The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (39 page)

“I will.”

Everything became a blur after that—the
endless mass, the glaring sunlight outside when they left the
cathedral, the blast of trumpets, the cheers of the crowd Daemon
had ordered assembled along their route back to the palace, the din
that arose in the great hall when they arrived for the wedding
feast …

She remained only distantly aware of her
surroundings until she found herself enthroned on a massive carved
chair, sitting beside her new husband on the dais. Feeling as if
she were suffocating, she stared down at the laden trencher before
her, not eating a bite.

Once, just once, she allowed a last,
lingering shred of hope to make her glance up at the massive,
iron-hinged doors on the opposite side of the hall.

No one came charging through them. There was
no sign of Royce. There would be no rescue.

He was dead
.

Bleak despair settled over her. She sought a
glimpse of Miriam, seated at one of the dozens of crowded trestle
tables arranged in rows below the dais. The older woman shook her
head, as if to say she had no answers, her expression distraught.
Ciara knew that Miriam was just as afraid for Landers as she
herself was for Royce.

Over the past few days, she had poured out
her heart to her lady’s maid, her friend. Had told her all she felt
for the dark-haired swordsman she was forbidden to love, all that
had happened since the two of them set out from the abbey on that
cold day …

Sweet Mary, had it been only weeks ago? It
was hard to imagine, to remember how much she had disliked him that
day, how annoyed she had been when he—

The weight of a hand on her thigh made her
jump, brought her head snapping around until her gaze met
Daemon’s.

“You have not touched your food, my lovely
bride,” he said in a cold, mocking tone, observing her over the
edge of a gem-encrusted goblet. “Did the meal not please you? Or is
it the company?”

His fingers tightened on her thigh, his
grasp possessive and painful through the gold silk of her wedding
gown. The cloth-draped table prevented the lords and ladies below
the dais from seeing what he was doing.

“I …” She fought the bubble of panic that
rose in her throat, noticing that he glanced toward the spiral
stairs in the far corner, beyond the hearth.

The ones that led up to his bedchamber.

“I … I am feeling unwell, Your Highness,”
she choked out, trying to delay the inevitable, even for one more
night. “Mayhap I should—”

“Be put to bed,” he finished for her, eyes
gleaming as his gaze slid back to hers. “So it is maidenly
nervousness that has you ill at ease.” He set his cup down. “I can
remedy that, my sweet princess.”

Her heart thudded a single stroke of pure
terror. And not only because she was no longer a maiden. This morn,
Miriam had instructed her on how she might deceive Daemon, on a way
to leave traces of blood on the sheets. But even armed with that
knowledge, Ciara knew that no ruse could protect her from her new
husband’s cruelty.

Even if she
were
a maiden, he meant
to use her brutally.

“If you are not hungry,” he continued,
pushing his heavy chair back from the table, “let us retire to my
chamber. I would be happy to dispense with the usual rituals. We
will not need laughing courtiers throwing grain in our faces to
ensure a fruitful union.”

He stood, his hand encircling her arm, his
fingers like talons, giving Ciara no chance to protest. She looked
for Hadwyn and Jarek, found them standing with the other guards
stationed along the walls—saw them watching her with frustration in
their eyes, as if waiting for her signal.

But she dared not ask for help, could not
endanger them to save herself.

Her stomach clenching, she barely had time
for one quick, frightened glance at Miriam before her new husband
led her from the hall.

Most of the guests were already too deeply
in their cups to mind that the bride and groom were making an early
departure. Only a few lords and ladies called out bawdy advice as
Daemon strode to the rear of the enormous chamber, pulling her
along beside him.

He headed straight for the spiral stairs,
past the four sentries at the bottom who were part of his personal
guard. The men bowed as they passed, dipping their halberds—but she
saw them regarding her with knowing leers as their prince led her
up the steps.

At the top, Daemon issued a single, sharp
command to the two others posted there. “Do not allow anyone to
disturb us until morning.” He pushed open the door to his chamber
and shoved her inside.

