The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (15 page)

“What is that mountain, there?” She pointed
to the tallest peak, directly ahead of them, which dominated the
horizon. “Has it a name?”

Her innocent question made his gut clench.
“Mount Ravensbruk,” he said gruffly. “It will be your new home
anon, milady. That is where Daemon has his palace.”

She flinched at the news.

Noticing her reaction, he could not keep
from asking a question that had been simmering at the back of his
mind. “I gather you are not looking forward to your marriage?”

“Looking forward to it?”

“Your father said you agreed to the match,
yet the mention of Daemon’s name upsets you.”

“I am not upset.” She accompanied the claim
with a shrug. “It matters not what I feel for Prince Daemon.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Nay, it does not,” she insisted. “Like him
or loathe him, I have no choice in the matter.”

“But your father would not have forced you,
had you refused Daemon’s proposal.”

She shook her head. “Prince Daemon won the
war and demanded my hand as part of the terms of peace, and Châlons
was in no position to bargain. Had I refused … “ She did not
finish the sentence. “I will not risk unleashing Daemon’s wrath on
my people again. The wedding will unite the royal houses of Châlons
and Thuringia, and forge a lasting bond that will ensure
peace.”

Those sounded like her father’s words, not
hers, but Royce did not think she would appreciate him pointing
that out. “So you are marrying him because you must.”

“I am marrying him for my subjects, for …”
Her voice faltered, then strengthened. “For that little boy we met
in the keeping-room last night. I do not want any other children to
lose their parents. Or …” She finished in a whisper. “Or any
other sisters to lose their brothers.”

Royce remained silent, fighting his
emotions. Not only did Ciara have a heart. She had courage. She
might not see it in herself, but he had known hardened warriors who
were unable to face challenges so bravely.

“The responsibility is mine,” she continued,
looking at Mount Ravensbruk. “As for my future … I shall simply
hope for the best and depend upon Daemon’s Christian mercy.”

“Then you are in a predicament, milady,
because there is precious little of that to spare.” Royce clenched
his jaw. “Of King Stefan’s three sons, it is said that Prince
Mathias inherited his spirit, Prince Telford his strength, and
Prince Daemon his ambition. Unfortunately, Daemon was the one
chosen as regent when his father fell ill. And he does not know the
meaning of the word
mercy
. The whoreson once killed a
servant for being late with his breakfast—”

“Save the vivid descriptions, if you please.
I have heard most of the tales already.” She shivered. “Daemon’s
character or lack of it does not change my duty.”

Royce cursed himself for speaking so
bluntly. For reminding her of what was to come. She had been trying
to make polite conversation.

But he could not help himself. He did not
want to make
polite
conversation or
polite
anything
else with her.

Watching the snow fall around them, he
listened to the creak of saddle leather and the muffled sound of
his destrier’s hoofbeats—wishing he could turn the horse and carry
her away from Mount Ravensbruk. Away from Daemon.

“Your duty,” he finally echoed, thinking he
had never hated the word before. “Of course.”

“I would really prefer not to discuss it
further,” she said softly, shifting her attention away from the
massive peak. “Whether or not Daemon will make a suitable husband
changes naught. My feelings on the matter are unimportant. The fact
is, I am his betrothed. And I must honor my agreement.”

Royce resisted the urge to argue. He had
never in his life believed that feelings were unimportant, and
never would. But the rest of what she had said was true. And
inescapable.

As they rode on, he brooded about words like
duty
and
honor
.

And
agreement
.

It took another hour for them to reach their
destination for the day: the town of Aganor, at the bottom of the
broad slope they had crossed.

It looked every bit as bad as Royce had
feared.

“Sweet holy Mary,” Ciara breathed.

He reined in before the town gate. Or what
was left of it. The thick oak portal had been reduced to splinters
by a battering ram. Beyond it lay the skeletal remains of buildings
blackened from fire, their thatched roofs burned away, many of the
dwellings no more than piles of ashes. Only the church had been
spared.

