The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  “Give me his sword, sirrah,” she ordered in her most regal tone.

  The man glanced toward his prince, then quickly did as she commanded.

  Royce remained on one knee, his eyes filling with curiosity and a hint of uneasiness.

  When she had the heavy weapon in her hands, she lifted it by its gold hilt, and stepped back from him a pace.

  She fought to keep her voice steady as she touched the flat of the blade to his left shoulder.

  “In the name of Saint Michael”—she lifted the sword to touch his right shoulder—”and Saint George, I dub thee Sir Royce Saint-Michel, knight of Châlons and baron of Ferrano. For your most loyal and noble service to the crown of Châlons, for fulfilling your oath and your duty, I restore to you your title and all the position and privileges attaining thereto.”

  His calm expression dissolved in a storm of emotions, his dark gaze shining with astonishment.

  And love.

  Quickly, before the burning in her eyes could become tears, she withdrew the small, cotton-wrapped package she had been carrying in her tunic since they left Gavena, slipped the ring from her finger, and pressed both into his hand.

  Then she straightened, turning the sword around to offer it to him in the traditional way, holding it by the blade.

  “Rise, Sir Royce.”

  He stood, one hand closing around the hilt of his father’s sword. For a moment, they both clung to it, and she tried to say with her eyes what she was forbidden to say aloud, a silent message for him alone. I love you, Royce. I will always love you.

  You and no other.

  Then she let go and instead said what she was expected to say. What duty and responsibility demanded she say.

  “Farewell, milord.”

  Trembling, she turned from him and allowed Daemon’s knight to lift her into his saddle.

  And forbade herself from looking back even once as the royal hunting party carried her swiftly toward the palace.

  Chapter 16

  Spurs. She had bought him a pair of exquisitely made silver spurs. They gleamed in his hand as he stared down at them numbly, seated at a table in the palace’s kitchen long after most of the servants had finished their supper and retired. Daemon’s hospitality had allowed him a bath and a change of clothes but had not included an invitation to eat in the great hall with his knights and his lords and his betrothed.

  Royce had not objected, had not trusted himself to remain impassive if he had to watch the two of them together.

  Farewell, milord.

  A muscle worked in his jaw and his fingers closed around the bits of silver in his palm. This was what she had risked herself for in Gavena. She had not been buying some bauble for herself but a gift for him. I saw something at the silversmith’s shop, she had said.

  His eyes burned, his throat hot and tight. She must have been planning her surprise ever since that day. The dubbing of knights and bestowing of titles was usually left to lords and kings, but both were within her power as a member of Châlons’ ruling family.

  She had fulfilled her father’s promise to him, given him what he had wanted, hoped for, longed for during all his long years of exile: to reclaim his title and position, to return to the country he loved. To come home.

  But if this was what it felt like to be rewarded for serving the crown nobly and honorably, it was damned hard to distinguish from the gut-wrenching pain he had experienced when he was banished in disgrace. He felt every bit as hollow, empty. Guilty.

  Alone.

  He glanced up at the kitchen’s stone ceiling, blackened from years of soot. She was up there, somewhere, many floors above him. His Ciara, with her sweet smile and gentle grace and tender heart. Delivered into the hands of Prince Daemon.

  His fist tightened until the spurs’ sharp edges bit into his skin. Never had he been more inclined to murder than when he had seen Daemon looking at her with anticipation in his eyes.

  Was the bastard with her even now? Talking to her?

  Touching her?

  Royce shoved away from the table and rose, ignoring the pain that stabbed up his wounded arm. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Kill. If he did not find an outlet for the violence coursing through his veins, he was going to cause yet another incident that would jeopardize yet another peace agreement.

  As he strode through the kitchen door, he was quickly flanked by his two shadows—the guards Daemon had assigned to him “for his own protection” during his stay at the palace.

  One guard was an older man whose jowls and downturned mouth made him resemble a bullfrog. The other was a skinny twig of a lad who always seemed to have something to eat in his hands. Both had volunteered for the duty, apparently undaunted by the tales whispered among the guardsmen of how he had taken on six armed men in the forest.

  They hastened to keep up with him. “Are you ready to retire, milord?” the younger one asked hopefully, biting into the wing of roast chicken he carried.

  Milord. Royce’s mouth curved. It seemed odd to be called that again after four years of being addressed as a commoner. Astonishing how much had changed in a single afternoon.

  “Nay,” he said curtly. “Do the two of you intend to keep nipping at my heels all night?”

  “We have been assigned to protect you, milord.”

  Royce’s frown deepened at the irony in that statement. He was beginning to appreciate how Ciara must have felt at first, when she had been forced to deal with an unwanted companion day and night.

  The older man yawned wearily. “It is late, milord.” His deep, resonant voice matched his bullfrog appearance. “We could show you to your quarters.” They passed several servants on their way to bed.

  “I do not feel tired. I wish to go”—beat someone or something to a pulp—“riding.”

  “But the gates are closed and the drawbridges raised by this hour,” the younger one said around a mouthful of chicken. “No one can leave the palace.”

