The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  He muttered something under his breath that she could not make out. “Little one, there is so much that you do not understand. Much that is … better left unsaid.”

  “But I want to understand.” She reached up to touch his back.

  He choked out a curse, his muscles as taut as a string on her mandolin. He turned quickly to face her, his features chiseled into harsh lines.

  She moved closer to him without hesitation, leaning forward to rest her head on his shoulder, knowing only that she wanted to be near him. His tunic beneath her cheek smelled not of the brunette’s overpowering perfume but of woodsmoke from the fire in the great hall. She smiled, sighing. “Help me to understand, Royce … please.”

  A tremor went through him. She heard his heartbeat like wild thunder beneath her ear. “Ciara …” He lifted his hands—and she feared he would push her away again.

  But then his fingers slid into her hair.

  He tilted her head up, his broad hands cupping her cheeks. “Innocent angel … do you know what you are doing to me?” He looked and sounded as if he were in pain. “I gave my word.” His eyes closed, opened again, his gaze piercing. “I gave my word.”

  She found it impossible to make sense of what he was saying. To concentrate on anything but his dark, potent eyes, the sound of his voice, the feel of his callused fingers against her skin.

  And the way her heart had started to beat in time with his.

  She reached up to soothe a muscle that flexed in his jaw, and he whispered something profane. His breathing became ragged.

  And then slowly … sweet Heaven, so very slowly … one of his hands wound through her hair while the other slid down her back. “Fight me, Ciara,” he begged in a fierce whisper, even as his arm encircled her waist. “Refuse me. Push me away.”

  “Nay, I will not,” she breathed, her pulse jumping as her body molded to his, her lashes drifting closed as her chin tilted upward. “I cannot fight what I feel anymore.”

  With a wordless sound of defeat and impatience, he captured her mouth with his.

  And cascades of fire swept through her.

  The sensation was shocking, his mouth unbearably hot and sweet against hers. Silky and hard. Gentle and savage. His arm pulled her in tight, and she could feel his heat and hunger burning through the flimsy material of her kirtle. She trembled, drowning in ribbons of flame, moaning, the sound but a faint echo of the groan that tore through him.

  All of her senses came alive, opening her heart and mind and soul to him, and he poured into her. Ravished and claimed. Filled her with his musky, male scent, the rough texture of his stubbled jaw against her skin, the steely strength of his arm around her.

  He lifted her right off the ground, staggered backward a step, came up hard against the stone wall of the hearth. But his mouth remained joined to hers, the sound he made not of pain but of a feeling that wracked her just as powerfully. ‘Twas a wanting, a need that went beyond any physical hunger or thirst or torment she had ever known. A feeling that she would die without this. Without him.

  His fingers were buried in her hair, and he angled his head, his lips ravenous, giving more, demanding more. Her toes touched the floor but she sagged against him, unable to stand, her legs melting beneath her, her body melting into his. Her breasts felt wildly sensitive, aching from the friction of the soft fabric she wore, the roughness of his tunic, the hardness and heat of his muscled chest. Her nipples rose to hard pearls, the unfamiliar sensation drawing a soft cry from deep in her throat.

  And it stopped him. He tore his mouth from hers, staring at her with dark, glittering, savage eyes. Their harsh breathing sounded like a storm in the night.

  Then her fingers curled into his tunic, her grasp fierce, as surprising to her as it must be to him. It was as if her body refused to be parted from his. His gaze dropped to her swollen, tingling lips.

  And then their mouths came together again, their breath, hunger, need mingling, tangling. She clung to him recklessly and his fingers wrapped through her hair, drew her head back, the pressure of his mouth shifting, urging her to do something she could not understand …

  And then suddenly she knew, parted her lips, opened to welcome him inside.

  A groan shuddered through his chest. She felt as well as heard it, made the same sound as he deepened the kiss. His tongue glided over hers, exploring, plundering with silky thrusts that left her shivering. Never had she imagined anything like this.