Then he slammed the heavy oak portal shut
behind him and threw the bolt in place.

Heart hammering, Ciara backed away from him,
rubbing her arm, bruised from his ruthless grasp. The chamber
glowed with light, despite the darkness that had descended outside
the windows. The twin hearths blazed, making all his riches and
jewels and glassware gleam.

Her gaze fell on the reliquary and she felt
tears threaten.
God, please
.

“Disrobe, Princess.”

She turned to face him, still moving away,
no longer able to disguise her fear.

Which only made him smile. “I like to see my
belongings displayed before I handle them,” he said icily, taking
off his crown and placing it on a velvet pillow beside the bed.
“Disrobe.”

She shook her head, mute, retreating until
her waist collided with the long chest in front of the windows.

“There is nowhere to run, Princess.”
Smiling, he stalked closer. “And I warned you once, I do not
tolerate disobedience. You should have remembered that before you
kept me waiting this morn. You embarrassed me in front of my
lords—and for that you will pay.”

A panicked impulse made Ciara snatch up one
of the goblets from the chest and smash its glass rim against the
wood.

With a snarl, Daemon leaped toward her,
grabbing her wrist, twisting hard until the makeshift weapon fell
from her numb fingers.

It tumbled harmlessly into the rushes.

Then he yanked her against him, sending her
crown clattering to the floor as well.

“It seems you have a difficult time
understanding what I mean by the word
obey
.” He glared
down at her, his lips curling back from his teeth. “Allow me to
give you a demonstration.”

***

“Your Highness, you cannot walk in without
warning.”

“Aye, I certainly can.”

The group of ten riders reined in on a hill
above the palace. They had approached from the rear, to avoid being
noticed by the sentries as they came within sight of the keep.

Royce looked toward the slender,
brown-haired prince who rode at the head of the band of wearied and
wounded rebels. “Thayne is right, Your Highness.” He shook his head
in warning, despite the fact that his own impulse was to gallop
down the slope and battle whatever odds they might face until he
had Ciara safely in his arms.

If the wedding had taken place as scheduled
this morn, she was now Daemon’s bride. His only hope lay in the
fact that darkness had just fallen, that the wedding feast should
last several more hours—that the groom had not yet consummated the
vows.

Because the rebels dared not risk Mathias’s
life.

“Daemon’s men will try to protect him,”
Thayne pointed out.

“Aye,” Royce agreed through clenched teeth,
studying the moonlit keep below, wishing in vain for some sign,
some evidence that she was all right. “There is a danger—”

“They are in truth
my
men,” Mathias
corrected, his voice quiet yet determined. “They will not raise
arms against their own prince.”

Royce shared a look with Thayne, not at all
certain that was true. They had learned a hard lesson on the
Gunlaug: the ascent had not proven half as deadly as the guardsmen
Daemon had placed in charge of his brother’s prison. The well-paid
troops had kept the rebels pinned down on a treacherous slope for
almost two days.

Their final assault on the stronghold had
cost them a half-dozen lives. They had been forced to leave two
more men behind in a village, both wounded and unable to
travel—including Landers, who had taken an arrow in the chest.

“Your Highness,” Thayne said firmly, “we
have risked much and lost much in the past weeks and months to come
this far. If Daemon should order his men to move against you,
before you have time to speak to your nobles—”

“Then surprise is our best chance, is it
not?” Mathias asked calmly, looking back over his shoulder at them,
his gray eyes fearless in the moonlight. “I have been awaiting this
moment for four years. It is time to put right what I should have
put right long ago.”

Royce regarded him with a respect that had
been growing steadily over the past two days as they had galloped
back to the palace. Despite four years as his brother’s captive,
Mathias was still the noble, coolheaded man of deep faith he
remembered.

But the prince also had a steely edge no one
had suspected he possessed.

“Very well, Your Highness.” Thayne gathered
up his reins and glanced at Karl, who rode beside him. Their
crooked grins flashed in the darkness as if they, too, were in
truth eager for a bold ending to their months of danger and
secrecy.

