The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (7 page)

She blinked and the strange illusion
vanished. How odd. It must have been a trick of the light and her
frayed nerves. This man was not her groom; this land no longer her
home. Her wedding would take place in Thuringia. In a grand
cathedral.

And she was to be Prince Daemon’s bride.

When she reached the altar, her father
turned her toward the towering swordsman.

“Daughter, this is the man I told you of,
Royce Saint-Michel.”

She stared with unconcealed surprise. “You
are … but you do not … or rather, what I mean to say …” Why
on earth was she tripping over her own tongue?
By all the
suffering saints, say something intelligible.
“Good morn to
you.”

Mortified that she had delivered such an
ungraceful greeting—and in front of her father, no less—Ciara
wished a nice large hole would open up in the floor beneath her
feet.

She was close enough to Sir Royce now to
make out the color of those eyes: a deep earth brown that was
almost black. Again she noticed the strange heat that seemed to
sizzle in the air around her, warming her every breath.

This time, without the benefit of distance
between them, she felt something more … a melting warmth
inside
her.

“And good morn to you, Princess Ciara.” Sir
Royce inclined his head, that odd grimace-grin still playing about
his mouth. “I do not blame you for not recognizing me, for you are
also much … changed from what I remember.”

Ciara barely heard his words, for she was
transfixed by his voice. It was softer than she remembered. Soft
and deep and dark as a Châlons valley at sunset. The mellow
richness seemed at odds with the hard angles of his features—and
only intensified the hypnotic effect of his eyes.

Whichever part of her brain was still
capable of reason noticed that he
still
did not bow or offer
her a deferential greeting. Apparently he lacked respect for
royalty. And common courtesy.

Yet to respond in kind would have been
unforgivably rude. So she summoned a smile and one of the courtly
phrases she had been taught by rote. “So pleasant to meet you
again.”

Her father rolled up the map he and Sir
Royce had been studying. “Have you gathered your things,
Daughter?”

“Aye, Father,” she said, amazed that she
managed to speak calmly. Her pounding heart had not slowed a whit.
“Brother Evrard took my belongings down to the tunnel entrance
while I ate my morning meal. All is ready.”
Except me.
She
wanted to shout those two words. Wanted to fall into his arms and
sob out all her fears.

But she kept all those ignoble, childish
feelings hidden, kept her smile in place.

“Excellent. We have agreed upon the route
you will follow.” Her father tucked the scroll into his royal
robes. “None will know of it but the three of us. If you are to
travel in safety, secrecy is vital. You must take care.” His eyes
darkened as he gazed at her intently. “Tell no one your true
identity, Daughter. No one. The people and places you will
encounter beyond these walls may not be as friendly as they seem.
We cannot know who may be in league with the rebels.”

“I will remember, Father.”

He turned to Sir Royce. “The wedding
procession left the palace several days ago, but it will take them
more than a fortnight to reach Thuringia.”

“I will do my best to travel quickly,” Sir
Royce said, “so that we arrive before they do. Before the rebels
find out they have been tricked.”

Her father nodded. “For now, the rebels are
distracted. By the time they chase after the procession and the
other group of courtiers and realize the princess is not among
them, you should be safely in Thuringia.” He glanced at Ciara
again. “And my daughter safely wed.”

She held his gaze. “By God’s grace, it will
be so, Father.”
I will not disappoint you again. I will earn
your forgiveness for what happened to Christophe. I will make you
proud of me. I promise.

If he sensed any of her feelings or fears,
he said naught.

Though she thought for a moment that his
blue eyes did soften, almost imperceptibly. “All will be well,
Daughter. Saint-Michel will see to it. I know that he may seem
unlike the knights you have met, but I assure you he is the right
man for this task. He will keep you safe. In those mountains, he
will have no equal. You may place your trust in him.” He turned
that gaze on the black-haired swordsman. “As I do.”

Sir Royce swallowed so hard that his Adam’s
apple bobbed visibly. “I vow, Your Majesty,” he intoned solemnly,
“that no harm will befall your daughter while she is in my care. I
will carry out my duty, exactly as we have discussed.” He extended
his hand. “You have my word of honor.”

