The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (40 page)

Royce looked up to find Karl and the other
rebels rushing toward them. Saw that Mathias had things well in
hand at the entrance.

Without another second’s hesitation, he
turned and ran up the spiral staircase, his sword still gripped in
his hand. He came to the door at the top, grabbed the latch.

Found the chamber locked from inside.

Spitting curses, he threw his whole weight
against it. Once. Twice.

The second time, the door gave way with a
splintering of wood and a snap of metal, sending him tumbling into
the room. He rolled and came up with blade drawn.

“Royce!”

Ciara lay on the floor on the opposite side
of the huge chamber, near the windows, dressed in a gold wedding
gown—her lower lip split and bleeding, a red welt on her cheek from
where Daemon’s fist had struck her.

“Ferrano,”
Daemon spat, standing
over her. “You are—”

“Not dead,” Royce supplied with lethal
silkiness, his eyes locking on Daemon’s as he thrust himself to his
feet. “But you are. I am going to carve your heart out, you
whoreson.”

Before he could reach them to make good his
threat, Daemon grabbed Ciara by her hair, jerking her roughly to
her feet. She screamed as he pulled her in front of him. He drew a
knife from the jeweled sheath at his waist. “Guards!”

“Let her go, Daemon. Your guards are
finished. And I am not here alone.” Royce moved closer, his
scarlet-stained blade held in front of him, his gaze on the prince
to keep himself from being distracted by the fear in Ciara’s eyes
and the blood on her face. “Your brother is in the great hall even
now, explaining to your lords and ministers that he has
not
been on pilgrimage the past four years.”

Daemon paled. “You are lying! That is
impossible—”

“We found him right where you left him.
Imprisoned on the Gunlaug. The game is up, you lying bastard. Now
let her go.”

“Nay, I do not believe you! My brother never
could have escaped, even with your help. And now that the war is
won, it does not matter. I have more than enough lands and wealth
to secure my position. All the power is in
my
hands now.
The throne is mine. Châlons is mine.
She
is mine.”

Royce heard someone enter the door behind
him, heard a low, even voice fill the chamber.

“Wrong on all counts, my dear brother.”

Daemon’s eyes darted in that direction,
widened in shock. “Nay … how could … this is not possible
…”

Royce shifted his gaze to Ciara, conveying a
quick, silent message while Daemon was distracted.

She understood him without words. Her lips
curved as she jammed her elbow backward, straight into Daemon’s
stomach, and brought her heel down hard on top of his foot.

Daemon lost his hold on the knife and on her
as he doubled over, cursing.

Ciara broke free and rushed across the room
into Royce’s arms. He caught her close, wrapping her in his
embrace, taking a full, deep breath for the first time in nine
days. “I have you now, my love. I have you now.”

She pressed her unbruised cheek against his
chest and a sob escaped her, muffled by his tunic.

“It is over, Daemon.” Mathias came to stand
between his brother and the two of them, as if to prevent Daemon
from trying to reclaim his lost prize. “I have told our retainers
everything.”

Royce drew Ciara a safe distance from her
furious groom and noticed that the Thuringian lords and ministers
had followed Mathias upstairs. Many of them, along with members of
the guards, crowded into the royal bedchamber.

“I told them where I have been,” Mathias
continued, “and who put me there.”

Daemon straightened, his eyes filling with
rage and the beginnings of panic as he saw the nobles, saw the
looks on their faces.

“And I told them what happened on that night
four years ago, after the peace negotiations failed. When I came to
your chamber and told you that I had decided
not
to return
to my studies at the monastery after all—because I had realized
what a mistake I made when I stepped aside in your favor. A mistake
I wished to correct by taking my rightful place on the throne. So
that I might bring an end to the war.” Mathias’s voice grew heavy
with sadness. “My one error that night was in trusting you.”

“I let you live,” Daemon spat, as if that
should forgive everything else he had done. “You always wanted a
monastic life. I merely gave you what you wished.”

“There is a difference between a monastery,”
Mathias bit out, a flash of anger showing for the first time, “and
a dungeon.”

