The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (12 page)

“What happened in the east?” Royce asked,
fearing he already knew the answer.

“A carnage that Satan himself could not
match,” Oriel told him, her wrinkled face quivering as her voice
grew forceful. “The Thuringians burned and pillaged every castle
and cottage. They rode through the streets cutting down people like
blades of grass. Noble or peasant, armed or helpless, it mattered
not.”

“We are from Vasau,” Nevin explained, “where
some of the worst fighting took place. Only the church was left
untouched. Daemon instructed his men to spare no one—”

“Please, grandfather.” The little girl
stopped him, clutching his arm. “Do not speak of the bad man
anymore.”

The elderly man’s face gentled as he looked
down at her. “I am sorry, my sweet.”

Oriel looked over at the boy, her voice a
fragile whisper. “Their parents—our son and his wife—were killed
when the Thuringians sacked our town.”

“My brother died, too,” Warran said softly.
“I tried to pull him from the flames, but I …”

Ciara reached down to cover the boy’s small,
scarred hand with her own. “I am sorry, Warran,” she said softly.
“I also lost my brother in the war.”

Royce felt something in the center of his
body clench tight. Her expression held both deep sadness and
genuine empathy as she comforted the child.

And it melted him. Saints’ breath, had he
thought she cared for naught but her books and her silk
slippers?

“Grandfather is taking us to the west,” the
boy said tremulously. “He says we will be safe there.”

“I am sure he is right,” Ciara assured him.
“My father—”

Royce lightly tapped her shin with the toe
of his boot. She dropped her spoon into her soup, splashing her
face with bits of barley.

Her smile never wavered, but as she fished
the spoon out of the bowl, her eyes told him she wanted to throw it
at him. Along with whatever else might be within reach. “My father
is from the west,” she continued smoothly, “and he tells me that
the towns there fared much better than those in the east.”

Royce smiled his approval at her lie. “You
are wearing your supper on your chin, wife,” he said lightly.

“Thank you, husband,” she replied in the
same tone, though her eyes still glittered. She wiped her jaw.

“Nay, not there. Higher.” Without thinking,
he reached across the table to brush a speck of barley from her
chin.

His thumb brushed her lower lip and both of
them froze.

The room, the people around them, the fire
on the hearth all seemed to vanish from his vision. All he could
see was her. All he could feel was the satin of her skin, the soft
pressure of her lip giving way beneath his thumb, the warm dampness
of her mouth.

And he suddenly wanted—
needed
—to
slide his hand to the nape of her neck, bury his fingers in her
hair, and draw her to him for a kiss. Needed it more than he needed
air.

Nevin cleared his throat. “I would guess
that you two are newly wed.” He chuckled knowingly.

When Royce did not respond, the old man
followed his comment with a bawdy joke. Royce barely heard it.

But Ciara seemed to catch it, for she
abruptly sat back and turned her face away, cheeks crimson.

“Oh, now look what you have done,” Oriel
scolded, though she too was smiling. She reached across the table
and swatted her husband. “You have embarrassed the poor dear.”

The tension broken, Royce sat back,
struggling to take a breath. The room seemed to be spinning and his
pulse pounded in his ears like a drum demanding a military
charge.

Nevin laughed, unrepentant. “Only thought I
might give the lad a bit of helpful advice.” He winked at Royce.
“You will find there is naught in marriage that cannot be cured
with a bit of the old dive in the dark.” When Royce only looked at
him blankly, he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and
proceeded to give a quick visual demonstration.

“Nevin!” Oriel gave her husband a quelling
look.

Ciara, who had just picked up her goblet to
take a sip of wine, started to choke.

The older woman thumped Ciara helpfully on
the back. “Pay them no mind, my dear. Men can be such beasts.”

“You have not
always
found that to be
such a bad trait,” Nevin said slyly.

“There are children present, you old
beefwit,” his wife reminded him.

Royce glanced toward the little ones, but
they were too occupied with their food to care about what the
adults were discussing.

