The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (29 page)

And they would do something they could not
undo.

Something Royce would not live long enough
to regret.

“The kitchens,” he suggested, his calm voice
at odds with the hot tempest in his gaze. Picking up the sword, he
turned to lead the way.

***

Two hours later, Ciara stood before a
blazing fire in the kitchen’s main hearth, trying not to scald
herself as she used a hook to pluck a small iron cauldron from the
flames. She wrinkled her nose as she peered down into the pot, not
sure whether the broth was fit to eat yet. It was her first attempt
at cooking.

She glanced at Royce, who lay dozing a few
paces away on a makeshift bed he had created from tablecloths. He
had not been hungry at all, but she thought it would do him good to
eat a hot meal. Determined, she hooked the little cauldron again
and set it back in place to continue bubbling.

The kitchen had withstood the ravages of the
Thuringian attack better than any other chamber in the keep, since
it had been built with doubly thick stone floors and walls,
designed to prevent the huge hearths and brick ovens from setting
the adjoining rooms ablaze. The main hearth, the one she stood in
front of, was so large she would be able to step into it without
even ducking her head.

She and Royce had also discovered that the
buttery, the large, cool underground storage chamber dug beneath
the kitchens, had been spared the worst of the fire’s damage. The
food in it was no longer fit to eat, but a few useful casks and
bags had offered up utensils, wine, and several clean cloths.

After re-bandaging Royce’s wound and leaving
him to sleep, Ciara had gone outside to see to their horse. One of
the structures in the bailey had just enough of a roof left to
protect the mare from the rain, and she did not seem to mind being
covered with tablecloths rather than a blanket when Ciara removed
her saddle.

Taking what little food they had brought
with them from Gavena she had decided to try her hand at cooking.
Which was not going quite as well as her other endeavors.

Reaching up for a dangling metal spoon to
stir the soup, she burned her finger. Snatching it back, she stuck
it in her mouth, whispering one of Royce’s favorite oaths.

A low male chuckle made her glance to her
left, where she found him lying on his side, observing her with a
drowsy grin.

“You were not supposed to hear that,” she
mumbled around her stinging finger.

“A most unladylike word,” he scolded
lightly, his grin widening. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Cooking supper. And that word is one I
never heard in my life before I met you,” she lied, fighting to
keep her own lips from curving. “I warned you once that I am a
quick pupil.”

That made him chuckle again. “Aye.” He sat
up, shifting his rumpled bed closer to the hearth so he could
recline against the warm stone. “And you also enjoy proving me
wrong.”

“I do?”

He nodded. “When I met you, I thought you
were a spoiled, helpless girl who could not do a single thing for
herself, a haughty child who cared for naught but her silk slippers
and her gilded books of verse. Yet here you are wearing peasant
garb, working like a kitchen maid, taking care of me. You have
taken charge of everything around you.”

Ciara felt color rising in her cheeks,
remembering how she used to feel inadequate. Helpless. Only now did
she realize that she had not felt that way in some time.

It was as if she had left behind the regal,
proper, uncertain Princess Ciara along with her royal coronet and
robes. As if she had become someone new.

Someone she liked much better.

All because of this man who had come into
her life so unexpectedly and changed everything so completely.

She looked down, toying with the edge of the
rough homespun tunic she wore. “I have learned to take care of
myself. You taught me that. You taught me”—she paused, listening to
her rapid heartbeat—“a great many things.”

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped
to a deeper, softer tone. “I was also wrong about a great many
things … such as thinking that you were selfish and uncaring. I
do not think I have ever been so wrong.”

Ciara did not reply, kept her gaze on the
floor. She had promised herself that she would not reveal her true
feelings for him. It made no sense to torment them both by
discussing what was in her heart.

Turning away, she searched for another spoon
to stir the soup.

“I have been wondering about something,
Ciara.”

“Hmm?” She tried to keep her attention on
the rack of cooking implements hanging on the wall, not on the way
his deep voice made her feel so tingly and warm inside.

