She purposely said it like a royal dismissal.
His jaw tightened and a muscle flexed in his tanned cheek—and he did not obey her.
He leaned back against the door, crossing his boots at the ankle and his arms over his chest.
“What are you …” She blinked at him in confusion. “Not even you could be so bold as to—you are not staying in this chamber while I change!”
“Rules, Your Highness. Remember?”
“Nay, this I will not endure! I must have at least some privacy. Can I not have ten minutes to myself?”
“Ten minutes is long enough for someone to abduct you or—”
“But you just told me there is no one but an elderly couple with two small children staying here tonight. Our chamber has no window. And the keeping-room is next to the inn’s entrance. The only entrance, if I recall. No one could possibly reach me without going past you.”
He still made no move to leave. Ciara was grateful she no longer held the pitcher—else she surely would have hurled it at his stubborn head.
Which would have dented a perfectly good pitcher.
They glared at each other, neither budging.
“Ten minutes,” he grated at last. “No more. If you are not in the keeping-room in ten minutes, I am coming back to collect you.” Without another word, he grabbed for the door and left, closing it sharply behind him.
Ciara stood there shaking, unable to move for a moment, surprised—and relieved—that he had given in.
Then she walked over to the bed and let herself go limp, sinking down onto the mattress. The straw stabbed at places that already felt sore and bruised, and the dust made her sneeze. She stared down at her skirt in numb silence. Anteros’s flying hooves had left her cream-colored gown speckled with mud, the wind had sculpted her hair into spiky disarray, and though she could not be certain, she was fairly sure she smelled like a horse.
Propping her elbows on her knees, she rested her face in her hands and gave in to a soft sound of pure misery. Thus far, the world beyond the palace walls—the world that had intrigued her for so long, that looked so beautiful—was proving to be dirty, rough, and thoroughly unpleasant.
Much like her guardian.
Vexing, perverse man. She did not understand him at all. The more pleasant she tried to be, the more surly he became.
Sighing, she reached behind her, feeling for the laces at the back of her gown, tugging at them. She had best hurry and join him in the tavern, lest he come back and bark at her some more.
Chapter 5
He was doomed.
Royce sat alone in the keeping-room, oblivious to the barley soup the innkeeper had placed on the table in front of him. The fragrant steam rising from the bowl made his stomach growl, but he barely noticed. He sat with his back to the roaring fire, a single thought circling round and round through his mind.
He was doomed.
And the weapon of his destruction would not be a rebel arrow or an icy mountain pass.
It would be the scent that had permeated his tunic and his cloak—a delicate blend of rare roses and costly myrrh. Her scent.
After riding with Ciara all day, he could not even take a breath without being reminded of her. Of how soft she was, how light she had felt in his arms. When he had lifted her into the saddle, she had seemed no heavier than one of her veils, as if she were made of the same gossamer silk.
And when she had fallen asleep, she had fit against him so perfectly, her body curving into his as if she had been made to be there, close to him, encircled by his arms.
By nails and blood, he never should have left the abbey with her this morn. The moment he saw her in that chapel, he should have turned to Aldric, declared that he had changed his mind about this mission, and walked out a free and sane man.
Instead, he had confidently—foolishly—decided that he could deal with her. After all, she was merely a woman. A beautiful woman, true, but he had known more than his share of beautiful women. He had never been a man to deny himself life’s pleasures, and lovely female companionship had long been one of his favorites. Even during his mercenary days, he had rarely spent more than a few weeks without a pretty lady by his side to amuse him, enchant him, brighten his days, warm his nights.
They usually floated through his life like soft petals on a spring breeze, each one delightful and different, each much appreciated and cherished while she was with him, and soon forgotten after she left.
Never, in all his experience, had any female taken such quick possession of his senses. Even now, when she was not in the room, he could not push her from his mind, could not subdue the desire searing through him.
He dropped his gaze to the bowl of soup, seeing his own pained expression reflected back. It made no sense, this intense attraction. He usually preferred women who were sweet, warm, witty, charming.
Not spoiled, willful, and quarrelsome. And a scholar, of all things.
Yet Ciara had him so on edge, he could not keep from snapping at her like a starving hound. In a single day, she had robbed him of his reason.
And of his appetite. He could summon no enthusiasm for the hot soup or stew or fresh bread on the table before him, though he had not eaten since this morn.
Whispering an annoyed curse, he snatched up the goblet of wine the innkeeper had provided, and drank a long draught. Ciara only tempted him because she was forbidden to him, he decided. ‘Twas the only possible explanation.
And it was too late now to change his mind about this mission. Not simply because he wanted to return home and restore his family name—but because if he walked away, the people of Châlons would pay the price.
His gentle countrymen were far better at tending their flocks and fields than they were at warfare, and he wanted to give them back the life they cherished. To secure the peace that he had not secured four years ago.
Even if it meant having Ciara within arm’s reach at all times, spending the night in her bedchamber. Every night.
For more than a dozen nights.
He shut his eyes, wondering whether it was possible for a man to die from unrelieved arousal. He had heard stories, some of them gruesome.
A low groan escaped his throat. He was doomed.
“Are you unwell?”
He opened his eyes to find Ciara standing at the end of the corridor that led to the inn’s chambers, her head tilted to one side, puzzlement in her eyes. He could not respond to her question for a moment, his attention arrested by the dark blue gown she now wore. The color only made her skin look more pale and flawless, and without her cloak, he could see the slim, fluid curves of her body much more clearly.
He forced himself to lift his gaze, only to notice that the bodice dipped a bit too low in the front, revealing the smooth skin at the hollow of her throat. And though she had tamed her long braid, a few stray tendrils still caressed her cheeks … as if awaiting someone’s hand to tuck them back into place.
