Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  But his best friend was dead.

  And if Royce wanted to restore his family name and honor, erase the stain of disgrace and banishment, if he wanted to return home...

  This might be his best chance. His only chance.

  He reached down and picked up the garnet gingerly, as if it might burn him. “And what is she like, this daughter of yours?” he asked evenly. “What makes you think she could endure such a journey?”

  “Though she is delicate of form and face, the princess is not so fragile as she may appear. And she will do what she must to carry out the duty that accompanies her crown. She understands the seriousness of her responsibility, and she has great strength of will.”

  Royce lifted his gaze to Aldric’s. The princess sounded much like her father. Dutiful, responsible, strong-willed.

  Which meant she could prove to be a royal handful, he thought sourly. If he agreed to serve as her guardian.

  He glanced down at the gem in his hand. Try as he might, he could remember little about Christophe’s sister. When he had been exiled from Châlons, she had been only... twelve? Fourteen? His only memory was of a plain, mousy child, always going about with her nose in a book. She had all but blended into the furniture.

  And after growing up in the royal palace, with servants to see to her every wish and whim, she had no doubt blossomed into a spoiled, demanding, genuine princess. Not the sort of female he favored. Not in the least.

  Still, he asked the question anyway. Bluntly. “Tell me, Your Majesty, how is it that you trust me with her virtue?”

  Aldric blinked. Once. Slowly. “I have never questioned your honor”—he held up a hand, closing that argument before Royce could open it again—“in regards to women. It was your quick temper that I objected to four years ago. I ask only that you give me your word. Swear to me that you will deliver her untouched to her betrothed, and I will believe you—”

  “How refreshing.”

  “—and if you break your vow, I will take much more than your spurs, your title, and your lands this time.”

  Their gazes locked. Aldric’s meaning was unmistakable: if Royce dared touch one royal hair on the princess’s royal head, the king would cut out his heart.

  Not to mention other vital portions of his anatomy.

  And he would do it. Even if it meant hunting Royce down in the darkest corner of the continent. Aldric did not make idle threats.

  The king’s voice was deep, forceful. “Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Excellent. Then you may retire for the night. The brothers have prepared a chamber for you, and you look as if you need the rest. Weigh the merits of what I have offered.” He turned to leave, walking back across the dining hall the way he had come, into the shadows. “I will expect your answer at first light.”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  CIARA’S VISION SWAM dizzily as she stepped into the chapel where her father had said to meet him after breakfast. Bright morning sunlight drenched the room and dazzled her eyes as the door closed softly behind her.

  She reached for the back of a stone pew to steady herself, blinking hard, taking a deep breath. Neither her father nor the black-haired man beside him seemed to notice that she had entered the chapel. They both stood at the altar, bent over a map, engaged in a tense discussion about ice in the mountains at this time of year, and the chances that the rebels would find her before she reached the border, and—

  Sweet holy Mary. She shut her eyes, wanted to cover her ears. For a moment, it was all she could do not to turn and run. Her stomach lurched.

  Her heart and mind had been in turmoil for a fortnight now. Not even two weeks in this quiet, remote abbey had been able to heal the shock and pain of being attacked by one of her own subjects in the palace.

  One of her own subjects. Not the enemy, but someone who was supposed to hold her in the highest honor and respect.

  Opening her eyes, she clung to the cool, solid stone of the pew and tried to stop trembling. Tried to remember that Miriam had called her brave.

  Good, kind Miriam, who had volunteered to take her place in the wedding procession—making herself a target for the rebels’ arrows.

  That was bravery, Ciara thought, a lump in her throat. Exactly the kind of bravery a princess should have. But she herself possessed no courage at all. Fear had wrapped its cold, black fingers tightly around her.

  Fear of the traitors who wanted to kill her.

  Of the cruel prince who would be her husband.

  And of the journey ahead. She was about to venture into treacherous mountain passes, through small villages where assassins might be waiting for her around every corner.

  With a man who looked like he was more accustomed to trampling enemies and plundering castles than to guiding and guarding a princess.

  In that moment, before she could summon enough daring to interrupt her father’s discussion, her newly appointed protector glanced her way... and the darkest, boldest gaze she had ever encountered captured hers.

  Ciara felt as if the air all around her had suddenly become too hot, burning her lips, her mouth, her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Scarlet warmth rose in her cheeks as she realized she was gaping at him, like a bedazzled child beholding a king for the first time. She was powerless to move. That potent stare held her fast.

  He offered no greeting. Did not even bow. His eyes slowly widening with surprise, he remained silent.

  They simply stared at each other across the chapel, through the beams of silvery mountain sunlight that poured in from the tall, arched windows to dance between them.

  By all the saints, what was wrong with her? Mayhap it was disbelief that held her fast.

  For this could not be Sir Royce Saint-Michel, the man her father had described as the best knight he had ever known, noble and honorable and chivalrous. The man her brother used to speak of with such high regard. Mayhap Sir Royce had not answered the summons, and her father had been forced to find another to serve as her escort.

  Because this man looked like no knight she had ever seen. She could find naught in his regard that suggested either nobility or chivalry.

