The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (16 page)

Bayard pushed his empty trencher around on
the tabletop. “So how long has it been since we last saw each
other? Five years, is it not?”

Royce felt grateful for the way his friend
shifted so easily to a less painful topic. “Aye.”

“I take it King Aldric has been keeping you
busy. Have you any news from court?”

Royce took another long swallow of wine
while he considered his response. Thus far, he had explained only
that he and his “new bride” were passing through on their way to
see his old home, now that peace had come. Bayard had been happy to
offer shelter, food, and drink without asking many questions.

Royce would prefer to keep it that way. For
the safety of everyone involved.

“Nay, I have no news,” he said as the
mandolin music ended and the chamber erupted in applause. “I have
not been at court for some time. And I am sorry that it has been
five years, Bayard. The war—”

“Aye, the accursed war. It did more damage
than merely separating old friends. You do not need to apologize.”
He took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We
could have used your skill, here in the mountains. But we all
understood that you were needed elsewhere.”

Royce looked away, assailed by a pain, a
guilt, that was old and deep. His flair for battle tactics had
first attracted royal notice when he had been but seventeen and
newly knighted. A year later, Aldric had brought him to court to
serve as one of his military advisers.

That was where he had been, on that day.
That black day when his entire family perished.

He shut his eyes. “I have often wondered,
Bayard, whether I could have made a difference, if I had …
if—”

“If you had been there when they attacked?
There is no point tormenting yourself, Royce. You would have been
killed with everyone else.” His tone softened. “It would seem that
God had other plans in mind for you, my friend.” Sighing heavily,
he clicked his goblet against Royce’s. “But let us talk no more of
the war. We should be drinking a
salut
, to peace at
last.”

The bitter note in his friend’s voice made
Royce pause before he raised his cup. “You do not sound entirely
happy about that.”

“About peace with the Thuringians? Only
months ago they were laying waste to our homes, murdering our
families, and raping our women. Now we are expected to lay down our
arms and embrace them like brothers. You will forgive me if I find
it difficult to be happy.”

A prickle of unease chased down Royce’s
spine. He looked down into his cup, posed his reply carefully.
“Those sound like the sentiments of a rebel, old friend.” He
glanced cautiously, protectively toward Ciara, who was now
performing magic tricks for the children, enchanting them, looking
enchanted herself.

“Hardly,” Bayard scoffed. “I want peace as
much as anyone. More so. I do not want my children to grow up in
Châlons as it has been these seven years. Nor do I want my son to
have to fight the same battles I have fought, against the same
foe.” He looked around the crowded great hall. “And if my serfs
cannot plant new crops this spring, how will I feed all of those
who depend on me? I
need
peace.”

Royce probed a bit deeper, casually. “Still,
there are those who believe that the peace agreement will only make
Daemon more powerful. That it is worth any sacrifice to thwart his
plans.”

“Sacrifice? Is that what they call it?”
Bayard looked disgusted. “I may sympathize with the rebels’ desire
to keep our country out of Daemon’s hands, but I cannot agree with
their methods. Have you heard that they made an attempt on the
princess’s life? In the palace, no less?”

“Aye.” Royce kept his tone light. “I heard
about it.”

“Any traitor who would stoop to that
deserves to be drawn and quartered.” Bayard’s eyes blazed with
outrage. “Before he is fed to the royal hounds in small
pieces.”

Royce nodded in agreement, relieved that his
friend seemed as loyal to the crown as ever.

“If these rebels were from the east,” Bayard
continued hotly, “they would realize that there has been
enough
death and
enough
killing “ He looked again at
the refugees crowding his hall. “King Aldric has made peace, and it
is for the best. I may not like the idea of laying aside my sword,
but I see no other solution.”

“Nor I,” Royce said hollowly, glancing
toward Ciara again.

She was now sitting on the floor—actually
sitting on the
floor
—with baby Ilsa in her lap, toddlers
clambering all over her royal person, and a shaggy gray-and-brown
puppy attempting to make a meal of her skirt. All while she tried
to show one of the older girls how to pick out notes on her
mandolin.

