Royce’s heart seemed to stop. Everything around him seemed to stop—the sounds of the children, the heat and crackle of the fire at his back, even the music she played. All sense of time, of place, seemed to fade from his awareness, and there was only this lady, her sparkling amber eyes. And her smile.
He blinked, unnerved by the sensation. Never in his life had he experienced such a feeling—other than in the keeping-room last night. Never could he remember desire rendering him deaf, dumb, and paralyzed.
But this desire he felt for Ciara was far different from any he had known before. Not only stronger but... different.
He realized Bayard was speaking to him and finally wrenched his gaze back to his friend. “I am what?”
“I said,” the blond knight repeated, his smile filled with understanding, “that your wife’s talent is surpassed only by her beauty. You are a fortunate man.”
“Aye. Fortunate,” Royce croaked. He reached for a nearby jug of wine, refilled his cup, and quickly changed the subject. “Which of these did you say are yours?” Picking up his goblet, he gestured to the children scattered about the hall.
Bayard pointed them out with obvious pride. “That is my daughter, Ilsa, who will soon be two.” The dark-haired girl had climbed into her mother’s lap to snuggle. “And that”—he indicated a boy who scampered past them chasing a shaggy hound much larger than he was—”is my son, Brandis, who is five.”
Royce watched as the lad caught up with the dog and fearlessly wrestled him to the ground. “He seems to take after his father.”
“Aye.” Bayard grinned broadly. “Hard to believe we were his age when first we met.”
Royce nodded. “We had some good times in those years.”
“That we did. Do you remember when we were ten and thought it would be an excellent idea to spend an afternoon exploring the caves in Mount Kaladar—”
“Until we got lost. For three days.” Royce chuckled. “I thought your father would flay us alive when he finally found us.”
“That was almost as bad as the winter when we decided to use our fathers’ shields to go sledding.”
“It seemed such a sensible idea at the time.”
“It was your idea.” Bayard’s laughter was deep and rich. “And they were much faster on the ice than our wooden sleds.”
“Right up to the moment we crashed into the trees and mangled them. Not to mention ourselves.”
“And our dignity. How old were we then?”
“Twelve.” Royce smiled warmly at the memory. “When winter was naught but skating and sleds—”
“And fighting with snowballs. God’s breath, I remember it like yesterday, how we loved battling with your little brothers and pelting your sisters...” Bayard’s voice trailed off. His expression turned somber.
Royce felt his throat tighten, dropped his gaze to his goblet. An awkward silence fell, filled with other, more recent memories.
Bayard cleared his throat. “Royce, I am sorry. I did not mean to remind you of them—”
“It was seven years ago.”
“Even so, to suffer such a loss—”
“It was seven years ago,” Royce repeated, unwilling to reopen old wounds. For a time, he had tried to purge himself of the fury and pain, spilled a great deal of Thuringian blood, and too much of his own, before he realized that no amount of death and vengeance would help.
Grief, he had learned, was a wound that never fully healed. After all these years, he had simply become accustomed to it, lived with the pain until he did not notice it overmuch. Most of the time.
He lifted his gaze to Bayard’s, seeing his own anguish mirrored there. Everyone in Châlons had suffered losses in the war, Bayard included. Their carefree youth had come to an abrupt end on that day seven years ago when Thuringia had suddenly changed from peaceful ally to vicious enemy.
That day when the Ferrano lands, which lay directly on the border, had been taken by surprise—and been the first to fall.
But Royce had vowed long ago that he would not drown himself in bitterness over what might have been. What would never be again.
Because God and King Aldric together could not restore all that this war had cost him.
Bayard pushed his empty trencher around on the tabletop. “So how long has it been since we last saw each other? Five years, is it not?”
Royce felt grateful for the way his friend shifted so easily to a less painful topic. “Aye.”
“I take it King Aldric has been keeping you busy. Have you any news from court?”
Royce took another long swallow of wine while he considered his response. Thus far, he had explained only that he and his “new bride” were passing through on their way to see his old home, now that peace had come. Bayard had been happy to offer shelter, food, and drink without asking many questions.
Royce would prefer to keep it that way. For the safety of everyone involved.
“Nay, I have no news,” he said as the mandolin music ended and the chamber erupted in applause. “I have not been at court for some time. And I am sorry that it has been five years, Bayard. The war—”
“Aye, the accursed war. It did more damage than merely separating old friends. You do not need to apologize.” He took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We could have used your skill, here in the mountains. But we all understood that you were needed elsewhere.”
Royce looked away, assailed by a pain, a guilt, that was old and deep. His flair for battle tactics had first attracted royal notice when he had been but seventeen and newly knighted. A year later, Aldric had brought him to court to serve as one of his military advisers.
That was where he had been, on that day. That black day when his entire family perished.
He shut his eyes. “I have often wondered, Bayard, whether I could have made a difference, if I had... if—”
“If you had been there when they attacked? There is no point tormenting yourself, Royce. You would have been killed with everyone else.” His tone softened. “It would seem that God had other plans in mind for you, my friend.” Sighing heavily, he clicked his goblet against Royce’s. “But let us talk no more of the war. We should be drinking a salut, to peace at last.”
