The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (17 page)

“She will be almost as tall as my hip when
fully grown. At least that is what Elinor told me.” The little
beast licked Ciara’s face, eliciting a giggle. “I think I shall
name her after Hera, queen of all Greek goddesses and protectress
of the home.”

“Nay, you will not. We cannot possibly—”

“How can you resist this face?” She extended
the squirming mongrel toward him with a hopeful smile.

“Easily.” The little blur of fur did have
rather endearing features—a long nose, floppy ears, and bright
black eyes almost hidden by tangles of grizzled hair. “We have
difficult terrain to cross and the last thing I need is one more
unruly creature to watch over.”

“
I
will watch over her.” She frowned
at his surly reply, withdrawing the dog. “I never had a pet
before—”

“And you do not have one now.” He was
starting to lose patience. “She will make too much noise. Draw too
much attention. Run away at every opportunity—and we will waste
valuable time searching for her. We are not taking that animal with
us.”

“But—”

“Do not argue with me, Ciara,” he snapped,
unable to control both his desire and his temper. “You can either
give her up now or give her up twelve days from now. I suggest
giving her up now. Before you form any sort of emotional
attachment.” He leaned across the table, the rest spilling out in a
harsh whisper. “Because your
husband
will never allow you to
keep such a mongrel. You may wish to play at being an ordinary
woman, milady, but he is
not
the sort to indulge you.”

Ciara flinched, her expression stricken. She
cradled the puppy close, her eyes suddenly glistening with
dampness.

Blinking hard, she turned and put the dog
down and let it scamper away.

Royce cursed himself under his breath.
“Ciara, I am sorry. I did not mean to—”

“Nay, you are right to remind me of my
duty,” she said quietly, still looking at the floor. “The prince
would never approve. I was enjoying myself so much this evening
that … for a moment I almost forgot—”

The buxom brunette arrived out of nowhere
before she could finish. “Milord?” The woman leaned over the table,
sliding a tray of sugared nuts in front of him. “Can I tempt you
with one of these?”

Royce wrenched his gaze from Ciara, only to
find himself faced with an eyeful of bosom, artfully displayed by
an indecently low-cut bodice. “Nay,” he said curtly, “I am
not—”

“Then at least allow me to refill your cup
for you.” She set down the tray and reached across the table to
pick up the wine, her breasts brushing against his shoulder.

Instead of feeling aroused, as she so
obviously intended, he was annoyed. He had had more than enough
feminine attention and companionship for one day. “Thank you for
the
offer
, but my wife and I—”

“Your wife?” She feigned surprise, lifting a
hand to cover her bosom, only to stroke her fingers across the
curving expanse of skin. “I did not realize. Someone said she was
another refugee brought here for shelter. And from her garments
…” She eyed Ciara’s muddied gown with disdain.

For once, Ciara did not respond with a
polite smile or courtly phrases.

She looked as if she wanted to spear the
woman on a stick.

Which only made the brunette smile as she
turned back to him. Evidently she enjoyed a challenge. “If you have
finished your supper, I would be happy to offer you a tour of the
keep.”

For a second—just one second—Royce wanted to
accept. God knew he
needed
release from the ravenous desire
that held him in its talons. And the woman was obviously eager for
a tumble. A half hour with her might clear his mind, enable him to
focus on his duty.

But duty had naught to do with his decision.
To his astonishment, he found that her offer did not, in truth,
interest him. She was willing to serve herself up like one of the
sweetmeats on the platter, but her wiles left him cold. He no more
wanted her than he wanted the food forgotten on his trencher.

‘Twas a stunning moment. Never in the past
would he have refused such a brazen invitation.

“Thank you,” he said unsteadily, “but I have
no need of a tour. I am quite familiar with the castle.”

“Ah, then you know of the east tower.”
Undaunted, she caught a lock of her long hair, twirled it around
her finger, and brought it to her lips. “You can see the entire
valley from its roof. And the view is especially beautiful at
night.”