She looked blissfully happy.

“Nor I,” Royce repeated, his heart thudding
painfully hard against his ribs.

Bayard signaled for servants to bring more
food and wine, but Royce found that his stomach had turned sour.
Their conversation had left him tense, reminded him that he dare
not trust anyone, even his childhood friend. Thus far, the journey
with Ciara had gone as planned, so mayhap Aldric had indeed managed
to fool the rebels and they were far from here, on the other side
of the kingdom, chasing decoys ….

Or mayhap they were much closer, lying in
wait and planning an attack.

“So tell me more about this bride of yours,
my friend,” Bayard said, grinning. “Where did you manage to find a
lady so talented, lovely, and seemingly intelligent who was willing
to marry you?”

Royce did not want to lie to his friend, but
he was not about to reveal any secrets. So he told the truth.

“In a monastery.”

“Very funny.”

Royce looked up to see Ciara, Elinor, and
Ilsa crossing the hall to join them. “She comes from the north,” he
elaborated. That was true enough.

“Beautiful women they have there in the
north.”

Elinor came up behind her husband just in
time to hear this comment. “Is this what the two of you have been
talking about?” She gave her husband a playful poke with one
finger. “We leave you alone for a short while and already you are
discussing other women.”

“Ah, curses, we are caught.” Laughing,
Bayard tilted his head back as his wife bent over to give him a
kiss.

Royce smiled as he watched his friends.
Bayard had eyes for only one woman, had been besotted since the age
of fourteen, when he had vowed to make the spirited Elinor his
wife—after she bested him in an archery match at a local fair. The
two of them had lived here, on Elinor’s dower lands, ever since
Bayard’s family holdings were lost in the war.

Straightening, Elinor lifted her daughter to
her hip. “It is time to put this little one to bed, milord.”

“Aye, you are right.” The child had lost a
shoe, and Bayard reached up to tickle his daughter’s bare foot,
making her giggle.

Elinor smiled warmly at Ciara. “Thank you
again, milady. I do not believe I have ever heard anyone play so
beautifully.”

The praise brought a dusting of pink to
Ciara’s cheeks. Her smile was bright, her eyes sparkling as she
cradled her mandolin. “I am glad the children enjoyed it.”

“They loved it. And you.” Elinor turned her
attention to Royce. “This charming bride of yours will make a
wonderful mother. She has such a way with children.”

Royce could not reply, his gaze on Ciara,
his mind filled with a sudden, unbidden image of her round and
heavy with child.

His child.

He blinked and the vision vanished, but it
left behind a strange, tingling warmth in the region of his heart.
A longing he had never felt before.

Elinor was still speaking to him. “And did
you know that she composes her own music?”

It took a moment for Royce to find his
tongue. “Aye,’’ he lied. No wonder he had never heard the tunes
before.

Chuckling, Bayard clapped him on the
shoulder. “Let us go collect our son, Elinor. I think these two
would enjoy some time alone.” He pushed back from the table and
stood. “They may even wish to retire early.” He winked.

Royce forced himself to smile, trying not to
think of the comfortable bedchamber his friends had prepared for
him and Ciara. “Good eventide to you both.”

Elinor handed her daughter to Bayard as he
rose, then gave Ciara a quick hug. “Thank you again. I hope we will
have time to get to know one another better on the morrow. And in
the years to come.”

Ciara looked startled by the display of
affection, as if no one had ever dared hug her before. Then she set
her instrument aside and returned the gesture, a tremulous smile on
her lips. “I … hope so, Lady Elinor.”

Royce lowered his gaze, busied himself by
refilling his trencher with food he had no appetite for. His gut
wrenched into a knot. Ciara would never have the chance to get to
know Elinor better. They would be leaving in the morn. He would be
taking her on toward Mount Ravensbruk. To her new home. To her
betrothed.

And when she grew heavy with child one day,
it would be Daemon’s seed that made her so.

