The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (31 page)

Everyone she loved.

With naught but memories of the places and
freedom and feelings she had come to cherish. Of the man who had
shown her a whole new world. Who had opened her eyes, and her
heart.

“How long?” she whispered, still staring up
at the towers.

He did not ask what she meant, did not look
at the castle. “Another hour.”

She dropped her gaze, looking down at his
arm holding her so tight. They had not dared tempt fate by sharing
any intimacy these past three days. She had barely allowed herself
to touch him at all, except to change his bandages. “Is your arm
feeling any better?”

“The wound is healing well enough, now that
the fever has passed.”

She knew he was in more pain than he would
admit. “Royce, I …” She almost could not make herself say it. “I
could go on from here alone. You do not have to—”

“I am your guardian, Ciara, bound by my oath
and my honor to protect you until you are wed. I have no intention
of abandoning you.”

“You mean to stay until the wedding?”

“Until the last possible moment.”

She closed her eyes, rested her hand over
his. “I do not want to part either … my love …” Her voice
became dangerously unsteady. “But we both know that we must, anon.
And there could be danger for you here. When last you met with
Daemon and his men four years ago, you did not leave on the best
terms. I am afraid for you—”

“I can deal with Daemon’s men.”

“An entire castle full of them? Even with
your sword arm injured?”

“Ciara, I am not sending you into that place
alone.”

“But Royce … once we pass through those
gates, I
will
be alone. I can bear it only if I know that
you are safe.”

His voice became as soft and warm as his
breath against her cheek. “I cannot leave you yet, little one. Not
yet. Not while there is still even a moment left that we are—”

“Hold!”

The shout came from the trees on their
right. Royce yanked hard on the reins, turning the mare as he drew
his sword.

Ciara screamed, gripping the saddle as a
half-dozen men came galloping toward them. She saw at a glance that
these were not rebels. They were royal guardsmen, wearing
red-and-gold silk surcoats over black hunting garb.

Any relief she might have felt vanished when
she saw how they were brandishing their weapons.

Royce did not try to outrun them. Several
were armed with bows and arrows. “You will need no blades. We will
go with you peacefully. We are—”

“You are trespassing on royal lands,” one of
the guardsmen snarled as the riders came to a dirt-spraying halt
only paces away.

“Poachers,” another surmised as he stared at
their homespun garments. He raised his lance, aiming the gleaming
point directly at Ciara. A third man blew on a hunting horn, the
sound rising above the trees like the howl of an unholy beast.

Ciara realized they had leaped to the wrong
conclusion, did not even know she was a woman—and were ready to
mete out swift punishment. “Nay, you do not understand!” She
reached up to push back her hood.

Royce caught her hand, stopping her. “Do we
look as if we were poaching?” he demanded hotly. “We have no bow or
arrows—”

“Discarded, no doubt, when you saw us
coming.” One of the guards grabbed the mare’s reins.

Another disarmed Royce. “On the ground,
thieves.”

“Before I run you both through,” the man
with the lance threatened.

Ciara shook off Royce’s restraining hand,
shoved back her hood. “You are making a mistake! I am Prince
Daemon’s betrothed!”

The guardsmen all froze, gaping. Royce
swore.

Then one of the guards laughed. “And I am
King Stefan,” he scoffed.

A chill snaked down Ciara’s spine. Too late
she realized her error—she had no way to prove her identity. They
thought she was a thieving peasant, lying to save herself. “B-but
it is the truth! I am Princess Ciara of Châlons and this is—”

The tip of the lance pressing against her
middle cut off her words. The man holding it leered at her. “Mayhap
we shall enjoy a bit of sport before we hang this one.”

One of the others dismounted, leaving his
weapons as he came toward her. “Off the horse, my lovely.”

Ciara’s heart hammered in her chest. She and
Royce were going to die. Here at the foot of Daemon’s castle. After
all they had survived, she was going to be raped and they were both
going to be killed.

Royce slipped his arm from around her waist.
“Do as he says, Ciara,” he ordered in a low voice.

