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 the 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 13
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.
It must be the weekly market day. She had read about such things: free farmers and serfs who had surplus to sell came to offer meat and cheese, grain and livestock to the townsfolk, while itinerant peddlers sold salt, tools, firewood, shoes, and other necessities. The town gates must have opened at dawn. At the moment, each vendor was scrambling to claim the best space to erect his stall.
The town’s craftsmen were also opening their workshops to customers, folding down the hinged panels over their windows to form display tables, piling them with tempting arrays of goods meant to lure customers inside.
Ciara wished she could persuade Royce to take her outside for a quick visit to the shops. They could both do with some fresh air after being cooped up so long in this room. But she knew he would never allow it.
She was about to close the shutter when she spied an irresistible temptation, directly across from their window, only a few paces away: a silversmith’s shop, its display table glittering with brooches and baubles …
And one item that she simply had to have for him.
She bit her lip, an idea forming in her mind. Nay, she could not. ‘Twas too reckless. Outrageous …
Then again, those two words no longer deterred her as easily as they once might have.
It would only take a moment, she reasoned, peering out at the silversmith’s shop. And she was dressed as a boy. Concealed beneath the hooded cloak Royce had bought for her, she would be completely disguised. And she would be back before he even stirred from his sleep.
The decision made, she moved from the window to quickly don her boots and the cloak, pulling the hood close to hide her face. She paused only long enough to take a few marks from Royce’s coin purse on the table.
Then she stole back to the window, opening both shutters, her heart thrumming with excitement and a little fear. Pulling herself up onto the wooden sill, she glanced back once, making sure Royce had not noticed.
And slipped out into the bustling street.
***
The flood of sunlight on his face woke Royce, made him groan and throw an arm across his eyes to block it out. He came to awareness slowly, resentfully, for he did not want to leave behind the dream that had enveloped him in a pleasant fog.
A dream of a keep, familiar and yet strange, of a great hall with a roaring fire and Ciara by his side, their children playing ne
arby. A young girl with her mother’s golden eyes and bright smile, and a small boy, just learning to walk, with black hair like his.
It had been so vivid, it took Royce a moment to remember where he was. As reality seeped in with the sun, he remained still, eyes shut, wishing he could recapture the dream.
But it was gone.
And as it faded, he felt empty. Gradually opening his eyes, he let his arm drop to his side and remained on the floor. He could not bring himself to look toward the bed. To see her there, so close to him, yet so impossibly beyond his reach.
He had decided this would be their last day here. Tonight they would continue their journey under the cover of darkness, at least until they were safely away from the town. After that, they would either have to risk traveling by daylight—or risk dying at the bottom of a crevasse or a cliff.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, hating that he was being forced to choose between such deadly alternatives. But there was no other way out of here. None that would guarantee Ciara’s safety.
Except for one. An insane idea that had occurred to him last night as he watched her sleeping. In truth, he did have one sure way to keep her safe from the rebels.
He could give them what they wanted: take her away from Thuringia, from Mount Ravensbruk. From Daemon and her wedding. She would be safe if he changed directions and took her far away with him.
He sat up, gritting his teeth, recognizing the true motives behind that mad plan. The impulse was selfish, impossible, unthinkable. He could not simply steal Aldric’s daughter and disa—
As he glanced at the bed, his thoughts stilled abruptly.
Because Ciara was not in it.
The sight of the unoccupied covers, so unexpected, held him paralyzed for an instant. Just long enough for his heart to pound a single, horrified thud.
Then he sprang into motion, jumping to his feet, snatching up the sword. The rebels! How could he have slept through—
His looked at the window, noticed the wooden bar on the floor. Knew that his first guess had been wrong.
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 19