“You never did mention where you went in the
marketplace yesterday, when you disappeared from our room. What was
so tempting that you would take such a risk to have it?”

She hesitated, not wanting to lie to him,
yet not wanting to reveal what she had purchased. It was to be a
surprise for him.

A gift when they parted for the last
time.

“I … saw something in a shop across the
street, but …” She shrugged, selecting a long spoon from the
rack. “It did not look so nice when I examined it closely. It was a
bauble at the silversmith’s shop.”

“Ah, the silversmith’s. No wonder I could
not find you. I was searching in the booths selling musical
instruments and books and perfumes—”

“Perfumes?” She turned, blinking at him.
“How did you know I like perfume?”

She saw the answer in his eyes before he
expressed it with words. “Because the scent you wore when we were
riding those first few days all but drove me mad with wanting
you.”

She turned the spoon she held in her hands,
her fingers fluttering as her insides were fluttering. “Oh.” Never
before had she given thought to the effect her scent might have on
a man. To the effect
she
might have on a man.

‘Twas a heady, strangely powerful … not
unpleasant sensation, the idea that she could somehow weave the
same magic around Royce that he had woven around her.

As they gazed at each other across the
kitchen, she was suddenly aware of just how clearly the masculine
leggings and tunic she wore outlined the feminine shape of her
hips, her legs. Though the garments fit loosely, they were much
more revealing than any skirt.

And when he stood, she was vividly reminded
that he had not put his own tunic back on after she had re-bandaged
his arm.

“Royce …” She could not move as he walked
toward her. Did not want to move.

“I have been going mad since the day we
met,” he said hoarsely, “and I think I may have finally lost my
mind completely. I told you—I told myself—that I was bringing you
here to keep you safe. But that was a lie.”

Her heart pounded as he came to stand before
her, towering over her. “A lie?” she whispered.

“I did not bring you here to keep you safe.
I brought you here thinking that I could
keep
you. Steal you
away. From Aldric, from everyone …”

“From Daemon.”

“I thought we could stay here for a while,
and then keep going, that we could just—”

“Disappear.”

The thought made her tremble even as she
said it. She clung to that idea as if it were a bright star that
had fallen from the sky and into their hands.

She gazed up at him, possibilities spinning
through her mind. “No one would know,” she whispered. “We would
simply vanish into the mountains.”

“We could keep riding south—”

“To Provence or Granada, or some island no
one has ever heard of—”

“Some place not found on any map. A land
where no one fights wars.”

She closed her eyes. “And we could make our
home there.”

“And stay,” he said softly. “Forever.”

“Together.”

The spoon in her hand clattered to the floor
as she stepped into his arms, holding on to him tightly as he
crushed her against him. Holding on to that glorious vision.

Just for a moment.

She pressed her cheek against the hard
muscles of his chest, imagining a small cottage in a faraway land,
hidden, secret, where he could hold her this way every night. All
the rest of her life.

She closed her eyes to savor the feeling of
his arms around her, wanting to emblazon it on her memory forever.
“If only we could take them all with us,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“Nevin and Oriel, and Vallis and Warran, and
Elinor and Bayard and all the children in their castle. Everyone in
Châlons. Everyone who needs us.”

“I need you,” he said roughly. “
I need
you.
In the name of all that is holy, why do our needs matter
least?”

“Because of the war. If only it had never
happened, if you had not been sent away, if we were still at the
palace and you were Christophe’s best friend and—”

Royce made a choked sound. “By now
Christophe would have run me through with the nearest available
blade.”

She lifted her head, gazing up at him in
surprise. “But he was your best friend.”

“And your brother. Can you imagine how he
would have reacted to seeing his swaggering friend pursuing his
little sister?”

