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 stopped 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.
He abruptly released her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and he pushed her away.
Before she knew what was happening, he had thrust himself to his feet and turned his back.
She sat there shivering with sudden cold, stunned, bewildered. “Royce—”
“Your injury is not serious, milady.” His voice sounded hoarse. “And it is time to leave.”
“But—”
“Our lessons are done,” he said flatly, walking back the way they had come. “There is naught more that I care to teach you this day.”
“But what happened just now—”
“Forget it,” he snapped. “Naught happened. Do not speak of it. Do not think of it. Forget.”
He stalked away from her, toward his destrier, but she remained where she was, unable to follow. She was trembling too hard even to stand.
She felt as if she had just been swept up into the air, like a fledgling bird on a warm wind, only to be suddenly thrown to the ground. Shivering, she lifted one hand to her lips, not sure whether she should feel embarrassed or angry or hurt or all three. There were too many new feelings crowding in on her at the same time.
All she knew was that she could not forget what had happened between them. She had wanted him to kiss her.
And wanted it still.
Chapter Seven
* * *
THEY ENDURED THE rest of the afternoon in tense silence as Anteros carried them high into the rocky hills. The air grew cooler but Royce barely noticed, aware only of the heat pulsing through his veins, so scalding he was surprised that steam did not rise from his body. Heat from unleashed desire—and from fury.
Fury at himself.
He tried to keep a space between himself and Ciara as they rode. Fastened his attention on their surroundings. Checked frequently to make sure no one was following them. Tried to remember his duty and his vow, damn him to Hell’s deepest pit. He had forgotten both far too quickly in that insane moment in the woods. Had been but a hairsbreadth from tasting the sweetness he was forbidden to taste.
Even now, he was not sure how he had stopped himself. Wished to God that she had slapped him, fought, protested with outrage that he would even think of holding her that way, kissing her.
But she had not resisted.
Saints’ breath, she had wanted him.
Tentatively, shyly wanted him to touch her, kiss her. And as her innocent longing stirred to life, he had felt a fierce shot of desire that would not be quenched.
But he must never satisfy the hunger that had been unleashed within him. She had been ready to accept his kiss, aye, but she did not begin to understand where it could lead. She was as naive about passion as she was about everything else here in the world beyond her palace. She had no idea what it meant for a man to want a woman the way he wanted her.
But he knew. Knew that one kiss would never be enough. Feared that if he dared take that much, he could not resist claiming more.
So he would not touch her that way again. Would not allow himself to steal even a single kiss. The matter was closed. She was a valuable package, not a woman.
Unfortunately, the image no longer held any power to help, for it only made him think of how much he would enjoy unwrapping the package to discover the surprises hidden within.
Stifling a curse, he lifted his gaze to the clouds that had been gathering all afternoon. Christophe, old friend, he prayed silently, desperately, if you are up there somewhere, if you could put in a good word, this would be an excellent time for some help from above.
Mayhap an act of God could help him forget what it had felt like to have Ciara so warm and yielding in his arms.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky by the time they reached the mountain summit. Snow had been sifting down for an hour now, surrounding them with a glittering veil of white. As they topped the rise, Ciara made a soft sound of wonder. Royce, captivated by the sight that greeted them, reined Anteros to a halt.
Alpine peaks studd
ed the landscape as far as the eye could see, like massive diamonds scattered over the earth, wreathed in mist and snow. The sun gleamed on soaring ridges and sheer cliffs sculpted of stone and ice. Only a hint of sky could be seen here and there, between the towering giants that rose up to pierce the clouds.
His chest tightened. His throat burned. He glanced to the right, to the southeast—where the Ferrano lands were just visible in the distance.
He was home. For the first time in more than four years, he was home.
“It is beautiful,” Ciara whispered.
“Aye,” he agreed hoarsely. “There is no other place in the world like this.”
They both drank it in for another moment, in silence, before he nudged the stallion forward.
“What is that mountain, there?” She pointed to the tallest peak, directly ahead of them, which dominated the horizon. “Has it a name?”
Her innocent question made his gut clench. “Mount Ravensbruk,” he said gruffly. “It will be your new home anon, milady. That is where Daemon has his palace.”
She flinched at the news.
Noticing her reaction, he could not keep from asking a question that had been simmering at the back of his mind. “I gather you are not looking forward to your marriage?”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Your father said you agreed to the match, yet the mention of Daemon’s name upsets you.”
“I am not upset.” She accompanied the claim with a shrug. “It matters not what I feel for Prince Daemon.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Nay, it does not,” she insisted. “Like him or loathe him, I have no choice in the matter.”
“But your father would not have forced you, had you refused Daemon’s proposal.”
She shook her head. “Prince Daemon won the war and demanded my hand as part of the terms of peace, and Châlons was in no position to bargain. Had I refused... “ She did not finish the sentence. “I will not risk unleashing Daemon’s wrath on my people again. The wedding will unite the royal houses of Châlons and Thuringia, and forge a lasting bond that will ensure peace.”
Those sounded like her father’s words, not hers, but Royce did not think she would appreciate him pointing that out. “So you are marrying him because you must.”
“I am marrying him for my subjects, for...” Her voice faltered, then strengthened. “For that little boy we met in the keeping-room last night. I do not want any other children to lose their parents. Or...” She finished in a whisper. “Or any other sisters to lose their brothers.”
Royce remained silent, fighting his emotions. Not only did Ciara have a heart. She had courage. She might not see it in herself, but he had known hardened warriors who were unable to face challenges so bravely.
“The responsibility is mine,” she continued, looking at Mount Ravensbruk. “As for my future... I shall simply hope for the best and depend upon Daemon’s Christian mercy.”
