The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  Refusing to think of the risk, of the horse’s pain or his own, he grabbed the reins and led Anteros to the edge of the cliff.

  He took just enough time to remove the saddle and its heavy load before fashioning a harness, using two ropes, looping both around Anteros’s withers and broad chest and under his belly.

  “Easy, my brave lad.” He tried to keep his voice soothing, though his pulse and thoughts were racing. “Hold your ground and be steady. I need you to be our anchor.”

  He picked up the free end of the second rope, gathered the slack into a circle, and slung it over his shoulder.

  Then he paused just long enough to stare into Anteros’s dark eyes as he dropped the reins to the ground. He had never attempted anything like this in his life. But his stallion’s strength and courage had saved his neck in battle more than once. He could only pray that those same qualities would keep him and Ciara alive now.

  “Do not fail me, old friend,” he commanded urgently. “Do not be afraid and do not move.”

  If Anteros panicked and lost his footing, or if his lame leg caused him to slip, all three of them would die at the bottom of the gorge.

  The destrier neighed and tossed his head, still agitated. But there was no more time for reassurance.

  Royce checked the knots one last time, then moved toward the cliff. “Steady, Anteros. Stay there, lad.”

  At the edge, he paused just long enough to make sure Anteros was holding his ground. Long enough to glance down and judge the distance to Ciara.

  Then he pushed off and began his descent down the sheer wall of rock. The sharp iron nails that protruded through the soles of his climbing boots easily found purchase in the ice, helped him control his speed. He moved swiftly, letting his weight carry him downward, letting the rope slide through his gloved hands.

  And he kept his gaze locked on Ciara, about fifteen feet below him—not on the gorge much farther below.

  He was still about five feet above her when he heard her moan softly.

  She was alive. “Ciara! Do not move.”

  Mayhap she could not understand his words over the wind.

  Because she moaned again, eyes still closed, and reached up blindly to tug at her cloak. It was tangled around her neck, seemed to be choking her.

  The branches that supported her moved, giving way.

  “Ciara, stop!” He shouted the command past the lump of fear that clogged his throat. “Be still!”

  She obeyed this time, opening her eyes at last—and when she spotted him dangling above her, saw where she was, all the color left her face. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but seemed incapable of making a sound.

  Her terror struck at his heart. “I am almost there,” he said hoarsely. “You will be all right, I promise.”

  He let more slack slip through his hands, moving closer to her, one cautious foot at a time. “Hold on, Ciara. And do not look down.”

  She remained frozen, wide-eyed, clearly too frightened to even consider it. No doubt she could feel the open air beneath her—and the wind just below the interlaced boughs that held her in place. Only her fingers moved, grasping the branches in a death grip.

  Three more feet … two … finally he was close enough to reach her.

  But he did not dare put any of his weight on the tree limbs that supported her.

  “Ciara, I need you to take my hand.” Moving as close as he dared, he knotted the slack to hold himself in place and stretched one arm toward her.

  Only inches separated them now.

  But she would not budge. She remained as still as a terrified rabbit, her breathing fast and shallow, her eyes glassy.

  “Ciara …” The wind whipped at his hair, yanked at his clothes.

  The branches creaked.

  This was no time for gentle persuasion.

  “God’s blood, woman,” he swore, his voice rough with emotion. “I am not going to lose you now. Do as I tell you! Take my hand!”

  His fury brought her out of her paralyzed stupor. She seemed to suddenly realize how near he was and reached up toward him.

  And he caught her at last. Grasped her arm, pulled her to his side, wrapped one arm around her.

  And held her so close that neither of them could take a breath.

  She suddenly burst into tears. “Royce, I am so afraid. I am—”

  “Nay, do not fear. I am with you now.” He spoke in the same soothing tone he had used with Anteros as he slipped a rope around her waist. Releasing his grip on his own line, he tied hers in place, knotting it several times. “You will be safe, little one. I have you.”

  But when he tried to move, to start climbing upward, he discovered he could not pull her free of the branches.

  He bit out a particularly curt, vicious oath. Her long, loose hair and her cloak were caught, tangled in the boughs that had saved her life. She uttered a soft cry of alarm.

  Not pausing to explain what he was about to do, he reached for the chain around her throat that held her mantle in place, released it, and let the cloak fall. Then he took the sharp-edged pickax from the waist of his leggings.

  “I am sorry about this, milady.” With one quick slice, he cut through her long tresses.

  And set her free.

  The two of them were dangling high above the gorge, held only by the ropes that bound them to Anteros.

  Gasping out a terrified prayer, she clung to him, her arms fastened around his waist, her face buried against his shoulder.

  Which, he decided, was awkward but better than having her look down.

  “We are going to be all right, Ciara.” He started climbing the sheer cliff face, one foot over the other, the soles of his boots digging into the ice. But it was too difficult to balance both her weight and his own.

  He muttered a curse under his breath. If only Anteros would back up.

  But his obedient, well-trained destrier remained firmly in place.

  Royce grimaced as he stared upward. There were only a few short yards to the top of the cliff, but it might as well have been a hundred times that distance.

  “You are going to have to help me, Ciara.”

