“Nay, Ciara, you cannot blame yourself.”
“I should have known what to do. I should not have run to him. He died trying to save me!”
Royce felt an almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her, soothe her.
He fought it by turning his back and pacing away. “Daemon and his mercenaries killed him, Ciara. Not you. Your brother gave his life for a cause he believed in, for the country and the people he loved.” When he reached a safe distance, he turned, locking his gaze onto hers. “I knew him well, milady. And I know he would not have wanted it any other way.”
She did not reply, did not argue, simply sank down onto the pallet, as if exhausted. Emptied.
He stared at her in silence, sensing that this was the first time she had ever admitted her true feelings to anyone. Mayhap even to herself.
And for reasons he did not understand, did not want to examine, he felt a need to ease her sorrow. Her loneliness. He knew from experience that such a deep loss could never truly heal.
But a bit of gentleness might help.
“I am sorry about your brother,” he said softly. “I should have expressed my sympathies earlier, Ciara. Christophe was a good man. And a good friend.”
She nodded, her gaze still downcast. “He would have made a good king one day.”
“Aye.” Royce’s own grief made his throat tighten. “One of the finest Châlons ever knew.”
She closed her eyes, as if lost in some memory. “There is something I should have told you earlier as well.” She took a deep breath, dabbed at her eyes with trembling fingers. “I... I am not sure why I did not.”
“No doubt because you were ready to push me off the nearest cliff.”
The barest hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, as if he had guessed correctly. “Mayhap.” She folded her hands in her lap. “It is something my father told me, at the abbey before you arrived. He said that if my brother were still alive... “ Her voice faltered, but only for a moment. “He said that Christophe would have been the one to escort me to Thuringia. But with Christophe gone, you were the only other man he would ask to be my guardian. The only one he could trust.” She lifted her gaze to his. “The only man he would want to take Christophe’s place.”
Royce swallowed hard, moved that Aldric still felt such esteem for him, in spite of everything. Moved and astonished—for when they had talked at the abbey, the king had hidden his feelings completely.
By nails and blood, mayhap Ciara was not the only member of the royal family he had judged too harshly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You were my brother’s best friend,” she said simply. “Christophe thought very highly of you. My father does as well. I... I thought you should know.”
Nodding, he reclaimed his seat before the door, watching her, feeling as if he were truly meeting her for the first time. Feeling guilty that he had been so quick to condemn her today. He had accused her of being spoiled and childish, but in truth she was merely sheltered, inexperienced. He had thought her uncaring when in fact she possessed more warmth and kindness than many of noble birth.
Mayhap, he thought with chagrin, it was his attitude, not hers, that needed changing. “Tell me, Ciara... where did you learn to perform magic?”
“From my father, when I was small.” Her lips curved in a wistful smile. “The trick with the disappearing coin was always my favorite. While young Warran was observing my left hand, I slipped the silver into his pocket with my right. I think he will be pleased when he discovers it there later.”
She picked up the cloak and blanket she had tossed aside earlier in her heated burst of fury, and her smile faded. A hint of color darkened her cheeks. “I am sorry that I—”
“Nay, do not apologize for your anger, Ciara. You are not at the palace anymore. No one will think ill of you for acting like—”
“A normal woman?”
He winced, regretting the heedless insult he had flung at her earlier. “For being yourself,” he corrected. “You are wearing no crown at the moment, milady. You need not fear that people will judge you.”
“That is all you have done since we met,” she pointed out quietly. “Judge me.”
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 particula
r 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.”
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