  Royce ground his teeth. “Then mayhap I shall spend some time on the practice ground in the bailey.” Stabbing a few straw-filled training dummies would be satisfying.

  “It is cloudy tonight, milord. There will not be enough moonlight for you to see. You could injure yourself—”

  “And then we would have to explain it to Prince Daemon,” the younger one said tremulously.

  Royce stopped in the middle of a torchlit corridor, turning to regard them with a frustrated glower. Glancing from one to the other, he briefly considered starting a fight.

  Then he thought better of it. He did not wish to bring down the wrath of their merciless prince upon them. And if he abused his throbbing right arm any further, the wound might start bleeding again. But he had to do something.

  A fat cook ambled down the corridor and he stepped aside to let her pass, trying to think of a more peaceful way to ease his black mood. “Mayhap the two of you could tell me where I might find Prince Mathias. I wish to speak with him, but I have not yet seen him.”

  “Prince Mathias?” the two guards said in unison.

  “Aye.” By all the saints, what was wrong with them now? He could not interpret the odd look that passed between them. “Mathias. Daemon’s older brother, King Stefan’s middle son. Mayhap you have heard of him?”

  The older man cleared his throat, his jowls dancing. “Prince Mathias has been gone these four years, milord.”

  “What?” Royce stared at him in disbelief. “Gone where?”

  “On pilgrimage,” the younger one explained. “He was deeply saddened when the first peace negotiations ended, and blamed himself for their failure. He could not abide seeing his country at war, so he left to continue his search for spiritual peace, on a pilgrimage to Rome.”

  Royce absorbed all this in stunned silence. It was hard to believe that Mathias would leave his country at such a crucial time—but then, he had always been a sensitive man, sickened by the brutal business of war, better suited to serve as
a priest than a prince. He had been about to take vows and join a holy order before the war interrupted.

  Still, how could Mathias just walk away, abandon his people to his brother’s cruel tyranny?

  “Milord?” the older guard asked. “If you wish to speak with Prince Daemon about it—”

  “Nay.” Royce shook his head. The less he saw of Daemon, the better. “I believe I will retire after all.”

  “Very good, milord.” The younger man smiled in relief, finishing his chicken and tossing the bone aside. He took a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor to lead the way. “The rooms that have been prepared are in one of the outbuildings.”

  “Fine.” Raking a hand through his hair, Royce followed them out, knowing he would not sleep tonight, no matter how much he wished he could lose himself in unconsciousness.

  Moonlight sprinkled across the bailey outside, offering just enough light for him to glance up at the towers above … to seek some hint of where she might be. To hope he might catch a glimpse of her at one of the windows.

  But all the shutters were closed tight, and guards prowled the walls.

  If she were on the other side of the world, the distance between them could not be greater.

  Dropping his gaze, he tried to banish the memories that filled his mind and heart. His family ring, once more hanging from a leather thong around his neck, seemed to burn his chest.

  He gradually realized he had been following his escorts across the darkened bailey for some distance—all the way to the rear of the castle. The younger man had lagged behind a pace. If not for his torch, they would be in utter blackness here.

  “Where exactly has the prince decided I shall spend the night?” Royce asked sardonically. “In Spain?”

  “Nay, milord.”

  Some instinct made Royce tense, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingling. The torch suddenly went out. He whirled, drawing his sword.

  Only to step directly into the blow aimed at his head. The world exploded in pain as the torch connected.

  “I am sorry it must be this way, milord.”

  They were the last words he heard as he fell into a bottomless darkness.

  ***

  Ciara paced the luxurious bedchamber, back and forth, until she wore a path through the rushes. It was a round room that occupied the entire upper floor of the castle’s southern tower, so vast that she could not see the other side, despite the fire that blazed on the hearth. She had been in here all evening, had managed to avoid supper completely, claiming she was too tired from her journey to get better acquainted with her betrothed.

  In truth, she would prefer to postpone their first meeting as long as possible.

  Her stomach twisting with nausea, she headed toward the window, wanting a breath of air, wishing she could take off the heavy, ruby-colored velvet gown she wore, with its quilted, pearl-encrusted bodice and embroidered sleeves. Though she had worn such garments all her life, she had never before found them so … suffocating.

  Reaching the window, she pulled open the shutters and leaned out, gulping the cool night air.

  The bailey seemed to be a dizzying distance below, the tower so high that the sentries patrolling the walls looked as small as a child’s puppets. In the scant moonlight that penetrated the clouds, she could see that the palace grounds were deserted.

  Was Royce staying in one of the outbuildings she could see from here? Or somewhere within the keep itself? Was he being treated well?

  She prayed that Daemon would keep his word and ensure Royce’s safety. She had promised God that if only Royce were kept safe and allowed to return home to Châlons, she would accept whatever cruelties her marriage might bring.

  A knock sounded at the door. Ciara froze, paralyzed by a sudden jolt of fear.

  It was almost midnight. Who would be so bold as to intrude on her privacy at this hour … except her betrothed?

  She had thought Daemon would wait until the morn to see her alone for the first time. Mayhap she had guessed wrong.

  Steeling herself, she closed the shutters, clinging to the bar she dropped in place. “Come in.” Her voice echoed loudly across the dark, empty chamber.

