And wished the morning would never come.
***
The weather grew warmer with each passing day as they traveled north and east. The songs of birds and the damp, earthy scents of spring filled the air, together with the splash of water that could be heard at every turn of every trail—drops trickling together into streams that joined to form powerful rivers as the snow began its annual melt. Ciara found it bitterly ironic that spring, with all its brightness and beauty, should finally come to the mountains now.
Now, just when all the light and warmth were about to vanish from her life.
Royce had brought two useful mementos with him from his home: his father’s sword and shield. But in three days of riding, they encountered few people on the roads, despite the pleasant weather. These were the borderlands, he explained, where occasional skirmishes had been erupting between the people of Châlons and Thuringia, no matter that peace had formally been declared. Few travelers wanted to risk getting caught in the middle of an outbreak of hostilities.
Ciara almost wished she and Royce would meet with some kind of trouble, some interference, some delay that would keep them from their destination. But no one paid them any particular attention. And the rebels had apparently lost their trail.
So it was that at midafternoon on the fourth day after they left the Ferrano lands, they entered the thick forests that ringed the foot of Mount Ravensbruk.
Ciara’s insides wound into a knot as they rode through the hushed shadows, amid dancing beams of sunlight that broke through the pine boughs as if to guide their way. Royce slowed the horse to a walk, his arm tightening around her waist. But they kept going forward, both silent.
She could find no words to express this feeling inside her, this awful rending asunder, as if something deep within her were being torn away. She looked up at the sky, blinking hard, not wanting his last memory of their time together to be of her tears.
High above, she could see the towers of Daemon’s palace, just visible through the trees. Could see the red-and-gold royal pennants snapping in the wind above the parapets.
By nightfall, she would be confined within those walls, dressed in royal robes … separated from Royce Saint-Michel by an impassable chasm of law and custom and responsibility.
She would once again be what she had been: a princess. Dutiful and proper. Set apart and above, distant from everyone around her.
Everyone she loved.
With naught but memories of the places and freedom and feelings she had come to cherish. Of the man who had shown her a whole new world. Who had opened her eyes, and her heart.
“How long?” she whispered, still staring up at the towers.
He did not ask what she meant, did not look at the castle. “Another hour.”
She dropped her gaze, looking down at his arm holding her so tight. They had not dared tempt fate by sharing any intimacy these past three days. She had barely allowed herself to touch him at all, except to change his bandages. “Is your arm feeling any better?”
“The wound is healing well enough, now that the fever has passed.”
She knew he was in more pain than he would admit. “Royce, I …” She almost could not make herself say it. “I could go on from here alone. You do not have to—”
“I am your guardian, Ciara, bound by my oath and my honor to protect you until you are wed. I have no intention of abandoning you.”
“You mean to stay until the wedding?”
“Until the last possible moment.”
She closed her eyes, rested her hand over his. “I do not want to part either … my love …” Her voice became dangerously unsteady. “But we both know that we must, anon. And there could be danger for you here. When last you met with Daemon and his men four years ago, you did not leave on the best terms. I am afraid for you—”
“I can deal with Daemon’s men.”
“An entire castle full of them? Even with your sword arm injured?”
“Ciara, I am not sending you into that place alone.”
“But Royce … once we pass through those gates, I will be alone. I can bear it only if I know that you are safe.”
His voice became as soft and warm as his breath against her cheek. “I cannot leave you yet, little one. Not yet. Not while there is still even a moment left that we are—”
“Hold!”
The shout came from the trees on their right. Royce yanked hard on the reins, turning the mare as he drew his sword.
Ciara screamed, gripping the saddle as a half-dozen men came galloping toward them. She saw at a glance that these were not rebels. They were royal guardsmen, wearing red-and-gold silk surcoats over black hunting garb.
Any relief she might have felt vanished when she saw how they were brandishing their weapons.
Royce did not try to outrun them. Several were armed with bows and arrows. “You will need no blades. We will go with you peacefully. We are—”
“You are trespassing on royal lands,” one of the guardsmen snarled as the riders came to a dirt-spraying halt only paces away.
“Poachers,” another surmised as he stared at their homespun garments. He raised his lance, aiming the gleaming point directly at Ciara. A third man blew on a hunting horn, the sound rising above the trees like the howl of an unholy beast.
Ciara realized they had leaped to the wrong conclusion, did not even know she was a woman—and were ready to mete out swift punishment. “Nay, you do not understand!” She reached up to push back her hood.
Royce caught her hand, stopping her. “Do we look as if we were poaching?” he demanded hotly. “We have no bow or arrows—”
“Discarded, no doubt, when you saw us coming.” One of the guards grabbed the mare’s reins.
Another disarmed Royce. “On the ground, thieves.”
“Before I run you both through,” the man with the lance threatened.
Ciara shook off Royce’s restraining hand, shoved back her hood. “You are making a mistake! I am Prince Daemon’s betrothed!”
The guardsmen all froze, gaping. Royce swore.
Then one of the guards laughed. “And I am King Stefan,” he scoffed.
