The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  She was alone.

  Not even Miriam had been allowed to attend the ceremony. There was no place at his wedding for servants, Daemon had scoffed.

  She was within a few paces of the altar when she noticed Hadwyn and Jarek, standing at the front of the twin lines of guardsmen that streamed down either side of the church. The guards were all dressed in silks, each holding a halberd, a tall pole weapon with a curving, axlike blade at one end—their presence clearly intended to impress everyone with Daemon’s power.

  Jarek’s eyes met hers, but she subtly shook her head. If they made any move against the prince, it would cost them their lives. Too much blood had already been spilled. She could not let them try to interfere.

  She had but one choice now: to do her duty, fulfill the betrothal agreement, protect her people.

  When she reached the altar at last, Daemon grabbed her hand. Though his wolfish smile was wide, even triumphant, his grip was bruising, as if to let her know he was displeased that she had kept him waiting.

  No doubt he would show her just how displeased in less subtle ways, later when they were alone.

  A numbing buzz filled her head as the choir ended its chanting and the priest began speaking in Latin. She was only remotely aware of the words. Could think of naught but a single phrase that kept repeating over and over in her mind until it became a certainty.

  Royce is dead.

  It hit her like a blow to the center of her body, but somehow she remained standing. Somehow her heart kept beating. But her strength, her breath, her soul all seemed to flow out of her, taking with them the last of her courage. And her hope.

  The priest reached the place in the ceremony when she must make her vows, asking in somber tones whether she would take this man as her husband.

  She looked up at Daemon, one last spark of spirit igniting within her. Nay, not this man. Not him. Not Daemon. Nay, she could not.

  “I will.”

  Everything became a blur after that—the endless mass, the glaring sunlight outside when they left the cathedral, the blast of trumpets, the cheers of the crowd Daemon had ordered assembled along their route back to the palace, the din that arose in the great hall when they arrived for the wedding feast …

  She remained only distantly aware of her surroundings until she found herself enthroned on a massive carved chair, sitting beside her new husband on the dais. Feeling as if she were suffocating, she stared down at the laden trencher before her, not eating a bite.

  Once, just once, she allowed a last, lingering shred of hope to make her glance up at the massive, iron-hinged doors on the opposite side of the hall.

  No one came charging through them. There was no sign of Royce. There would be no rescue.

  He was dead.

  Bleak despair settled over her. She sought a glimpse of Miriam, seated at one of the dozens of crowded trestle tables arranged in rows below the dais. The older woman shook her head, as if to say she had no answers, her expression distraught. Ciara knew that Miriam was just as afraid for Landers as she herself was for Royce.

  Over the past few days, she had poured out her heart to her lady’s maid, her friend. Had told her all she felt for the dark-haired swordsman she was forbidden to love, all that had happened since the two of them set out from the abbey on that cold day …

  Sweet Mary, had it been only weeks ago? It was hard to imagine, to remember how much she had disliked him that day, how annoyed she had been when he—

  The weight of a hand on her thigh made her jump, brought her head snapping around until her gaze met Daemon’s.

  “You have not touched your food, my lovely bride,” he said in a cold, mocking tone, observing her over the edge of a gem-encrusted goblet. “Did the meal not please you? Or is it the company?”

  His fingers tightened on her thigh, his grasp possessive and painful through the gold silk of her wedding gown. The cloth-draped table prevented the lords and ladies below the dais from seeing what he was doing.

  “I …” She fought the bubble of panic that rose in her throat, noticing that he glanced toward the spiral stairs in the far corner, beyond the hearth.

  The ones that led up to his bedchamber.

  “I … I am feeling unwell, Your Highness,” she choked out, trying to delay the inevitable, even for one more night. “Mayhap I should—”

  “Be put to bed,” he finished for her, eyes gleaming as his gaze slid back to hers. “So it is maidenly nervousness that has you ill at ease.” He set his cup down. “I can remedy that, my sweet princess.”