  She became lost in him, in the liquid heat of this scorching, infinite joining. Aware of no hesitation, no fear, no shame. Only these sensations, like snowflakes tingling over her skin, melting into a fire in her heart that burned for him.

  Snowflakes and flame. Fire and ice.

  His tongue lingered over hers, stealing the sweetness of the potent drink she had consumed, and she tasted him. Foreign and yet familiar. Spicy and hot and … male. A velvety, volatile heat pooled low in her belly, demanding that she find some way to be even closer to him.

  And when he dragged his mouth from hers once more, the cry she made was one of protest. With a ravenous growl, he trailed sharp, wet kisses down her throat, his hand shifting to cup her breast. She gasped at such a bold caress, stunned by the intimacy of it. And by her own excited response.

  Then he lowered his head and lifted the taut peak for a kiss that shocked her breathless.

  With lips and tongue, he drew her deep into the hot wetness of his mouth. A low, violent sound tore from her throat. Her head tipped back, her hair trailing down her spine as unbearably intense sensations spilled through her. His arm locked tighter around her, holding her fast as his tongue touched the hard pearl of her nipple through the thin cloth she wore, brushing over it again and again. The ribbons of fire whirled around her, through her, until she thought she would go mad. She cried out, a plea, his name.

  He lifted his head, but his hand covered her possessively, his fingers kneading her softness through the sheer, damp fabric. She fell forward, collapsing against his chest, heart pounding, head spinning, and his arms shifted to cradle her tenderly.

  “Ciara … my God …” His voice was so deep and so rough she barely recognized it. He swore, dropping his head to press his cheek against hers, the stubble of his beard abrading her skin, his lips close to her ear. “If you were mine …” A bitter sound of longing, of frustration, issued from his chest. “If you were mine …”

  He held her tight for a long moment that would never be long enough.

  Then he choked out another curse and untangled her from his embrace. And let her go.

  She sagged against the hearth, feeling as if she would never have the strength to stand again.

  He backed away from her a step. Then another. “I want you to bolt the door behind me,” he commanded.

  She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, her lips still tingling and warm from his kisses. “Royce …” She felt astonished by the husky depth of her own voice.

  He turned and crossed the room in three strides. “Bolt the door,” he repeated forcefully.

  And then he was gone, closing the portal with sharp finality.

  It seemed to take forever to cross the same distance, to do as he had bidden, for she understood what he was asking of her: she was not locking the door to keep out her enemies, but to keep out her guardian.

  She slid the bolt into place, then went limp against the wood, knowing that he was there on the other side, leaning back against the cold, hard oak even as she leaned into it. She could hear him breathing, shallow and fast, swore she could feel him, his heart pounding as hard as her own. And she closed her eyes, not understanding the hot tears that welled there.

  And wondered what they would do on the morrow, when there would be no door and no lock to separate them.

  Chapter 9

  “I am dying.”

  “You are not dying, Princess.” Royce held her long hair out of the way, kneeling beside her while she crouched in the snow and lost what little she had been able to eat t
his morn.

  He had been forced to halt Anteros in the middle of a mountain pass when she could ride no further. Steep, icy slopes surrounded them with walls of white, and clouds dulled the midday sunlight to gray, but a mild breeze made the air unseasonably warm.

  “I am,” she insisted weakly, her face a sickly shade of green as she huddled on his cloak, which he had spread across the ground for her. “I hate cassis. I hate it. I … I intend to order every drop of that foul drink banned from the realm!”

  Royce fought a pained smile, remembering the first time he had gotten drunk on cassis. “The feeling will wear off anon,” he assured her.

  “How soon?”

  “A day or so.”

  She groaned, hunching over again, retching. He remained by her side, offering what comfort be could. Her features drawn and strained, eyes bleary, Ciara was the very picture of misery and regret—the same two emotions that wracked him.