A chill snaked down Ciara’s spine. Too late she realized her error—she had no way to prove her identity. They thought she was a thieving peasant, lying to save herself. “B-but it is the truth! I am Princess Ciara of Châlons and this is—”
The tip of the lance pressing against her middle cut off her words. The man holding it leered at her. “Mayhap we shall enjoy a bit of sport before we hang this one.”
One of the others dismounted, leaving his weapons as he came toward her. “Off the horse, my lovely.”
Ciara’s heart hammered in her chest. She and Royce were going to die. Here at the foot of Daemon’s castle. After all they had survived, she was going to be raped and they were both going to be killed.
Royce slipped his arm from around her waist. “Do as he says, Ciara,” he ordered in a low voice.
“But Royce—”
“Do as he says,” he repeated, deadly calm.
His tone gave her no choice. She awkwardly swung her right leg forward, up over the mare’s neck, and slid from the saddle. Felt all six pairs of eyes on her as she dropped to the ground.
Which was apparently what Royce had been counting on—for he suddenly burst into action. Lunging forward, he seized the lance with both hands and yanked hard, pulling the man who held it from his horse.
Jerking the weapon free, Royce swung it sideways with a grunt of pain, catching the guard on the ground a solid blow across the back of the head before the man could reach Ciara.
Grabbing his shield, Royce tossed the lance to her but she dropped it, utterly taken by surprise. She snatched it from the ground as he leaped from the saddle. He placed himself between her and the other four men, taking a sword from the one who lay groaning on the forest floor.
“The lady is telling the truth,” he snarled, keeping the shield raised as he backed throug
h the trees, away from the guardsmen who were spitting curses and drawing their swords. “We are from Châlons and she is Daemon’s betrothed. In the spirit of peace, I would prefer to avoid killing any of you—but if you dare touch even the toe of her boot, you will answer for it with blood.”
Trying to look brave instead of terrified, Ciara raised the lance to ward off the men who had dismounted and were advancing on them.
“Try the other end, Ciara,” Royce advised calmly. “The pointy end is more effective.”
With a squeak of dismay, she realized she had been holding it backward. So much for looking fearsome. She turned the heavy weapon around, her heart pounding a panicked race.
The guards spread out, preparing to come at them from several directions at once. And the two Royce had knocked to the ground were getting to their feet.
Royce backed her into a tree, positioning himself in front of her. “I suggest all of you think carefully before you make any more mistakes,” he snapped. “Your prince is not known to be a forgiving sort.”
The guards were too angry to pay him heed.
Ciara screamed in terror as all six closed in at once and Royce stepped forward to meet them with shield and sword raised.
But before more than two or three blows could be struck, the thunder of hoofbeats and the yelping of hounds echoed through the trees. The rest of the hunting party rode into view.
“What is this, Gilroy?” an angry voice called out as a score of riders surrounded the combatants. “Why have you interrupted the hunt?”
Ciara took him to be the falconer, for he carried a huge bird of prey on his arm—and he was apparently a person of some importance, for the guardsmen lowered their weapons and turned to face him.
She rushed to Royce’s side, but he warned her away with his eyes. The look stopped her, made her keep her distance as if a tree had suddenly fallen between them. She understood his message as clearly as if he had said it aloud: she dared not touch him.
They could not allow any trace of their feelings for each other to show.
“Your Highness, we caught these two peasants …”
Ciara gasped, the rest of the guard’s words dissolving in a strange buzz that filled her ears as she turned to stare up at the man holding the falcon. As if in a dream, a nightmare, time itself seemed to stop.
Your Highness.
She noticed only now that the guards were all dropping to one knee and bowing to him.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
He was dressed like the others, in black hunting garb with heavy gauntlets and a fur-lined cape. Yet this was the man responsible for the seven years of killing and destruction that had been visited upon her country. For the murder of Royce’s family.
For Christophe’s death.
She felt as if she had turned entirely to ice. He did not look like a warrior—slender, his face youthful, almost handsome. He could not be much older than Royce, though his brown hair was streaked with gray.
But his silvery eyes were as cold as a mountain peak in midwinter. And the way his upper lip curled in a permanent sneer made him look as if he disdained everything and everyone around him.
When he spoke, there was no mistaking his identity.
“More mewling peasants trying to fill their bellies by poaching from my forests?” He looked at Royce, then at her. “Kill them.”
Ciara felt all the blood drain from her face, stricken and outraged by the way he could so easily order the deaths of two people he thought were his own subjects. She stepped forward. “Prince Daemon, I am—”
Those colorless eyes fastened on her. “Who is this wench who dares approach me with a weapon?”
Ciara realized that she still gripped the lance in her hand. “I am not a wench. Nor am I a peasant or a poacher.” She threw the spear aside but stood her ground. “I am Princess Ciara of Châlons.”
If she had claimed to be the pope, he could not have looked more surprised.
“She speaks the truth, Your Highness,” Royce said, throwing aside the sword he had stolen from the guard. “We have come from Châlons, sent by King Aldric himself.” He lifted the shield he held. “Mayhap you remember me.”
