He abruptly released her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and he pushed her away.
Before she knew what was happening, he had thrust himself to his feet and turned his back.
She sat there shivering with sudden cold, stunned, bewildered. “Royce—”
“Your injury is not serious, milady.” His voice sounded hoarse. “And it is time to leave.”
“But—”
“Our lessons are done,” he said flatly, walking back the way they had come. “There is naught more that I care to teach you this day.”
“But what happened just now—”
“Forget it,” he snapped. “Naught happened. Do not speak of it. Do not think of it. Forget.”
He stalked away from her, toward his destrier, but she remained where she was, unable to follow. She was trembling too hard even to stand.
She felt as if she had just been swept up into the air, like a fledgling bird on a warm wind, only to be suddenly thrown to the ground. Shivering, she lifted one hand to her lips, not sure whether she should feel embarrassed or angry or hurt or all three. There were too many new feelings crowding in on her at the same time.
All she knew was that she could not forget what had happened between them. She had wanted him to kiss her.
And wanted it still.
Chapter 7
They endured the rest of the afternoon in tense silence as Anteros carried them high into the rocky hills. The air grew cooler but Royce barely noticed, aware only of the heat pulsing through his veins, so scalding he was surprised that steam did not rise from his body. Heat from unleashed desire—and from fury.
Fury at himself.
He tried to keep a space between himself and Ciara as they rode. Fastened his attention on their surroundings. Checked frequently to make sure no one was following them. Tried to remember his duty and his vow, damn him to Hell’s deepest pit. He had forgotten both far too quickly in that insane moment in the woods. Had been but a hairsbreadth from tasting the sweetness he was forbidden to taste.
Even now, he was not sure how he had stopped himself. Wished to God that she had slapped him, fought, protested with outrage that he would even think of holding her that way, kissing her.
But she had not resisted.
Saints’ breath, she had wanted him.
Tentatively, shyly wanted him to touch her, kiss her. And as her innocent longing stirred to life, he had felt a fierce shot of desire that would not be quenched.
But he must never satisfy the hunger that had been unleashed within him. She had been ready to accept his kiss, aye, but she did not begin to understand where it could lead. She was as naive about passion as she was about everything else here in the world beyond her palace. She had no idea what it meant for a man to want a woman the way he wanted her.
But he knew. Knew that one kiss would never be enough. Feared that if he dared take that much, he could not resist claiming more.
So he would not touch her that way again. Would not allow himself to steal even a single kiss. The matter was closed. She was a valuable package, not a woman.
Unfortunately, the image no longer held any power to help, for it only made him think of how much he would enjoy unwrapping the package to discover the surprises hidden within.
Stifling a curse, he lifted his gaze to the clouds that had been gathering all afternoon. Christophe, old friend, he prayed silently, desperately, if you are up there somewhere, if you could put in a good word, this would be an excellent time for some help from above.
Mayhap an act of God could help him forget what it had felt like to have Ciara so warm and yielding in his arms.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky by the time they reached the mountain summit. Snow had been sifting down for an hour now, surrounding them with a glittering veil of white. As they topped the rise, Ciara made a soft sound of wonder. Royce, captivated by the sight that greeted them, reined Anteros to a halt.
Alpine peaks studded the landscape as far as the eye could see, like massive diamonds scattered over the earth, wreathed in mist and snow. The sun gleamed on soaring ridges and sheer cliffs sculpted of stone and ice. Only a hint of sky could be seen here and there, between the towering giants that rose up to pierce the clouds.
His chest tightened. His throat burned. He glanced to the right, to the southeast—where the Ferrano lands were just visible in the distance.
He was home. For the first time in more than four years, he was home.
“It is beautiful,” Ciara whispered.
“Aye,” he agreed hoarsely. “There is no other place in the world like this.”
They both drank it in for another moment, in silence, before he nudged the stallion forward.
“What is that mountain, there?” She pointed to the tallest peak, directly ahead of them, which dominated the horizon. “Has it a name?”
Her innocent question made his gut clench. “Mount Ravensbruk,” he said gruffly. “It will be your new home anon, milady. That is where Daemon has his palace.”
She flinched at the news.
Noticing her reaction, he could not keep from asking a question that had been simmering at the back of his mind. “I gather you are not looking forward to your marriage?”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Your father said you agreed to the match, yet the mention of Daemon’s name upsets you.”
“I am not upset.” She accompanied the claim with a shrug. “It matters not what I feel for Prince Daemon.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Nay, it does not,” she insisted. “Like him or loathe him, I have no choice in the matter.”
“But your father would not have forced you, had you refused Daemon’s proposal.”
She shook her head. “Prince Daemon won the war and demanded my hand as part of the terms of peace, and Châlons was in no position to bargain. Had I refused … “ She did not finish the sentence. “I will not risk unleashing Daemon’s wrath on my people again. The wedding will unite the royal houses of Châlons and Thuringia, and forge a lasting bond that will ensure peace.”
Those sounded like her father’s words, not hers, but Royce did not think she would appreciate him pointing that out. “So you are marrying him because you must.”