  Her heart thudded a single stroke of pure terror. And not only because she was no longer a maiden. This morn, Miriam had instructed her on how she might deceive Daemon, on a way to leave traces of blood on the sheets. But even armed with that knowledge, Ciara knew that no ruse could protect her from her new husband’s cruelty.

  Even if she were a maiden, he meant to use her brutally.

  “If you are not hungry,” he continued, pushing his heavy chair back from the table, “let us retire to my chamber. I would be happy to dispense with the usual rituals. We will not need laughing courtiers throwing grain in our faces to ensure a fruitful union.”

  He stood, his hand encircling her arm, his fingers like talons, giving Ciara no chance to protest. She looked for Hadwyn and Jarek, found them standing with the other guards stationed along the walls—saw them watching her with frustration in their eyes, as if waiting for her signal.

  But she dared not ask for help, could not endanger them to save herself.

  Her stomach clenching, she barely had time for one quick, frightened glance at Miriam before her new husband led her from the hall.

  Most of the guests were already too deeply in their cups to mind that the bride and groom were making an early departure. Only a few lords and ladies called out bawdy advice as Daemon strode to the rear of the enormous chamber, pulling her along beside him.

  He headed straight for the spiral stairs, past the four sentries at the bottom who were part of his personal guard. The men bowed as they passed, dipping their halberds—but she saw them regarding her with knowing leers as their prince led her up the steps.

  At the top, Daemon issued a single, sharp command to the two others posted there. “Do not allow anyone to disturb us until morning.” He pushed open the door to his chamber and shoved her inside.

  Then he slammed the heavy oak portal shut behind him and threw the bolt in place.

  Heart hammering, Ciara backed away from him, rubbing her arm, bruised from his ruthless grasp. The chamber glowed with light, despite the darkness that had descended outside the windows. The twin hearths blazed, making all his riches and jewels and glassware gleam.

  Her gaze fell on the reliquary and she felt tears threaten. God, please.

  “Disrobe, Princess.”

  She turned to face him, still moving away, no longer able to disguise her fear.

  Which only made him smile. “I like to see my belongings displayed before I handle them,” he said icily, taking off his crown and placing it on a velvet pillow beside the bed. “Disrobe.”

  She shook her head, mute, retreating until her waist collided with the long chest in front of the windows.

  “There is nowhere to run, Princess.” Smiling, he stalked closer. “And I warned you once, I do not tolerate disobedience. You should have remembered that before you kept me waiting this morn. You embarrassed me in front of my lords—and for that you will pay.”

  A panicked impulse made Ciara snatch up one of the goblets from the chest and smash its glass rim against the wood.

  With a snarl, Daemon leaped toward her, grabbing her wrist, twisting hard until the makeshift weapon fell from her numb fingers.

  It tumbled harmlessly into the rushes.

  Then he yanked her against him, sending her crown clattering to the floor as well.

  “It seems you have a difficult time understanding what I mean by the word obey.” He glared down at her, his lips curling back from his teeth.
“Allow me to give you a demonstration.”

  ***

  “Your Highness, you cannot walk in without warning.”

  “Aye, I certainly can.”

  The group of ten riders reined in on a hill above the palace. They had approached from the rear, to avoid being noticed by the sentries as they came within sight of the keep.

  Royce looked toward the slender, brown-haired prince who rode at the head of the band of wearied and wounded rebels. “Thayne is right, Your Highness.” He shook his head in warning, despite the fact that his own impulse was to gallop down the slope and battle whatever odds they might face until he had Ciara safely in his arms.

  If the wedding had taken place as scheduled this morn, she was now Daemon’s bride. His only hope lay in the fact that darkness had just fallen, that the wedding feast should last several more hours—that the groom had not yet consummated the vows.

  Because the rebels dared not risk Mathias’s life.

  “Daemon’s men will try to protect him,” Thayne pointed out.