“But Royce—”

“Do as he says,” he repeated, deadly
calm.

His tone gave her no choice. She awkwardly
swung her right leg forward, up over the mare’s neck, and slid from
the saddle. Felt all six pairs of eyes on her as she dropped to the
ground.

Which was apparently what Royce had been
counting on—for he suddenly burst into action. Lunging forward, he
seized the lance with both hands and yanked hard, pulling the man
who held it from his horse.

Jerking the weapon free, Royce swung it
sideways with a grunt of pain, catching the guard on the ground a
solid blow across the back of the head before the man could reach
Ciara.

Grabbing his shield, Royce tossed the lance
to her but she dropped it, utterly taken by surprise. She snatched
it from the ground as he leaped from the saddle. He placed himself
between her and the other four men, taking a sword from the one who
lay groaning on the forest floor.

“The lady is telling the truth,” he snarled,
keeping the shield raised as he backed through the trees, away from
the guardsmen who were spitting curses and drawing their swords.
“We are from Châlons and she is Daemon’s betrothed. In the spirit
of peace, I would prefer to avoid killing any of you—but if you
dare touch even the toe of her boot, you will answer for it with
blood.”

Trying to look brave instead of terrified,
Ciara raised the lance to ward off the men who had dismounted and
were advancing on them.

“Try the other end, Ciara,” Royce advised
calmly. “The pointy end is more effective.”

With a squeak of dismay, she realized she
had been holding it backward. So much for looking fearsome. She
turned the heavy weapon around, her heart pounding a panicked
race.

The guards spread out, preparing to come at
them from several directions at once. And the two Royce had knocked
to the ground were getting to their feet.

Royce backed her into a tree, positioning
himself in front of her. “I suggest all of you think carefully
before you make any more mistakes,” he snapped. “Your prince is not
known to be a forgiving sort.”

The guards were too angry to pay him
heed.

Ciara screamed in terror as all six closed
in at once and Royce stepped forward to meet them with shield and
sword raised.

But before more than two or three blows
could be struck, the thunder of hoofbeats and the yelping of hounds
echoed through the trees. The rest of the hunting party rode into
view.

“What is this, Gilroy?” an angry voice
called out as a score of riders surrounded the combatants. “Why
have you interrupted the hunt?”

Ciara took him to be the falconer, for he
carried a huge bird of prey on his arm—and he was apparently a
person of some importance, for the guardsmen lowered their weapons
and turned to face him.

She rushed to Royce’s side, but he warned
her away with his eyes. The look stopped her, made her keep her
distance as if a tree had suddenly fallen between them. She
understood his message as clearly as if he had said it aloud: she
dared not touch him.

They could not allow any trace of their
feelings for each other to show.

“Your Highness, we caught these two peasants
…”

Ciara gasped, the rest of the guard’s words
dissolving in a strange buzz that filled her ears as she turned to
stare up at the man holding the falcon. As if in a dream, a
nightmare, time itself seemed to stop.

Your Highness.

She noticed only now that the guards were
all dropping to one knee and bowing to him.

Holy Mary, Mother of God
.

He was dressed like the others, in black
hunting garb with heavy gauntlets and a fur-lined cape. Yet this
was the man responsible for the seven years of killing and
destruction that had been visited upon her country. For the murder
of Royce’s family.

For Christophe’s death.

She felt as if she had turned entirely to
ice. He did not look like a warrior—slender, his face youthful,
almost handsome. He could not be much older than Royce, though his
brown hair was streaked with gray.

But his silvery eyes were as cold as a
mountain peak in midwinter. And the way his upper lip curled in a
permanent sneer made him look as if he disdained everything and
everyone around him.

When he spoke, there was no mistaking his
identity.

“More mewling peasants trying to fill their
bellies by poaching from my forests?” He looked at Royce, then at
her. “Kill them.”

Ciara felt all the blood drain from her
face, stricken and outraged by the way he could so easily order the
deaths of two people he thought were his own subjects. She stepped
forward. “Prince Daemon, I am—”

Those colorless eyes fastened on her. “Who
is this wench who dares approach me with a weapon?”

