
to strengthen her resolve.

Her gaze fell on the newly repaired curtain
wall. The bronze cross gleaming in the moonlight. And she
remembered her brother’s last words to her.

I swear that Châlons will know peace and
freedom once more.

It was up to her to make his final wish come
true. She pressed her hand against the glass as if she could reach
up to Heaven and touch his face.

For you, Christophe. For you.

“My brother,” she said at last, fighting to
keep her voice steady, “gave his life for his country, Miriam.
Compared to that, is my sacrifice so great?” She stared down at the
single candle she had lit. “After seven years of war, peace has
come at last to our kingdom … and this marriage is mayhap the
only way to secure it. To end all the suffering and death, to forge
a lasting bond between Châlons and Thuringia. As my father pointed
out, our children—”

Her and Daemon’s children
, she
thought with a sickening lurch of her stomach.

“—will one day rule both countries as one.”
She could feel the darkness of the chamber closing in around her,
like the black embrace of an unseen demon. “I have no choice.”

Both of them fell into a long silence.

Miriam broke it first, in a shameless breach
of etiquette, her voice choked with emotion. “You are very brave,
Princess Ciara.”

Ciara closed her eyes, knowing she did not
deserve the praise. She was not brave. Not at all. At the moment,
she was thankful Miriam stood no nearer—else she would surely hear
Ciara’s heart pounding.

But she must not think of herself, of her
own fears … or her own happiness. She must fulfill her duty. Her
responsibility.

For the first time in her life, she must
live up to the title of princess.

“At least the journey will be enjoyable,”
Ciara said, turning to face her lady’s maid, trying to muster some
of her usual optimism. “When the wedding procession leaves at dawn,
it will be the first time I have been allowed to venture beyond the
palace since the war began. I will at last have the chance to
see
the world that I have only been able to read about since
I was twelve.” She gestured toward her book.

“Indeed, Your Highness,” Miriam said warmly.
“And mayhap we will find that Prince Daemon has changed. Thus far,
he
has
been true to his word. You and the king were well
treated during your imprisonment. And his mercenaries have been
withdrawn from our lands.”

“Mayhap victory has made him chivalrous.”
Ciara nodded, trying to believe it. “But as you said, Miriam, we’ve
a long journey ahead of us on the morrow. I must have some sleep
this night, if I am to look my best.”
To please my father
,
she added to herself. “Go and tell Alcina to prepare my chamber. I
would say my farewells to the guests and seek my bed anon.”

Miriam dipped into a low curtsy. “All will
be well, Princess Ciara. I am certain of it.” With her blond head
bowed, Ciara could not make out her expression in the darkness, but
as she rose, Ciara caught the glimmer of tears in those blue eyes.
“I will remember you in my prayers tonight, milady. Good
eventide.”

She left to carry out Ciara’s instructions,
thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

Ciara remained where she was a moment,
touched by Miriam’s concern. Then she bent down to pick up the slim
volume she had left in the corner. It fell open to a well-worn
page, a favorite poem by Marie de France called “The Nightingale.”
The gilt letters glistened eerily in the moonlight.

Drops of blood ran down and spread

Over the bodice of her dress.

He left her alone in her distress.

Weeping, she held the bird and thought

With bitter rage of those who brought

The nightingale to death, betrayed

By all the hidden traps they laid …

Straightening, Ciara paused a moment,
running her fingers over the familiar lines, words that spoke of
intrigue and betrayal. She wondered whether she should tell someone
of the rumor Miriam had mentioned. Of the rebels who might be
plotting some sort of mad counterattack against Daemon. The tale
might be mere rumor. False. Harmless.

Or it might be true.

Closing the book, she decided to mention it
to Sir Braden, one of her father’s most trusted advisers, on the
morrow before she left. He would know what to make of it. Leaning
down, she blew out the candle she had lit.

She was halfway to the door when she
realized she had left her coronet behind. Turning with a whispered
oath, she went back to the window, knelt down, and started fishing
through the rushes for it.

When her fingers finally encountered the
slim, jewel-studded circlet, she realized it had gotten dented when
she dropped it. “By all the saints,” she muttered under her breath,
trying to bend the rim back into shape. “Now Father will think me
careless as well as—”

A sound on the far side of the chamber
startled her and she froze.

Turning only her head, she peered into the
blackness, almost certain she had heard the door open. But the
chamber remained utterly dark, silent. It must have been a mouse
scrabbling through the ancient walls. Surely no one would dare
enter the king’s solar without knocking. “Is someone there?”

