The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (18 page)

Then she heard another footstep, closer this
time. Quiet. Stealthy.

Into her foggy mind came a memory of the
night she had been attacked in the palace.

Followed by a single desperate thought, a
name.
Royce. Help me!
But he was not here. He had left her.
Why had he left her? She could not remember. She opened her mouth
to call out, but her tongue seemed too thick to form words. The
only sound she uttered was a moan.

The intruder crept closer to the bed. Still
did not speak. And who would be sneaking into her chamber so late
except someone who meant her harm? Someone who had waited to attack
until she was alone, helpless.

But … nay, she was not helpless. A new
thought broke through the lethargy that dulled her mind, with
surprising clarity.

Elbow and heel. Elbow and heel.

Closing her eyes, she pretended to be
asleep. Prayed she had the strength. Waited until the intruder drew
close … leaned over her.

Then she summoned every ounce of will she
possessed and jammed her elbow upward, catching him by surprise,
connecting with something hard.

Only to hear a familiar
oof
and a
string of curses.

And the discordant
twang
of her
mandolin hitting the floor.

The shock that rushed through her veins gave
her enough energy to sit up, only to find herself tangled in the
rumpled covers. She gave up trying to push them aside, blinking
through the strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes,
recognizing the brawny person sitting on her floor, even in the
shadowy darkness. “Royce?”

He sputtered another oath, one hand pressed
to his forehead. “Excellent aim, milady,” he said with a muffled
groan. “Right between the eyes.”

“Oh, my … by all … the saints.” Her
words felt too slow, her head still muddled. She could not seem to
focus either her thoughts or her vision. She tried squinting. “I
did not hurt you, did I?”

“Nay.” He remained on the floor, rubbing at
his injured head, his voice full of annoyance. “I suppose I should
be grateful you remember your lessons.”

She tilted her head to one side, still
confused by what he was doing here. “Why did you sneak up on
me?”

“I was not sneaking. I only came to bring
you this.” He thumped her mandolin, which lay in the rushes beside
him. “The accursed thing is so precious to you, I did not think you
would want it left in the hall. I meant to leave it by the door,
but then you made that … sound, and I …” He dropped his hand,
resting both arms across his upturned knees, and looked away. “I
also wanted to make sure you remembered to bolt the door—which
apparently you did not.”

“I must have … um … forgotten.”

She could not explain why she had forgotten.
Locking the door had been important, and it was most unlike her to
forget something important. But at the time, she had been thinking
about … What had she been thinking about? Fie, but her brain did
not seem to be working at all well.

Royce pushed to his feet, sniffing the air.
“What is that smell? Was something burning in here?” He walked over
to the hearth.

“Lady Elinor … um … left us a few
surprises. She seems to have thought … that you and I …”

“Sandalwood. Why would Elinor put sandalwood
in the hearth?” He bent to stoke the fire. The glow brightened the
chamber. “God’s blood, but the woman is a fanciful sort. Reads too
much.”

The comment made Ciara frown at him
indignantly. Which helped her recall what she had been thinking
about when she had forgotten to lock the door: she had been cross
with him.

“And what is wrong with reading?” She
untangled herself from the covers and got out of bed, fists
clenched, swaying on her feet.

“I did not mean to say that there is—” As he
turned to face her, his voice choked out. His gaze slowly dropped
from her face to her toes. “Ciara,” he said hoarsely, “where did
you get that gown?”

“Elinor. I told you.” The room tilted
crazily and Ciara reached out to steady herself on the table beside
the bed. It seemed awfully hard to keep her balance. “She left it
for me, along with this very lovely wine, and—”

“Wine? What wine?” He stalked over and
picked up the silver decanter, looking alarmed. “Where did this
come from?”

“
Elinor,”
she said in exasperation.
Honestly, men could be such buffleheads. “I found it here in the
room, with all the rest.”

“Do you mean you just went ahead and drank
this without asking anyone? God’s breath, woman, it could have been
poisoned.” He took the stopper from the decanter, sniffed at the
contents.

“Why would Elinor do that?”

