The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (24 page)

Pleasure.

The word made his entire body go taut with
strain. He realized he was sweating. The chamber that had seemed so
cold just minutes ago now felt much too hot. Sultry. Confining.

Every splash of warm water caressing her
naked skin made his heart beat harder. Each barely audible sigh
that escaped her lips made his blood pound through his veins. He
could not even draw a complete breath, longed to get up and
pace—but that would mean turning around.

And seeing what he was hearing.

He grabbed a haunch of roast meat from his
trencher and sank his teeth into it, struggling to remember that a
great many lives depended on him doing what was right and
honorable.

Including his own.

Wolfing down his meal, he resisted the urge
to steal a glance over his shoulder … and tried to keep his mind
off the large, soft bed in the corner.

At least the arrival of the tub had spared
him one bit of torture: having Ciara tend his injuries. He had seen
to his own cuts and bruises while she had prepared for her
bath.

The thought of what her tender ministrations
might have been like, of her fingers moving over his bare skin
…

He gnawed the last bit of meat from the
mutton bone, unable to forget the way she had looked at him when he
had stripped off his tunic and turned to face her. The wonder in
her gaze, and the unexpected, unmistakable arousal, had hit him
like a punch to the gut, reminding him of the sweet, feminine
passion he had tasted so briefly at Bayard’s castle.

The passion that he had no right to taste or
to take.

“Royce?”

He almost choked on his food. “Aye?”

“Could you … mayhap hand me something to
… to dry off with? Please?”

His heart thudded. Her tremulous voice
revealed that she was just as affected as he was by the heat
sizzling through the room.

His gaze slid to the stack of linens on the
table to his left. He wished fervently that she had thought of this
before getting into the tub. “Of course.”

He tried to say it casually, to act as if he
had beautiful, naked women bathing within five paces of him every
day.

Setting his trencher aside, he picked up
some of the clean linens and moved as close to her as he dared,
keeping his gaze averted. He placed them on the floor within her
reach.

But he did not move away.

He heard her breath catch. For an instant,
just one instant, he lingered there. Wishing…wanting…

Then he forced himself to reclaim his place
before the hearth.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub.
“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You are welcome.” He glared into the
flames, felt beads of sweat slide down his temple, his neck, into
the matted hair of his bare chest.

Neither of the tunics he had pilfered from
the stable boys fit him, both too tight to get past his shoulders.
He could only hope one of the garments would fit Ciara.

The wish became a prayer a moment later as
he heard her stand. He had to shut his eyes to banish the image
painted by the sounds: water sluicing off her naked body. The
little rush of breath between her teeth as the night air touched
her wet skin.

He imagined her nipples tightened to hard
pearls, imagined them a perfect, dusky pink.

Next he heard the crunch of the rushes
beneath her feet as she stepped from the tub. And the quiet
rustling of the linen as she rubbed the soft cloth over her smooth,
wet curves.

Then silence.

Every muscle in his body tightened. He
remained still, not trusting himself to move. Knowing that if he so
much as dared draw breath, he would have her in his arms and on the
bed before either of them could say a word.

He blinked once, slowly. Waited.

“Royce?” she whispered tentatively.

“What?” His voice sounded rough and
hollow.

She hesitated a moment. “What am I to
wear?”

The chamber seemed to grow smaller and even
hotter around him. He waved a hand over his shoulder, motioning her
toward the corner near the door. “See if any of those fit you.”

He listened while she padded barefoot over
to the pile of stolen garments. She could not put her ruined gown
back on. The few bits of cloth left intact after their escape today
had more or less shredded when she had disrobed for her bath. The
task of getting undressed had apparently been difficult with her
hands bandaged. And he had not dared to offer help.

Nor did he offer any now, as he listened to
her wrestling with the homespun garments in an attempt to fit them
over her curves.

She made a sound of frustration. “I do not
think these will work. My hips are too … and my … my …”

He did not need an explanation. His
imagination provided a complete, vivid picture.

Gritting his teeth, he whispered an oath and
flicked a glance heavenward. Was it not enough that he had to spend
the next few days alone with her in this room? Did she have to be
as naked as Eve the entire time?

He stood, raking a hand through his hair. “I
will have to risk a visit to the marketplace in the morn, to
purchase us both some clothes,” he told her, trying to think of
what to do with her tonight.

Blankets were the only answer, he decided.
Bundles and bundles of blankets. “For now, you will have to make do
with the coverlets from the bed.”

He felt relieved when he heard her cross the
chamber quickly, heard the rustling of the blankets. But then
silence fell again.

“Princess?” he asked warily. Mayhap she had
decided to forgo her supper, to simply go to bed. It would be a
relief to discover her fast asleep.

But when he heard her voice again, he
realized he had not been born a fortunate man.

“I … I feel much better now,” she said.
“Thank you for ordering the bath for me. It was very kind. And
thank you for being so … so chivalrous.”

He would have laughed if he could breathe
deeply enough. Aye, he had kept his back turned—but
chivalrous
was the last word he would use to describe how he
felt at the moment.

“You are welcome, milady. Are you ready for
…” As he turned to face her at last, the question died on his
lips.

She had not covered herself with all the
blankets; she had chosen only one.

The fur.

He felt every drop of blood in his veins
surge into his lower body like a flood of fire. The silky fur
covered her from neck to toes, leaving only her oval face and damp
hair exposed.

The thought of her pale nakedness hidden
from him by only that soft robe …

He was suddenly aware of his arousal
pressing painfully hard against his leggings. Of the overpowering
desire to step toward her, slide that coverlet from her shoulders,
reveal her body one slow inch at a time …

He forced his gaze back to her face, could
not make himself look away fast enough to conceal his feelings. She
saw it all in his eyes. How powerfully she affected him.

