The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 10

  Guilt made him want to look away, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. “You are right. I have.” He made no attempt to defend himself, calmly accepting her censure. “I am sorry, Ciara. It was wrong of me.”

  She stared at him in disbelief, as if an apology was the last thing she had expected. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the torch and the brazier.

  She finally broke it, blinking as if she were coming out of a trance. “And I am sorry if I have treated you like a servant today. I am so accustomed to dealing with royal retainers that I … it is not easy for me to adjust to taking orders rather than giving them, but I …”

  “We will both try to be more accommodating,” he finished gently. “And since we will press on at first light, milady, I suggest you get some sleep.”

  She nodded, drawing her feet under her and curling up on the bed. “I only hope we do not freeze tonight.” She wrapped herself in the cloak and blanket, shivering. “I do not suppose there is any way to make it warmer in here.”

  “Not unless you care to share your pallet.”

  He regretted the words the instant he said them, not only because the suggestion made her gasp instead of laugh—but because it made him think of how very pleasant it would be to share a bed with her.

  “I am teasing,” he amended quickly.

  “Oh.” She looked relieved, but still a little wary. Apparently being teased was a foreign notion to her.

  “I gave you my word, Ciara. You may trust me.”

  “Aye, you did.” The reminder seemed to satisfy her, for she lay down at last, drew the covers close, and shut her eyes. “Good night to you, Royce.”

  It was the first time she had called him by name—at least without disdain or ire in her tone—and for some ridiculous reason, it made him smile.

  Standing to snuff the torch, he fought the foolish grin, told himself he should not be happy. It would be far easier to keep his distance from those exquisite lips and tempting curves if he and Ciara were at each other’s throats.

  Mayhap that was what he had been doing all day: looking for reasons to dislike her. Building a barricade of hostility and derision bristling with sharp points of sarcasm.

  But she had just struck a gaping hole in his defenses.

  And he had allowed her to slip inside and make a tentative truce between them.

  Gray smoke from the doused torch circled around him as he tried to make himself comfortable in front of the door, feeling uneasy. He did not like the fact that her pain struck so readily at his heart, made him want to reach out to her with more than words. Or the fact that he was already thinking of how he might make up for the insults he had hurled all day, to show her that she was not helpless or useless.

  He had been far more comfortable thinking of her as a haughty and pampered princess than as a woman—a complex and vulnerable woman.

  Gazing at her across the room, he realized she was already asleep, her breathing deep and even. It made his heart thud in his chest that she trusted him so easily.

  He wished he could trust himself so well.

  Unsheathing his sword, he placed it close at hand—not because he feared the rebels might attack this night, but because the gleaming length of newly sharpened steel reminded him of his duty. His promise to protect her, to keep his behavior perfectly chivalrous. To deliver her to her betrothed untouched.

  He had given his word of honor to her father. And to her.

  But even as he remembered the vow, repeated it in his mind word by word, he could not take his eyes from the graceful curve of her cheek. Her long, black lashes were like smudges of night against her moon-pale skin.

  The handfuls of cinnamon curls spilling over the edge of the bed made his fingers tingle with longing.

  Had anyone ever told her that she was a beauty? He doubted it. Aldric was not the sort to offer compliments, even to his loved ones. And by the time she had blossomed from child to woman, Christophe had been occupied elsewhere, learning to become ruler of the realm. And no courtier or commoner would have dared speak to her about a matter so personal as her appearance.

  She was as innocent as a woman could be, he thought. No man had ever kissed her, or touched her, or even told her that her lips were perfection, her scent beguiling, her hair like copper and gold spun together …

  And he would not be the first. Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to look away. God’s blood, if he was going to survive the next fortnight, he would have to stop tormenting himself. From now on, he resolved, he would not think of her as a woman at all, but as a precious object placed in his care. A package to be delivered to Thuringia.

  He whispered a curse, realizing only now why Aldric had chosen him to be Ciara’s protector—not only because of his loyalty to Châlons, or the sense of honor and chivalry that had been bred into him. Or even because the king trusted him and held him in high esteem.

  But because Aldric had known that he would not break his word. Not this time. Not after what had happened during the peace negotiations four years ago.

  Not even if it meant death by slow torture.

  ***

  The midday sun felt warm on Ciara’s shoulders as she sat in the grass, her back against a tree. A few feet away, Anteros grazed placidly, and a few feet beyond the destrier, Royce leaned one shoulder against a towering pine, his attention on the slopes that stretched above them. After riding all morning, they had stopped to rest in the trees that fringed the foothills of the eastern range.

  Despite the fact that Royce had allowed her to sleep well past dawn, Ciara still felt restless and unsettled by what had happened last night. She was not sure which bothered her more: her outburst or his unexpected reaction. He had not shouted back at her or mocked her. Had not chastised her as her father or one of her tutors would have done. He had been understanding. Even more surprising, he had been …

  Kind.

  She tilted her head to one side, studying him while he stood there, as rigid and silent as the trees around him, the sun glinting off his thick black hair. He was truly a puzzle, this knight who was not a knight. When she had awakened this morn, she had found herself covered with his sable-lined cloak. Touched, she had thanked him for sacrificing his own comfort so that she might be warm. But he had insisted he was merely doing his duty.