“Not Elinor, you silly fool. Anyone in this
keep could have left this here.”

“I am not a silly fool. And you are a very
suspicious person.”

“I am
supposed
to be suspicious,” he
said angrily, setting the wine aside. “It is my duty to keep you
safe—a duty you make damnably difficult. If this had been tainted,
you would be dead right now!”

She flinched, stepping back from the fury in
his eyes. “Well, I do not seem to be dead.”

“And you do not seem entirely well, either.”
He caught her arm as she began to sway on her feet.

Ciara shook her head, trying to clear it. “I
cannot understand it.” She was still cross with him, but she felt
grateful for his strong, steadying hand. “I felt quite pleasant
after the first two or three glasses, but now—”

“The
first
two or three? How much did
you drink?”

“Five glasses … I think.” She opened her
eyes, but her mind still seemed fuzzy.

All she could think about was the way the
firelight and shadows cast his features in harsh angles.

Handsome angles.

A ridiculous smile came unbidden to her
lips. “It was a very mild, sweet wine.”

“Ciara … it is not wine at all.” A
reluctant grin eased the harshness from his face, and his voice
softened. “No wonder you can hardly stand up straight. What you
have been pickling yourself in is called cassis, milady. It is a
drink made from the blackberries that grow in these mountains—and
only meant to be enjoyed in very small quantities. Bayard’s family
has been brewing it for generations.”

“Ah. Now I see.” She blinked drowsily. “It
is a very pleasant drink.”

He chuckled. “And very potent. Legend has it
that it enhances …” His smile faded and he suddenly released her,
stepping back a pace. “Never mind the legend. But I should warn
you, little one, that you are going to awaken with the devil’s own
headache in the morn.”

She kept smiling at him, deliriously pleased
to hear him call her
little one
. What a pleasant title. Much
nicer than princess. “It matters not to me if I wake up with a
headache on the morrow. I do not want to … think about the
morrow.”

All she could remember was that they would
be leaving. And she did not want to leave here. This place that was
so full of kind people and sweet children and merry laughter.

This place where the rest of the world
seemed so far away.

The fire on the hearth sounded unnaturally
loud in the darkness as she stood there. His gaze lingered over her
face, her hair, and she felt warm all over, suspected that it had
naught to do with the cassis.

Then a painful memory intruded through the
pleasant fog enveloping her: the reason she had left him in the
hall earlier. She dropped her gaze to her bare toes. “Was the view
from the east tower very pretty tonight?”

“I would not know,” he said distractedly. “I
did not go to the east tower.”

“Oh.” It took a moment for the significance
of what he said to penetrate her muddled brain. “Oh!” She glanced
up, happiness bubbling through her.

As their gazes held, that strange look came
into his eyes again, the one she had seen earlier today in the
woods—filled with longing.

But then he shook his head as if to clear
it. As if he, too, had overindulged in some intoxicating drink. He
turned abruptly and walked away from her, toward the hearth. “Why
were you so certain I would go to the tower?”

“Because that woman was very persuasive, and
very pretty,” she said honestly. “But if you were not in the east
tower … where have you been?”

“Sitting downstairs.” He braced one arm
against the mantel. “Keeping an eye on your door, waiting until I
thought it would be sa—until I thought you were asleep.”

She moved toward him, quietly, drawn to him
in a way she could not explain, her earlier vexation replaced by an
urge to ease the tension outlined so sharply in his shoulders. “I
am sorry that I implied you do not care about your duty. You are
obviously devoted to protecting me.”

“My duty,” he said roughly, “had precious
little to do with it, Ciara.”

“Are you angry with me again?”

“Nay, I am not angry.” He sounded
frustrated. “I was not angry before. I was merely …” He paused,
as if he could not find the right word, and exhaled a harsh breath.
“Concerned. About your safety. It is my duty to …” Hanging his
head, he rested his cheek against his outstretched arm, his voice
dropping to a deep, gruff whisper. “I do not want anything to
happen to you, Ciara. I do not want to … lose you.”

