The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Read online

  Even after they had left the serfs far behind, he did not relax. “How great a risk is there that people might recognize you?” He tugged the hood of her cloak forward to better conceal her face.

  “None.” She pushed his hand away. “Châlons has been at war for seven years. As I was trying to explain, I have been cloistered in the palace since the age of twelve for my own safety. My subjects are no more familiar with my face than I am with theirs.”

  “Good.”

  With that terse comment, he fell silent. Ciara muttered an oath in ancient Greek and gave up trying to hold a civil conversation with the knave. As they rode on, she sought distraction in the passing scenery.

  Fortunately, there was much to see, all of it new to her. They traveled through vast, green meadows. Fallow fields studded with rocks. Tall grasses that flowed like waves in the wind. Now and then a flock of birds would explode from beneath Anteros’s hooves to fill the air with color and noise.

  In the distance, she could see pine trees clustered around the hills as if on sentry duty, emerald lances aimed toward the sky. And icy lakes that flashed like silver coins in the sunlight.

  It touched her deeply, in a way she could not explain, to finally see for herself the legendary beauty of her country. This sensation of the horse galloping beneath her, the wind in her face, the ground flying past felt so fresh, so free. Under other circumstances, she might have found it exciting. Exhilarating.

  But she could not forget that every mile they traveled carried her away from her homeland, toward Thuringia.

  Fighting the wave of sadness that washed over her, she made a decision: she would not allow her ill-tempered guardian to ruin what could be a pleasant journey. During the next fortnight—for the first time, and the last—she was free.

  Free of her crown and her robes and all the rules that went with them. Free to fulfill her heart’s most secret dream: to experience real life, to be like any other woman. For the next two weeks, she could steal a brief taste of the world, the adventures, the fun that had always been forbidden to her.

  The plan made her smile, but as the afternoon wore on, the strain of the past days took its toll, and her eyes began to drift closed ….

  She came awake sometime later to find the evening sky darkened to violet, the horse’s gait slowed to walk—and a hard, muscular arm locked around her ribs.

  Just beneath her breasts.

  She hardly dared inhale. “You may let me go now,” she said sharply. “I am awake.”

  Sir Royce relaxed his hold slightly, just enough so that his arm now rested around her hips.

  She was not sure if that was better or worse.

  “My apologies, Princess,” he said with cool sarcasm. “But you almost tumbled from the saddle when you fell asleep. I had to choose between holding your royal person upright or allowing you to get trampled beneath Anteros’s hooves. And I would be a rather poor guardian if you ended up crushed into a pulp on the first day of our journey.”

  Ciara winced. Must the man be so vivid in his descriptions? “I see.”

  She knew his real reason had naught to do with concern for her well-being. He did not want to risk losing the rich reward she represented.

  How had he put it? Land, a castle, and coin. That is what I am risking my life for.

  “Are you still tired, Princess?”

  “I am fine.” She fought a yawn, refusing to show any weakness, to give him any further reason to taunt her.

  “Good. I would prefer to cross the lowlands before we stop for the night.” With a slight tensing of his thighs—which she felt along every inch of her own—he nudged Anteros into a trot. “We should be able to find lodging in Edessa.”

  She nodded wearily. She had never been to Edessa, knew naught of what it might be like. But at this point, she would not quibble with any place that offered her a hot meal and a warm bed. Anything softer than a saddle would do. After so many hours of riding, even with the thick padding of her cloak and gown, her backside and thighs felt sore, bruised.

  And much too sensitive, she thought, scarlet warmth rising in her face.

  The movements Sir Royce used to control and guide the spirited horse kept making her flinch. Just as every time he moved one of his hands, her breath caught in her throat.

  Thankfully, he seemed oblivious, as he had all day, to the strange effect his touch and his nearness had on her. He handled her with no more attention than he had shown her silk slippers or her mandolin.

  If he could endure another hour or two of riding, she decided stubbornly, so could she. She would not complain, would not give him any more cause to find fault with her.

  Stifling another yawn, she slid her right hand from beneath her cloak to rub at her sore left arm. The cut she had received in the attack a fortnight ago had healed, but the muscle still ached, especially when the air turned cool in the evening.

  “Is that where you were wounded in the attack at the palace?” Sir Royce asked.

  She felt surprised to hear what sounded like concern in his voice. “Aye.”

  “And it pains you still? I was told it was but a scratch.”

  Ciara’s ire simmered. It had not been concern she heard in his tone; he had simply found another opportunity to belittle her. “Being attacked with a blade may be a common occurrence to you, Sir Royce, but this was the first time I ever had a weapon aimed in my direction. Most of the knives in my experience have been associated with supper tables—”

  She cut herself off. If she wanted to enjoy her journey, she could not allow this mercenary to keep provoking her. She would not respond to his barbs anymore. She would not.

  “But you are right,” she amended mildly. “It is but a scratch, Sir Royce.”

  “Stop calling me Sir Royce.”

  “As you like, milord—”

  “I am no one’s lord,” he corrected. “I am not Sir Royce. My name is Saint-Michel. Or Royce. I am just another commoner to you, Princess.” He added under his breath, “At least until our journey is done and you are wed and I can claim my reward.”