“And how in the name of Hell did Ferrano
locate you?” Daemon demanded, slicing a murderous glance at
Royce.

“With the help of the rebels,” Royce told
him. “They have been working for Prince Mathias’s return all along.
Members of your own guards supplied them with information, after a
bit of careful eavesdropping.”

“A certain piece of glass that did not come
from Rome supplied the rest,” Ciara finished, nodding toward the
reliquary.

Daemon looked from Ciara to the silver box,
his expression changing to one of disbelief and white-hot fury.
“
You
were in league with the rebels? I was betrayed by my
own bride?”

“Nay, by your own fear and greed,” she shot
back.

“And by your cruelty,” Mathias added, “to
our people and to those of Châlons. Accept your fate, Daemon. Your
reign is ended.”

Daemon backed away from him, from everyone,
toward the windows, shaking his head. “Nay, you will not take my
crown from me! All my life, I had to settle for my older brothers’
leavings. I will not go back to existing on mere scraps—”

“You had everything,” Mathias countered
angrily, “but that was not enough for you. Everything you had only
made you want more. More riches, more power, more prancing minions
to surround you and shower you with praise. It would appear you
have had all that since you stole the throne from me.” He gestured
at the luxuries piled around the room. “Tell me, Brother,” he
challenged, “has it made you happy?”

“I
had
to take the throne,” Daemon
sneered, not answering his question. “
You
were too soft to
rule—wasting all your time on your books and your prayers. You are
weak. You have always been weak.”

“Am I truly, Daemon? If that is so, how did
I survive the last four years in that pleasant little dwelling you
built for me in the Gunlaug?” Mathias’s voice took on a hard edge.
“A man does not have to be a vicious killer to be a king. I am
strong enough to rule.”

“Then prove it.” Daemon reached behind him
to grab a sword displayed on the wall beside a tapestry. “I should
have killed you four years ago. Step aside or I will remedy my
mistake here and now.”

Royce and the guards instinctively moved
forward, but Mathias held up a hand to stop them. “I will deal with
him,” he insisted calmly. Without taking his eyes from Daemon, he
backed toward Royce and extended his hand, palm up. “If you would
be so kind as to lend me your blade, Ferrano.”

“Prince Mathias,” Ciara whispered in
concern.

Mathias glanced down at her, his gaze
meeting hers for the first time. “Fear not, Your Highness.” He
smiled warmly. “I thought this moment might come one day. I have no
intention of being killed.” The smile faded as he turned back
toward Daemon. “I stepped aside once before—and my subjects paid
the price. Innocent people lost their lives because I refused to
accept the responsibilities I was born to.” He shook his head, his
voice resolved. “I will not step aside again.”

Royce drew his sword—his father’s sword—and
silently handed it to him.

Mathias accepted it and moved toward the
center of the huge bedchamber. He unfastened the homespun cloak he
wore and threw it aside … and the muscled frame revealed beneath
drew soft murmurs of surprise from those gathered in the room.

Including Daemon. “It would appear you did
not suffer too terribly during your stay on the Gunlaug.”

“There is little to occupy one’s time in a
cold mountain prison other than exercise to keep warm.” Mathias
lifted the heavy sword easily. “And as I said, I thought this day
might come.”

The two brothers faced each other, neither
backing down.

“Then come,” Daemon hissed, “and let us see
how this day ends.”

Bringing up his blade, he lunged forward.
The two locked in battle with a clash of steel on steel.

Royce tensed but forced himself to stand
fast. This was Mathias’s fight. Every man in the room understood
that. No one interfered. Royce’s arms tightened around Ciara as she
buried her face against his chest with a sob, apparently certain of
the outcome.

But he was not so sure. Daemon had the
advantage of experience, but he was also attacking at an emotional
fever pitch. Mathias remained cooler as they parried back and
forth, deflecting every blow, defending himself without drawing
blood.

Royce understood his strategy. Mathias meant
to wear his brother down. Tire him, mayhap wound him—force him to
admit defeat without killing him.

“I am not so weak as you thought, little
brother,” Mathias gritted out, dodging a blow that might have cost
him an arm.

