Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  “Good eventide,” a voice called from the opposite side of the room. “May we join you for supper?”

  The sudden interruption made them both turn toward the corridor that led to the inn’s chambers. Royce realized only then that he was breathing hard and gripping his crust of bread so forcefully that he had reduced it to crumbs. He had gotten so caught up in his verbal duel with Ciara, he had forgotten to keep an eye on their surroundings.

  Forgotten that he was supposed to be protecting her.

  But by God’s mercy, the four strangers filing in were clearly the inn’s other guests: an elderly man and woman and two small children, all dressed in the rough, fawn-colored broadcloth favored by lowland peasants.

  “Indeed you may,” he said, sitting up straight and giving Ciara a warning glance. “We would welcome the company.”

  The look in her eyes told him she would welcome any company but his. She silently picked up her spoon again.

  The newcomers smiled and walked over to share their table. “I am Nevin,” the man said, holding out his hand, “and this is my wife, Oriel, and our grandchildren.”

  Royce shook the man’s hand. “I am Royce. This is my wife, Ciara.”

  Oriel went to fill four bowls with soup from the cauldron on the hearth while Nevin sat beside Royce. One of the children, a boy, clambered over the bench to sit next to Ciara. When the lad looked up at her, Royce half expected her to recoil—the child’s face was badly scarred, as if he had been burned in a fire.

  But instead of flinching away, she remained quite still, then smiled down at him.

  Royce watched in stunned silence. It was not the false, polite smile she usually relied upon, but a look of genuine warmth and concern.

  “And what is your name?” she asked gently.

  “I am Warran.” He pointed toward his sibling. “This is my sister, Vallis. You are a pretty lady.”

  “Thank you. What a chivalrous young gentleman you are to say so.”

  “Vallis says people are afraid of me now. But you are not afraid, are you?” he asked in wonderment.

  “Nay, Warran. I have always believed that what a person is like on the inside is what is truly important.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some people can appear handsome, but on the inside they are quite mean and black of heart.”

  Royce might have replied to that last comment, but he could not stop staring in amazement as she conversed with the young boy. Gone was the regal, remote princess who had held herself so straight and proud in the saddle, who flinched away from his every touch. This Ciara was relaxed, caring.

  Warm .

  The grandfather, Nevin, accepted a bowl of soup from his wife and reached for the bread. “And where do you come from, sir?” Frowning at the ravaged loaf, he picked up the knife and cut a slice from the opposite end.

  Royce reminded himself of the story he had settled on earlier. Being secretive and mysterious would only raise suspicions. “France,” he said easily. “I am a trader, come to buy garnets.”

  He still could not tear his gaze from Ciara, who was now doing—of all things—a magic trick for the child. Reaching behind Warran’s ear, she produced a silver coin.

  “How did this come to be there?” she asked with a smile. Placing the coin in her other hand, she closed her fingers around it, holding out her fist toward the boy. “Can you make it disappear again, Warran? Wave your hand over mine three times and say ‘Be gone!’ ”

  The boy complied enthusiastically. “Be gone!”

  Ciara opened her fist—which was now empty. “Behold!”

  Warran laughed with delight.

  Royce blinked at her in disbelief and realized Nevin was still speaking to him. “I am sorry, sir. You were saying?”

  “I said it will be a difficult task to find any garnets.” The white-haired man handed some mutton to the little girl who sat next to him. “I fear that Prince Daemon’s men left little of value behind when they passed this way.”

  “May his soul rot in hell,” his wife whispered fiercely.

  Ciara glanced at the woman beside her with a look of surprise, “Prince Daemon’s men were here? In the lowlands?”

  “Aye,” Nevin answered. “The brutes sacked every town. Edessa is the only one that escaped unscathed. After hearing of what took place to the east, the villagers here surrendered without lifting a blade.”

  “What happened in the east?” Royce asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

  “A carnage that Satan himself could not match,” Oriel told him, her wrinkled face quivering as her voice grew forceful. “The Thuringians burned and pillaged every castle and cottage. They rode through the streets cutting down people like blades of grass. Noble or peasant, armed or helpless, it mattered not.”

  “We are from Vasau,” Nevin explained, “where some of the worst fighting took place. Only the church was left untouched. Daemon instructed his men to spare no one—”

  “Please, grandfather.” The little girl stopped him, clutching his arm. “Do not speak of the bad man anymore.”

  The elderly man’s face gentled as he looked down at her. “I am sorry, my sweet.”

  Oriel looked over at the boy, her voice a fragile whisper. “Their parents—our son and his wife—were killed when the Thuringians sacked our town.”

  “My brother died, too,” Warran said softly. “I tried to pull him from the flames, but I...”

  Ciara reached down to cover the boy’s small, scarred hand with her own. “I am sorry, Warran,” she said softly. “I also lost my brother in the war.”

  Royce felt something in the center of his body clench tight. Her expression held both deep sadness and genuine empathy as she comforted the child.

  And it melted him. Saints’ breath, had he thought she cared for naught but her books and her silk slippers?

  “Grandfather is taking us to the west,” the boy said tremulously. “He says we will be safe there.”

