The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (32 page)

Ciara felt as if the sunlight and the trees
whirled in a dizzying blur around her. This was the end for
them.

The end of all they would ever have, all
they would ever be.

Not yet. I am not ready yet.
Had she
thought herself prepared for this moment? It was all happening too
fast. She had counted on having the chance to say her farewell to
him in private. A chance to hold him one last time.

To tell him she loved him, just once
more.

“I …” She tried to swallow and failed, her
throat too tight. “I would be assured that my escort will be well
treated.”

Daemon exhaled a low, amused sound that was
not at all reassuring. “In the spirit of our peace agreement, I
shall personally guarantee his safety. He can stay in the quarters
that have been prepared for members of the wedding procession.”

Ciara tried to thank her betrothed politely,
tried to say or do something appropriate, but could not even draw a
breath. Could not tear her gaze from Royce’s.

Then, as if to rescue her one last time,
Royce stepped toward her—and did something he had never done in the
entire time they had been together.

He bowed. Dropped to one knee and bowed
before her.

“It has been my honor to serve as your
protector, Your Highness.”

His deep voice betrayed no emotion. Only one
who knew him as well as she did would detect the soft
huskiness.

And when he lifted his head, only she was
close enough to notice that his eyes had become so dark they were
almost black.

“I wish you every happiness, Princess
Ciara,” he said formally.

Only she could have marked the way he drew
out her name ever so slightly, as if he could not bear to let it
go.

Standing there above him, fighting to keep
her expression impassive and her hands from shaking, she did not
trust herself to speak.

The time had come to give him her gift. She
might never have another chance. Using every ounce of will she
possessed, she studied the guards who had accosted them earlier,
then held out her hand toward the one who still held the sword he
had claimed from Royce.

“Give me his sword, sirrah,” she ordered in
her most regal tone.

The man glanced toward his prince, then
quickly did as she commanded.

Royce remained on one knee, his eyes filling
with curiosity and a hint of uneasiness.

When she had the heavy weapon in her hands,
she lifted it by its gold hilt, and stepped back from him a
pace.

She fought to keep her voice steady as she
touched the flat of the blade to his left shoulder.

“In the name of Saint Michael”—she lifted
the sword to touch his right shoulder—”and Saint George, I dub thee
Sir Royce Saint-Michel, knight of Châlons and baron of Ferrano. For
your most loyal and noble service to the crown of Châlons, for
fulfilling your oath and your duty, I restore to you your title and
all the position and privileges attaining thereto.”

His calm expression dissolved in a storm of
emotions, his dark gaze shining with astonishment.

And love.

Quickly, before the burning in her eyes
could become tears, she withdrew the small, cotton-wrapped package
she had been carrying in her tunic since they left Gavena, slipped
the ring from her finger, and pressed both into his hand.

Then she straightened, turning the sword
around to offer it to him in the traditional way, holding it by the
blade.

“Rise, Sir Royce.”

He stood, one hand closing around the hilt
of his father’s sword. For a moment, they both clung to it, and she
tried to say with her eyes what she was forbidden to say aloud, a
silent message for him alone.
I love you, Royce. I will always
love you.

You and no other.

Then she let go and instead said what she
was expected to say. What duty and responsibility demanded she
say.

“Farewell, milord.”

Trembling, she turned from him and allowed
Daemon’s knight to lift her into his saddle.

And forbade herself from looking back even
once as the royal hunting party carried her swiftly toward the
palace.

S
purs. She had
bought him a pair of exquisitely made silver spurs. They gleamed in
his hand as he stared down at them numbly, seated at a table in the
palace’s kitchen long after most of the servants had finished their
supper and retired. Daemon’s hospitality had allowed him a bath and
a change of clothes but had not included an invitation to eat in
the great hall with his knights and his lords and his
betrothed.

Royce had not objected, had not trusted
himself to remain impassive if he had to watch the two of them
together.