Apparently, however, Ciara was not used to
being pounded upon by anyone. She looked as if she might faint from
shock.

He thought it a good time for a rescue. “If
you will excuse us,” he said politely, standing, “I believe we had
best retire for the evening.”

That only made Nevin waggle his
eyebrows.

His wife swatted him again. “Good morrow to
you, young sir.”

“And to you. And Godspeed for your journey
to the west.” He held out a hand to Ciara, who had not yet
recovered her voice. “Come, wife.”

***

A blazing torch beside the door competed
with the warm glow from a small brazier next to the bed, the
opposing fires casting long shadows that entwined on the earthen
floor. Sitting on the pallet, her arms wrapped around her knees,
Ciara watched the dancing light.

She should be fast asleep by now, but a
fluttery, ticklish discomfort in her stomach made it impossible to
relax. Mayhap it was the fault of that disagreeable barley
soup.

Or the fault of her disagreeable companion,
who was making far too much noise. Royce had prepared himself a
place to sleep on the floor, using an extra blanket wheedled from
the innkeeper, and he now sat with his back against the door,
sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

The rock grating against the metal grated
just as sharply on her ragged nerves.

“Must you do that?” she asked coolly.

“Aye.”

The curt, irritable reply told her he still
was not interested in conversation. He had uttered no more than ten
words to her since they had returned from supper an hour ago—and
his surly attitude only made her feel more restless. She doubted
she would get much sleep this night.

Especially since she had to sleep fully
clothed.

She ran her fingers over one of the deep
wrinkles in her blue skirt. As she had unplaited her hair until it
hung loose about her hips, she had realized her nightshift was
missing, left behind at the abbey with the rest of her belongings.
Which meant she either had to sleep in her gown, or …

Nay, the alternative was unthinkable.

She lifted her gaze to study him again,
mystified by the tension in his face, the unnecessary force of his
movements. The way he was handling that sword made her flinch. She
supposed she should be grateful he had found a way to vent his ire
that did not involve snapping at her.

Mayhap, she thought, absently curling a
long, wavy lock of her hair around one finger, he was still upset
by the horrors that Nevin had described. Mayhap that was the true
cause of her own unease as well.

Until tonight, the reports of casualties in
the east had been but frightening tales and vast numbers to her.
Now those accounts had faces and names.

Nevin and Oriel and Vallis … and
Warran.

Her subjects. Innocent people who had
suffered unspeakably at the hands of Prince Daemon. Who might
suffer further if the peace accord did not succeed. She alone could
prevent that from happening.

Strange, she thought; she had never viewed
herself as a protector before. She was not sure she was brave
enough, or strong enough, to live up to such a title.

But she would have to be. For that sweet
little boy. And his sister and his grandparents and all the
rest.

Yet even as she felt a renewed determination
to carry out her duty, she found herself confused by the peasant
folk she had met tonight. By the way they could shift so easily
from discussing the war to making ribald jests. Their quicksilver
moods made no more sense to her than her guardian’s stubborn ill
humor.

Or her own restlessness.

Suppressing a sigh, she lay down on the
pallet. How could she hope to make sense of anyone else’s feelings
when she could not understand her own?

Curling up on her side, she covered herself
with the blanket, then her cream-colored mantle, and still
shivered. The cold night air easily overpowered the small brazier
beside her pallet.

Royce finished with the blade and slid it
back into its sheath.
Finally.
Grateful that silence had
descended, Ciara let her lashes drift closed.

“Tell me, Ciara,” Royce said quietly, “why
were you so kind to the boy?”

She opened her eyes and glared at the wall.
Why, after being taciturn all night, did he have to begin a
conversation now? “What do you mean?” She kept her tone cool,
unruffled.

“It was most unlike you.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder.
“Kindness is unlike me?”

“You were more than kind, you were …” His
dusky gaze held hers for a moment, then he glanced away. “Were you
trying to prove a point? To show me I was wrong when I said you
care about naught but your belongings and your own comfort? Was it
all an act?”