  “I am sure he is right,” Ciara assured him. “My father—”

  Royce lightly tapped her shin with the toe of his boot. She dropped her spoon into her soup, splashing her face with bits of barley.

  Her smile never wavered, but as she fished the spoon out of the bowl, her eyes told him she wanted to throw it at him. Along with whatever else might be within reach. “My father is from the west,” she continued smoothly, “and he tells me that the towns there fared much better than those in the east.”

  Royce smiled his approval at her lie. “You are wearing your supper on your chin, wife,” he said lightly.

  “Thank you, husband,” she replied in the same tone, though her eyes still glittered. She wiped her jaw.

  “Nay, not there. Higher.” Without thinking, he reached across the table to brush a speck of barley from her chin.

  His thumb brushed her lower lip and both of them froze.

  The room, the people around them, the fire on the hearth all seemed to vanish from his vision. All he could see was her. All he could feel was the satin of her skin, the soft pressure of her lip giving way beneath his thumb, the warm dampness of her mouth.

  And he suddenly wanted—needed—to slide his hand to the nape of her neck, bury his fingers in her hair, and draw her to him for a kiss. Needed it more than he needed air.

  Nevin cleared his throat. “I would guess that you two are newly wed.” He chuckled knowingly.

  When Royce did not respond, the old man followed his comment with a bawdy joke. Royce barely heard it.

  But Ciara seemed to catch it, for she abruptly sat back and turned her face away, cheeks crimson.

  “Oh, now look what you have done,” Oriel scolded, though she too was smiling. She reached across the table and swatted her husband. “You have embarrassed the poor dear.”

  The tension broken, Royce sat back, struggling to take a breath. The room seemed to be spinning and his pulse pounded in his ears like a drum demanding a military charge.

  Nevin laughed, unrepentant. “Only thought I might g
ive the lad a bit of helpful advice.” He winked at Royce. “You will find there is naught in marriage that cannot be cured with a bit of the old dive in the dark.” When Royce only looked at him blankly, he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to give a quick visual demonstration.

  “Nevin!” Oriel gave her husband a quelling look.

  Ciara, who had just picked up her goblet to take a sip of wine, started to choke.

  The older woman thumped Ciara helpfully on the back. “Pay them no mind, my dear. Men can be such beasts.”

  “You have not always found that to be such a bad trait,” Nevin said slyly.

  “There are children present, you old beefwit,” his wife reminded him.

  Royce glanced toward the little ones, but they were too occupied with their food to care about what the adults were discussing.

  Apparently, however, Ciara was not used to being pounded upon by anyone. She looked as if she might faint from shock.

  He thought it a good time for a rescue. “If you will excuse us,” he said politely, standing, “I believe we had best retire for the evening.”

  That only made Nevin waggle his eyebrows.

  His wife swatted him again. “Good morrow to you, young sir.”

  “And to you. And Godspeed for your journey to the west.” He held out a hand to Ciara, who had not yet recovered her voice. “Come, wife.”

  * * *

  A BLAZING TORCH beside the door competed with the warm glow from a small brazier next to the bed, the opposing fires casting long shadows that entwined on the earthen floor. Sitting on the pallet, her arms wrapped around her knees, Ciara watched the dancing light.

  She should be fast asleep by now, but a fluttery, ticklish discomfort in her stomach made it impossible to relax. Mayhap it was the fault of that disagreeable barley soup.

  Or the fault of her disagreeable companion, who was making far too much noise. Royce had prepared himself a place to sleep on the floor, using an extra blanket wheedled from the innkeeper, and he now sat with his back against the door, sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

  The rock grating against the metal grated just as sharply on her ragged nerves.

  “Must you do that?” she asked coolly.

  “Aye.”

  The curt, irritable reply told her he still was not interested in conversation. He had uttered no more than ten words to her since they had returned from supper an hour ago—and his surly attitude only made her feel more restless. She doubted she would get much sleep this night.

  Especially since she had to sleep fully clothed.

  She ran her fingers over one of the deep wrinkles in her blue skirt. As she had unplaited her hair until it hung loose about her hips, she had realized her nightshift was missing, left behind at the abbey with the rest of her belongings. Which meant she either had to sleep in her gown, or...

  Nay, the alternative was unthinkable.

  She lifted her gaze to study him again, mystified by the tension in his face, the unnecessary force of his movements. The way he was handling that sword made her flinch. She supposed she should be grateful he had found a way to vent his ire that did not involve snapping at her.

  Mayhap, she thought, absently curling a long, wavy lock of her hair around one finger, he was still upset by the horrors that Nevin had described. Mayhap that was the true cause of her own unease as well.

  Until tonight, the reports of casualties in the east had been but frightening tales and vast numbers to her. Now those accounts had faces and names.

  Nevin and Oriel and Vallis... and Warran.

  Her subjects. Innocent people who had suffered unspeakably at the hands of Prince Daemon. Who might suffer further if the peace accord did not succeed. She alone could prevent that from happening.

  Strange, she thought; she had never viewed herself as a protector before. She was not sure she was brave enough, or strong enough, to live up to such a title.