Farewell, milord.

A muscle worked in his jaw and his fingers
closed around the bits of silver in his palm. This was what she had
risked herself for in Gavena. She had not been buying some bauble
for herself but a gift for him.
I saw something at the
silversmith’s shop
, she had said.

His eyes burned, his throat hot and tight.
She must have been planning her surprise ever since that day. The
dubbing of knights and bestowing of titles was usually left to
lords and kings, but both were within her power as a member of
Châlons’ ruling family.

She had fulfilled her father’s promise to
him, given him what he had wanted, hoped for, longed for during all
his long years of exile: to reclaim his title and position, to
return to the country he loved. To come home.

But if this was what it felt like to be
rewarded for serving the crown nobly and honorably, it was damned
hard to distinguish from the gut-wrenching pain he had experienced
when he was banished in disgrace. He felt every bit as hollow,
empty. Guilty.

Alone.

He glanced up at the kitchen’s stone
ceiling, blackened from years of soot. She was up there, somewhere,
many floors above him. His Ciara, with her sweet smile and gentle
grace and tender heart. Delivered into the hands of Prince
Daemon.

His fist tightened until the spurs’ sharp
edges bit into his skin. Never had he been more inclined to murder
than when he had seen Daemon looking at her with anticipation in
his eyes.

Was the bastard with her even now? Talking
to her?

Touching her?

Royce shoved away from the table and rose,
ignoring the pain that stabbed up his wounded arm. His lips curled
back from his teeth in a snarl. He wanted to hit something. Break
something.
Kill.
If he did not find an outlet for the
violence coursing through his veins, he was going to cause yet
another incident that would jeopardize yet another peace
agreement.

As he strode through the kitchen door, he
was quickly flanked by his two shadows—the guards Daemon had
assigned to him “for his own protection” during his stay at the
palace.

One guard was an older man whose jowls and
downturned mouth made him resemble a bullfrog. The other was a
skinny twig of a lad who always seemed to have something to eat in
his hands. Both had volunteered for the duty, apparently undaunted
by the tales whispered among the guardsmen of how he had taken on
six armed men in the forest.

They hastened to keep up with him. “Are you
ready to retire, milord?” the younger one asked hopefully, biting
into the wing of roast chicken he carried.

Milord.
Royce’s mouth curved. It
seemed odd to be called that again after four years of being
addressed as a commoner. Astonishing how much had changed in a
single afternoon.

“Nay,” he said curtly. “Do the two of you
intend to keep nipping at my heels all night?”

“We have been assigned to protect you,
milord.”

Royce’s frown deepened at the irony in that
statement. He was beginning to appreciate how Ciara must have felt
at first, when she had been forced to deal with an unwanted
companion day and night.

The older man yawned wearily. “It is late,
milord.” His deep, resonant voice matched his bullfrog appearance.
“We could show you to your quarters.” They passed several servants
on their way to bed.

“I do not feel tired. I wish to go”—
beat
someone or something to a pulp
—“riding.”

“But the gates are closed and the
drawbridges raised by this hour,” the younger one said around a
mouthful of chicken. “No one can leave the palace.”

Royce ground his teeth. “Then mayhap I shall
spend some time on the practice ground in the bailey.” Stabbing a
few straw-filled training dummies would be satisfying.

“It is cloudy tonight, milord. There will
not be enough moonlight for you to see. You could injure
yourself—”

“And then we would have to explain it to
Prince Daemon,” the younger one said tremulously.

Royce stopped in the middle of a torchlit
corridor, turning to regard them with a frustrated glower. Glancing
from one to the other, he briefly considered starting a fight.

Then he thought better of it. He did not
wish to bring down the wrath of their merciless prince upon them.
And if he abused his throbbing right arm any further, the wound
might start bleeding again. But he had to do
something
.