Ciara shook her head in denial. “What—”

“Daemon.” He spat the name like a curse.
“Prince Daemon and his mercenaries.”

She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, not
quite fast enough to hold in a small sound of pain. Royce resisted
the urge to touch her shoulder and draw her close.

Despite the fact that he had seen carnage of
this sort before, his stomach turned. He saw no survivors in the
streets but noticed bits of ivory scattered about, barely
discernible amid the blanket of white. Not wanting Ciara to guess
that they were bones, he touched his heels to Anteros’s flanks,
turning to circle the city wall.

As they left the town behind, Ciara glanced
over her shoulder. “If we cannot stay here, where will we stop for
the night?” She looked up at the thickly falling snow.

“At the keep I mentioned yesterday, there.”
He pointed, seeing it through the swirling flakes, perched high
upon a nearby hill—its drawbridge smashed, portions of its curtain
wall in ruins, one of its towers half crumbled. “A friend of mine
and his wife live there. Or used to.” His heart beat painfully hard
against his ribs. “Let us hope they are still safe and well.”

***

The great hall overflowed with light from
two dozen torches, the scents of spicy rabbit stew and the dried
herbs that had been sprinkled in the rushes on the floor—and the
noise of more than fifty happy, well-fed women and children.

Seated at a trestle table before the blazing
hearth, Royce sopped up one last bite of stew with a corner of
bread, smiling at the brawny, fair-haired knight across from him.
“I must say, Bayard.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the
din. “Never did I think it would be possible to have too
many
women underfoot.”

Bayard shrugged, his smile broad, his blue
eyes sparkling with amusement. “What was I to do? They had nowhere
else to go.”

Royce washed down the last of his supper
with a long drink of wine, then pushed aside his empty bowl and
trencher. He grinned at his friend, still relieved to have found
him not only alive but in good spirits.

And good company. Shaking his head in
bemused disbelief, he glanced about the hall as he wiped his hands
on the tablecloth. It looked as if Bayard had taken in every female
refugee in the mountains. Some were orphans, others widows, many in
peasant garb, others dressed in finery that marked them as members
of the nobility. A few were still recovering from injuries suffered
in the war.

“It began with the handful of local women
who survived when the town fell,” Bayard explained, “and the
families of my men who were killed defending the keep. Then word
spread to their relatives, and more arrived. This is the only
castle left standing in this part of Châlons.”

“You are a generous man, my friend, to take
them all in, feed them, care for them.”

Bayard waved a hand, dismissing the
compliment. “It is no more than any other lord would do. And they
have insisted on doing their part, cleaning the keep, working in
the kitchens. Still, I had thought the situation would be only
temporary.” He sighed, the sound of a man who had been outnumbered
by females for a little too long. “Almost three score of them
wintered here. Now it looks as if they will
spring
here as
well.”

Royce laughed. “It is a harem that many a
Saracen would envy.”

“Do not let my wife hear you say that.”

The two of them glanced at a pair of ladies
seated together in a far corner, surrounded by children. The din in
the hall quieted a bit as music began to fill the air.

Mandolin music.

Royce lifted his goblet and drank another
draught of wine, his gaze on Ciara as she strummed her cherished
instrument. When Bayard and his wife, Lady Elinor, had met them
outside, Elinor had immediately noticed Ciara’s mandolin hanging
from his saddle and begged her to play for them after supper. It
had no doubt been a long time since anyone in the keep had enjoyed
such entertainment. There were few traveling minstrels or
troubadours in Châlons these days.

Ciara had said she was not accustomed to
playing for an audience—but eagerly agreed once she met the
children.

Now she sat with her head bowed, her
attention on her mandolin. Her fingers moved lightly over the
strings, bringing forth the notes of a merry tune. One unfamiliar
to him.

He felt like one of the children at her
feet, gazing up at her as if they had never heard anyone play so
beautifully before. As if the lady seated before them were an angel
descended from Heaven with a magical harp. The music became
livelier and a small boy began clapping in time, then the others
joined in. A little girl, no more than two or three years old,
began to dance, waving her chubby hands, gurgling with
laughter.