The bitter note in his friend’s voice made Royce pause before he raised his cup. “You do not sound entirely happy about that.”
“About peace with the Thuringians? Only months ago they were laying waste to our homes, murdering our families, and raping our women. Now we are expected to lay down our arms and embrace them like brothers. You will forgive me if I find it difficult to be happy.”
A prickle of unease chased down Royce’s spine. He looked down into his cup, posed his reply carefully. “Those sound like the sentiments of a rebel, old friend.” He glanced cautiously, protectively toward Ciara, who was now performing magic tricks for the children, enchanting them, looking enchanted herself.
“Hardly,” Bayard scoffed. “I want peace as much as anyone. More so. I do not want my children to grow up in Châlons as it has been these seven years. Nor do I want my son to have to fight the same battles I have fought, against the same foe.” He looked around the crowded great hall. “And if my serfs cannot plant new crops this spring, how will I feed all of those who depend on me? I need peace.”
Royce probed a bit deeper, casually. “Still, there are those who believe that the peace agreement will only make Daemon more powerful. That it is worth any sacrifice to thwart his plans.”
“Sacrifice? Is that what they call it?” Bayard looked disgusted. “I may sympathize with the rebels’ desire to keep our country out of Daemon’s hands, but I cannot agree with their methods. Have you heard that they made an attempt on the princess’s life? In the palace, no less?”
“Aye.” Royce kept his tone light. “I heard about it.”
“Any traitor who would stoop to that deserves to be drawn and quartered.” Bayard’s eyes blazed with outrage. “Before he is fed to the royal hounds in small pieces.
”
Royce nodded in agreement, relieved that his friend seemed as loyal to the crown as ever.
“If these rebels were from the east,” Bayard continued hotly, “they would realize that there has been enough death and enough killing “ He looked again at the refugees crowding his hall. “King Aldric has made peace, and it is for the best. I may not like the idea of laying aside my sword, but I see no other solution.”
“Nor I,” Royce said hollowly, glancing toward Ciara again.
She was now sitting on the floor—actually sitting on the floor—with baby Ilsa in her lap, toddlers clambering all over her royal person, and a shaggy gray-and-brown puppy attempting to make a meal of her skirt. All while she tried to show one of the older girls how to pick out notes on her mandolin.
She looked blissfully happy.
“Nor I,” Royce repeated, his heart thudding painfully hard against his ribs.
Bayard signaled for servants to bring more food and wine, but Royce found that his stomach had turned sour. Their conversation had left him tense, reminded him that he dare not trust anyone, even his childhood friend. Thus far, the journey with Ciara had gone as planned, so mayhap Aldric had indeed managed to fool the rebels and they were far from here, on the other side of the kingdom, chasing decoys....
Or mayhap they were much closer, lying in wait and planning an attack.
“So tell me more about this bride of yours, my friend,” Bayard said, grinning. “Where did you manage to find a lady so talented, lovely, and seemingly intelligent who was willing to marry you?”
Royce did not want to lie to his friend, but he was not about to reveal any secrets. So he told the truth.
“In a monastery.”
“Very funny.”
Royce looked up to see Ciara, Elinor, and Ilsa crossing the hall to join them. “She comes from the north,” he elaborated. That was true enough.
“Beautiful women they have there in the north.”
Elinor came up behind her husband just in time to hear this comment. “Is this what the two of you have been talking about?” She gave her husband a playful poke with one finger. “We leave you alone for a short while and already you are discussing other women.”
“Ah, curses, we are caught.” Laughing, Bayard tilted his head back as his wife bent over to give him a kiss.
Royce smiled as he watched his friends. Bayard had eyes for only one woman, had been besotted since the age of fourteen, when he had vowed to make the spirited Elinor his wife—after she bested him in an archery match at a local fair. The two of them had lived here, on Elinor’s dower lands, ever since Bayard’s family holdings were lost in the war.
Straightening, Elinor lifted her daughter to her hip. “It is time to put this little one to bed, milord.”
“Aye, you are right.” The child had lost a shoe, and Bayard reached up to tickle his daughter’s bare foot, making her giggle.
Elinor smiled warmly at Ciara. “Thank you again, milady. I do not believe I have ever heard anyone play so beautifully.”
The praise brought a dusting of pink to Ciara’s cheeks. Her smile was bright, her eyes sparkling as she cradled her mandolin. “I am glad the children enjoyed it.”
“They loved it. And you.” Elinor turned her attention to Royce. “This charming bride of yours will make a wonderful mother. She has such a way with children.”
Royce could not reply, his gaze on Ciara, his mind filled with a sudden, unbidden image of her round and heavy with child.
His child.
He blinked and the vision vanished, but it left behind a strange, tingling warmth in the region of his heart. A longing he had never felt before.
Elinor was still speaking to him. “And did you know that she composes her own music?”
It took a moment for Royce to find his tongue. “Aye,’’ he lied. No wonder he had never heard the tunes before.