With one last smile, she turned and walked
away, hips swaying with obvious entreaty. Heading for the east
tower.

He watched her go, then turned to find Ciara
glaring at him.

“Do not let me keep you.”

“Ciara—”

“Nay, go with her. You have my full
permission. Why should
you
let any sense of duty stop you
from enjoying your evening?” She rose from the table.

Royce reached out to grab her wrist. “You
forget, milady, that I take my duty as seriously as you take
yours.”

She yanked her arm free. “Well, I hardly
think one of the orphans means to carry me off this night. I will
be perfectly safe in our chamber. The only window is an arrow slit,
and any intruder would have to be rather thin to slip in that way.
And I promise to bolt the door behind me.”

“Ciara, I cannot allow you to—”

“I would
prefer
to be alone, if you
do not mind. Surely you can grant me one evening’s privacy. You can
see our chamber from here, at the top of the stairs.” Her voice
became brittle as she glanced toward the spot where the brunette
had disappeared. “Though I doubt you can see it from the east
tower.”

She turned and fled the hall, leaving him
alone with his frustration, his hunger, and a table full of cold
food that he did not want.

And her mandolin. Only after she was gone
did he notice that she had forgotten her precious mandolin.

C
iara slammed the
bedchamber door behind her and fell back against it, covering her
face with her hands, breathless from her dash up the stairs.
Mortified that she had just run from the hall. From him.

She tried to inhale a calming breath, only
to release all the air in her lungs with a sharp sound of hurt. She
shook her head in denial, confused by her behavior, by feelings
that made no sense to her. The way Royce and that woman had looked
at each other, the idea that they might … that they would …

She pressed her palms flat against the door
to steady herself, keeping her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She
would
not
cry. Did not even understand why she
wanted
to cry. It was absurd to feel so upset by the actions of that …
that …

Wench. That was a good word for her.

Ciara lifted her lashes, her vision swimming
with tears. Fie, how she had wanted to snatch up the jug of wine
and dump it over the shameless bawd’s head!

Blinking hard, she wiped the moisture from
her eyes with trembling fingers, perplexed by the intensity of her
feelings. Never in her life had she experienced such animosity
toward another woman. Toward anyone. What in Heaven’s name was
wrong with her? Mayhap she was ill, mayhap she had …

Her thoughts stilled as she beheld the
contents of the room clearly for the first time since shutting the
door.

A fire glowed merrily on the hearth. Someone
had also left candles burning on low tables that flanked the bed,
along with a silver flask and two exquisite goblets. The mattress
had been covered with fresh sheets, folded back to reveal a
scattering of rose petals, the four posts draped with white silk to
form a canopy and bed curtains. Sniffing the air, she caught a
musky scent—from sandalwood shavings added to the fire.

“Oh, Lady Elinor,
nay
.” Ciara went to
the foot of the bed, where Elinor had left a white cotton kirtle
for her to sleep in. She picked up the garment, filled with dismay
at its delicate beauty. The material was as sheer as mountain mist,
the long, loose sleeves and full skirt edged with embroidery.

Her kind, thoughtful hostess had prepared
the chamber for a romantic tryst! But Elinor did not understand.
Did not know that Royce was not her husband.

That he would not be spending the night
here, but in the east tower.

Biting her bottom lip, she set the garment
aside and bent to blow out the candles.

But she paused.

Royce would be enjoying
his
evening.
Why should she not enjoy hers?

She had the chamber to herself for the
night. Why
not
savor the luxuries her hostess had provided?
She had vowed to seek out pleasant experiences during her journey.
And she did not know when she would have another evening alone.

Straightening, she exhaled slowly and left
the candles burning. She would not sit about and sulk like some
pitiful, lovesick damsel in a troubadour’s tale. She was not
pitiful. And she certainly was
not
lovesick. It was no
business of hers where Royce chose to spend his evening. Or with
whom. She did not care.

Did not care about him in the least.