  But she would have to be. For that sweet little boy. And his sister and his grandparents and all the rest.

  Yet even as she felt a renewed determination to carry out her duty, she found herself confused by the peasant folk she had met tonight. By the way they could shift so easily from discussing the war to making ribald jests. Their quicksilver moods made no more sense to her than her guardian’s stubborn ill humor.

  Or her own restlessness.

  Suppressing a sigh, she lay down on the pallet. How could she hope to make sense of anyone else’s feelings when she could not understand her own?

  Curling up on her side, she covered herself with the blanket, then her cream-colored mantle, and still shivered. The cold night air easily overpowered the small brazier beside her pallet.

  Royce finished with the blade and slid it back into its sheath. Finally. Grateful that silence had descended, Ciara let her lashes drift closed.

  “Tell me, Ciara,” Royce said quietly, “why were you so kind to the boy?”

  She opened her eyes and glared at the wall. Why, after being taciturn all night, did he have to begin a conversation now? “What do you mean?” She kept her tone cool, unruffled.

  “It was most unlike you.”

  She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Kindness is unlike me?”

  “You were more than kind, you were...” His dusky gaze held hers for a moment, then he glanced away. “Were you trying to prove a point? To show me I was wrong when I said you care about naught but your belongings and your own comfort? Was it all an act?”

  “An act?” Ciara tried mentally reciting the first ten letters of the Greek alphabet, but only made it through alpha, beta, gamma before her temper slipped its leash. “I have no need to prove anything to you, sirrah. I happen to love children. Is that so odd?”

  That struck him dumb for a moment. “For most women, nay. For a woman like you, aye.”

  “A woman like me?” she echoed, remembering his earlier comment about her not being normal. She sat up, turning to face him. “You will tell me what you mean by that.”

  “I mean you are not like other women. You grew up in a palace, doted on by courtiers, your every wish and whim granted. You have enjoyed a life of luxury and ease, giving no thought to the war or your people—”

  “How dare you judge me, you insufferable knave! You think me selfish and uncaring? You, a mercenary who cares for naught but... but land, a castle, and coin?” Ciara felt something snap inside her. She tossed the blanket and her cloak aside. “What makes you believe you know the first thing about what my life has been like?”

  Before he could interrupt, she thrust herself from the bed, the words pouring forth like a flood through a dam.

  “I have lived behind the palace walls the last seven years because my father wanted me kept safe. That makes me unfamiliar with my realm and my people, but it does not make me a spoiled child and it does not make me selfish and uncaring! You do not know me at all! I have been taught that I must always be a proper example for my subjects. And I have done my best to follow all the rules and shoulds and musts and must nots. You do not know how many times I stood atop the parapets, wishing it could be different. Wishing I were like any other girl in Châlons. An ordinary girl with choices and freedom and dreams and... and a family and friends and... saints’ breath, wishing I had never been born a princess—”

  Ciara halted abruptly, utterly mortified that she had said the words aloud. She had just revealed her deepest secret.

  To him.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  TAKEN ABACK, ROYCE lurched to his feet. Her stunning declaration hit him like a slap. “Ciara—”

  “Nay, you... you cannot understand.” Drawing an unsteady breath, she shook her head, backing away. “No one can understand.”

  He stepped toward her, unwilling to allow her to retreat behind her regal defenses. “Understand what, Ciara?”

  “What it was like to grow up in the palace.” Her voice was trembling. She was trembling. “Alone.”

  H
e stopped a few paces away from her, unable to speak. That single, unexpected word cut into his heart.

  But she needed no urging to continue. The palisade of shoulds and musts that had held her emotions prisoner for so long seemed shattered beyond repair. “My mother died when I was four... and my father had to tend to the demands of his kingdom and his subjects, especially after the war began. The only people in my life were...”

  Again she stopped, but he could fill in the rest. Servants. Courtiers. A new and different picture of Ciara struck him: she had indeed grown to womanhood in that luxurious palace, showered with wealth and privilege—but she had been denied the one thing she needed most.

  The warmth of a loving family.

  Suddenly it made sense to him that she would have an affinity for children, especially those who had lost their parents. “But what of your brother?” he asked gently. “What of Christophe?”

  She turned her back, wrapped her arms around herself. “He was the only one who understood... what it was like. Who understood... me,” she whispered. “The only one who...”

  Loved me.

  She could not say the words, but he felt them, felt the pain in his heart deepen, so strong that he wanted to push it, push her, away. But he could not.

  All her life, she had known only one person who loved her. Her brother. His best friend.

  Who was now gone forever.

  “Christophe was my one companion,” she continued in a whisper. “But as we grew older, the obligation of preparing to rule took even him from my side.” When she turned to face him again, she looked dangerously close to tears. “You say that I know naught that is useful.” Her eyes were shimmering, her lower lip quivering. “It is true that all I know of the world I have learned from books, so mayhap you are right. Sometimes I have felt useless and... helpless. That night when Daemon’s mercenaries attacked the palace, I foolishly went into the bailey, and Christophe...” She paused, gulped a mouthful of air, said the rest in a rush. “If I had not been so useless, if I had known what to do, he would still be alive.”