How much he wanted to make her his own.

He heard himself speaking, as if from far
away. “Are you ready, Princess?”

She took a step toward him, even before he
amended the question.

“For your supper,” he said quickly. “Are you
hungry, Princess?”

Mayhap if he kept calling her that, it would
be enough to remind him of all the barriers between them. Of why he
must not do what every fiber of his being urged him to do.

“Starving,” she said with a tremulous curve
of her mouth, drawing closer one hesitant step at a time. “But I
… think I may have a problem.”

She lifted her bandaged hands, still
clutching the fur, and he understood: she was having a hard enough
time keeping her makeshift robe in place. She could not eat and
remain covered at the same time. Which meant she could either stay
warm and go hungry …

Or eat her supper naked.

He shut his eyes, trying to banish that
delectable image. And then he thought of a third possibility.

Opening his eyes, he gestured to the hearth,
noticing that his voice sounded too deep, too husky when he made
the suggestion. “Come and sit by the fire, and I will … see what
I can do.”

Turning away, he filled a trencher with food
at the table in the corner while she settled herself before the
fire. From outside their chamber, the delicate strains of a harp
and pipes drifted on the night air.

“Where is that music coming from?” Ciara
asked.

“The tavern down the street.”

“The stringed instrument sounds like a
tympanum. I have one of those at …”

Home.

She did not say the word, and Royce felt
something inside him wrench tight, reminded that she had left her
home behind. Forever.

‘Twas a feeling he knew too well. His heart
beating strangely, he felt somehow that he knew her thoughts as she
gazed toward the window.

She had become an exile, as he had been. In
a matter of days, she would be arriving at her new home, Mount
Ravensbruk.

Where they would part, forever.

He stood there watching her, holding a
trencher of food in his hands, racked by denial and frustration.
And by another, new emotion. One that should have startled him.
Alarmed him.

Instead, he could only yield to it, wonder
when it had happened.

When it was that she had claimed his heart
so completely, this lady with the topaz eyes and quiet grace,
delicate as snowfall, rare and precious as a Châlons garnet. This
princess who was both regal and ravishing, who had a soft spot in
her heart for every child she met and courage enough to climb an
icy cliff.

And willingness to sacrifice her own
happiness to save her people.

Mayhap, he thought, swallowing hard past a
lump in his throat, he had first realized it on the cliff today. Or
later when she had walked for hours without telling him how badly
she was suffering.

Or mayhap it had happened the moment he
first saw her in the chapel, when she had appeared like an angel
drifting into his life on a beam of morning sunlight.

He was in love with her.

His grip tightened on the carved wooden
trencher, almost hard enough to break it, as everything inside him
was breaking.
He was in love with her.
With this sweet
innocent who looked so vulnerable huddled within the fur, her damp
hair trailing down her back. Princess Ciara. Christophe’s sister.
Aldric’s daughter. Daemon’s betrothed.

A lady who belonged to everyone but him.

He looked away, had to set the platter down
before he snapped it in two. Brutally reminded himself that she was
never meant to be his. He could not change what had to be—and he
could not make the same mistake he had made four years ago.

Peace depended on him carrying out the
mission he had been entrusted with. This time, he had to do what
duty and honor demanded. This time, he had to put his country’s
needs ahead of his own.

The music still drifted in through the
shuttered window, and he knew he would never again hear the sound
of harp and pipes without remembering this night, this moment.

This bitterness.

Steeling himself against the forbidden
feelings, he picked up the trencher again, poured a cup of wine for
her, and returned to the hearth. Sitting with his back against the
warm stone wall, he tried to keep his voice casual.

“You say that instrument is called a
tim-what?”

“Tympanum.” Ciara was still looking toward
the window. “It is a stringed instrument, like a harp, native to
Scotland. I have rather a large collection of stringed instruments
at … home.”

She finished in a scant whisper, still
holding the fur close with her bandaged hands.

Glancing from his face to the platter in his
hands and back again, she regarded him with a bewildered
expression. “Have you given thought to how I might eat that, or are
you teasing me?” She attempted a smile, lifted an eyebrow. “Nay,
now I have guessed—you mean for me to gobble my supper like a hog
at a trough.”

He realized she had noticed his somber
expression and was trying to lighten his mood. But he could not
muster even the slightest grin. “Nay, I thought we would try
something more civilized. Not to mention more tidy.” He cut a
bite-size chunk of meat for her and held it out toward her.

“Ah, I see. Instead of a hog, I shall be fed
like a loyal hound.” Still smiling, she leaned forward and nipped
it from his fingers.

He tried to ignore the sensual impact of the
brief contact, dropped his gaze to the trencher, and cut another
piece for her. “Have you always liked music?”

“Aye,” she said between bites. “It is hard
to say whether I like reading or music best.”

“A lady of many talents.”

She shrugged at the compliment. “A lady with
a great deal of time on her hands,” she corrected. “And many costly
tutors.”

“You are being generous, milady. And
modest.”

She chewed and swallowed before speaking,
shaking her head. “Nay, my musical skills are entirely the fault of
my royal tutors.” She laughed. “When I was young, you see, I used
to sneak away from them whenever possible to spend time with the
minstrels who visited the palace. The minstrels were the ones who
taught me to play and compose.”

Royce could not help grinning, picturing a
mischievous little princess skipping her lessons. “And the
musicians were no doubt more colorful and fun than your stuffy
royal tutors.”

“Much more fun.” She nodded. “But in truth,
I believe I have always favored intellectual pursuits like reading
and music simply because I have never been particularly good at
physical …” She had leaned toward his outstretched hand again,
her eyes on his as she spoke, and it took her a moment to finish
the sentence. “… activities.”

He held her gaze, silently sharing her
memories of the various physical activities they had engaged in
together.