  He had delayed their departure from Bayard’s keep as long as possible, allowing her to sleep late, telling himself it was for her benefit. In truth, he had dreaded facing her.

  Had not wanted to remember her body so warm and pliant in his hands, her lips and tongue like hot velvet against his, her sighs like silk. Because this longing he felt for her, this possessiveness, was something more than desire. Much more. He could no longer deny it.

  He shut his eyes, secretly grateful for Ciara’s wretched condition. Thus far, he had been spared any discussion of what had happened in her bedchamber. When she joined him in the bailey this morn, she had shaded her eyes against the bright sun and mumbled only a few words about a pounding headache.

  “How can a drink that makes one feel so pleasant,” she asked in a feeble whisper, “make one feel so vile only a few hours later?”

  Royce was not about to tell her she should have known better than to indulge so freely in something so intoxicating. He removed his hand from her long tresses as she sat up, trying not to remember how it had felt to wantonly tangle his fingers in the thick curls last night. “Why did you not braid your hair this morn?”

  “Must you speak so loudly?” she protested, pressing one hand to her head.

  He was already speaking softly but lowered his voice even more. “You usually braid your hair. But today you did not.”

  “I could not. It hurts.”

  “Your hair hurts?”

  “Everything hurts,” she said miserably, looking forlorn. “My head feels as if an entire legion of drummers is marching through it. And the sun is much too bright. Even the breeze is too loud. And I do not think I can ride anymore …” She grimaced as if the very idea made her queasy.

  Royce nodded in sympathy, knowing that Anteros’s smooth gait must feel to her like riding a ship on a storm-tossed sea. But he needed to get her fit for travel; sitting outside in the snow all afternoon would do her no good.

  He pushed to his feet and walked over to where Anteros stood a few paces away. The stallion tossed his head impatiently while a shaggy gray nose poked out from a basket tied next to Ciara’s mandolin. Hera growled.

  Royce frowned at the puppy. “Ungrateful little beast,” he muttered under his breath, closing the basket’s lid. His hand still stung from the bite he had received while fitting her with a collar and leash. “Stay in your nice padded basket and do not make me regret bringing you along.”

  After searching through one of the packs lashed to his saddle, he tossed a handful of oats into the snow for Anteros, then withdrew three other items.

  He returned to Ciara’s side, crouching down. “Can you manage a sip of this?”

  She had covered her eyes with her hands once more, and parted her fingers just enough to peek at the flask he held out. “Nay,” she croaked.

  “It is only water, Princess. I filled a flask from the well before we left Bayard’s keep. I thought you might have need of it.”

  Still looking dubious, she took it, then sat back on her heels. She just stared at the flask accusingly for a moment. It seemed she did not want to drink any liquid ever again. Then she uncorked it and bravely lifted it to her lips.

  “Just a sip at first,” he instructed. “Rinse your mouth and then spit.” Almost to himself, he added, “But not at me.”

  Her mouth full of water, she lifted an eyebrow, as if the thought had not occurred to her. Then she turned her head and spat into the snow.

  He handed her a cloth, along with a small pouch. “Chew some of these. They are peppermint leaves. Elinor said they will ease the sour taste and calm your stomach.”

  Ciara’s eyes widened. “You told Lady Elinor that I—”

  “Nay,” he explained quickly. “I said that you have been feeling ill in the mornings.”

  Ciara shut her eyes, twin spots of pink replacing the greenish hue in her cheeks. “So that is why she hugged me so tightly when I left. She thinks I am …” She started to shake her head, then stopped and quickly covered her mouth with the cloth, groaning, her voice muffled. “I believe this has been the most embarrassing morning of my entire life.”

  “Princess, there is no shame in drinking too much cassis. You are not the first to make that mistake.”

  “But I feel like a featherwit,” she confessed. Wiping her mouth, she set the cloth aside. “I thought I was being bold and adventurous, but all I did was make myself sick. I must … I must look like a fool.”