  “Nay, I am afraid. I cannot—”

  “You can,” he said fiercely. “All you need do is walk beside me. One foot over the other. You have to let go of me and climb, Ciara. You can do it.”

  She shook her head, eyes wild.

  “Fie on it, you are not a frightened child! You learned to defend yourself—you can learn this as well. You must. We have no choice.”

  Whether it was his words or the urgent tone, something brought a glimmer of courage to her expression.

  She slowly, reluctantly unwound her arms from around him. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  Her willingness, her bravery made his mouth curve in a grim smile. By God’s mercy, he did not think he had ever felt so proud of a woman as he did in that moment, as he watched her curl her small, pale hands around her rope and look to the top of the cliff.

  “Pull yourself up, Ciara. One hand over the other, one foot in front of the other.” He had to make her forget about the rocks far below, the wind that bit through their clothes, the distance to the top.

  Had to keep her listening to his voice, only to his voice—not to the fear inside her.

  “Good.” He started to climb, showing her how, staying beside her “That is right. You can do it.”

  She grimaced with effort, lacking the advantage of his build and his boots, but she managed to stay right with him.

  “Aye, milady, you are doing it. Only a little way now.”

  When they came within a few feet of the edge, he scrambled up first, then reached down to pull her up over the top. He carried her a safe distance away from the cliff before he sank to the ground.

  She fell into his embrace, both of them trembling. He did not untie them, glancing up only long enough to see Anteros standing in place, tossing his head, unharmed by the exertion.

  “Thank you.” Royce did not know whethe
r he was addressing the heavens above, his stallion, the woman in his arms, or all three.

  He pulled her in tight against his chest. “God’s breath, I thought I had lost you,” he choked out. “When I could not find you, I thought—”

  “Royce, please, just hold me.” Shivering in his embrace, her voice trembling with fright and relief, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as if she would never let go.

  He crushed her close, shutting his eyes, burying his face in her hair. And knew it was not duty that filled him with gratitude and protectiveness and concern. It was Ciara herself. Not Princess Ciara, but simply Ciara.

  It was a long moment before he managed to lift his head, release her long enough to cut them both free of the ropes that had saved their lives. “You will freeze without your cloak. I have to get you to—”

  A glint of silver at the top of the slope cut off his sentence and his breath.

  For a second, he thought his mind was playing tricks. But then he saw it again. And this time there was no mistaking what it was: a shield.

  Held in the hand of a mounted warrior who rode into view at the opening of the pass far above. Joined a moment later by three others.

  They paused there only an instant before all four began galloping down the hillside.

  “Dear God!” Ciara cried. “Who—”

  “Rebels.” Royce’s first instinct was to stand and fight. Rip them apart with his bare hands.

  But he had to save Ciara. Pulling her to her feet, he started toward his destrier.

  And remembered only then that Anteros was lame.

  They had no chance of escape.

  Chapter 11

  Ciara stared at the four horsemen pounding down the slope toward them, her mouth dry with fear, her head spinning. “But how do you know they are rebels? Mayhap they mean us no harm. They might merely wish to offer help—”

  “They have already tried to kill us, milady.” Royce threw down his pickax and the length of rope still looped over his shoulder. “There is no time to explain.”

  He grabbed his pack of supplies from the ground and his crossbow from the saddle that lay a few paces away, shoved both into her arms, then snatched up his shield.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in confusion, struggling to balance the bulky pack and the crossbow. “How can we hope to fend them off—”

  “I do not intend to fend them off.” He took her by the arm, looked back once at Anteros with deep regret, then turned and ran toward the saplings that edged the cliff.

  “I do not understand,” she panted, breathless as she tried to keep up, his grip giving her no choice. “And what about Hera?” She could hear the puppy howling. “Where is—”

  “Safely in her basket. She will have to stay behind.” He raced through the trees, parallel to the cliff, until they reached a clear area beyond that dipped steeply down the mountainside, into an enormous valley.

  “Royce, we cannot escape on foot!”

  “Nay, we cannot.” He threw his shield onto the snow. “But we can escape another way.”

  Realizing his intent, she almost dropped her armful of goods. “Are you mad?”

  “Possibly.”

  She did not find that the least bit reassuring.

  He grabbed the crossbow from her and slung it over his back by its leather strap. “But I have done this before and lived to tell the tale.” Plucking the sack from her hands, he glanced back at the horsemen galloping toward them, adding under his breath, “Though I was somewhat smaller then. And I had no passenger.”

  She gaped at him. He ripped open the pack, seized a pair of knives and a pouch of coins, tossed the rest to the ground. Shoving the knives into his boots and the pouch into his ruined tunic, he gestured toward the shield. “Get on, Ciara. Now!”

  She had no chance to protest. Heart hammering, she jumped on as he took a running start, pushing the scrap of metal before him like a sled. All she could do was trust him—and pray they did not break their necks.

  After a few steps, he leaped on behind her, landing so hard he almost knocked them both off the shield. The speeding bit of metal whirled around in a circle.

  And suddenly they went flying down the hillside, so fast the mountain became a blur around them.

