Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  And instead he heard himself telling her more. “Ciara, you are more beautiful than”—he searched for a comparison worthy of her—“than snow falling in the mountains at dawn. You are more beguiling and more lovely than any woman I have met.”

  Her cheeks colored. “I always thought that I... I did not compare well to other women. My eyes are too dark, and my mouth is... and my hair...” She reached up to touch the jagged ends of her damp tresses.

  “Your eyes are much better than blue, and your hair is like copper and gold spun together. Not even my handiwork could mar its beauty.” He lifted the cup of wine toward her. “And your mouth...”

  She leaned forward and took a sip from the offered goblet, lifting her gaze to his.

  He purposefully ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Your mouth is perfect, Ciara,” he said huskily. “You are perfect. And you have become more precious to me than anything in my life.”

  If she had not looked at him that way, her eyes suddenly glistening with dampness, filling with warmth and longing and so many other, deeper emotions...

  He might have been able to stop himself. But the need had become too strong, the feelings in his heart and in her gaze too powerful to resist. As if in a dream, he picked up another piece of meat and held it out to her, leaning closer. Groaned softly as she parted her lips to let his fingertips slip inside.

  And then he was sharing the taste of it with her, kissing the succulent juices from her lips. Sliding his tongue along hers. Meeting her mouth as she sought his and devouring her with a hot, deep kiss.

  One of her hands came up to rest in the center of his chest, over his heart, and he flinched. Thought for an instant that she might push him away. End this now. Now, before it was too late.

  Instead, she made a low sound of need. Of wanting. Kept her mouth molded to his.

  And then she released her grip on the fur, slid her palm up over his chest to the nape of his neck.

  He dropped the trencher, undone by her touch. Lost in her silky heat and delicious sighs. Cupping her face, he deepened the mating of their mouths, reason gone, sanity slipping. All he knew was that he needed her, wanted her. Loved her.

  Driven by the deafening, pounding demand of his heart, he lifted his mouth from hers to nip a hungry path along her jaw, her throat. Glancing down, he caught a breathtaking view of her ivory skin warmed to gold by the firelight. The fur had parted just enough to reveal the soft curves of her breasts, their rosy peaks taut.

  He went still, stared in awe at the sheer perfection of her, exhaled a harsh gasp of air. And the touch of his breath made the tempting pearls tighten even more. Dusky pink, they were, just as he had imagined. He told himself he should not, must not...

  But then his hand was there, cupping one exquisite globe, his thumb whisking over her nipple. Her skin was so satiny pale against his dark, callused palm; her voice so soft as she inhaled a small cry of pleasure, of discovery.

  Of longing.

  A single drop of wine had trickled from her lips to splash onto that soft curve of flesh, and he could not resist the urge to bend his head and kiss it away. She shuddered in response, making small, passionate sounds that touched him like hot brands and set him ablaze. His lips and tongue licked up the tiny dot of liquid... and then he lifted her to his mouth, tasted her, suckled her.

  His boldness did not seem to make her afraid. Or even cautious. She had become as reckless as he, as lost in the flames that threatened to burn them both to ashes. Her fingers buried in his hair and she arched her back, allowing him to take her more deeply, allowing the fur to slide down her body. Revealing more of her, all of her. Her slender rib cage, her impossibly tiny waist, her flat stomach...

  Driven to the edge of madness by her response, he lifted his head, slanted his mouth over hers once more, encircling her with his arms. The feel of her soft, naked body against his, the way she pressed herself closer to him, snapped the last threads of his control.

  And before he knew what he was doing, he lowered her to the floor, pressing her down into the fur.

  * * *

  CIARA TREMBLED IN his arms, not from fear or even uncertainty, but from an unfamiliar excitement that left her gasping for breath between his deep, hot kisses. Royce’s words and his touch and the steely strength of his arms had all woven a glittering tapestry of magic around her.