No one answered. And she could see no
movement in the darkness.

But even as she rose, even as she told
herself she was being foolish, she heard the sound again—and ‘twas
no mouse.

“Who are you?” she cried, backing away until
her spine came up against the hard stone of the wall. “I demand
that you answer me!”

“Do not fear, milady.”

It was a male voice. Quiet. Rasping. The
accent was that of an uneducated peasant. Her heart slowed. It must
be some servant from the feast. Mayhap the knave was inebriated and
looking for a garderobe. “Do you realize where you are, sirrah? You
have wandered into the king’s solar.”

He did not reply.

And she heard him moving closer.

Her heart started to pound again. Faster. He
stood between her and the door. The only exit. And she could still
hear music being played in the great hall.

So loud that no one would hear her if she
screamed.

“Heed me well, whoever you may be,” she
snapped, forcing any hint of fear from her voice, “do you have
any
idea who I am?”

“Aye, Princess.”

Icy claws of fear sank into her middle. Her
thoughts started to race. She slid along the wall, away from the
window, into the shadows.
What should she do?

“I am sorry for the intrusion, Your
Highness,” he murmured in that gravel-rough voice, only a few paces
from her now, close enough that she could make out his burly
shape.

“What do you want?” She felt behind her for
a truncheon, a weapon. Something. Anything.

All she had was the slender book in one hand
and the dented crown in her other.

He was almost upon her. “I am not going to
hurt you. I give you my word.”

Ciara darted past him, drawing breath to
scream. But he was faster.

He caught her and pinned her to the wall,
covering her mouth with one beefy hand.

“I am sorry, Princess.” His breath felt hot
on her cheek. “But trying to make peace with Daemon is like trying
to make peace with the plague. If we give him the chance, he will
kill us all anon. We cannot allow this marriage to take place. And
there can be no wedding … if there is no bride.”

Ciara’s lungs burned for air. Her mind
screamed in denial.
He meant to kill her.

She struggled against him, fighting with all
her strength.

He raised his other hand, revealing a long
knife that shone silver-bright in the moonlight. “Your
Highness—”

Some instinct burst through her confusion.
With a quick twist of her hand, she turned the spiky top of her
coronet toward him—and jabbed it into his side.

He cried out in surprise and pain, releasing
her mouth for one crucial instant.

“Help me!” Ciara shouted, pushing him off
with a furious shove, lunging toward the door. “Someone help—”

He was upon her before she could run two
paces. One powerful hand caught her by the shoulder and spun her
around. Screaming, she struck out at him, then saw the blade in his
other hand. She flung up her arm to ward it off.

And felt the knife bite into her, sharp and
shocking, felt it slice through skin and muscle. Felt her own
blood, hot as fire as it flowed down her arm.

Then her legs crumpled beneath her and she
was falling, blinded and deafened by terror as the rush-strewn
floor raced up to meet her. Some part of her mind was distantly
aware of the door opening, light spilling into the room, someone
shouting her name … the sound strangely faint, as if it came from
far away.

And then blackness darkened the world and
she knew no more.

O
nly a monk or a
mountain goat would willingly climb a peak such as this, Royce
Saint-Michel thought, reining his destrier to a halt at the foot of
the icy trail. Squinting in the glaring sunlight, he glanced upward
and grimaced. Despite the fact that he had been born and raised in
these Alpine slopes, he was no mountain goat.

And he was certainly no monk.

He pushed back the hood of his sable-lined
mantle, lifting one gloved hand to shade his eyes as he studied the
narrow path that twisted through the rocks. It rose at an
impossibly steep angle and vanished into the clouds. He muttered an
oath, his breath white in the bitterly cold air.

Somewhere above, his destination awaited. An
ancient abbey. A place of peace, refuge, charity, absolution.

He knew that none of those blessings awaited
him here. Had known it long before he crossed the border into
Châlons this morning.

And as he assessed the treacherous climb
with an expert eye, the knot in his gut—the one that had been there
since he left France a se’nnight ago—tightened another notch. For a
moment, he almost gave in to the impulse to turn his stallion and
leave. Forget this madness. Ignore the urgent summons he had
received.

But he had come too far to turn back
now.

His horse shifted beneath him, whickering
softly, more accustomed to action and battle than patience and
caution. Like his master.