Mathias led the way down the slope and Royce
needed no more convincing. He spurred his mount, charging forward.
All ten of them descended at a gallop, straight toward the keep,
swift as judgment raining down from above. They did not stop when
the guards at the gate—mayhap lulled to inaction by the festivities
taking place inside—called out to them. Nor were the sentries quick
enough to raise the drawbridge.

The rebels thundered over it, their horses’
hooves pounding on the wood like blows from a catapult. They sped
into the bailey, dismounting even before they had pulled to a stop.
Guards came scrambling from their posts in every direction, too
late to block the unknown intruders from racing up the steps that
led into the keep.

Taking the stairs two at a time, they
encountered little opposition as they rushed inside, past the main
entrance. It seemed that most of Daemon’s forces were stationed
elsewhere this night.

Royce’s heart was pounding as they reached
the great hall. Mathias led the way through the massive doors,
shoving them open to find the wedding feast underway.

“My lords!” Mathias called above the din,
throwing back the hood of the drab peasant cloak he wore. “My
lords!”

Royce barely heard the rest of what Mathias
said, only dimly aware of the commotion that erupted as the wedding
guests recognized their beloved long-lost prince, as the sentries
finally caught up with them, as Mathias began to explain that the
Thuringian nobles had been deceived by Daemon’s treachery.

Royce’s own gaze had locked on the two
chairs at the center of the dais.

The two
empty
chairs.

His mind roared with denial.
He was too
late.
Then he saw Hadwyn and Jarek rushing forward, pushing
their way through the crowd of nobles who were all surging to their
feet in shock at what Mathias was saying. The rest of the silk-clad
guards, many loyal to Daemon, began milling toward the entrance as
well. A battle could ignite at any moment.

But his mind and heart had only one thought.
When Hadwyn reached him, Royce shouted a single word over the
tumult.

“Where?”

The young man pointed toward a spiral stair
at the back of the hall. “The chamber on the second floor,
mil—”

Royce was already running, leaving the
others to protect Mathias, shoving aside wedding guests, vaulting
over tables in his headlong race toward the stairs.

Only to find his way blocked at the bottom
by four members of Daemon’s personal guard armed with halberds—who
were quickly joined by two others rushing down the steps.

One against six
.

Then he heard Thayne at his heels. “Give
way!” the rebel leader demanded. “We would see our princess—”

“And
we
have orders that our prince
is not to be disturbed!” The guardsmen brandished the lethally
sharp halberds, holding them like axes, their eyes almost eager as
they regarded Royce.

He exchanged a quick glance with Thayne—who
agreed with a silent signal that two against six made acceptable
odds.

Drawing their swords, they launched
themselves up the steps, side by side.

The guards charged down to swarm over them,
ready to cut them to pieces. Royce struck one man a glancing blow
to the leg and sent him tumbling, dodged a slice from a halberd,
and danced in to pierce its owner through the ribs.

A third guard tried to spear him with the
halberd’s sharp point and Royce barely stepped aside in time. The
man pivoted instantly, slicing upward, almost taking Royce’s head
off before he could dive out of the way. When the guard attacked
again, Royce stood his ground and used his opponent’s momentum
against him, leaping sideways at the last possible moment and
slicing through his midsection.

He could hear Thayne’s guttural curses
behind him. Saw that the rebel had already dispatched two of the
guards who had attacked him. Whirled to help.

Just in time to see the last guardsman catch
Thayne with the side of his halberd, the steel edge slashing deeply
and coming away red with blood.

Thayne shouted in surprise and agony and
went down. Before the guardsman could deliver a death blow, Royce
attacked, shoving him away. With two lightning-fast thrusts, he
finished the last of Daemon’s personal guard.

Then he turned and bent over his fallen
comrade, swearing at the sight of the long gash through his
side.

“Go.”
Thayne reached up a bloodied
hand to push him away. “Save your lady.”