  “Aye,” Royce agreed through clenched teeth, studying the moonlit keep below, wishing in vain for some sign, some evidence that she was all right. “There is a danger—”

  “They are in truth my men,” Mathias corrected, his voice quiet yet determined. “They will not raise arms against their own prince.”

  Royce shared a look with Thayne, not at all certain that was true. They had learned a hard lesson on the Gunlaug: the ascent had not proven half as deadly as the guardsmen Daemon had placed in charge of his brother’s prison. The well-paid troops had kept the rebels pinned down on a treacherous slope for almost two days.

  Their final assault on the stronghold had cost them a half-dozen lives. They had been forced to leave two more men behind in a village, both wounded and unable to travel—including Landers, who had taken an arrow in the chest.

  “Your Highness,” Thayne said firmly, “we have risked much and lost much in the past weeks and months to come this far. If Daemon should order his men to move against you, before you have time to speak to your nobles—”

  “Then surprise is our best chance, is it not?” Mathias asked calmly, looking back over his shoulder at them, his gray eyes fearless in the moonlight. “I have been awaiting this moment for four years. It is time to put right what I should have put right long ago.”

  Royce regarded him with a respect that had been growing steadily over the past two days as they had galloped back to the palace. Despite four years as his brother’s captive, Mathias was still the noble, coolheaded man of deep faith he remembered.

  But the prince also had a steely edge no one had suspected he possessed.

  “Very well, Your Highness.” Thayne gathered up his reins and glanced at Karl, who rode beside him. Their crooked grins flashed in the darkness as if they, too, were in truth eager for a bold ending to their months of danger and secrecy.

  Mathias led the way down the slope and Royce needed no more convincing. He spurred his mount, charging forward. All ten of them descended at a gallop, straight toward the keep, swift as judgment raining down from above. They did not stop when the guards at the gate—mayhap lulled to inaction by the festivities taking place inside—called out to them. Nor were the sentries quick enough to raise the drawbridge.

  The rebels thundered over it, their horses’ hooves pounding on the wood like blows from a catapult. They sped into the bailey, dismounting even before they had pulled to a stop. Guards came scrambling from their posts in every direction, too late to block the unknown intruders from racing up the steps that led into the keep.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, they encountered little opposition as they rushed inside, past the main entrance. It seemed that most of Daemon’s forces were stationed elsewhere this night.

  Royce’s heart was pounding as they reached the great hall. Mathias led the way through the massive doors, shoving them open to find the wedding feast underway.

  “My lords!” Mathias called above the din, throwing back the hood of the drab peasant cloak he wore. “My lords!”

  Royce barely heard the rest of what Mathias said, only dimly aware of the commotion that erupted as the wedding guests recognized their beloved long-lost prince, as the sentries finally caught up with them, as Mathias began to explain that the Thuringian nobles had been deceived by Daemon’s treachery.

  Royce’s own gaze had locked on the two chairs at the center of the dais.

  The two empty chairs.

  His mind roared with denial. He was too late. Then he saw Hadwyn and Jarek rushing forward, pushing their way through the crowd of nobles who were all surging to their feet in shock at what Mathias was saying. The rest of the silk-clad guards, many loyal to Daemon, began milling toward the entrance as well. A battle could ignite at any moment.

  But his mind and heart had only one thought. When Hadwyn reached him, Royce shouted a single word over the tumult.

  “Where?”

  The young man pointed toward a spiral stair at the back of the hall. “The chamber on the second floor, mil—”

  Royce was already running, leaving the others to protect Mathias, shoving aside wedding guests, vaulting over tables in his headlong race toward the stairs.

  Only to find his way blocked at the bottom by four members of Daemon’s personal guard armed with halberds—who were quickly joined by two others rushing down the steps.

  One against six.

  Then he heard Thayne at his heels. “Give way!” the rebel leader demanded. “We would see our princess—”

  “And we have orders that our prince is not to be disturbed!” The guardsmen brandished the lethally sharp halberds, holding them like axes, their eyes almost eager as they regarded Royce.