  He was far too... too... rough-looking. From the dark stubble that bearded his cheeks, to the tangled black hair that hung loosely about his shoulders, to the impressive sword at his waist. She was not sure which stunned her more: the richness of the weapon with its golden hilt or the fact that he was wearing it here, in a chapel, in the house of the Lord. This was clearly a man who cared little for custom and less for the law.

  If that were not enough to give one pause, his sheer physical size was even more alarming. The dark tunic he wore strained across a broad chest, outlining the heavy muscles beneath, and his sable-lined cloak, flung casually back over one shoulder, revealed thick-hewn arms.

  But it was his face that held her attention most of all, with its hard angles, sharp cheekbones, and square-cut jaw. She had seen stone that looked softer.

  Blinking at last, she struggled to right her thoughts, to tell if this was the man she remembered as Christophe’s best friend. But the last time she had seen Sir Royce, before he had vanished from Châlons so suddenly and unexpectedly, she had been but fifteen. She could summon no image, except of an overloud, swaggering young lord who had never so much as spared her a glance.

  If she could hear his voice, she would know. But before she could think of something—anything—to say, the man’s piercing gaze left hers, sweeping to the toes of her slippers and back again. His brow furrowed. He flicked a look at the door behind her, as if he expected someone else to step in.

  After a moment, his stare returned to her, his expression of surprise now joined by a dismay that he did not even attempt to conceal.

  Twin sparks of indignation and annoyance ignited in Ciara. Did the man have no manners at all? Did he find her lacking in some way?

  Or did he doubt that a woman as plain as she could po
ssibly be the princess?

  All three possibilities stung her royal pride. She might be wearing simple, homespun garments instead of her coronet and robes, but she was still Princess Ciara of Châlons. And she deserved better than this rude treatment. Lifting her chin, she bestowed upon him a look she usually reserved for misbehaving servant boys.

  Instead of being chastened, the knave only lifted one raven brow. The hard line of his mouth curved into an expression that might have been a grimace or a grin.

  Just then, her father finally noticed that he no longer had his companion’s attention. Straightening, he turned to face the chapel door. “Daughter.”

  Startled, Ciara forced her fingers to release their death grip on the pew. His cool greeting stole all the warmth from the air around her. “I... I am here, Father.”

  He extended a hand toward her. “Come.”

  Swallowing hard, summoning her most regal smile, Ciara managed to command one foot to step in front of the other. She walked slowly down the aisle toward them, through the shimmering rays of sunlight, and a startling image struck her: of a wedding. Her wedding. Here, in her homeland, in a chapel like this. With her father waiting at the altar, beside her groom...

  She blinked and the strange illusion vanished. How odd. It must have been a trick of the light and her frayed nerves. This man was not her groom; this land no longer her home. Her wedding would take place in Thuringia. In a grand cathedral.

  And she was to be Prince Daemon’s bride.

  When she reached the altar, her father turned her toward the towering swordsman.

  “Daughter, this is the man I told you of, Royce Saint-Michel.”

  She stared with unconcealed surprise. “You are... but you do not... or rather, what I mean to say...” Why on earth was she tripping over her own tongue? By all the suffering saints, say something intelligible. “Good morn to you.”

  Mortified that she had delivered such an ungraceful greeting—and in front of her father, no less—Ciara wished a nice large hole would open up in the floor beneath her feet.

  She was close enough to Sir Royce now to make out the color of those eyes: a deep earth brown that was almost black. Again she noticed the strange heat that seemed to sizzle in the air around her, warming her every breath.

  This time, without the benefit of distance between them, she felt something more... a melting warmth inside her.

  “And good morn to you, Princess Ciara.” Sir Royce inclined his head, that odd grimace-grin still playing about his mouth. “I do not blame you for not recognizing me, for you are also much... changed from what I remember.”

  Ciara barely heard his words, for she was transfixed by his voice. It was softer than she remembered. Soft and deep and dark as a Châlons valley at sunset. The mellow richness seemed at odds with the hard angles of his features—and only intensified the hypnotic effect of his eyes.

  Whichever part of her brain was still capable of reason noticed that he still did not bow or offer her a deferential greeting. Apparently he lacked respect for royalty. And common courtesy.

  Yet to respond in kind would have been unforgivably rude. So she summoned a smile and one of the courtly phrases she had been taught by rote. “So pleasant to meet you again.”

  Her father rolled up the map he and Sir Royce had been studying. “Have you gathered your things, Daughter?”

  “Aye, Father,” she said, amazed that she managed to speak calmly. Her pounding heart had not slowed a whit. “Brother Evrard took my belongings down to the tunnel entrance while I ate my morning meal. All is ready.” Except me. She wanted to shout those two words. Wanted to fall into his arms and sob out all her fears.

  But she kept all those ignoble, childish feelings hidden, kept her smile in place.

  “Excellent. We have agreed upon the route you will follow.” Her father tucked the scroll into his royal robes. “None will know of it but the three of us. If you are to travel in safety, secrecy is vital. You must take care.” His eyes darkened as he gazed at her intently. “Tell no one your true identity, Daughter. No one. The people and places you will encounter beyond these walls may not be as friendly as they seem. We cannot know who may be in league with the rebels.”