A fat cook ambled down the corridor and he
stepped aside to let her pass, trying to think of a more peaceful
way to ease his black mood. “Mayhap the two of you could tell me
where I might find Prince Mathias. I wish to speak with him, but I
have not yet seen him.”

“Prince Mathias?” the two guards said in
unison.

“Aye.” By all the saints, what was wrong
with them now? He could not interpret the odd look that passed
between them. “Mathias. Daemon’s older brother, King Stefan’s
middle son. Mayhap you have heard of him?”

The older man cleared his throat, his jowls
dancing. “Prince Mathias has been gone these four years,
milord.”

“What?” Royce stared at him in disbelief.
“Gone where?”

“On pilgrimage,” the younger one explained.
“He was deeply saddened when the first peace negotiations ended,
and blamed himself for their failure. He could not abide seeing his
country at war, so he left to continue his search for spiritual
peace, on a pilgrimage to Rome.”

Royce absorbed all this in stunned silence.
It was hard to believe that Mathias would leave his country at such
a crucial time—but then, he had always been a sensitive man,
sickened by the brutal business of war, better suited to serve as a
priest than a prince. He had been about to take vows and join a
holy order before the war interrupted.

Still, how could Mathias just walk away,
abandon his people to his brother’s cruel tyranny?

“Milord?” the older guard asked. “If you
wish to speak with Prince Daemon about it—”

“Nay.” Royce shook his head. The less he saw
of Daemon, the better. “I believe I will retire after all.”

“Very good, milord.” The younger man smiled
in relief, finishing his chicken and tossing the bone aside. He
took a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor to lead
the way. “The rooms that have been prepared are in one of the
outbuildings.”

“Fine.” Raking a hand through his hair,
Royce followed them out, knowing he would not sleep tonight, no
matter how much he wished he could lose himself in
unconsciousness.

Moonlight sprinkled across the bailey
outside, offering just enough light for him to glance up at the
towers above … to seek some hint of where she might be. To hope
he might catch a glimpse of her at one of the windows.

But all the shutters were closed tight, and
guards prowled the walls.

If she were on the other side of the world,
the distance between them could not be greater.

Dropping his gaze, he tried to banish the
memories that filled his mind and heart. His family ring, once more
hanging from a leather thong around his neck, seemed to burn his
chest.

He gradually realized he had been following
his escorts across the darkened bailey for some distance—all the
way to the rear of the castle. The younger man had lagged behind a
pace. If not for his torch, they would be in utter blackness
here.

“Where exactly has the prince decided I
shall spend the night?” Royce asked sardonically. “In Spain?”

“Nay, milord.”

Some instinct made Royce tense, the fine
hairs on the back of his neck tingling. The torch suddenly went
out. He whirled, drawing his sword.

Only to step directly into the blow aimed at
his head. The world exploded in pain as the torch connected.

“I am sorry it must be this way,
milord.”

They were the last words he heard as he fell
into a bottomless darkness.

***

Ciara paced the luxurious bedchamber, back
and forth, until she wore a path through the rushes. It was a round
room that occupied the entire upper floor of the castle’s southern
tower, so vast that she could not see the other side, despite the
fire that blazed on the hearth. She had been in here all evening,
had managed to avoid supper completely, claiming she was too tired
from her journey to get better acquainted with her betrothed.

In truth, she would prefer to postpone their
first meeting as long as possible.

Her stomach twisting with nausea, she headed
toward the window, wanting a breath of air, wishing she could take
off the heavy, ruby-colored velvet gown she wore, with its quilted,
pearl-encrusted bodice and embroidered sleeves. Though she had worn
such garments all her life, she had never before found them so …
suffocating.

Reaching the window, she pulled open the
shutters and leaned out, gulping the cool night air.

The bailey seemed to be a dizzying distance
below, the tower so high that the sentries patrolling the walls
looked as small as a child’s puppets. In the scant moonlight that
penetrated the clouds, she could see that the palace grounds were
deserted.