Daemon tore his gaze from her just long enough to study Royce’s face—and the family crest on the shield. “Ferrano,” he bit out, his eyes widening in recognition. “How in the name of Christ did you come to be here? How is it even possible that Aldric let you live? If any of my emissaries had done what you did four years ago, I would have fed him to my royal hounds.”
“Fortunately for me,” Royce replied coolly, “my king is a more lenient man.”
Daemon made a sound of derision and turned to stare at Ciara again. “And you … nay, you could not be my betrothed. She is to arrive on the morrow. My couriers told me only this morn that the wedding procession is yet a day’s ride distant.”
Ciara glanced at Royce, struggled to find words. What would happen to them if she could not convince Daemon?
The guards still stood eager to tear them both to pieces.
“My father feared for my life,” she explained, turning back to face the sneering prince. “I was attacked in our palace. You must have received word of that—”
“Aye. The work of the rebels,” he said with distaste.
She nodded. “My father thought it too dangerous for me to travel in the wedding procession, so he had another take my place, and sent me here in secret by a southern route. Through the mountains, with”—she remembered at the last second to speak impersonally—”this man to serve as my escort and protector.”
Daemon lifted an eyebrow and stared down his long nose at her, studying her face, which was grimy from the day’s travel, and her masculine garb, which was in little better condition. “You will forgive me, wench, if I find it difficult to believe you are a princess.” He flicked a glance at Royce. “What sort of trick is your king playing this time, Ferrano?”
“It is no trick.” Royce’s jaw clenched. “The only ones who have been tricked are the rebels who sought to kill Her Highness before she could fulfill the agreement King Aldric made with you.”
“Ah, the agreement.” As if that had given Daemon an idea, he looked over his shoulder, flicking a hand to summon one of the other hunters forward. “If you are who you claim, milady,” he said sarcastically, returning his attention to her, “you will no doubt recognize this man.”
Ciara stared up at the bearded, grizzled, portly man who came to the front of the group of riders.
It was one of the emissaries Daemon had sent to settle the terms of peace with her father, more than three months ago. “Aye, of course I remember him. He is …” She desperately searched her memory for the name. “Sir William Cameron, minister of your treasury.”
Daemon squinted at her in disbelief. “Cameron,” he asked slowly, “is this indeed the princess?”
The older man dismounted from his horse, puffing from the exertion, and walked over to look at her more closely. His bushy eyebrows knitting together, he examined her face as he might examine a ledger of accounts.
Then he nodded emphatically. “Aye, Your Highness,” he said in his distinctive Scottish accent, “ ‘tis indeed King Aldric’s daughter.”
Ciara managed a tremulous smile. “So good to see you again, Sir William.”
Daemon recovered quickly from his shock. “You will forgive me, Your Highness,” he said with smooth, courtly charm, “if I was taken by surprise by your unexpected and”—he glanced at Royce—“unorthodox arrival. It would seem you have endured a terrible ordeal. But I am pleased that you have arrived safely.” He gestured for one of his knights. “Dalian, escort Her Royal Highness to the palace, and order the servants to see that she is made comfortable.”
The knight rode forward, extending a hand to lift her onto his horse, but Ciara backed away a step. “Wait, I …”
Suddenly afraid, she turned to look at Royce.
His gaze met and held hers, but he made no move, no gesture. Gave no
outward sign of what must remain, now and forever, secret.
Ciara felt as if the sunlight and the trees whirled in a dizzying blur around her. This was the end for them.
The end of all they would ever have, all they would ever be.
Not yet. I am not ready yet. Had she thought herself prepared for this moment? It was all happening too fast. She had counted on having the chance to say her farewell to him in private. A chance to hold him one last time.
To tell him she loved him, just once more.
“I …” She tried to swallow and failed, her throat too tight. “I would be assured that my escort will be well treated.”
Daemon exhaled a low, amused sound that was not at all reassuring. “In the spirit of our peace agreement, I shall personally guarantee his safety. He can stay in the quarters that have been prepared for members of the wedding procession.”
Ciara tried to thank her betrothed politely, tried to say or do something appropriate, but could not even draw a breath. Could not tear her gaze from Royce’s.
Then, as if to rescue her one last time, Royce stepped toward her—and did something he had never done in the entire time they had been together.
He bowed. Dropped to one knee and bowed before her.
“It has been my honor to serve as your protector, Your Highness.”
His deep voice betrayed no emotion. Only one who knew him as well as she did would detect the soft huskiness.
And when he lifted his head, only she was close enough to notice that his eyes had become so dark they were almost black.
“I wish you every happiness, Princess Ciara,” he said formally.
Only she could have marked the way he drew out her name ever so slightly, as if he could not bear to let it go.
Standing there above him, fighting to keep her expression impassive and her hands from shaking, she did not trust herself to speak.
The time had come to give him her gift. She might never have another chance. Using every ounce of will she possessed, she studied the guards who had accosted them earlier, then held out her hand toward the one who still held the sword he had claimed from Royce.
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 23