“I suppose you are right.” She closed her
eyes, resting her forehead in the middle of Royce’s broad chest.
“But I do not think he would have looked unfavorably on your asking
for my hand. We might have—”

“Nay, Ciara, it never could have been. Even
if the war had never happened, even if I had never been banished,
if I were still a knight and one day baron of Ferrano.” He wound
his fingers through her hair, drew her head back until their gazes
met. “Princesses do not marry mere barons. A princess must marry a
prince, or a king. Or an emperor if one is available.” His mouth
curved in a sad, defeated expression. “I am not of royal blood. I
would never have been allowed to ask for your hand.”

Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. “If
only I had never been
born
a princess, if only I had been
born a mere noblewoman—”

“And I your lord.”

“Or a shepherdess—”

“And I your shepherd.” He lowered his head
to hers.

“I would be anyone, anywhere,” she whispered
against his lips, “if only I could be with you.”

His mouth covered hers, softly, gently.
Briefly.

And with her next breath, she said the words
she had promised herself she would never speak aloud.

“I love you, Royce.”

She felt just how much she startled him,
felt the shudder go through him, saw his eyes gleaming, almost
black, when he lifted his head.

And felt hot tears slip past her lashes. “I
have tried to deny it, even to myself, but I cannot keep it inside
anymore. It is too big, so big sometimes that it feels as if my
entire heart and soul are filled with you.” His face shimmered in
her vision. “I … I used to be better skilled at keeping my
feelings hidden. I do not know how …” Her throat seemed to be
closing off. “It is all your fault.”

“That you love me?” he asked roughly, his
thumbs whisking the tears from her cheeks. “Or that you cannot keep
from saying it?”

“Both,” she accused.

He was smiling that sad, bittersweet smile.
“You are certain that you cannot try to hate me, little one? Even a
bit?”

“Nay. It is too late for that.”

“You once called me blackhearted,” he
reminded her helpfully. “And an ill-mannered knave, and impossible,
and—”

“That was before I learned that you are kind
and brave and giving,” She looked up at him stubbornly, defiantly.
“And the most caring, most noble man I have ever known.”

“You have not known very many men.”

“I have no wish to know any others,” she
whispered. “I love this one.”

He cupped her cheeks in his broad, callused
palms, angled his head.

And when his lips covered hers this time,
the kiss was neither soft nor brief. She twined her arms around his
neck, welcoming him, wanting him in a way that went beyond all she
had felt before. He sealed her mouth with his and they came
together in a fierce, mutual claiming, a taking of breath and body
and soul.

Heat arced between them, flashing inside
her, a bolt of lightning that struck deep at the core of her being.
His tongue parted her lips to thrust inside and sparks of longing
glittered through her, cascading into a liquid heat. She drew him
deeper, moaned at each velvety stroke, needing more. Needing to be
closer to him, to give and to share and to know more of him. An
unbearable, hollow ache had begun low in her belly, an emptiness
that demanded to be filled.

And when his hand slid down her back,
pressing her closer, fully against him, she responded eagerly,
arching her hips to rub her softness against that hard, male part
of him. Groaning deep in her throat at the torment of being
separated from him by the rough fabric of their clothes.

He tore his mouth from hers, curses hot on
his lips. “I want to be inside you.” He nibbled at her jaw, her
throat, her earlobe. “I want to become part of you and hear you
make that sound when I take you. I want to feel you tight and hot
and silky around me.”

His words and his kisses sent shocks of need
and excitement through her. “Now,” she whispered, a single word of
agreement, of consent, of demand.

But he was already lifting his hands to her
shoulders, as if he meant to push her away, though he could not
stop kissing her, nuzzling her neck, her chin. “Ciara …”

“I love you, Royce.” She kept her hands
linked around his neck, refusing to let go. “I love you. I need
you—”

“And I love you. More than I love my own
life.”

That made her go still, as if she had been
drenched with ice, suddenly reminded of the price he would pay if
they dared give themselves to one another. “Dear God.” Her hands
were trembling when she slid them down to his chest, started to
push away. She shook her head, tried to clear her passion-fogged
senses. “We cannot. They will kill you if we—”