  “I will remember, Father.”

  He turned to Sir Royce. “The wedding procession left the palace several days ago, but it will take them more than a fortnight to reach Thuringia.”

  “I will do my best to travel quickly,” Sir Royce said, “so that we arrive before they do. Before the rebels find out they have been tricked.”

  Her father nodded. “For now, the rebels are distracted. By the time they chase after the procession and the other group of courtiers and realize the princess is not among them, you should be safely in Thuringia.” He glanced at Ciara again. “And my daughter safely wed.”

  She held his gaze. “By God’s grace, it will be so, Father.” I will not disappoint you again. I will earn your forgiveness for what happened to Christophe. I will make you proud of me. I promise.

  If he sensed any of her feelings or fears, he said naught.

  Though she thought for a moment that his blue eyes did soften, almost imperceptibly. “All will be well, Daughter. Saint-Michel will see to it. I know that he may seem unlike the knights you have met, but I assure you he is the right man for this task. He will keep you safe. In those mountains, he will have no equal. You may place your trust in him.” He turned that gaze on the black-haired swordsman. “As I do.”

  Sir Royce swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple bobbed visibly. “I vow, Your Majesty,” he intoned solemnly, “that no harm will befall your daughter while she is in my care. I will carry out my duty, exactly as we have discussed.” He extended his hand. “You have my word of honor.”

  Her father took Sir Royce’s hand in what looked like a bruising grasp. Their gazes locked. Ciara barely had time to wonder about it, or about what Sir Royce meant by “exactly as we have discussed.”

  Because her father released him and took her hand, squeezing it gently.

  She was pitifully grateful for even that tiny show of affection. ‘Twas more than he had shown her in weeks.

  “Be well, Daughter.”

  Her throat tightened. She longed to fold herself into his arms, to feel as safe and beloved as she had when she was a child. The sunlit chapel shimmered around her as tears veiled her eyes.

  She blinked away the dampness, held herself regally straight and proud, knowing he would disapprove of any such display. “And you, Father.”

  He led her forward a step, placed her hand in Sir Royce’s, and let her go. The warrior’s strong, warm fingers closed tightly around her own as those dark eyes met and held hers.

  “Guard her well, Royce,” her father commanded quietly. “Guard her with your life.”

  * * *

  ROYCE TRAILED ALDRIC’S daughter through the darkness, his footsteps loud in the stone tunnel that spiraled downward to the foot of the mountain. Daylight marked the exit far below, but his mind was not on the journey ahead or the dangers it might hold.

  His gaze lingered on Princess Ciara’s back, his mind on a single thought—one that made his mouth dry and his palms sweat.

  A girl who had started life as a plain, mousy child had no right growing up to look like this.

  His heart and his stomach had performed a somersault the moment he first saw her in the chapel. In truth, he had not even heard her entrance, but rather... sensed it. She had appeared so suddenly, so silently, as if she had floated in on one of the beams of sunlight, deposited there by angels.

  And then he had been struck speechless—by eyes a shade lighter than topaz, hair the color of exotic spice, beauty as subtle and natural as the simple, cream-colored gown she wore. Delicate. Soft. She even moved with a quiet grace that made him swear her footsteps caused no sound.

  Snowfall. She made him think of snowfall, drifting down from the clouds to cloak the mountainside in pale innocence.

  Even now, in the shadowed t
unnel, when he could see only the outline of her shoulders and back ahead of him, his heart and his stomach kept repeating that irritating tumble. He tried to remind himself that this was the same dull, bookish girl he had barely noticed in the past.

  But no man could possibly mistake her for a piece of the furniture now.

  The gown and matching cloak she wore concealed her tall, slender body from neck to toes, but every curve of fabric promised matching curves beneath. And though her face and voice bespoke sweetness and charm, one feature did not fit that image.

  Her exceptional, ravishing mouth.

  Never had he seen lips more perfectly made for long, slow kisses. Full and lush they were, the lower one softly rounded, the color a liquid red that reminded him of the rich shade of a Châlons garnet.

  Had she ever been kissed? he wondered. Properly, thoroughly kissed?

  A familiar hunger sank its claws into him, so swift and strong it made him inhale as if he had been wounded. Angry at his own weakness, he shoved the thoughts away. Brutally reminded himself that those lips and this lady were forbidden fruit. She was Prince Daemon’s betrothed.

  Aldric’s daughter.

  But the thoughts of innocence and snowfall only made him remember how much he used to enjoy turning his face up to the sky to capture that pure, cool white essence on his tongue, to feel it melt in the heat of his mouth...

  He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remember every word of the warning Aldric had given him last night: If you break your vow, I will take much more than your spurs, your title, and your lands this time.

  If he wanted to keep his head attached to his shoulders, he had better find a way to control himself. Keep in mind who and what she was.

  Remember the vow he had made this morn.

  He was still trying to subdue the heat simmering in him when they reached the end of the passage. Princess Ciara located the hidden lever that released a secret door, and sunlight flooded the tunnel. She raised a hand to shade her eyes, glancing toward him. “Do you—”