Pleased with her decision, Ciara went to the
corner where a servant had placed her satchel earlier. She dug
through the contents and pulled out one of the books she had
brought with her. Then she walked back to the bed and began to
disrobe, her gaze on the kirtle, her spirits already lifting.

If she had been upset in the great hall, it
was merely because she was tired. Overwrought. Exhausted by a day
filled with new adventures and dizzying emotions—excitement at
learning to defend herself, dread upon catching her first sight of
Mount Ravensbruk, delight when she had played with the children,
happiness upon discovering what it could feel like to have a
friend.

And this other feeling. The one that was all
tangled up with the way Royce looked at her, and touched her
…

Shivering, she lifted the flowing kirtle
over her head, making a soft sound as it drifted down her body like
a cloud. Then she leaned against the bedpost, gazing into the fire
as she began unplaiting her hair, trying at the same time to
unravel this feeling Royce stirred in her.

It had been building since the moment they
met—and it had taken a sharp, unexpected turn when she had noticed
the other women in the hall noticing him. The brunette had been
only the most obvious in a roomful of sighing damsels, all
enchanted by his rugged features and windswept dark hair, his brown
eyes, the way he moved with such confidence, the disarming smile
that flashed at the most unexpected moments …

Gritting her teeth, resolved not to think of
him anymore, she grabbed her book and climbed into the bed. She
reached for the decanter on the table beside her and poured a
draught of wine, taking a small sip. Her royal tutors had always
insisted that a princess must take care with strong drink, must
only partake in the most restrained, ladylike way …

She emptied the cup in one swallow and
poured herself another. Tonight, she decided with a wicked smile,
she would find out what it felt like to get well and truly
drunk.

“A toast,” she declared, raising the goblet,
“to freedom.”

Piling up pillows against the headboard to
cushion her back, she sank into them with a sigh and picked up her
book, enjoying the sweet taste of the wine and the heady scent of
the crushed rose petals.

Only to find herself remembering how very
different and strangely pleasant it had felt to rest against
Royce’s hard, muscled chest today, how his musky scent had
enveloped her …

She dropped the book into her lap, disgusted
with herself. Angry at him. How was it that the man could dominate
her thoughts when he was not even in the room? Did he make such an
impact on
every
woman who looked at him?

She swallowed hard, setting her cup aside,
knowing that was the real question that had been bothering her all
evening.

Did those other women feel this same
tingly-hot sensation when they thought of him? Did their hearts
beat faster whenever he glanced their way? Did they, too, wonder
what his kiss would be like?

And did he care naught more for her than he
did for them?

She sat up, pushed the covers aside, plucked
a rose petal from the sheets, and tore it into shreds. This morn,
in the woods, he had
seemed
kind, concerned for her … even
tender. But it had not lasted long.

Hanging her head, she buried her face in her
palms. Why, by all the saints, why was she doing this to herself?
Why should it matter
what
Royce Saint-Michel felt for her,
or she for him? He was her guardian, the man appointed to take her
to her betrothed. To Daemon. She was not supposed to
have
any feelings for him.

All her life, she had been taught that her
duty, her responsibilities, her crown must come first. Her
people
were what mattered. Her feelings were
unimportant.

Had she not said as much to Royce, only
hours ago?

Raking her fingers through her tangled hair,
she lifted her head and reached for her wine, refilling the cup.
She had to calm herself. Had to subdue all these feelings that were
so new, so perplexing.

So forbidden.

***

The candles had flickered out, and the fire
had burned low, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. That
was the first thing Ciara noticed when she opened her eyes. The
second was a heavy, thick feeling that clouded her senses, an
unnatural drowsiness that made her thoughts … and everything
around her … seem muffled … slow.

The third was a footstep. Near the door.

There was someone in her room.
Ciara’s eyes opened wider and her heart struck hard against her
ribs. But even the jolt of panic felt oddly sluggish. She could not
seem to wake up fully, could not stir. Befuddled as much as
frightened, she lay on her side beneath a jumble of covers, facing
the wall, her cheek pressed against her book, her empty goblet
still clutched in her hand.