The possessive fury that shot through him
made him drop the platter he had just picked up. For a moment, he
was blinded by the red haze that gripped him. The feeling was
savage, primitive. Utterly beyond the realm of his experience.

“Royce?” Ciara’s voice was full of
concern.

He shook his head to clear it. His friends
had left. Ciara had taken Bayard’s place across from him.

“I am merely tired,” he bit out. “It has
been a long day.”

“Aye, that it has.”

They said naught more for a moment, gazing
at each other across the table, listening to the laughter and
conversations that filled the great hall. The gray-and-brown puppy
that had munched on Ciara before danced around her feet, yapping
for attention, but she did not seem to hear.

Royce broke the stare, wanting anything
but
to spend the rest of the evening sitting here, alone
with her.

However, his only other choice was to spend
the rest of the evening alone with her in the bedchamber
upstairs.

He glanced down at his full trencher and
pushed it aside, reaching for the jug of wine on his left—at the
same instant Ciara reached for it.

Their fingers met and heat sizzled through
him. They each flinched as if burned. After a moment, he started to
reach for it again, then hesitated as she did the same. They both
thrust forward and their fingers collided once more.

Ciara withdrew, dropping her hands to her
lap with a sound of unease. They avoided meeting each other’s gaze.
He realized she was breathing fast and shallow, as he was.

He muttered an oath. How were they to endure
the rest of the journey if they could not even bear to have their
fingers brush in the most innocent way? This was intolerable.

And entirely his fault, he thought angrily.
He was the one who had overstepped his bounds this morn, created
this constant tension between them. But he could control himself.
He
would
control himself. The responsibility was his.

He picked up the accursed jug of wine and
filled her cup for her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, still not
looking at him.

He grabbed an almond tart, ate it though he
was not hungry. “The music was nice.”

“It is kind of you to say so.”

Silence descended.

“Your friends seem … nice,” Ciara
ventured.

“They are good people.”

“And their children are very sweet.”

“Aye.”

That seemed to exhaust their supply of safe,
polite conversation.

Which left Royce’s thoughts free to dwell
upon subjects that were not safe or polite. Such as her scent. That
dangerous perfume drifted across the table to tantalize him. Why,
in the name of all that was holy, was she wearing such a fragrance
in the first place? ‘Twas not at all suitable for a scholarly,
innocent princess. It was much too vivid, too dramatic.

Too sensual.

He turned to look at her, found her
regarding him with that curious, slightly bewildered expression. As
if she could not understand what was happening between them.

But
he
understood it. God help him,
he understood.

Even as their gazes met and held, her face
flushed with color and her lips—those luscious, garnet-dark
lips—parted slightly. All he had to do was lean across the table,
close the scant space between them …

He wrenched his gaze from hers, in the grip
of a hunger he could not vanquish. He could hear his heart beating
too fast, wondered if she could hear it as well. Wanted naught more
in that moment than to thrust himself from the table and walk
away.

But he could not leave her alone. Not for an
hour, not even for a minute. He was her guardian. Sworn to protect
her.

Condemned to serve his duty in Hell—always
in her company yet forbidden to touch her. Satan himself could not
have designed a more painful torture for him. He gulped for air,
only to inhale more of her scent. More of her.

He glanced around the room, seeking some
focus for his wayward thoughts, some topic they might discuss, some
…

His gaze landed on one of Bayard’s refugees,
a buxom brunette who had been smiling at him frequently through the
evening. He had not given her any attention before, but now he
offered her a wide grin, grateful for whatever distraction he could
get. She responded with an openly hungry expression and a seductive
toss of her long hair.

“Can we take her with us?”

“What?” Royce’s gaze snapped to Ciara.

She was looking at the floor, her attention
on the wriggling, yapping puppy. “This little one will not leave me
alone.” She scooped the dog into her lap. “Elinor said I could have
her if I wished.”

Royce shut his eyes and drew a deep breath,
willing his heart to slow down. “Ciara …”