  She heard the door open, then close.

  Heard the bolt being thrown into place.

  A trickle of fear seized her. He did not bother to announce himself. She turned, slowly.

  Only to find herself facing the last person she had expected to see.

  “Miriam!”

  Chapter 17

  Pain wrenched him to awareness. Pain and an urgent voice that seemed to come from a great distance, echoing strangely.

  “Milord?”

  Royce fought his way toward consciousness, only to be battered down by the savage, pounding ache between his temples. Cold water splashed his face. He groaned in protest, tried to raise his hands to defend himself—but his wrists were bound together behind his back.

  Anger pushed him upward through the last layers of black fog. A second splash of water made him open his eyes.

  A dark cave shimmered into his vision—uneven walls of rock, dank and damp, glistening in the light of torches. Shadowy figures crowded around him. Voices.

  “I apologize for the ambush, milord, but we needed to speak with you and did not think you would accept a polite invitation,” an unfamiliar voice said. “And our need for secrecy is of great importance.”

  Royce blinked to clear his eyes. Water and blood dripped down his face, dampening his tunic. He was sitting on the clammy floor of the cave, his back against a wall of rock.

  A dark-haired man crouched before him, a metal ewer dangling from his fingers. “Welcome back, Baron Ferrano.” He handed the empty water pitcher to one of the others. “For a moment, I was afraid we might have lost you. Sometimes young Hadwyn does not know his own strength.” He smiled, a crooked grin that revealed white teeth in a tanned, angular face shadowed by a week’s growth of beard. “How do you feel?”

  Royce furrowed his brow, not sure he was seeing or hearing right with this ferocious pain in his head. Glancing left and right, he could make out five figures surrounding him. Two he recognized as his Thuringian guards, but the other three were—

  The warriors he had fought in Gavena.

  His eyes widened as he glanced from lanky, well-dressed Karl … to the strapping, sandy-haired bowman called Landers … to the dark-haired knave crouched before him, the one who had shot him in the arm.

  He had been captured by the rebels.

  But why now, after Ciara had been safely delivered to Daemon?

  And why had they not killed him?

  Royce wet his dry lips. “If you think to torture me for information, you are a little late.”

  The crooked grin widened. “Nay, milord. Tying you up merely seemed the safest way to make you sit still long enough to listen to what we have to say. It has become clear to us that you are a dangerous man, regardless of the odds against you.”

  Royce regarded him through narrowed eyes. The man had the look of a seasoned warrior and an air of confidence and command that marked him as the leader. “Where in the name of Hell am I?” He tested his bonds and found them more than secure—tight, but not painfully so.

  “A cave several hundred feet beneath the palace. There is a vast labyrinth of caverns and passageways inside this mountain. The Thuringian branch of our forces has been using this particular one as their base for more than six months now.”

  “The Thuringian … what?” Royce echoed.

  The skinny young guardsman who had struck him over the head—Hadwyn, the man had called him—knelt beside him. “The Thuringian arm of the rebel forces,” he explained, setting aside an apple he had been eating. “We have been working together since before the war ended.” He folded a damp cloth and pressed it against Royce’s injury. “I am sorry, milord, for the blow to your head, but it was necessary for the benefit of the sentries. In case they are asked to verify that we did our duty.”

  Royce win
ced as the lad gingerly dabbed the blood from his forehead. “And what exactly was your duty?” He could not believe he was seeing Thuringian guards in their royal colors standing shoulder to shoulder with Châlons rebels.

  Mayhap he was dead after all, and God had a sense of humor, and this was some particularly bizarre corner of Purgatory.

  “Our orders came from Prince Daemon himself,” the older Thuringian guard explained in that bullfrog voice as he came to stand behind Hadwyn. “He said that you were not to live to see sunrise.”

  “Some of the guards were less than eager to face your blade after the incident in the forest today, so no one objected when Jarek and I volunteered.” Hadwyn set the cloth aside. “We were ordered to spirit you out of the palace and leave you at the bottom of a cliff, where your body would be found a few days from now. It would look as if you had been drinking, gone for a walk—”

  “And met with a tragic accident,” Royce concluded grimly. “Good to know that Daemon’s word of honor is worth as much as it ever was.”

  “Landers and Karl arrived three days ago, and told us to keep watch for your arrival,” Jarek said, jowls quivering as he nodded toward his comrades. “Thayne felt you could be valuable to us—though none of us knew your true identity until today, Baron Ferrano.”

  “So when did I become valuable?” Royce turned an assessing stare on the dark-haired warrior crouched before him. “I assume it was after you shot me in Gavena?”

  The man exhaled a soft sound of amusement and ran his thumb along an old scar on his bearded jaw. “Sir Royce, I believe a formal introduction is long overdue. My name is Thayne. I am a huntsman by trade, but for the last few months, I have been the leader of more than fifty of King Aldric’s loyal subjects, who have unfortunately been branded rebels. For now we are outlaws, but as Karl tried to explain to you in Gavena, our intentions are peaceful.”

  “For a peaceful man, you are rather quick with a crossbow,” Royce replied dryly.