Her heart flickered like the fire that
brightened the room, his words filling her with an unfamiliar,
extravagant emotion that made her feel as dizzy as the cassis. Oh,
how very nice it was to hear him say that to her. To know that she
had
not
been mistaken about his kindness and concern. “But
… but why are we always snapping at one another?” she asked in
soft puzzlement. “Why are we always fighting?”

He muttered something under his breath that
she could not make out. “Little one, there is so much that you do
not understand. Much that is … better left unsaid.”

“But I
want
to understand.” She
reached up to touch his back.

He choked out a curse, his muscles as taut
as a string on her mandolin. He turned quickly to face her, his
features chiseled into harsh lines.

She moved closer to him without hesitation,
leaning forward to rest her head on his shoulder, knowing only that
she wanted to be near him. His tunic beneath her cheek smelled not
of the brunette’s overpowering perfume but of woodsmoke from the
fire in the great hall. She smiled, sighing. “Help me to
understand, Royce … please.”

A tremor went through him. She heard his
heartbeat like wild thunder beneath her ear. “Ciara …” He lifted
his hands—and she feared he would push her away again.

But then his fingers slid into her hair.

He tilted her head up, his broad hands
cupping her cheeks. “Innocent angel … do you know what you are
doing to me?” He looked and sounded as if he were in pain. “I gave
my word.” His eyes closed, opened again, his gaze piercing. “I gave
my word.”

She found it impossible to make sense of
what he was saying. To concentrate on anything but his dark, potent
eyes, the sound of his voice, the feel of his callused fingers
against her skin.

And the way her heart had started to beat in
time with his.

She reached up to soothe a muscle that
flexed in his jaw, and he whispered something profane. His
breathing became ragged.

And then slowly … sweet Heaven, so very
slowly … one of his hands wound through her hair while the other
slid down her back. “Fight me, Ciara,” he begged in a fierce
whisper, even as his arm encircled her waist. “Refuse me. Push me
away.”

“Nay, I will not,” she breathed, her pulse
jumping as her body molded to his, her lashes drifting closed as
her chin tilted upward. “I cannot fight what I feel anymore.”

With a wordless sound of defeat and
impatience, he captured her mouth with his.

And cascades of fire swept through her.

The sensation was shocking, his mouth
unbearably hot and sweet against hers. Silky and hard. Gentle and
savage. His arm pulled her in tight, and she could feel his heat
and hunger burning through the flimsy material of her kirtle. She
trembled, drowning in ribbons of flame, moaning, the sound but a
faint echo of the groan that tore through him.

All of her senses came alive, opening her
heart and mind and soul to him, and he poured into her. Ravished
and claimed. Filled her with his musky, male scent, the rough
texture of his stubbled jaw against her skin, the steely strength
of his arm around her.

He lifted her right off the ground,
staggered backward a step, came up hard against the stone wall of
the hearth. But his mouth remained joined to hers, the sound he
made not of pain but of a feeling that wracked her just as
powerfully. ‘Twas a wanting, a need that went beyond any physical
hunger or thirst or torment she had ever known. A feeling that she
would die without this. Without him.

His fingers were buried in her hair, and he
angled his head, his lips ravenous, giving more, demanding more.
Her toes touched the floor but she sagged against him, unable to
stand, her legs melting beneath her, her body melting into his. Her
breasts felt wildly sensitive, aching from the friction of the soft
fabric she wore, the roughness of his tunic, the hardness and heat
of his muscled chest. Her nipples rose to hard pearls, the
unfamiliar sensation drawing a soft cry from deep in her
throat.

And it stopped him. He tore his mouth from
hers, staring at her with dark, glittering, savage eyes. Their
harsh breathing sounded like a storm in the night.

Then her fingers curled into his tunic, her
grasp fierce, as surprising to her as it must be to him. It was as
if her body refused to be parted from his. His gaze dropped to her
swollen, tingling lips.

And then their mouths came together again,
their breath, hunger, need mingling, tangling. She clung to him
recklessly and his fingers wrapped through her hair, drew her head
back, the pressure of his mouth shifting, urging her to do
something she could not understand …