Blinking back the moisture, Cord sighed. “Why did you show me this?”
“Because Helene was right. You were a young boy. She was the adult. And she was married. She was at fault.”
“Gifford--”
“No, Cord. This is how it was. You remember it differently because of your guilt. But it’s there in black and white and you can’t deny it.”
“I can’t believe you’d tell me this.”
“It’s time to settle things. For all of us.”
“I’m sorry, Gifford.”
“I am, too.”
Cord eyes widened. “You didn’t show this to Stacey, did you?”
Still protecting her, Gifford thought. He was giving his daughter over to the right man. “No. I didn’t show the letter to her. It would serve no purpose. I realize I said I wouldn’t keep anything from her, but it would be cruel for her to read this.”
Cord’s whole body sagged. Gifford lifted his hand to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. “Let’s bury it all with this letter, Cord. The blame. The guilt. The self-recrimination.”
Cord squinted up at him. Gifford thought he saw a lightening in the sad shadows of his eyes.
“Well, I’d better go.” Gifford straightened. “Oh, and one more thing. I want to say out loud how sorry I am for running you out of town that day. I was terribly wrong. Your father was right when he said—”
“My father?”
Gifford cocked his head. “Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Your father came to see me after the funeral.”
“Why?”
“He said he’d waited a decent amount of time to let the shock wear off. But he had to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“You, of course.”
“Why did he come to you?”
Gifford shook his head. “I’m not exactly sure. He said you left town the day of the funeral. That you two had had a fight the week before, but somehow he thought your leaving Canfield was connected with me.”
“How could he know that? I never told a soul.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“How did he know?”
“He said it was a hunch. First, he asked if I knew where you were. Then, when he picked up on my animosity, he said he hoped I hadn’t done anything to you. He said you were a good kid, hotheaded at times, but a son he was proud of.’’
Cord sucked in his breath. Gifford sensed this was some kind of revelation to him, though Gifford didn’t quite understand it.
“And you know what, Cord? He was right. I’d be proud to have you as my son.” Gifford smiled. “Or my son-in-law.”
* * *
HE’S RIGHT!
Stacey stepped out of the shower and knew that her father had been wise and knowledgeable in what he had told her. She did have a second chance with Cord. You had to take what you were given today and run with it. If she was honest with herself, living the rest of her life without Cord in it was utterly impossible.
If only it isn’t too late. If I can convince him.
She’d go over there right now. Or, better yet, she’d call him. Ask him to come here, where they could be alone. And she’d show him that they belonged together, if it took her the rest of her life.
Determined, she headed through the bathroom door to the phone in her room. But she stopped short three feet from the bed.
Sprawled on it was Cord McKay, legs stretched out, hands linked behind his neck, and the cockiest grin she’d ever seen on his face.
And suddenly Stacey knew. Her dad had talked to him, too.
“Well, hello,” she mumbled huskily.
“Hi, Stace.” His eyes took in the thigh-length robe that gaped at her chest. She shifted a bit, letting it fall slightly off her shoulders. A tightening of his body made her sigh inwardly.
“This is a surprise.” She scowled. “How did you get in here?”
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a set of keys and held them up like a little boy revealing the key to his sister’s diary. But he didn’t look like a little boy, in tight, wheat-colored jeans and a cotton, baby blue sweater that turned his eyes the color of the sky.
“You still have the keys to the house?”
“Yup. And I’m not giving them back.”
Purposely arching an eyebrow, and willing herself not to pounce on him, she said, “Oh, why?”
“Because I want unlimited access to you until we get our own place.”
Stacey gulped. “Our own place?”
He sat up and reached for a box at the foot of the bed. Without warning, he tossed it to her. “Open this.”
Stacey caught the prettily wrapped package, stared at him for a minute, then tore off the paper. The logo said Keeler’s, the store where she and Cord had gotten separated the night Mark had attacked her. She ripped off the cover, and bit her lip to keep from crying when she saw what was inside. There would be no tears today.
“Where...when...how did you get this?”
“I ordered it right after the incident with Dunn.” His eyes scanned her. “Put it on.”
“Getting pretty bossy, aren’t you?”
“No sass, lady.”
As he watched, Stacey slowly untied the belt of her robe. His eyes were riveted on her hands. Letting the sides part slightly, giving him only glimpses of her naked body, she reached up and unwound the towel from her hair. He gulped. As she finger-combed the curls, the robe fell open even more. His hands fisted. First, she let the cloth fall off one shoulder, then the next. Every single muscle in his body clenched.
As provocatively as she could, she drew the lavender lace mini-dress over her head. Then she locked her eyes with his. “I thought you didn’t want me to have this.”
“That was when I believed we’d never be together again.”
“And now?”
His face sobered. “Come here, Stace.” He patted the mattress next to him.
She crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge. Before she could speak, he flipped her to her back and covered her body with his. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Using every trick in the book to convince you.”
“Convince me of what?”
Slowly, he traced her cheekbone with his knuckles. “We were meant to be together, Stacey. I know what happened in the past hurt you, will always hurt you, and I’ll do everything I can to deal with it. I’ll talk it out every day for a year if that will help. I’ll go to counseling with you. But I can’t let you go. I won’t let you go. I’ll dog your every step, I’ll pester you every day.” He bumped his middle with hers. “I’ll seduce you if I have to.”
Cord saw the moisture glaze her eyes. Not once since he’d jumped in the shower, dressed quickly and raced out of the house had he let himself entertain the thought that she might not agree, might never be able to forgive him. Now, the idea scared him to death.
He caught a renegade tear between his fingers. “Don’t, love. Please. I promise I’ll make it work.” He’d beg if he had to. He didn’t care.
“Oh, Cord, it’s not that.”
He continued, not listening to her protests. “Look, your father really needs us to be together. He’s felt guilty all his life for what happened. He can’t tolerate our being apart.”
The tears receded and she looked indignant. “Cord McKay, that’s hitting below the belt.”
“And Meggie needs you, too. Sometimes she cries at night and calls for you.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“I know. I don’t care. I’ll do anything to keep you in my life. I’m warning you.” He peered at her intently. “I deserve this. I deserve you. Now that I know that, I’ll bulldoze my way into your heart every chance I get.”
He became aware of her hands at the base of his neck. They slid over his nape, sending goose bumps through him. “Will you support me when I go back to school?” she asked.
His heart lifted and pounded so hard he feared an attack. “On
ly if it’s for art,” he managed to get out.
She pouted those full lips. “I want our baby. Soon.”
He felt his own tears threaten. In an unsteady voice, he said, “Okay. A boy, though. We’ll call him Gifford Nathan McKay.”
Then Cord sobered. It was important for her to see how much this moment meant to him, how sacred it was. Just like the first time they’d made love.
Tugging her left hand from his neck, he took her third finger and massaged the spot where his ring would go, fusing her life with his. He looked at her face, and asked, “Will you marry me, Anastasia? Will you be my wife, my lover, my soul mate, forever?”
And shining in those brown eyes he loved so much was the greatest gift he had ever received. “Yes, I’ll marry you. I love you, Francis. I always will.”
-The End-
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His Forbidden Touch
* * *
(Stolen Brides Series)
Shelly Thacker
Fearful that they might betray
The love that they had come to share,
They always took the greatest care
Not to let anyone detect
Anything that might be suspect…
But lovers can’t be satisfied
When love’s true pleasure is denied.
~Marie de France
“The Nightingale”
Twelfth century
Prologue
* * *
Châlons, near the French border
1302
FIRE LIT THE night sky, devouring the forest like a hungering dragon that would not be sated. A treacherous wind lifted the flames higher, until it seemed they might swallow even the stars and moon. That fierce draught of air whirled up the mountainside, howling around the palace walls, carrying ashes that rained down on Princess Ciara as she ran across the bailey.
Her velvet cloak billowing behind her, she darted through the crowd of servants and peasants who were gathering up scythes and pitchforks to use as weapons. Burning cinders stung her face, her hands, but she barely noticed. Beyond the massive stone curtain wall that guarded the castle’s perimeter, she could hear the metallic crash of blades and lances, war hammers and shields.
The war was ending. With the enemy victorious.
She felt each blow as if it pierced her own heart. After seven years of battle, the Thuringians had come within striking distance of the palace itself. And the men of Châlons could not hold back Prince Daemon’s ruthless mercenaries for long. Her father and his knights were outnumbered five to one.
Dear God, please protect them. Please watch over him.
Her eyes and throat burning, she kept running, past the storage sheds and granary, their thatched roofs ablaze; past the stables and mews where milkmaids and serving women were trying to rescue the castle’s valuable animals. She circled around the keep toward the front, choking on the sharp taste of pure fear.
When she reached the main gate, she found herself in the middle of a deafening tumult. Guardsmen and archers thronged the parapets, rushing up and down scaling ladders, carrying weapons and torches and cauldrons of some sort, their leaders shouting commands. The night blazed with firelight, so bright that the billowing smoke from the forest beyond glowed eerily, like a dragon’s breath.
She searched for one particular face among the mail-clad warriors, felt a stab of panic when she did not see—
“Saints’ blood!” a familiar male voice boomed from behind her. “What do you think you are doing out here?”
Ciara turned to see her brother atop one of the towers that flanked the drawbridge, and she exhaled in relief. As he came down from his position and stalked toward her, his tone and his mien had warriors scrambling to get out of his way. “I told you to stay inside!”
“I was inside, Christophe. But I could see the fire from my chamber window, and I thought I should—”
“Disobey my commands as quickly as possible, and walk into the middle of a battle?” He came to a halt barely a foot away, towering over her. “Without consulting me?”