“I am marrying him for my subjects, for …” Her voice faltered, then strengthened. “For that little boy we met in the keeping-room last night. I do not want any other children to lose their parents. Or …” She finished in a whisper. “Or any other sisters to lose their brothers.”
Royce remained silent, fighting his emotions. Not only did Ciara have a heart. She had courage. She might not see it in herself, but he had known hardened warriors who were unable to face challenges so bravely.
“The responsibility is mine,” she continued, looking at Mount Ravensbruk. “As for my future … I shall simply hope for the best and depend upon Daemon’s Christian mercy.”
“Then you are in a predicament, milady, because there is precious little of that to spare.” Royce clenched his jaw. “Of King Stefan’s three sons, it is said that Prince Mathias inherited his spirit, Prince Telford his strength, and Prince Daemon his ambition. Unfortunately, Daemon was the one chosen as regent when his father fell ill. And he does not know the meaning of the word mercy. The whoreson once killed a servant for being late with his breakfast—”
“Save the vivid descriptions, if you please. I have heard most of the tales already.” She shivered. “Daemon’s character or lack of it does not change my duty.”
Royce cursed himself for speaking so bluntly. For reminding her of what was to come. She had been trying to make polite conversation.
But he could not help himself. He did not want to make polite conversation or polite anything else with her.
Watching the snow fall around them, he listened to the creak of saddle leather and the muffled sound of his destrier’s hoofbeats—wishing he could turn the horse and carry her away from Mount Ravensbruk. Away from Daemon.
<
br /> “Your duty,” he finally echoed, thinking he had never hated the word before. “Of course.”
“I would really prefer not to discuss it further,” she said softly, shifting her attention away from the massive peak. “Whether or not Daemon will make a suitable husband changes naught. My feelings on the matter are unimportant. The fact is, I am his betrothed. And I must honor my agreement.”
Royce resisted the urge to argue. He had never in his life believed that feelings were unimportant, and never would. But the rest of what she had said was true. And inescapable.
As they rode on, he brooded about words like duty and honor.
And agreement.
It took another hour for them to reach their destination for the day: the town of Aganor, at the bottom of the broad slope they had crossed.
It looked every bit as bad as Royce had feared.
“Sweet holy Mary,” Ciara breathed.
He reined in before the town gate. Or what was left of it. The thick oak portal had been reduced to splinters by a battering ram. Beyond it lay the skeletal remains of buildings blackened from fire, their thatched roofs burned away, many of the dwellings no more than piles of ashes. Only the church had been spared.
Ciara shook her head in denial. “What—”
“Daemon.” He spat the name like a curse. “Prince Daemon and his mercenaries.”
She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, not quite fast enough to hold in a small sound of pain. Royce resisted the urge to touch her shoulder and draw her close.
Despite the fact that he had seen carnage of this sort before, his stomach turned. He saw no survivors in the streets but noticed bits of ivory scattered about, barely discernible amid the blanket of white. Not wanting Ciara to guess that they were bones, he touched his heels to Anteros’s flanks, turning to circle the city wall.
As they left the town behind, Ciara glanced over her shoulder. “If we cannot stay here, where will we stop for the night?” She looked up at the thickly falling snow.
“At the keep I mentioned yesterday, there.” He pointed, seeing it through the swirling flakes, perched high upon a nearby hill—its drawbridge smashed, portions of its curtain wall in ruins, one of its towers half crumbled. “A friend of mine and his wife live there. Or used to.” His heart beat painfully hard against his ribs. “Let us hope they are still safe and well.”
***
The great hall overflowed with light from two dozen torches, the scents of spicy rabbit stew and the dried herbs that had been sprinkled in the rushes on the floor—and the noise of more than fifty happy, well-fed women and children.
Seated at a trestle table before the blazing hearth, Royce sopped up one last bite of stew with a corner of bread, smiling at the brawny, fair-haired knight across from him. “I must say, Bayard.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the din. “Never did I think it would be possible to have too many women underfoot.”
Bayard shrugged, his smile broad, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “What was I to do? They had nowhere else to go.”
Royce washed down the last of his supper with a long drink of wine, then pushed aside his empty bowl and trencher. He grinned at his friend, still relieved to have found him not only alive but in good spirits.
And good company. Shaking his head in bemused disbelief, he glanced about the hall as he wiped his hands on the tablecloth. It looked as if Bayard had taken in every female refugee in the mountains. Some were orphans, others widows, many in peasant garb, others dressed in finery that marked them as members of the nobility. A few were still recovering from injuries suffered in the war.
“It began with the handful of local women who survived when the town fell,” Bayard explained, “and the families of my men who were killed defending the keep. Then word spread to their relatives, and more arrived. This is the only castle left standing in this part of Châlons.”
“You are a generous man, my friend, to take them all in, feed them, care for them.”
Bayard waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. “It is no more than any other lord would do. And they have insisted on doing their part, cleaning the keep, working in the kitchens. Still, I had thought the situation would be only temporary.” He sighed, the sound of a man who had been outnumbered by females for a little too long. “Almost three score of them wintered here. Now it looks as if they will spring here as well.”