  She surrendered to it, to him, to the tumult of emotions in her heart and the infinite gentleness of his hands, until naught existed outside of this small chamber and the firelight and the heat and longing that bound them together.

  The bristly hair on his chest felt rough against her breasts, made the sensitive tips pinch tight. When he tore his mouth from hers, she heard a moan of protest issue from her throat, but then he was sliding down her body, his lips closing over one aching crest. He kissed and teased it with his tongue until her breath broke and she arched up off the soft fur beneath her, his name a whispered plea on her lips.

  His arm slid around her back to hold her fast as he gave hungry attention to each tender peak in turn. The need that twisted through her, the shocking, indescribable sensations felt like tendrils of flame. Like lightning. Sharp, glittering. Her pulse pounding, she tossed her head helplessly, lost in the exquisite storm.

  She knew she should stop him, knew that what they were doing was wrong. By all the laws of God and man, this was wrong. Forbidden. He was not her husband and never would be.

  Her hands sought him, her fingers curling into the hard muscles of his arms. But she did not stop him, did not even try. To the depths of her soul, she felt—knew—that this was what she was meant for, what she had been born for, to be held in this man’s arms. Caressed and cherished and claimed.

  She heard his breathing, ragged and hoarse, as he lowered her back down onto the fur, balancing his weight on his forearms. She felt his body so hard and hot against hers, streaked with sweat, shuddering with his own need. Yet he nuzzled her gently, brushing his stubbled cheek over the wet, delicate skin he had kissed, making her shiver and writhe beneath him.

  She buried her fingers in his hair, did not care if she was condemned to spend eternity in Hell as punishment for this one sweet night of Heaven—for she had already been condemned to spend the rest of her life without him.

  Nay, she could not think of that. Not while they were still together. Not tonight. Unable to deny him her body or her soul, she offered up both willingly, gladly. For he already possessed a part of her that Daemon never would.

  Her heart.

  And all that mattered was here, now, him.

  She tried to draw him back to her, longing to wrap her arms around him, to be closer to him in a way she could not begin to understand. But he pulled away from her grasp, moving lower over her body. Tracing a damp path down her ribs, her belly.

  Unable to reach him, she grasped handfuls of the fur beneath her, shock lashing through her when he kissed his way even lower. His fingers followed, brushed against her hip. Her thigh.

  She went rigid, stunned breathless, unable to believe what he meant to do. Surely he could not... dear God, he could not...

  He answered her unasked question with a touch. With a breath. His fingertips burning her like a brand, he gently nudged her thighs apart.

  Heat ignited inside her, a liquid fire born deep within the core of her being. Sizzling through her until she could not even remember being cold only minutes ago. Could only surrender to him. Closing her eyes, catching her lower lip between her teeth, she parted her thighs, bared her most intimate, feminine secrets to his eyes, to his touch.

  The deep, strained sound that came from his throat told her more vividly than words of his passion and desire for her. But instead of claiming her quickly, he went more slowly, drawing out the tension. Tracing a single fingertip along her thigh... higher... closer... one slow inch at a time. She held her breath, quivering. Trusting. Willing to go wherever he would take her.

  She could not hold in a low cry when his fingers brushed over t
he soft, dark triangle between her thighs. Lightly, so very lightly. Stroking her, exploring. Tenderly seeking and finding the liquid fire that poured forth from deep within her.

  And then she felt the touch of his lips there. And his tongue.

  Her body jerked in a spasm of pleasure, arching into a bow, undulating in a dazzling storm of fire and lightning. If she had not been biting her lip, her cry of wonder and ecstasy would have filled the darkened chamber.

  But it was only the beginning, for his hands came to rest on her hips, held her against him while he found a small bud, at the core of her being, touched it with just the tip of his tongue. Softly. Again and again. Until she was twisting on the fur, tossing her head wildly.