Ciara realized that she still gripped the
lance in her hand. “I am not a wench. Nor am I a peasant or a
poacher.” She threw the spear aside but stood her ground. “I am
Princess Ciara of Châlons.”

If she had claimed to be the pope, he could
not have looked more surprised.

“She speaks the truth, Your Highness,” Royce
said, throwing aside the sword he had stolen from the guard. “We
have come from Châlons, sent by King Aldric himself.” He lifted the
shield he held. “Mayhap you remember me.”

Daemon tore his gaze from her just long
enough to study Royce’s face—and the family crest on the shield.
“Ferrano,” he bit out, his eyes widening in recognition. “How in
the name of Christ did you come to be here? How is it even possible
that Aldric let you live? If any of my emissaries had done what you
did four years ago, I would have fed him to my royal hounds.”

“Fortunately for me,” Royce replied coolly,
“my king is a more lenient man.”

Daemon made a sound of derision and turned
to stare at Ciara again. “And you … nay, you could not be my
betrothed. She is to arrive on the morrow. My couriers told me only
this morn that the wedding procession is yet a day’s ride
distant.”

Ciara glanced at Royce, struggled to find
words. What would happen to them if she could not convince
Daemon?

The guards still stood eager to tear them
both to pieces.

“My father feared for my life,” she
explained, turning back to face the sneering prince. “I was
attacked in our palace. You must have received word of that—”

“Aye. The work of the rebels,” he said with
distaste.

She nodded. “My father thought it too
dangerous for me to travel in the wedding procession, so he had
another take my place, and sent me here in secret by a southern
route. Through the mountains, with”—she remembered at the last
second to speak impersonally—”this man to serve as my escort and
protector.”

Daemon lifted an eyebrow and stared down his
long nose at her, studying her face, which was grimy from the day’s
travel, and her masculine garb, which was in little better
condition. “You will forgive me, wench, if I find it difficult to
believe you are a princess.” He flicked a glance at Royce. “What
sort of trick is your king playing this time, Ferrano?”

“It is no trick.” Royce’s jaw clenched. “The
only ones who have been tricked are the rebels who sought to kill
Her Highness before she could fulfill the agreement King Aldric
made with you.”

“Ah, the agreement.” As if that had given
Daemon an idea, he looked over his shoulder, flicking a hand to
summon one of the other hunters forward. “If you are who you claim,
milady
,” he said sarcastically, returning his attention to
her, “you will no doubt recognize this man.”

Ciara stared up at the bearded, grizzled,
portly man who came to the front of the group of riders.

It was one of the emissaries Daemon had sent
to settle the terms of peace with her father, more than three
months ago. “Aye, of course I remember him. He is …” She
desperately searched her memory for the name. “Sir William Cameron,
minister of your treasury.”

Daemon squinted at her in disbelief.
“Cameron,” he asked slowly, “is this indeed the princess?”

The older man dismounted from his horse,
puffing from the exertion, and walked over to look at her more
closely. His bushy eyebrows knitting together, he examined her face
as he might examine a ledger of accounts.

Then he nodded emphatically. “Aye, Your
Highness,” he said in his distinctive Scottish accent, “ ‘tis
indeed King Aldric’s daughter.”

Ciara managed a tremulous smile. “So good to
see you again, Sir William.”

Daemon recovered quickly from his shock.
“You will forgive me, Your Highness,” he said with smooth, courtly
charm, “if I was taken by surprise by your unexpected and”—he
glanced at Royce—“unorthodox arrival. It would seem you have
endured a terrible ordeal. But I am pleased that you have arrived
safely.” He gestured for one of his knights. “Dalian, escort Her
Royal Highness to the palace, and order the servants to see that
she is made comfortable.”

The knight rode forward, extending a hand to
lift her onto his horse, but Ciara backed away a step. “Wait, I
…”

Suddenly afraid, she turned to look at
Royce.

His gaze met and held hers, but he made no
move, no gesture. Gave no outward sign of what must remain, now and
forever, secret.