  She had to bite her bottom lip to hold in a scream. Royce’s arms locked about her waist as the scrape of steel against ice filled her ears. The wind tearing at her hair and face felt like a thousand tiny needles. She grabbed Royce and hung on for dear life—or however many minutes might be left of her life.

  They could not hope to guide their makeshift sled in a particular direction. They could only hold on to each other, at the mercy of whatever the mountain would do with them. Her stomach lurched upward as the earth fell away beneath them. They flew over the snow, picking up speed, falling at a sharper and sharper angle. Sailing straight toward the bottom of the valley as fast as an arrow shot from a bow.

  A scream rose in her throat. She could not hold it in any longer. But even the echo of her voice was left behind as they sped toward whatever fate awaited them below.

  ***

  ‘Twas a scent that awakened her. A piquant, familiar scent. Sage. Rosemary. Sweet basil. Dried herbs, some part of her mind supplied.

  Ciara lifted her lashes, groaning softly at the soreness that wracked her muscles. As she opened her eyes, she found herself surrounded by darkness, lying on her back in rushes that had been sprinkled with fragrant herbs. She was stretched out on a floor. In a chamber of some sort.

  She blinked in confusion and her vision slowly adjusted, allowing her to make out interlaced ropes and a mattress just beyond the tip of her nose. She was lying under a bed. And she could hear the crackle of a fire not far away.

  Where in the world was she?

  And what was she doing under the bed?

  Shivering, she tried to remember what had happened after her and Royce’s wild ride had come to an abrupt end on the valley floor. Their landing had been cushioned by deep snowdrifts rather than trees or rocks. She recalled being grateful for that.

  And she remembered thinking that she might have preferred a quick death to what had come next: they had been forced to trudge through the snow with no cloaks to protect them from the weather. They had walked for hours, up one hillside and down the next, struggling through drifts, climbing over boulders, even sloshing through an icy stream for a great distance to conceal their tracks.

  Royce had insisted on changing direction several times, intent on confusing the rebels pursuing them. And she had followed him without a word of complaint—even after the sun had set and night made the air dangerously, numbingly frigid—until she had literally dropped, unable to take another step.

  The last thing she remembered was Royce picking her up and carrying her, murmuring words of concern in a voice that had sounded deep, soft. She must have fallen asleep in his arms.

  And now she was here.

  But where, exactly, was here?

  And where was Royce?

  Teeth chattering, she reached out and cautiously lifted the sheet that hung all the way to the floor, peering out at her surroundings.

  It was a small, neat chamber, no more than ten paces wide and ten paces long, dark but for a low fire that burned in a rough-hewn stone hearth, a few feet away. She could also make out a table, a stool.

  But she was clearly alone. Worry gnawed at her.

  Until she glanced the other way and saw Royce’s crossbow and shield, propped in a corner—the metal dented and scratched from their harrowing flight down the hillside.

  Exhaling slowly in relief, she pushed out from under the bed, biting back a moan. Every inch of her body ached, and the icy cold had penetrated to her very bones. Scooting away from the bed, she sat up, winced, and quickly lifted her hands from the rushes. Even her palms hurt, scraped raw by the rope she had had to climb.

  Trembling at the memory, she stared down at her reddened hands, overwhelmed by emotions she had been battling to
suppress all afternoon. Terror. Disbelief. Shock. A chaos of feelings that made beads of perspiration break out on her forehead.

  She had come close to dying today.

  More than once.

  And she was not yet safe. The men they had left behind on the mountainside would be searching for them.

  For her.

  So they could try again to kill her.

  She glanced at the door, wishing more than ever that Royce were here with her. But for some reason, for now, he had had to leave her alone. A reckless impulse made her want to go out and look for him, but she knew he would not want her to take such a risk.

  She would have to wait for him here. And she did not wish to have him find her like this when he came back: a shaking, petrified heap on the floor. As she rose, she glanced down, realizing she was barefoot. Royce had taken off her sodden boots and hose. She noticed them drying in front of the fire.

  Which seemed like an excellent idea. Moving to the small hearth, she crouched down. The heat barely seemed to penetrate her chilled skin. She started to rub her hands up and down her arms but instantly stopped, her stinging palms making her inhale a sharp breath.

  Desperate, she turned to look back at the bed, wondering if it might offer even a threadbare blanket.

  And she almost groaned in relief: the bed was not only piled with thick blankets, but with a fur.

  She hurried over to pick it up, wrapping it around her body. It was a large coverlet made of silver-tipped white fur, and it felt as soft and warm as she imagined Heaven must feel on a summer day. Huddled within it, she sighed gratefully and studied her surroundings more closely. The room boasted not only comfortable furnishings of polished, light-colored pine but also a large window with shutters.

  Unable to resist, she lifted the wooden bar that locked the shutters from the inside. Pulling one of them open just a crack, she peeked out to see where she was.

  Moonlight illuminated the streets of a town, a fairly large town from the look of it. Thatch-roofed shops and homes crowded winding alleyways, many of their windows aglow with torchlight. Laughter and the music of a harp and pipes danced on the cold night air.

  The door opened behind her.