Her father took Sir Royce’s hand in what
looked like a bruising grasp. Their gazes locked. Ciara barely had
time to wonder about it, or about what Sir Royce meant by “exactly
as we have discussed.”

Because her father released him and took her
hand, squeezing it gently.

She was pitifully grateful for even that
tiny show of affection. ‘Twas more than he had shown her in
weeks.

“Be well, Daughter.”

Her throat tightened. She longed to fold
herself into his arms, to feel as safe and beloved as she had when
she was a child. The sunlit chapel shimmered around her as tears
veiled her eyes.

She blinked away the dampness, held herself
regally straight and proud, knowing he would disapprove of any such
display. “And you, Father.”

He led her forward a step, placed her hand
in Sir Royce’s, and let her go. The warrior’s strong, warm fingers
closed tightly around her own as those dark eyes met and held
hers.

“Guard her well, Royce,” her father
commanded quietly. “Guard her with your life.”

***

Royce trailed Aldric’s daughter through the
darkness, his footsteps loud in the stone tunnel that spiraled
downward to the foot of the mountain. Daylight marked the exit far
below, but his mind was not on the journey ahead or the dangers it
might hold.

His gaze lingered on Princess Ciara’s back,
his mind on a single thought—one that made his mouth dry and his
palms sweat.

A girl who had started life as a plain,
mousy child had no right growing up to look like this.

His heart and his stomach had performed a
somersault the moment he first saw her in the chapel. In truth, he
had not even
heard
her entrance, but rather … sensed it.
She had appeared so suddenly, so silently, as if she had floated in
on one of the beams of sunlight, deposited there by angels.

And then he had been struck speechless—by
eyes a shade lighter than topaz, hair the color of exotic spice,
beauty as subtle and natural as the simple, cream-colored gown she
wore. Delicate. Soft. She even
moved
with a quiet grace that
made him swear her footsteps caused no sound.

Snowfall. She made him think of snowfall,
drifting down from the clouds to cloak the mountainside in pale
innocence.

Even now, in the shadowed tunnel, when he
could see only the outline of her shoulders and back ahead of him,
his heart and his stomach kept repeating that irritating tumble. He
tried to remind himself that this was the same dull, bookish girl
he had barely noticed in the past.

But no man could possibly mistake her for a
piece of the furniture now.

The gown and matching cloak she wore
concealed her tall, slender body from neck to toes, but every curve
of fabric promised matching curves beneath. And though her face and
voice bespoke sweetness and charm, one feature did not fit that
image.

Her exceptional, ravishing mouth.

Never had he seen lips more perfectly made
for long, slow kisses. Full and lush they were, the lower one
softly rounded, the color a liquid red that reminded him of the
rich shade of a Châlons garnet.

Had she ever
been
kissed? he
wondered. Properly, thoroughly kissed?

A familiar hunger sank its claws into him,
so swift and strong it made him inhale as if he had been wounded.
Angry at his own weakness, he shoved the thoughts away. Brutally
reminded himself that those lips and this lady were forbidden
fruit. She was Prince Daemon’s betrothed.

Aldric’s daughter.

But the thoughts of innocence and snowfall
only made him remember how much he used to enjoy turning his face
up to the sky to capture that pure, cool white essence on his
tongue, to feel it melt in the heat of his mouth …

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to
remember every word of the warning Aldric had given him last night:
If you break your vow, I will take much more than your spurs,
your title, and your lands this time.

If he wanted to keep his head attached to
his shoulders, he had better find a way to control himself. Keep in
mind who and what she was.

Remember the vow he had made this morn.

He was still trying to subdue the heat
simmering in him when they reached the end of the passage. Princess
Ciara located the hidden lever that released a secret door, and
sunlight flooded the tunnel. She raised a hand to shade her eyes,
glancing toward him. “Do you—”

He cut her off with a sharp gesture,
stepping in front of her to look around outside. He saw no one on
the snowy slope that curved away into a deep valley, no intruders
or travelers anywhere on the white, sun-blazed foothills
surrounding them. No danger in sight.