“Then you are in a predicament, milady, because there is precious little of that to spare.” Royce clenched his jaw. “Of King Stefan’s three sons, it is said that Prince Mathias inherited his spirit, Prince Telford his strength, and Prince Daemon his ambition. Unfortunately, Daemon was the one chosen as regent when his father fell ill. And he does not know the meaning of the word mercy. The whoreson once killed a servant for being late with his breakfast—”
“Save the vivid descriptions, if you please. I have heard most of the tales already.” She shivered. “Daemon’s character or lack of it does not change my duty.”
Royce cursed himself for speaking so bluntly. For reminding her of what was to come. She had been trying to make polite conversation.
But he could not help himself. He did not want to make polite conversation or polite anything else with her.
Watching the snow fall around them, he listened to the creak of saddle leather and the muffled sound of his destrier’s hoofbeats—wishing he could turn the horse and carry her away from Mount Ravensbruk. Away from Daemon.
“Your duty,” he finally echoed, thinking he had never hated the word before. “Of course.”
“I would really prefer not to discuss it further,” she said softly, shifting her attention away from the massive peak. “Whether or not Daemon will make a suitable husband changes naught. My feelings on the matter are unimportant. The fact is, I am his betrothed. And I must honor my agreement.”
Royce resisted the urge to argue. He had never in his life believed that feelings were unimportant, and never would. But the rest of what she had said was true. And inescapable.
As they rode on, he brooded about words like duty and honor.
And agreement.
It took another hour for them to reach their destination for the day: the town of Aganor, at the bottom of the broad slope they had crossed.
It looked every bit as bad as Royce had feared.
“Sweet holy Mary,” Ciara breathed.
He reined in before the town gate. Or what was left of it. The thick oak portal had been reduced to splinters by a battering ram. Beyond it lay the skeletal remains of buildings blackened from fire, their thatched roofs burned away, many of the dwellings no more than piles of ashes. Only the church had been spared.
Ciara shook her head in denial. “What—”
“Daemon.” He spat the name like a curse. “Prince Daemon and his mercenaries.”
She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, not quite fast enough to hold in a small sound of pain. Royce resisted the urge to touch her shoulder and draw her close.
Despite the fact that he had seen carnage of this sort before, his stomach turned. He saw no survivors in the streets but noticed bits of ivory scattered about, barely discernible amid the blanket of white. Not wanting Ciara to guess that they were bones, he touched his heels to Anteros’s flanks, turning to circle the city wall.
As they left the town behind, Ciara glanced over her shoulder. “If we cannot stay here, where will we stop for the night?” She looked up at the thickly falling snow.
“At the keep I mentioned yesterday, there.” He pointed, seeing it through the swirling flakes, perched high upon a nearby hill—its drawbridge smashed, portions of its curtain wall in ruins, one of its towers half crumbled. “A friend of mine and his wife live there. Or used to.” His heart beat painfully hard against his ribs. “Let us hope they are still safe and well.”
* * *
THE GREAT HALL overflowed with light from two dozen torches, the scents of spicy rabbit stew and the dried herbs that had been sprinkled in the rushes on the floor—and the noise of more than fifty happy, well-fed women and children.
Seated at a trestle table before the blazing hearth, Royce sopped up one last bite of stew with a corner of bread, smiling at the brawny, fair-haired knight across from him. “I must say, Bayard.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the din. “Never did I think it would be possible to have too many women underfoot.”
Bayard shrugged, his smile broad, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “What was I to do? They had nowhere else to go.”
Royce washed down the last of his supper with a long drink of wine, then pushed aside his empty bowl and trencher. He grinned at his friend, still relieved to have found him not only alive but in good spirits.
And good company. Shaking his head in bemused disbelief, he glanced about the hall as he wiped his hands on the tablecloth. It looked as if Bayard had taken in every female refugee in the mountains. Some were orphans, others widows, many in peasant garb, others dressed in finery that marked them as members of the nobility. A few were still recovering from injuries suffered in the war.
“It began with the handful of local women who survived when the town fell,” Bayard explained, “and the families of my men who were killed defending the keep. Then word spread to their relatives, and more arrived. This is the only castle left standing in this part of Châlons.”
“You are a generous man, my friend, to take them all in, feed them, care for
them.”
Bayard waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. “It is no more than any other lord would do. And they have insisted on doing their part, cleaning the keep, working in the kitchens. Still, I had thought the situation would be only temporary.” He sighed, the sound of a man who had been outnumbered by females for a little too long. “Almost three score of them wintered here. Now it looks as if they will spring here as well.”
Royce laughed. “It is a harem that many a Saracen would envy.”
“Do not let my wife hear you say that.”
The two of them glanced at a pair of ladies seated together in a far corner, surrounded by children. The din in the hall quieted a bit as music began to fill the air.
Mandolin music.
Royce lifted his goblet and drank another draught of wine, his gaze on Ciara as she strummed her cherished instrument. When Bayard and his wife, Lady Elinor, had met them outside, Elinor had immediately noticed Ciara’s mandolin hanging from his saddle and begged her to play for them after supper. It had no doubt been a long time since anyone in the keep had enjoyed such entertainment. There were few traveling minstrels or troubadours in Châlons these days.
Ciara had said she was not accustomed to playing for an audience—but eagerly agreed once she met the children.
Now she sat with her head bowed, her attention on her mandolin. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, bringing forth the notes of a merry tune. One unfamiliar to him.
He felt like one of the children at her feet, gazing up at her as if they had never heard anyone play so beautifully before. As if the lady seated before them were an angel descended from Heaven with a magical harp. The music became livelier and a small boy began clapping in time, then the others joined in. A little girl, no more than two or three years old, began to dance, waving her chubby hands, gurgling with laughter.
Ciara glanced up, as if surprised that her playing could bring them such joy. Then she smiled, her own happiness lighting her entire face.
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