  Ciara resisted the tart reply that sprang to mind. He did not have to keep reminding her that he was doing this out of greed rather than any sense of honor or duty.

  Then her brow furrowed in confusion. “But I seem to recall that you did once have a title. And a castle. Or mayhap I am thinking of someone else?”

  “So good to know I left a lasting impression.”

  “I meant no insult. I simply cannot remember the details.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness? All I remember about you is that you barely spoke two words to me the entire time I was in your father’s service. A pity you are no longer so quiet.”

  Ciara held her tongue and glared off into the horizon, refusing to speak despite her curiosity about his past and his mysterious disappearance four years ago.

  The stallion’s hoofbeats made the only sound in the gathering darkness as they rode on.

  An hour later, she was ready to slide from the saddle and form a small puddle of exhaustion on the ground. She very nearly swallowed her royal pride and asked Royce to stop for the night, but just then, the glint of a church spire appeared in the distance, poking up above the horizon.

  “Edessa,” he announced, a heavy sigh declaring his own fatigue. “I know of an inn on the south side of the village. A fairly pleasant little place.”

  She was too tired to comment, but the words a fairly pleasant little place filled her head with comforting images of a hot bath, a fluffy, down-filled mattress, a roaring hearth to chase away the chill. She almost groaned in longing.

  As they neared the town, Royce slowed the stallion to a walk. His arm slipped from around her waist for a moment, and she could feel him fumbling with something at the neck of his tunic. She heard a muted snap, like a leather thong breaking.

  “Here.” He pressed a small object into her hand. “Put this on.”

  Ciara closed her fingers around the object. Though she could not see in the da
rkness, she could tell what it was.

  A ring.

  “Why?”

  “Since we will be sharing a room, we had best make it look as if we are husband and wife.”

  Startled, she whipped her head around—and collided with his jaw.

  He cursed. “Princess, do you think you might warn me before you try to knock me from the saddle?” He rubbed at his injured chin.

  Dizzying stars swam through her vision. She did not know if they came from the impact or his unexpected announcement. “We … we … w-we will be—”

  “Sharing a room. Stop stuttering. And do not look at me that way.” Placing his fingertips atop her head, he turned her forward again.

  Her heart was beating so fast she could not breathe, and his touch only made matters worse. “B-but …”

  “You have naught to fear from me, Your Highness. You have my word of honor that my behavior will be perfectly chivalrous.”

  “I … y-you—”

  “Aye. You. Me. Together. In one room.” He sounded exasperated. “I explained this morn that you must stay within reach at all times. That means day and night. I doubt the rebels will be so polite as to inform us of their plans, and they could strike after dark as easily as during the day. If they have half a brain between them, they would prefer the cover of night.”

  The idea of sharing a bedchamber … sharing it with a man … with him … “Could we not pretend to be brother and sister and take two rooms?”

  “What an excellent idea. That way, when the rebels carry you off, my sleep will not be disturbed.”

  Ciara shivered. “I … I see your point.”

  Her mind and vision finally cleared long enough for her to see the logic in what he was saying. He could hardly guard her from a distance.

  His voice gentled a bit. “The ring will help ward off any questions or unwanted attention you might attract. The rebels may be seeking information on your whereabouts, but no one will think to mention a young wife traveling in the company of her husband. If anyone asks, we will say that I am a tradesman from France who has come here to buy garnets.”

  She frowned, still holding the ring in her palm. “Will they not wonder why you would bring your wife along on a trading journey?”

  She felt his shoulders lift in a shrug. “I suppose they will think that you are so irresistible, I could not live without you.”

  “In other words, we will lie.”

  He started to say something, then did not.

  Ciara peered down at the ring, still hesitant. The moon was not yet bright enough for her to see it, but her fingertips told her it was a wide, heavy band, with some sort of raised pattern. The metal had been warm when he placed it in her hand. He must have been wearing it against his skin.

  “Princess, I am merely trying to protect you.”

  “Aye,” she said softly, “that is what you are being paid to do.” Giving in at last, she slipped the ring onto the correct finger of her left hand.

  And noticed that it fit. It was a woman’s ring.

  Why would he be wearing a woman’s ring around his neck?

  She banished the question, told herself it was no affair of hers. “If we are to keep my identity secret, I suppose you had better stop calling me Princess.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “Aye. Mayhap we should choose a new name for you.” His laugh deepened. “How do you like—”

  “Ciara will do,” she said flatly, stopping him before he could suggest something awful. “It is common in Châlons. Many parents consider it lucky to name their daughters after the princess.”

  “Very well … Ciara.”

  A warm tingle chased down her body. She could not remember any man ever calling her by name, with no title before it. All her life, she had been Princess Ciara, or Princess, or Your Highness. Never just … Ciara.

  Somehow it was more intimate than even the physical closeness between them.

  Especially spoken in that deep, soft voice.

  It struck her that all the outward signs of her rank had now been stripped away. But instead of feeling happy about that, she was beginning to feel terribly …

  Exposed.