Only his horse Anteros awaited, tossing his
head impatiently, looking well rested after his night in the
abbey’s stable. A half-dozen bulky sacks lay on the ground next to
him, along with his saddle and bridle.

Princess Ciara stepped out from the tunnel.
“Why did you—”

“I did not yet tell you it was safe to come
out,” Royce said, his tone curt.

She froze. “Of course,” she replied after a
moment. “You are right to be cautious. I suppose I will have to
grow accustomed to your … ways.”

“Not
ways
, Your Highness. Rules.” He
turned to face her. “And you had best become acquainted with them
right now. To begin with, I go through every door first, and you
stay behind until summoned. I will not be trailing at your heels
like one of your royal servants—”

“I do not—”

“And I want you in my sight at all times.
There will be no wandering off. You will stay within reach, you
will do your best to avoid attracting attention, and you will
follow my orders without hesitation. Understood?”

Blinking at him in shock, she set down the
brocade satchel she had carried from the abbey. “I am
not
accustomed to being addressed in this tone, sirrah. Or to being
interrupted when I am speaking. Or to—”

“Then I would say the next two weeks should
be full of surprises for you, Princess. Your father has appointed
me your guardian—and you will find I care little for royal protocol
when it comes to carrying out my duty. Have you any questions?”

A storm was brewing in those jewel-bright
eyes. “Only one.”

“Aye?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is it
safe for me to come outside yet?”

The sarcasm in her tone made him frown.
“Indeed, Your Royal Highness,” he replied with exaggerated
politeness, gesturing her forward with a sweep of his arm. “Please
join me.” He turned and led the way toward his destrier.

Picking up her satchel, she followed him
onto the snowy hillside. “Where is my mare?”

“I told the brothers to keep her. Anteros is
more than strong enough to carry us both.”

“We are to share a horse? But why?”

“It is better this way.” He picked up the
bridle from the ground. “Safer.”

He was no longer certain that was true. When
he had made the decision this morning, he had not anticipated that
the lady sharing the saddle with him would be so … enticing.

“But how will we carry my belongings?”

He slipped the bridle over the stallion’s
head, casting a glance at her satchel. “I wear chain mail, helm,
and armaments when Anteros carries me into battle, Your Highness. I
do not think one bag will overtax him.”

“But what about the rest?” Setting down her
satchel, she pointed at the sacks on the ground.

“All of these are yours?” he asked
incredulously. He had thought they were foodstuffs being delivered
to the abbey.

“Of course. I cannot travel for a fortnight
without at least a few changes of clothes and—”

“We are
not
taking all of this with
us, Your Highness. If you have belongings that you cannot live
without in Thuringia, you should have sent them with the wedding
procession.”

A spark flared in her eyes, belying the
courtly, polite smile that slid into place as she moved toward him.
“But if we were to bring my mare, you see, there would be no
problem.”

“Aye, there would be. The mare would slow us
down. Anteros has easily twice her speed.” His fingers tightened on
the reins, crushing the leather as she drew close. Too close. “And
if you were seated alone on her back, you would make a fine target.
The rebels could put a crossbow bolt through your heart and be gone
before we knew they were there. You would be dead before you fell
from your pretty little saddle.”

She went pale and drew back from him, her
right hand coming up to touch her left arm in an odd, protective
gesture.

Smothering an oath, Royce turned and
continued bridling the stallion. He had not meant to be so blunt in
his explanation. She was not a squire or guardsman under his
command; she was a princess. A sheltered, naive girl not used to
the world’s violent ways.

And it was not her fault that the merest
blink of her lashes set his every nerve on edge. Being churlish
with her would accomplish naught.

Sighing in frustration, he glanced over his
shoulder and tried to make her understand. “If we ride together,
with you seated in front of me, my body will block any arrows or
other pointy objects that might come flying your way.”