  The possibility that he had been kind seemed to trouble him, almost as much as it troubled her. It was humbling to realize she had been hasty in her judgment of him. That she had been mistaken to think Royce Saint-Michel a black-hearted and mannerless barbarian.

  She dropped her gaze to the ring on her left hand, turning the gold band on her finger. By daylight, she had finally been able to make out the raised lettering. It consisted of four words in French, followed by three in Latin: VOUS ET NUL AUTRE, COR VINCIT OMNIA.

  You and no other, the heart conquers all. She glanced from the band of gold to the dark swordsman who had given it to her, wondering how he had come by the ring. It looked quite old, and ‘twas clearly made to fit a woman’s slender finger. And he had been wearing it around his neck. Over his heart.

  Was it a family heirloom?

  Or a token of love from some fair maiden he had left behind in France? Some lady who eagerly awaited his return?

  Ciara could not understand why that possibility irritated her. Frowning, she folded her hands in her lap and looked back over the lowland plain they had crossed this morn, reminding herself that his life in France was none of her affair. He had been clear that he did not wish to discuss his past.

  Besides, it should not matter to her where the ring had come from or what it meant to him. Prince Daemon would soon replace it with a real wedding band.

  One that would bind her to him unto death.

  She shut her eyes, bleak images of her future settling over her like dark clouds filled with bone-chilling rain …

  “Ciara?”

  Startled, she opened her eyes to find Royce standing before her. “I am sorry, did you say
something?”

  “I asked whether you were all right. You looked as if you were in pain.” He reached down to help her to her feet.

  When he clasped her hand, she felt again that strange warmth that seemed to heat the air around her. It chased away the thoughts of Daemon—and made it difficult to think at all.

  Confused, she withdrew her hand quickly. “I am fine. Is it time to ride on so soon?”

  He regarded her with a curious expression, but allowed her to change the subject. “Soon. I thought I might first show you something. Or rather, teach you something.”

  “Teach me something?” She furrowed her brow.

  “A skill you cannot learn from books. One I doubt your tutors ever thought necessary for you to learn.”

  She was intrigued. “What sort of skill?”

  “How to defend yourself.”

  She blinked, waiting for him to laugh, but he appeared completely serious. She looked at him askance. “You are teasing me again.”

  “Nay, I am not.”

  “But I cannot possibly learn to fight.” She pointed to his sword, which hung from Anteros’s saddle. “I could not even lift a blade. I am not strong enough.”

  “You do not need a weapon. And you are stronger than you know, milady. That is what I mean to show you.” He took off his cloak and cast it aside. “Even if you are faced with an opponent much larger and heavier than you, you need not feel helpless.”

  She shook her head. “You cannot mean that I could fend off someone like … like you, a man easily twice my size.”

  “It is not a matter of power or size, but of balance.” He hunted around on the ground, then picked up a stick. “I want you to be able to defend yourself, in case anything should happen to me.”

  “Do not say that.”

  He straightened abruptly at her vehement command, looking at her with a curious light in his dark eyes.

  She stared back at him, feeling equally surprised by what she had said. And how she had said it. “I … what I meant was, you are my escort,” she concluded at last. “I would be lost if anything happened to you. I … I need you to guide me.”

  That did not begin to explain it, not to him, not to herself. The thoughts and feelings whirling in her head were all new to her, and so strong and confusing she could not make sense of them.

  “Fear not, milady.” He grinned, a flash of white that revealed a dimple in his tanned cheek. “I have no intention of getting myself killed. I am told that in Heaven there is no wine, no sin, and no—well, never mind, but I assure you, I am not eager to go there just yet.” He walked toward her, tossing the stick in the air with a nimble flick of his fingers. “The tricks I can teach you will not avail you much against a sword or an arrow. But if someone tries to carry you off, or comes at you with a knife again, at least you will be able to put up a fight.”

  “I will?”

  “Aye. Although I must warn you,” he said with mock seriousness, waggling the stick like a tutor’s pointer, his expression dour, “some would consider it most improper for a princess to learn to fight ….”

  “Say no more.” She relented, laughing. “The idea has just gone beyond intriguing to irresistible. You may begin your lesson.”

  An hour later, as she sidestepped his stabbing attack and tripped him to the ground for the third time, her reluctance had changed to enthusiasm and her doubt to confidence.

  “I think I rather like this,” she said with a smile, bending over her instructor, who lay stretched out facedown.

  “You are a quick pupil.” He groaned into the grass, not moving.

  “You make a most excellent tutor.” She felt warm, glowing from the exercise. “Shall we try it again?”

  He mumbled something incoherent, pushed himself up. “I think you have mastered that particular tactic. Let me show you another.”

  Ciara stepped back, braced for whatever might come. It usually took several tries, but she had mastered each skill, one after another. He had shown her how to use an onrushing attacker’s speed against him, stopping him cold by driving her elbow into his windpipe or sending him off balance with a sharp kick to his knee.