  “Just remember, Ciara, you are supposed to be a commoner,” he warned as they neared the town gate. “Try to act accordingly.”

  ***

  She would prefer to sleep outdoors on the grass, Ciara thought, standing in the doorway of the chamber where she would spend the night. Or mayhap she could persuade Anteros to make room for her in his stall.

  Either would be more appealing than this … this … she could not even think of a word for it. Room was far too complimentary.

  Mouth open, she followed Royce inside, setting down her satchel. When she failed to shut the door, he frowned and closed it securely behind them before he inspected the chamber.

  Pushing back the hood of her cloak, Ciara watched, lifting the stubby candle the innkeeper had grudgingly provided. The light illuminated a single pallet in one corner, covered with a threadbare blanket, its mattress stuffed with a scant handful of straw. A four-legged stool with one leg missing sat beside it.

  Glancing down, she realized that the floor beneath her soft leather boots was not made of stone or wood, but hard-packed dirt. And there were no rushes to lend the chamber warmth, no hearth, no torches. An oily goatskin served as a rug. Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell. There was not even a window to provide fresh air.

  Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion and dismay pressed down on her. She had hoped for soft pillows and a warm bed at the very least. How could Sir Royce—or rather, Royce, she corrected—have called this a pleasant place?

  No wonder the innkeeper had laughed at her when she had inquired about a hot bath.

  “This will do,” Royce said tiredly, sitting on the bed, raising a cloud of dust.

  Ciara sneezed. “Please tell me you are jesting.” She spied a ewer of water on the floor in one corner. Picking it up, she warily peered inside.

  “So sorry if the lodging does not meet your lofty expectations, milady.” He gave her an annoyed look. “It is the best that a town as small as Edessa can offer. I have stayed in worse places.” Under his breath, he added, “I have lived in worse places.”

  She wanted to ask him to explain that comment, but knew he would not comply. “I suppose if we will only be here one night …” There seemed to be a film of ice on the water. Trying to dislodge it, she turned the ewer sideways, hoping to find enough liquid to wash her face and hands.

  Instead she was rewarded with a solid block of ice, which slid out and shattered on the floor.

  Royce started to chuckle.

  Ciara wanted to cry. The crystalline shards and Royce’s laughter were more than she could endure after this long and trying day. She had always wanted to experience the life of an ordinary woman, but this was not at all what she had imagined.

  Still, she would not give in to tears, she thought fiercely. Nor would she give in to the urge to throw the empty pitcher at her amused guardian’s head.

  Keeping her expression neutral and her hand steady, she held the ewer out toward him. “If you would be so kind as to fetch some water. And find a way to make a fire so that we may have a bit of heat.” With her other hand, she pointed at her satchel, which was still in the doorway. “And you may place my things on the—”

  “I may?” He leaned forward, his gaze as hard as his chiseled features. “I am not your servant, Ciara. How long will it take to disabuse you of that notion? I will not be treated like a lackey or a lady-in-waiting, and I have no interest in playing nursemaid to a spoiled, demanding child who cannot do the least little thing for herself.”

  Startled, Ciara withdrew the pitcher, holding it against her as if the metal might provide armor against his barbs. Dampness burned in her eyes. She felt worn out, frustrated, and sick of being mocked and insulted. She had phrased her request politely. What more could he want? Could he not be the least bit kind?

  She bit her tongue to hold t
he questions back, knowing there was no point in asking for the impossible.

  “Very well.” Still holding the pitcher, she walked over to the door, picked up her satchel, and carried it inside. “I will manage on my own. If you would send in a serving woman—”

  “There are no serving women here. Only the innkeeper and his wife.” Royce got to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes. “If you want your skirt mended, your hair brushed, or your royal feet rubbed, you will have to use your own two hands.”

  Ciara turned her back on him, fighting a hot retort. She mentally recited the first ten letters of the Greek alphabet before she trusted herself to speak. “I suppose there are no laundresses about, either?”

  “None. You will have to grow accustomed to a bit of dirt here and there. Like the rest of us commoners.” He moved past her, toward the door. “But your toilette can wait. Supper is being served in the keeping-room, and I for one am starving.”

  “Keeping-room?”

  “The group of tables near the entrance. Surely you noticed when we paid for our chamber. There was a hearth? With a soup cauldron? And platters on the tables?”

  “Aye, but I do not think I should—”

  “We will be perfectly safe, Ciara. There is no one staying at the inn tonight but an elderly man and woman and two small children. I asked the innkeeper’s wife while you were busy pestering the poor innkeeper about a bath.”

  “But I do not wish to—”

  “This is not the palace, milady.” He turned on his heel, his voice sharp. “If you want food, you will eat like everyone else. In the keeping-room.”

  She did not flinch, regarding him with her most regal cool. “I am perfectly willing to eat with everyone else.” She pronounced each word distinctly, enjoying his expression of surprise. “What I was about to say—before you interrupted—was that I do not wish to eat until after I have washed and changed.”

  “There is no need for that.”

  “I have never worn muddied garments to supper and I see no reason to start now.” After a pause, she added, “You have my permission to await me in the keeping-room.”