  He exchanged a quick glance with Thayne—who agreed with a silent signal that two against six made acceptable odds.

  Drawing their swords, they launched themselves up the steps, side by side.

  The guards charged down to swarm over them, ready to cut them to pieces. Royce struck one man a glancing blow to the leg and sent him tumbling, dodged a slice from a halberd, and danced in to pierce its owner through the ribs.

  A third guard tried to spear him with the halberd’s sharp point and Royce barely stepped aside in time. The man pivoted instantly, slicing upward, almost taking Royce’s head off before he could dive out of the way. When the guard attacked again, Royce stood his ground and used his opponent’s momentum against him, leaping sideways at the last possible moment and slicing through his midsection.

  He could hear Thayne’s guttural curses behind him. Saw that the rebel had already dispatched two of the guards who had attacked him. Whirled to help.

  Just in time to see the last guardsman catch Thayne with the side of his halberd, the steel edge slashing deeply and coming away red with blood.

  Thayne shouted in surprise and agony and went down. Before the guardsman could deliver a death blow, Royce attacked, shoving him away. With two lightning-fast thrusts, he finished the last of Daemon’s personal guard.

  Then he turned and bent over his fallen comrade, swearing at the sight of the long gash through his side.

  “Go.” Thayne reached up a bloodied hand to push him away. “Save your lady.”

  Royce looked up to find Karl and the other rebels rushing toward them. Saw that Mathias had things well in hand at the entrance.

  Without another second’s hesitation, he turned and ran up the spiral staircase, his sword still gripped in his hand. He came to the door at the top, grabbed the latch.

  Found the chamber locked from inside.

  Spitting curses, he threw his whole weight against it. Once. Twice.

  The second time, the door gave way with a splintering of wood and a snap of metal, sending him tumbling into the room. He rolled and came up with blade drawn.

  “Royce!”

  Ciara lay on the floor on the opposite side of the huge chamber, near the windows, dressed in a gold wedding gown—her lower lip split and blee
ding, a red welt on her cheek from where Daemon’s fist had struck her.

  “Ferrano,” Daemon spat, standing over her. “You are—”

  “Not dead,” Royce supplied with lethal silkiness, his eyes locking on Daemon’s as he thrust himself to his feet. “But you are. I am going to carve your heart out, you whoreson.”

  Before he could reach them to make good his threat, Daemon grabbed Ciara by her hair, jerking her roughly to her feet. She screamed as he pulled her in front of him. He drew a knife from the jeweled sheath at his waist. “Guards!”

  “Let her go, Daemon. Your guards are finished. And I am not here alone.” Royce moved closer, his scarlet-stained blade held in front of him, his gaze on the prince to keep himself from being distracted by the fear in Ciara’s eyes and the blood on her face. “Your brother is in the great hall even now, explaining to your lords and ministers that he has not been on pilgrimage the past four years.”

  Daemon paled. “You are lying! That is impossible—”

  “We found him right where you left him. Imprisoned on the Gunlaug. The game is up, you lying bastard. Now let her go.”

  “Nay, I do not believe you! My brother never could have escaped, even with your help. And now that the war is won, it does not matter. I have more than enough lands and wealth to secure my position. All the power is in my hands now. The throne is mine. Châlons is mine. She is mine.”

  Royce heard someone enter the door behind him, heard a low, even voice fill the chamber.

  “Wrong on all counts, my dear brother.”

  Daemon’s eyes darted in that direction, widened in shock. “Nay … how could … this is not possible …”

  Royce shifted his gaze to Ciara, conveying a quick, silent message while Daemon was distracted.

  She understood him without words. Her lips curved as she jammed her elbow backward, straight into Daemon’s stomach, and brought her heel down hard on top of his foot.

  Daemon lost his hold on the knife and on her as he doubled over, cursing.

  Ciara broke free and rushed across the room into Royce’s arms. He caught her close, wrapping her in his embrace, taking a full, deep breath for the first time in nine days. “I have you now, my love. I have you now.”