  Dazed, mindless, she felt the storm building again, more powerfully this time. He held her fast and sampled her intimately, parting his lips to taste her. Bright stars whirled inside her. A tempest of stars and flame and lightning. Hotter. Faster. Spinning tight.

  And then his tongue slipped inside her.

  She shattered in his hands, felt all the lightning and stars explode in the same instant, and she was falling through the rain of heat and light, sailing downward through the storm, drenched with pleasure.

  Her body went limp, spent. Shivering, she felt too weak to move, almost thought she had fainted. When she finally opened her eyes, it was to find Royce wrapping her in the fur, covering her nakedness as he gently gathered her in his arms.

  Though he was still breathing harshly and shaking with his own need, he sat back against the hearth and cradled her against him, whispering soft, sweet words in her ear.

  The unexpected end of their loving stunned her almost as much as the unexpected beginning. She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the strong column of his throat, trembling, filled with awe at what had just happened.

  And she prayed that he could not tell she was crying. Knew she could not explain her tears. Could not put them into words. Not to him, not aloud.

  He had taken no pleasure for himself, had left her maidenhead intact—for her future husband to claim.

  And that made her want to sob. The idea of sharing such intimacy with Daemon, with any other man—nay, she could not! She wanted to give herself to only one man.

  To this man.

  And it endeared him to her more, that he would give to her without taking, when his own longing had been so fierce.

  She bit her lip, fought back the tears, wanted to rail against God for bringing Royce Saint-Michel into her life when it was impossible for her to share a future with him.

  She clung to him as he gently stroked her hair. It mattered not that he had refrained from taking her virginity, for he had already breached a far deeper and more important place within her.

  And she would never be the same again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  MORNING LIGHT SLIPPED through the shutters, a thin line of brightness that slanted over the bed and awakened her. Ciara lifted her lashes slowly, reluctantly. Curled on her side beneath the blankets and the fur coverlet, she saw Royce... stretched out in front of the door, one arm crooked behind his head. Asleep.

  She did not stir for a moment, allowing herself simply to gaze at him, to feel her heart beat a fast, unsteady rhythm, as it now seemed to do every time she glanced his way.

  For the second night in a row, he had insisted she take the bed, despite her protest that he needed a comfortable rest more than she did; she had slept almost all day yesterday while he had stood watch.

  But last night, when she had offered to sleep on blankets in front of the fire, he had refused to hear of it. And she realized he was not merely being gallant.

  He had avoided coming anywhere near the bed the entire time they had been here.

  Just as he had avoided the subject of what had happened between them that first night. He had not spoken of it. Had not touched her again, even in the most innocent way. ‘Twas as if he had built an invisible curtain wall around her.

  And as much as that hurt, she had made no effort to close the distance he had created between them, for she knew this was how it must be. To touch him, kiss him, hold him in her arms would only make it more painful when they had to part. She had accepted that.

  Or rather, she was trying to accept it.

  Trying to be the dutiful, responsible princess she was supposed to be.

  Her throat tightened as she gazed at him in the pale light of dawn. He lay on his side, his chiseled features relaxed in sleep, his sword not far from his hand. The warrior at rest. Except for a stray lock of dark hair tangled over his forehead that ruined the image, adding a hint of boyish charm, making him look so sweet. Almost innocent. A wave of tenderness stole over her.

  Tenderness and this other, stronger feeling that she had been resisting for some time now. The one she did not want to explore or even acknowledge.

  Because it was destined to end, and soon.

  Silently, she slipped from the bed, wrapping herself in a sheet, and crept over to him. They had been doomed to part even before they met, she and this dark swordsman. Their destinies had been decided by forces much larger and more important than the happiness of one woman and one man.

  And now they had but a few days left together, a mere handful of hours.

  Unable to resist a single stolen touch, she brushed the hair from his forehead with her fingertips. And felt her heart turn over as the gold ring on her hand glimmered in the dawn light.

  She had almost forgotten she was wearing the wedding band, she had grown so accustomed to its weight on her finger. It had come to seem a natural part of her. So right. So real.