  Royce had, to fight the urge to smooth the frown from her lips. “Nay, milady, do not trouble yourself. No one will know but the two of us. I vow that I shall carry the secret to my grave. In fact,” he added lightly, “I may even make it my epitaph: ‘Here lies Royce Saint-Michel, who was once thrown up upon by royalty.’ ”

  He succeeded in chasing away her frown. “You are teasing me again.” She opened the pouch of mint leaves.

  “Nay,” he insisted with a straight face. “I rather like it. Though it is not poetic enough. Mayhap, ‘Here lies Royce Saint-Michel, who forsooth attended the spewing of a princess’s breakfast.’ ”

  Her grin widened. “Stop that.”

  “Or mayhap, ‘Here lies Royce Saint-Michel, who had the honor of being present when a member of the royal family blew beets.’ ”

  She laughed so hard that she winced. “One more and you will be in need of an epitaph!” She rubbed at her temples.

  He grinned. “Now you are teasing me, milady.”

  She met his gaze with an expression of surprise, as if making a jest were a new experience for her. “Only because you are being a featherwit.” Still smiling, she took another sip of water and chewed on a leaf, looking as if she already felt better. “You are also being kind. Just as you were when you presented me with Hera this morning. It was a very pleasant surprise.” Her voice was warm, soft. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged, glad that he had been able to ease both her suffering and her somber mood. “There is no need to thank me for seeing to your comfort, milady. The fault is mine that you are ill. If I had been with you last night …”

  He left the sentence unfinished, cursed himself for opening the topic he would have preferred to leave closed.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, her smile fading. “You were with me last night,” she whispered.

  Unable to hold her gaze, Royce stood and turned his back, wishing the wind that raked through his hair and tunic could pass through his heart as well—and erase all memory of that reckless kiss. He could not lie and claim that it had not affected him. He had no skill at concealing his emotions.

  “I apologize for my behavior last night,” he said with cool formality, hoping to end the matter quickly, painlessly. “I took advantage of you when you were impaired, Princess. It will not happen again.”

  For a moment, the wind whirling through the snowy pass made the only sound.

  “I cannot allow you to take all the blame,” she said quietly. “I was quite within my senses. At least as much as it is possible for me to be within my senses when I am near you.”

  He su
ddenly could not breathe. God’s blood, what was she saying?

  “Royce? I—I only meant there is no need for you to apologize. I felt the same as … I wanted you to—”

  “The fault was mine, Your Highness,” he said harshly. “What happened last night was a mistake.”

  “Oh.” She sounded hurt. “I see.”

  He clenched his fists, damned himself to whatever black pit of Hell would have him. Now he was making her feel rejected, unwanted. Was there no way to untangle himself from the mess he had created? “Nay, milady, I do not think you see at—”

  “There is no need to explain. I am the one who should apologize.” Her voice had become thin. “It seems I made more than one error last night.”

  “Ciara—”

  “I thought when you said that …” Her words were almost lost on the wind. “I thought you felt the same as I do. I thought that you—”

  “By nails and blood, woman.” He spun toward her, unable to stand any more, unwilling to hear the word cared. “I had no right! Can you not understand that? I have no right to touch you or kiss you or”—he swore vividly—“or want you the way I do.”

  Her lips parted on a gasp, her eyes widening in astonishment.

  “What happened last night cannot happen again,” he said roughly. “It cannot. It will not. Your father has promised you to Prince Daemon. Thousands of lives depend on you carrying out your duty. On both of us carrying out our duty.”

  She turned her face into the wind. “Of course, you are right.”

  The pain in her expression contradicted the mildness of her tone—and both were like blades in his heart. “God’s breath, Ciara.” He refused to let himself go to her, forced himself to remain standing where he was. “Do you know how much I have come to hate this damnable duty I agreed to? Your father has betrothed you to that foul whoreson, but I am the one delivering you into his hands.” His voice became sharp. “Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you know what it does to me to think of you as Daemon’s wife, in his bed?”