Royce laughed. “It is a harem that many a Saracen would envy.”
“Do not let my wife hear you say that.”
The two of them glanced at a pair of ladies seated together in a far corner, surrounded by children. The din in the hall quieted a bit as music began to fill the air.
Mandolin music.
Royce lifted his goblet and drank another draught of wine, his gaze on Ciara as she strummed her cherished instrument. When Bayard and his wife, Lady Elinor, had met them outside, Elinor had immediately noticed Ciara’s mandolin hanging from his saddle and begged her to play for them after supper. It had no doubt been a long time since anyone in the keep had enjoyed such entertainment. There were few traveling minstrels or troubadours in Châlons these days.
Ciara had said she was not accustomed to playing for an audience—but eagerly agreed once she met the children.
Now she sat with her head bowed, her attention on her mandolin. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, bringing forth the notes of a merry tune. One unfamiliar to him.
He felt like one of the children at her feet, gazing up at her as if they had never heard anyone play so beautifully before. As if the lady seated before them were an angel descended from Heaven with a magical harp. The music became livelier and a small boy began clapping in time, then the others joined in. A little girl, no more than two or three years old, began to dance, waving her chubby hands, gurgling with laughter.
Ciara glanced up, as if surprised that her playing could bring them such joy. Then she smiled, her own happiness lighting her entire face.
Royce’s heart seemed to stop. Everything around him seemed to stop—the sounds of the children, the heat and crackle of the fire at his back, even the music she played. All sense of time, of place, seemed to fade from his awareness, and there was only this lady, her sparkling amber eyes. And her smile.
He blinked, unnerved by the sensation. Never in his life had he experienced such a feeling—other than in the keeping-room last night. Never could he remember desire rendering him deaf, dumb, and paralyzed.
But this desire he felt for Ciara was far different from any he had known before. Not only stronger but … different.
He realized Bayard was speaking to him and finally wrenched his gaze back to his friend. “I am what?”
“I said,” the blond knight repeated, his smile filled with understanding, “that your wife’s talent is surpassed only by her beauty. You are a fortunate man.”
“Aye. Fortunate,” Royce croaked. He reached for a nearby jug of wine, refilled his cup, and quickly changed the subject. “Which of these did you say are yours?” Picking up his goblet, he gestured to the children scattered about the hall.
Bayard pointed them out with obvious pride. “That is my daughter, Ilsa, who will soon be two.” The dark-haired girl had climbed into her mother’s lap to snuggle. “And that”—he indicated a boy who scampered past them chasing a shaggy hound much larger than he was—”is my son, Brandis, who is five.”
Royce watched as the lad caught up with the dog and fearlessly wrestled him to the ground. “He seems to take after his father.”
“Aye.” Bayard grinned broadly. “Hard to believe we were his age when first we met.”
Royce nodded. “We had some good times in those years.”
“That we did. Do you remember when we were ten and thought it would be an excellent idea to spend an afternoon exploring the caves in Mount Kaladar—”
“Until we got lost. For three days.” Royce chuckled. “I thought your father would flay us alive when he finally found us.”
“T
hat was almost as bad as the winter when we decided to use our fathers’ shields to go sledding.”
“It seemed such a sensible idea at the time.”
“It was your idea.” Bayard’s laughter was deep and rich. “And they were much faster on the ice than our wooden sleds.”
“Right up to the moment we crashed into the trees and mangled them. Not to mention ourselves.”
“And our dignity. How old were we then?”
“Twelve.” Royce smiled warmly at the memory. “When winter was naught but skating and sleds—”
“And fighting with snowballs. God’s breath, I remember it like yesterday, how we loved battling with your little brothers and pelting your sisters …” Bayard’s voice trailed off. His expression turned somber.
Royce felt his throat tighten, dropped his gaze to his goblet. An awkward silence fell, filled with other, more recent memories.
Bayard cleared his throat. “Royce, I am sorry. I did not mean to remind you of them—”
“It was seven years ago.”
“Even so, to suffer such a loss—”
“It was seven years ago,” Royce repeated, unwilling to reopen old wounds. For a time, he had tried to purge himself of the fury and pain, spilled a great deal of Thuringian blood, and too much of his own, before he realized that no amount of death and vengeance would help.
Grief, he had learned, was a wound that never fully healed. After all these years, he had simply become accustomed to it, lived with the pain until he did not notice it overmuch. Most of the time.
He lifted his gaze to Bayard’s, seeing his own anguish mirrored there. Everyone in Châlons had suffered losses in the war, Bayard included. Their carefree youth had come to an abrupt end on that day seven years ago when Thuringia had suddenly changed from peaceful ally to vicious enemy.
That day when the Ferrano lands, which lay directly on the border, had been taken by surprise—and been the first to fall.
But Royce had vowed long ago that he would not drown himself in bitterness over what might have been. What would never be again.
Because God and King Aldric together could not restore all that this war had cost him.
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 11