“And I am not so little anymore!” Daemon
shot back, hacking and slashing, driving Mathias toward the
windows.

Royce clenched his jaw, half afraid that
Daemon meant to send his brother crashing through the panes to his
death in the courtyard below—but Mathias seemed to realize the
danger at the same time, moving aside, following the length of the
carved chest.

They were both sweating and breathing
heavily now. For long, tense minutes the combat wore on, silent,
grim, each man soon bleeding from numerous cuts.

Royce held his breath, for it seemed Mathias
was the one who was becoming fatigued.
God, please, help
him.
The elder prince had to understand that he was fighting
for his life. He could not miss any chance to strike a mortal
blow.

With Daemon’s next thrust, the point of his
blade sank into Mathias’s shoulder. Mathias’s cry of pain brought
an exclamation of triumph from Daemon’s lips—and shouts of alarm
from everyone in the room. Daemon yanked the blade free, quickly
whirling it upward as if he would take off his brother’s head.

But Mathias caught him off guard by dropping
to his knees.

And thrusting his sword forward, straight
through Daemon’s right side.

Daemon shouted in agony and looked down in
shock. Mathias wrenched the sword backward and staggered to his
feet, dripping with sweat, jaw clenched. He was shaking. Mayhap
with fatigue or loss of blood—or horror at what he had been forced
to do.

It was a mortal wound. His face going slack,
Daemon stumbled aside, toward the chest in front of the windows,
his own blade still gripped in one hand. Then he snarled a curse
and raised the weapon again, his features contorted with fury. He
hurled himself toward Mathias.

Only to trip on something in the rushes and
fall headlong to the floor. He landed facedown—and there was a
sound of something cracking as he hit. His face froze in a mask of
shock.

Gasping a choked cry, he pushed himself up
with one hand and fell again, rolling onto his back.

Royce could see the thick stem of a jeweled
glass goblet protruding from the center of his chest at an awkward
angle.

And near his feet—it was Ciara’s crown that
had tripped him.

With a sound of grief and regret, Mathias
knelt beside his brother. “Daemon …”

Daemon lifted one trembling hand.

Instead of reaching for his brother, he
grasped at the jeweled stem of the goblet that had delivered the
final blow to his plans and his life.

His expression was still one of stunned
disbelief.

“Mine …”

The word took the last breath from his body,
and his eyes went sightless.

Mathias bent his head, made the sign of the
cross, and gently closed his brother’s eyes. He remained silent a
moment, as if in prayer, and no one in the room moved or uttered a
word.

Then he stood, Royce’s sword still gripped
in one hand, his other palm coming up to staunch the bleeding at
his shoulder. “My lords,” he said hollowly. “Prince Daemon is
dead.”

“Long live Prince Mathias!” one of the
nobles called as they all surged forward to surround and
congratulate their new ruler. Two of the guards bent to cover
Daemon’s body with Mathias’s discarded cloak.

Royce realized that Ciara was trembling in
his arms, her cheeks wet with tears. “Shhh,” he soothed as he
gently tilted her head up. “It is over. You are safe now, and free.
You have just become a widow.”

She did not say anything for a moment as he
tenderly examined her bruises. Then her words came out in a rush.
“Royce, I was so afraid when you did not come back from the
Ruadhans. I thought—”

“I made you a promise, remember?” Satisfied
that her injuries were not serious, he let himself relax enough to
smile. “We encountered some trouble on the mountain, but
Thayne—”

He cut himself off abruptly, glancing
around, seeing none of the rebels in the room.

“God’s mercy,
Thayne
.
”
Holding Ciara’s hand, he turned and ran for the door, pushing his
way through the crowd, into the corridor, down the twisting
staircase.

He found the rebels in the great hall
gathered around their fallen leader. They had moved him to one of
the trestle tables and bound his wound with strips of fabric torn
from Daemon’s expensive tablecloths. As Royce and Ciara approached,
Karl looked up.

There were tears in his eyes.

With an oath, Royce released Ciara and
leaned over the dark-haired man who lay bleeding from the deep gash
in his side. He was deathly pale.