God’s blood, if he did not know better, he would swear she was tormenting him apurpose. He suddenly, urgently wanted to know what her spice-colored hair would look like unbound, tumbling to her hips. Whether it would be smooth and silky or tickle her back in curly waves. How it would feel in his hands if he—
“I am quite well,” he lied. His voice sounded dry and strained even to his own ears. “Finished with your toilette so soon?”
“I dared not take too long,” she replied coolly, “for I did not think you would have the courtesy to knock if you came back to collect me, as you put it.”
Royce could not form a reply as she crossed toward him. He felt grateful no one else was present—because there could be no mistaking her regal walk and royal bearing. Despite the badly wrinkled gown and the lack of jewels or crown or robes, she was every inch a princess.
He would have to mention that to her. Later. He did not trust himself to discuss the way she moved at the moment. Fortunately, they had the keeping-room to themselves.
“Had you taken much long
er,” he said, picking up his spoon, “I would have eaten all this myself.”
“It looks as though you have hardly touched your food.”
“I was waiting for you.” Another lie. He refused to feel a whit of guilt.
She came to stand on the opposite side of the long trestle table, looking at the bench he was sitting on, which was closer to the hearth.
He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, wondering whether she would sit beside him. Praying she would not. He had endured enough torment for one day.
After a moment, she sat down where she was, arranging herself elegantly on the bench across from him.
He gulped down the hot broth, not caring that it seared his throat. It could not match the heat that burned lower in his body.
Especially when her scent drifted across the table to tease his senses. She must have refreshed her perfume. God’s teeth, had he known she carried a vial of the stuff in her belongings, he would have tossed it into the snow with her books and her hats. ‘Twas more dangerous than a rebel blade, that fragrance.
It could make him lose his head.
“What is this?” Ciara bent over the bowl that the innkeeper had left on her side of the table.
“Barley soup,” he informed her between mouthfuls, trying to keep his gaze and his thoughts on the food. “It may not be roast pheasant served on golden plates, but you will find it filling.”
She sniffed at the broth while the innkeeper came in carrying a flask and a tray.
“Good eventide, madame.” He poured wine into her goblet. “Do you find your chamber to your liking?”
“Aye.” She bestowed one of those courtly smiles upon him. “It will do quite well.”
“And what of the meal?”
“The food looks most tempting,” she said cheerfully.
“My thanks, madame.” He set a platter of dried mutton between them and headed back to the kitchen. “Call for me if I can be of further service.”
“Thank you, good sir.”
Royce observed her over the rim of his goblet. “So you can be courteous to the common folk,” he murmured, “provided they are waiting on you.”
“Most people are deserving of courtesy.” She daintily picked up one of the shriveled bits of meat from the tray and took a cautious nibble. “Only a rare Mongol beast here and there is not.”
“You must forgive my surprise. It is merely that the innkeeper managed to bring out a Ciara l have not yet seen. Kind, sweet-tempered—”
“Could you mayhap find some way to entertain yourself that does not involve provoking me?” Setting the mutton aside, she lifted a spoonful of broth. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to eat in peace.”
“My apologies, madame. I shall take the innkeeper as an example and try to remember my place.”
She let that remark pass without comment, without reaction. Pursing her lips, she blew on the soup.
Which was a far better revenge than any caustic retort she could have uttered. Royce felt a shudder pass through his body, as if her breath had touched his skin.
He could not tear his gaze away from her mouth. Time seemed to slow as he watched those lips parting to taste the steaming liquid … her tongue, small and pink and satiny, rising to cradle the hot spoon so tentatively. Something deep inside him wrenched painfully tight.
He must have made some sound, because she glanced up at him after she had swallowed. “Are you certain you are well?”
“I am fine.” He reached for the bread and ripped out a large chunk, using his bare hands instead of the knife that had been provided.
She observed his violence against the innocent loaf with a perplexed look. “Must you always be such pleasant company, even at mealtime?”
“If I were you, milady,” he warned, chomping down on the bread and biting off a mouthful, “I would choose another topic of conversation.”
“I merely wish to understand why you have been in such ill humor all day. Are you concerned about our journey? Is there something I should know?”
Aye, there is a great deal you should know. Starting with a few creative uses for that mouth of yours, all of which you would find more pleasurable than blowing on soup.
“The only thing I am concerned about at the moment,” he growled, “is that you hurry up and finish your meal.” He wolfed down the bread in three bites. “I need to get some sleep.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then apparently thought better of it. “As you wish.” She returned her attention to her food. “Mayhap the morn will find you in better spirits.”
“I would not wager on it.”
She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you take pleasure in being disagreeable?”
“I must take my pleasure where I can,” he said with a meaningful smile that was completely lost on her.
“You seem to take a great deal of it in being rude and contemptuous to me.” She set her spoon down with a clatter. “You would try the patience of a saint.”
“‘Tis a gift.”
“‘Tis a most perverse trait. Never have I met a man so wholeheartedly devoted to boorishness.”
“Ciara, eat your—”
“Nay, I will not eat my soup and I will not be quiet. All day, I have followed your orders while you have ignored mine. I will have no more of it. I would know what I have done to merit this churlish treatment.”
“The fault is not yours,” he snapped. “I will say no more.”
“Indeed? That would be a great relief. But I doubt you will keep your word. You seem unable to keep your opinions to yourself for longer than ten minutes at a time.”
“Take care, Ciara. If you insist on pointing out my faults, I might be tempted to name a few of yours.”
“Do you mean I have more faults than the ones you have already thrown in my face this day? Saints’ blood—”
“Watch your language, milady. One might begin to mistake you for a normal woman instead of a pampered little girl more concerned with her belongings, her comfort, and her appearance than with—”
“How dare you!” she gasped. “You ill-mannered, overgrown oaf—”
“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 m
y 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.
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 8