Ciara glanced up, as if surprised that her
playing could bring them such joy. Then she smiled, her own
happiness lighting her entire face.

Royce’s heart seemed to stop. Everything
around him seemed to stop—the sounds of the children, the heat and
crackle of the fire at his back, even the music she played. All
sense of time, of place, seemed to fade from his awareness, and
there was only this lady, her sparkling amber eyes. And her
smile.

He blinked, unnerved by the sensation. Never
in his life had he experienced such a feeling—other than in the
keeping-room last night. Never could he remember desire rendering
him deaf, dumb, and paralyzed.

But this desire he felt for Ciara was far
different from any he had known before. Not only stronger but …
different.

He realized Bayard was speaking to him and
finally wrenched his gaze back to his friend. “I am what?”

“I said,” the blond knight repeated, his
smile filled with understanding, “that your wife’s talent is
surpassed only by her beauty. You are a fortunate man.”

“Aye. Fortunate,” Royce croaked. He reached
for a nearby jug of wine, refilled his cup, and quickly changed the
subject. “Which of these did you say are yours?” Picking up his
goblet, he gestured to the children scattered about the hall.

Bayard pointed them out with obvious pride.
“That is my daughter, Ilsa, who will soon be two.” The dark-haired
girl had climbed into her mother’s lap to snuggle. “And that”—he
indicated a boy who scampered past them chasing a shaggy hound much
larger than he was—”is my son, Brandis, who is five.”

Royce watched as the lad caught up with the
dog and fearlessly wrestled him to the ground. “He seems to take
after his father.”

“Aye.” Bayard grinned broadly. “Hard to
believe we were his age when first we met.”

Royce nodded. “We had some good times in
those years.”

“That we did. Do you remember when we were
ten and thought it would be an excellent idea to spend an afternoon
exploring the caves in Mount Kaladar—”

“Until we got lost. For three days.” Royce
chuckled. “I thought your father would flay us alive when he
finally found us.”

“That was
almost
as bad as the winter
when we decided to use our fathers’ shields to go sledding.”

“It seemed such a sensible idea at the
time.”

“It was
your
idea.” Bayard’s laughter
was deep and rich. “And they
were
much faster on the ice
than our wooden sleds.”

“Right up to the moment we crashed into the
trees and mangled them. Not to mention ourselves.”

“And our dignity. How old were we then?”

“Twelve.” Royce smiled warmly at the memory.
“When winter was naught but skating and sleds—”

“And fighting with snowballs. God’s breath,
I remember it like yesterday, how we loved battling with your
little brothers and pelting your sisters …” Bayard’s voice
trailed off. His expression turned somber.

Royce felt his throat tighten, dropped his
gaze to his goblet. An awkward silence fell, filled with other,
more recent memories.

Bayard cleared his throat. “Royce, I am
sorry. I did not mean to remind you of them—”

“It was seven years ago.”

“Even so, to suffer such a loss—”

“It was seven years ago,” Royce repeated,
unwilling to reopen old wounds. For a time, he had tried to purge
himself of the fury and pain, spilled a great deal of Thuringian
blood, and too much of his own, before he realized that no amount
of death and vengeance would help.

Grief, he had learned, was a wound that
never fully healed. After all these years, he had simply become
accustomed to it, lived with the pain until he did not notice it
overmuch. Most of the time.

He lifted his gaze to Bayard’s, seeing his
own anguish mirrored there. Everyone in Châlons had suffered losses
in the war, Bayard included. Their carefree youth had come to an
abrupt end on that day seven years ago when Thuringia had suddenly
changed from peaceful ally to vicious enemy.

That day when the Ferrano lands, which lay
directly on the border, had been taken by surprise—and been the
first to fall.

But Royce had vowed long ago that he would
not drown himself in bitterness over what might have been. What
would never be again.

Because God and King Aldric together could
not restore all that this war had cost him.