Ciara almost gulped. At twenty-three, Christophe was four years older and a full foot taller than she was. He made a most imposing presence, wearing his chain mail, his helm, and his most severe scowl.
“I am consulting you,” she pointed out, rushing onward before he could interrupt. “I cannot remain in my chamber with my books and my music while everyone else defends the palace against the enemy. I came to see what you would wish me to do.”
“I wish you to go back inside the keep. At once.”
She darted aside when he tried to take her elbow. “I cannot help anyone if I am inside,” she insisted, thinking that should be obvious, even to a male brain. When he reached for her again, she grabbed his arm instead, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. “And I will not sit by and do naught while our kingdom comes down around our ears.”
“By God’s breath, Ciara, if I have to lock you in a tower—”
A barrage of arrows interrupted his threat, singing over their heads and striking the dirt with lethal-sounding thwacks just inches away. Christophe grabbed her and pushed her toward the curtain wall as the bailey erupted in battle cries and curses—and several shouts of pain.
“You foolish girl, do you see now?” He flattened her against the stone, protecting her with his broad-shouldered body as more arrows rained down from the sky. “This is not a game! And it is no place for a woman. You must go back inside where it is safe.”
Ciara could not reply, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to fill her throat and block her breath. She stared past him to the spot where a quartet of sharp-pointed shafts protruded from the ground.
The very spot where she had been standing seconds ago.
An instant later she heard a great roar—the sound of dozens of ancient pine trees snapping like twigs—and knew that one of the castle’s most important defenses was gone.
The forest where she and her brother had played as children was being reduced to ashes.
“Christophe,” she whispered brokenly, “there is no safe place. Not anymore.”
He remained silent, not bothering with false words of reassurance. They both knew it was true.
A second later, he abandoned royal protocol and hugged her tight, in full view of their subjects. Closing her eyes, Ciara buried her face against his silk surcoat and let the tears come, not caring that his chain mail bit into her cheek.
For a moment, in the midst of the fire and desperation and despair, there was only the two of them. Not prince and princess, but brother and sister. Afraid and in need of the comfort that only love could bring.
“God’s mercy, Christophe,” she said tearfully, “Father is out there. If the enemy has gotten this close, it must mean that he and his men—”
“Nay, little sparrow, do not underestimate our father. He is one of the two most brilliant military tacticians ever born in Châlons. He knows he can elude them. That is why he insisted I...”
He did not finish, but Ciara knew what he had been about to say. She had heard the heated argument between her father and brother yestereve, when they had clashed over which of them should go forth with the palace’s knights. Father had ordered Christophe to stay behind, where he would be safer.
As heir to the throne, he was too valuable to risk.
“We are not finished yet,” Christophe said fiercely, his arms tightening around her. “Our ancestors built this castle on the most inaccessible peak in the heart of Châlons for a reason. In three hundred years, no enemy has breached these walls, and none ever will.”
“But no enemy has ever come so close,” Ciara whispered.
As if to underscore her words, the sounds of the battle on the mountainside grew louder. She could hear the war cries n
ow. And the screams of the wounded and the dying.
Several leaders of the palace guard came running up to ask for orders, and Christophe gently set her away from him. Ciara turned her face toward the wall, wiping at her tears. They both knew they had to conceal their own fear and uncertainty, had to provide a brave, calm example for their subjects.
Christophe addressed his men, his deep voice crackling with authority once more. “I want you and you to go to the rear of the castle, gather up everyone who is still outside, and get them into the keep. If any of the men back there can wield a weapon, send them to me.” He motioned one of the other warriors forward. “Escort the princess to her chamber and see that she—”
“Christophe, you are the heir to the throne. Father was right.” Ciara placed her hand on his arm as she glanced at the night sky, which now glowed red on all sides of the castle. Her heart pounded wildly. “You are much more important than I. You are the one who should be escorted to safety. I will go, as you wish, but I beg of you to come with me.”
“Nay, Ciara. My duty is here. I must see to the gate and the drawbridge. That is the first place they will attack.”
Their gazes met, his light brown eyes, so much like her own, reflecting the full depth of his love and concern for her.
“Be off now, my little songbird,” he murmured, using one of his favorite nicknames for her and tugging lightly at the long braid that hung down her back. “Châlons has only one princess.”
“And she has only one brother,” Ciara whispered desperately.
Suddenly the ground shook, so violently it knocked her off her feet. It felt as if the mountain were a sleeping giant that had just awakened.
“What was that?” she cried.
Christophe uttered a vicious oath. “Catapults. Sweet Jesus, they are attacking the gate with catapults. How in the name of all that is holy did they get them up the slope?” He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet, turning to the guardsmen. “Back to your posts. Now. I will see the princess to safety myself.”
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