Chuckling, Bayard clapped him on the shoulder. “Let us go collect our son, Elinor. I think these two would enjoy some time alone.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “They may even wish to retire early.” He winked.
Royce forced himself to smile, trying not to think of the comfortable bedchamber his friends had prepared for him and Ciara. “Good eventide to you both.”
Elinor handed her daughter to Bayard as he rose, then gave Ciara a quick hug. “Thank you again. I hope we will have time to get to know one another better on the morrow. And in the years to come.”
Ciara looked startled by the display of affection, as if no one had ever dared hug her before. Then she set her instrument aside and returned the gesture, a tremulous smile on her lips. “I... hope so, Lady Elinor.”
Royce lowered his gaze, busied himself by refilling his trencher with food he had no appetite for. His gut wrenched into a knot. Ciara would never have the chance to get to know Elinor better. They would be leaving in the morn. He would be taking her on toward Mount Ravensbruk. To her new home. To her betrothed.
And when she grew heavy with child one day, it would be Daemon’s seed that made her so.
The possessive fury that shot through him made him drop the platter he had just picked up. For a moment, he was blinded by the red haze that gripped him. The feeling was savage, primitive. Utterly beyond the realm of his experience.
“Royce?” Ciara’s voice was full of concern.
He shook his head to clear it. His friends had left. Ciara had taken Bayard’s place across from him.
“I am merely tired,” he bit out. “It has been a long day.”
“Aye, that it has.”
They said naught more for a moment, gazing at each other across the table, listening to the laughter and conversations that filled the great hall. The gray-and-brown puppy that had munched on Ciara before danced around her feet, yapping for attention, but she did not seem to hear.
Royce broke the stare, wanting anything but to spend the rest of the evening sitting here, alone with her.
However, his only other choice was to spend the rest of the evening alone with her in the bedchamber upstairs.
He glanced down at his full trencher and pushed it aside, reaching for the jug of wine on his left—at the same instant Ciara reached for it.
Their fingers met and heat sizzled through him. They each flinched as if burned. After a moment, he started to reach for it again, then hesitated as she did the same. They both thrust forward and their fingers collided once more.
Ciara withdrew, dropping her hands to her lap with a sound of unease. They avoided meeting each other’s gaze. He realized she was breathing fast and shallow, as he was.
He muttered an oath. How were they to endure the rest of the journey if they could not even bear to have their fingers brush in the most innocent way? This was intolerable.
And entirely his fault, he thought angrily. He was the one who had overstepped his bounds this morn, created this constant tension between them. But he could control himself. He would control himself. The responsibility was his.
He picked up the accursed jug of wine and filled her cup for her.
“Thank you,” she said softly, still not looking at him.
He grabbed an almond tart, ate it though he was not hungry. “The music was nice.”
“It is kind of you to say so.”
Silence descended.
“Your friends seem... nice,” Ciara ventured.
“They are good people.”
“And their children are very sweet.”
“Aye.”
That seemed to exhaust their supply of safe, polite conversation.
Which left Royce’s thoughts free to dwell upon subjects that were not safe or polite. Such as her scent. That dangerous perfume drifted across the table to tantalize him. Why, in the name of all that was holy, was she wearing such a fragrance in the first place? ‘Twas not at all suitable for a scholarly, innocent princess. It was much too vivid, too dramatic.
Too sensual.
He turned to look at her, found her regarding
him with that curious, slightly bewildered expression. As if she could not understand what was happening between them.
But he understood it. God help him, he understood.
Even as their gazes met and held, her face flushed with color and her lips—those luscious, garnet-dark lips—parted slightly. All he had to do was lean across the table, close the scant space between them...
He wrenched his gaze from hers, in the grip of a hunger he could not vanquish. He could hear his heart beating too fast, wondered if she could hear it as well. Wanted naught more in that moment than to thrust himself from the table and walk away.
But he could not leave her alone. Not for an hour, not even for a minute. He was her guardian. Sworn to protect her.
Condemned to serve his duty in Hell—always in her company yet forbidden to touch her. Satan himself could not have designed a more painful torture for him. He gulped for air, only to inhale more of her scent. More of her.
He glanced around the room, seeking some focus for his wayward thoughts, some topic they might discuss, some...
His gaze landed on one of Bayard’s refugees, a buxom brunette who had been smiling at him frequently through the evening. He had not given her any attention before, but now he offered her a wide grin, grateful for whatever distraction he could get. She responded with an openly hungry expression and a seductive toss of her long hair.
“Can we take her with us?”
“What?” Royce’s gaze snapped to Ciara.
She was looking at the floor, her attention on the wriggling, yapping puppy. “This little one will not leave me alone.” She scooped the dog into her lap. “Elinor said I could have her if I wished.”
Royce shut his eyes and drew a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down. “Ciara...”
“She will be almost as tall as my hip when fully grown. At least that is what Elinor told me.” The little beast licked Ciara’s face, eliciting a giggle. “I think I shall name her after Hera, queen of all Greek goddesses and protectress of the home.”
“Nay, you will not. We cannot possibly—”
“How can you resist this face?” She extended the squirming mongrel toward him with a hopeful smile.
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