  He had taught her that she could even defend herself at dose quarters by striking a quick upward blow with the heel of her palm, delivered to nose or chin, or gouging at her attacker’s vulnerable eyes.

  It was all very strange, almost frightening in a way, yet at the same time, it felt oddly … exciting. All her life she had been coddled, pampered, protected. This was the first time she had ever engaged in a purely physical activity.

  And she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

  She waited for Royce to make his next move, but he stood still, probing at a bruise on his jaw.

  “I am sorry about that,” she said meekly. “Does it hurt much?”

  “No more than all the others,” he told her with a pained grin.

  She felt bad that he was suffering in order to help her. “We do not have to continue. I have learned a great deal.”

  He glanced up at the sun overhead. “One more practice and then we will ride on.” Heading into the trees, he gestured for her to follow. “This is mayhap the most important skill, milady. It is simple enough to defend yourself when you can see your opponent coming for you. But if he attacks by surprise, you will need to think quickly and clearly if you are to escape.”

  He led her a short way into the forest until they were surrounded by towering pines and broad oaks, the thatch of branches overhead obscuring much of the sunlight. ‘Twas cooler here. And darker.

  “Now, then.” He stopped, turning to face her. “Do you remember what I have taught you? Your two best weapons?”

  “Elbow and heel,” she said quickly. He had made her repeat the phrase until it was engraved in her mind. Elbow and heel, elbow and heel.

  “Excellent. And how do you use them?”

  “Elbow first, then heel, then run.”

  “Exactly. Do not forget the running part. Even if you strike as hard as you can, you will not disable an attacker for long. You must get away as quickly as possible.”

  She nodded. “I remember.”

  “Very well. Let us see how you manage when we add an element of surprise. Stay there.”

  She remained in place as he disappeared into the trees. As instructed, she waited a few minutes. Then a few minutes more. She peered into the shadows all around her. Watched. Listened. Heard naught but the breeze and a few birds.

  She grew more tense as each minute passed, kept repeating the phrase in her mind. Elbow and heel, elbow and heel, elbow and—

  Suddenly he sprang out of the shadows behind her. She let out a shriek of surprise but instantly responded as she had been taught. Even as he grabbed her from behind, one arm closing around her, she jabbed backward with her elbow—and was rewarded with his oof as she connected with his ribs. In the same second, she kicked back with her heel, caught him in the knee, and broke away.

  She ran a few paces and turned, smiling, uncommonly pleased with herself. “Victory is mine.” She kept moving, backward now, and almost felt like laughing. “Do you yield?”

  “I yield,” he conceded, one hand splayed over his ribs, a pained grin on his face. “You have won the day, mil—Ciara, watch out!”

  His warning came too late. She never saw the low-hanging branch, but she felt the stunning blow to the back of her head. The impact knocked her senseless.

  The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, Royce kneeling beside her, a stream of curses tumbling from his lips.

  “God’s blood, woman, are you hurt? Say something. Speak to me.”

  She blinked up at him, tried to focus, but the world seemed to be spinning. And she could not make her tongue form words.

  “Ciara?” He lifted her, cradling her against him, touching her bruised head with gentle fingers. “Burn me, I never should have—”

  “I am all right,” she managed to say at last, resting her cheek against his shoulder. The trees stoppe
d dancing in her vision.

  “There is no blood.” He did not release her, still examining the spot where she had struck the branch. “Only a lump. By all the saints, woman, you should have been more careful.”

  “It is only a bruise,” she responded dazedly, distracted from the pain by the far more interesting sensation of his fingers moving through her hair. “And it is … only fair. Now we are even.”

  “Nay, it is not fair,” he replied hotly. “You could have been badly hurt. If anything happened to you, I would …”

  His voice trailed off. And she could not reply, suddenly aware of how close he was holding her … how solid and rather nice his shoulder felt beneath her cheek … how muscular and strong his arm felt around her back … how her breasts were pressed against him, flattened by his chest.

  An icy-hot tingle danced down her spine. Neither of them spoke. Or moved. She could not even breathe. Again she felt that strange fluttering in her stomach, the odd feeling she could only call restlessness. But for the first time, like a bolt from the sky above, the real cause flashed into her mind: the sensation had naught to do with fear or nervousness or any strange peasant food she had eaten.

  It had to do with him. His nearness. His voice. His touch.

  Him.

  She lifted her head, met his gaze. Those potent brown eyes pierced hers, filled with feelings she could not sort out. Longing. Concern. Something more. Something that frightened her. Yet she did not pull away. Did not want to pull away.

  A breeze rustled the leaves over their heads. He moved his hand to her cheek, the leather of his glove surprisingly soft against her skin. His fingers tilted her chin higher and her heart missed a beat, then began to pound.

  He angled his head, his mouth dropping toward hers. The air heated all around her, within her, and she felt herself melting like honey in the sun, her lips parting, her lashes drifting closed.

  Then he suddenly froze.

  She could feel his breath, warm against her mouth, but he did not kiss her. She felt a shudder go through him, so strong that it wrenched a groan from deep in his throat.