  With her hands no longer bandaged, the engraved circle of metal caught and reflected the sun. Kneeling in the rushes, she remained there by his side, indulging in a brief, sweet fantasy....

  How wonderful it would be if the ring were truly hers, if she were Royce’s wife.

  How it would feel to wake beside him each morn, to share his life, ease his pain, know his joy. To let him tease her. Let him love her. To be free to love him in return, in every way a woman could love a man.

  To carry his children inside her, just beneath her heart.

  She lifted her hand to her mouth to hold in a soft sound of yearning, of anguish—and she saw, remembered, the ring’s inscription for the first time in days.

  You and no other. The heart conquers all.

  Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. The words seemed to mock her, the first part true... the second impossible.

  Impossible for her. For them.

  She rose, forcing herself to turn away from him, from all the dreams she dared not dream. More than ever, she knew she had to carry out her duty and fulfill the betrothal agreement. Not only for her country, her people, and her father, not only to ensure peace and to honor the memory of her brother.

  But for him, for Royce. Only when their journey ended safely and she was wed to Daemon could Royce reclaim his lands, his title, his family name and honor. She could not share his future, but she could give back to him what he had lost in the past.

  She could help him return home.

  With quiet steps, she moved to the ewer and basin on the corner table and dampened a cloth to wash the tears from her cheeks. She tried to set aside her melancholy thoughts and resolved that she would not waste the time she had left with him. She would cherish every moment, every memory the next few days might bring.

  Quickly performing her morning ablutions, she donned the leggings and tunic Royce had purchased for her yesterday. Both garments were large and loose enough to conceal her feminine shape, the brown homespun material scratchy against her skin. It was the first time in her life she had ever worn masculine garb. A few days ago, she would have been shocked at the very suggestion, but now it did not seem outrageous to her at all.

  Not compared to some of the other things she had done recently.

  Blushing, and banishing that thought, she plaited her hair. It did not take long,
for ‘twas much shorter than it had been.

  Royce had brought her a small looking glass from the market square yesterday, and she had squeaked in dismay upon viewing the damage to her formerly waist-length tresses. His pickax had not created a particularly becoming style.

  He had apologized again and loaned her one of his small, sharp knives so that she could even the ends. Her hair barely touched her shoulders now.

  Finished with her braid, she tiptoed back to the bed, putting the sheet back in place, straightening the blankets and the fur coverlet.

  And wondered how she and Royce would pass the time today.

  Sitting on the newly made bed, she drew her knees up under her chin, looking at him again. Feeling her heart beat too fast. Last evening, they had filled the awkward silences with talk of the weather, the kinds of shops he had seen in the marketplace, the fact that the innkeeper seemed a kindly sort.

  And Anteros. Royce was as worried about his destrier as she was about her puppy. He hated that he would probably never know the brave stallion’s fate.

  Ciara felt a sad smile curve her lips. It was so like Royce to worry about his horse and to speak of his concern openly. He had to be the most softhearted, expressive man she had ever met.

  Not traits one would expect to find in such a battle-hardened warrior.

  Certainly not traits she had expected to find when she first saw him in the abbey’s chapel.

  Had it been only days ago?

  She shut her eyes, remembering the scars she had seen on Royce’s chest and arms and back. Marks that bespoke how many battles he had fought, how much pain he had been forced to endure in his lifetime. Yet instead of becoming cold or cynical, as some men did when surrounded by death and violence, he remained kind and honorable and...

  Noble.

  Despite all that had been taken from him, Royce Saint-Michel remained a true nobleman. Far more so than the prince who would be her husband.

  A noise outside the window distracted her. Sneaking over to unbar the shutters, she opened one just a crack to peek out. Daylight sliced in, blinding her for a second, but then her eyes adjusted and she could see that the narrow streets were crowded with peddlers and peasants and carts laden with goods.