“An
act?
” Ciara tried mentally
reciting the first ten letters of the Greek alphabet, but only made
it through
alpha, beta, gamma
before her temper slipped its
leash. “I have no need to prove anything to you, sirrah. I happen
to love children. Is that so odd?”

That struck him dumb for a moment. “For most
women, nay. For a woman like you, aye.”

“A woman like me?” she echoed, remembering
his earlier comment about her not being normal. She sat up, turning
to face him. “You will tell me what you mean by that.”

“I mean you are
not
like other women.
You grew up in a palace, doted on by courtiers, your every wish and
whim granted. You have enjoyed a life of luxury and ease, giving no
thought to the war or your people—”

“How dare you judge me, you insufferable
knave!
You
think
me
selfish and uncaring? You, a
mercenary who cares for naught but … but
land, a castle, and
coin?
” Ciara felt something snap inside her. She tossed the
blanket and her cloak aside. “What makes you believe you know the
first
thing
about what my life has been like?”

Before he could interrupt, she thrust
herself from the bed, the words pouring forth like a flood through
a dam.

“I have lived behind the palace walls the
last seven years because my father wanted me kept
safe
. That
makes me unfamiliar with my realm and my people, but it does
not
make me a spoiled child and it does
not
make me
selfish and uncaring! You do not know me at all! I have been taught
that I must always be a proper example for my subjects. And I have
done my best to follow all the rules and
shoulds
and
musts
and
must nots
. You do not know how many times I
stood atop the parapets, wishing it could be different. Wishing I
were like any other girl in Châlons. An ordinary girl with choices
and freedom and dreams and … and a family and friends and …
saints’ breath, wishing I had never been
born
a
princess—”

Ciara halted abruptly, utterly mortified
that she had said the words aloud. She had just revealed her
deepest secret.

To
him
.

T
aken aback, Royce
lurched to his feet. Her stunning declaration hit him like a slap.
“Ciara—”

“Nay, you … you cannot understand.”
Drawing an unsteady breath, she shook her head, backing away. “No
one can understand.”

He stepped toward her, unwilling to allow
her to retreat behind her regal defenses. “Understand what,
Ciara?”

“What it was like to grow up in the palace.”
Her voice was trembling. She was trembling. “Alone.”

He stopped a few paces away from her, unable
to speak. That single, unexpected word cut into his heart.

But she needed no urging to continue. The
palisade of
shoulds
and
musts
that had held her
emotions prisoner for so long seemed shattered beyond repair. “My
mother died when I was four … and my father had to tend to the
demands of his kingdom and his subjects, especially after the war
began. The only people in my life were …”

Again she stopped, but he could fill in the
rest.
Servants.
Courtiers.
A new and different
picture of Ciara struck him: she had indeed grown to womanhood in
that luxurious palace, showered with wealth and privilege—but she
had been denied the one thing she needed most.

The warmth of a loving family.

Suddenly it made sense to him that she would
have an affinity for children, especially those who had lost their
parents. “But what of your brother?” he asked gently. “What of
Christophe?”

She turned her back, wrapped her arms around
herself. “He was the only one who understood … what it was like.
Who understood … me,” she whispered. “The only one who …”

Loved me.

She could not say the words, but he felt
them, felt the pain in his heart deepen, so strong that he wanted
to push it, push her, away. But he could not.

All her life, she had known only one person
who loved her. Her brother. His best friend.

Who was now gone forever.

“Christophe was my one companion,” she
continued in a whisper. “But as we grew older, the obligation of
preparing to rule took even him from my side.” When she turned to
face him again, she looked dangerously close to tears. “You say
that I know naught that is useful.” Her eyes were shimmering, her
lower lip quivering. “It is true that all I know of the world I
have learned from books, so mayhap you are right. Sometimes I have
felt
useless and … helpless. That night when Daemon’s
mercenaries attacked the palace, I foolishly went into the bailey,
and Christophe …” She paused, gulped a mouthful of air, said the
rest in a rush. “If I had not been so useless, if I had known what
to do, he would still be alive.”