Taking what little food they had brought with them from Gavena she had decided to try her hand at cooking. Which was not going quite as well as her other endeavors.
Reaching up for a dangling metal spoon to stir the soup, she burned her finger. Snatching it back, she stuck it in her mouth, whispering one of Royce’s favorite oaths.
A low male chuckle made her glance to her left, where she found him lying on his side, observing her with a drowsy grin.
“You were not supposed to hear that,” she mumbled around her stinging finger.
“A most unladylike word,” he scolded lightly, his grin widening. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Cooking supper. And that word is one I never heard in my life before I met you,” she lied, fighting to keep her own lips from curving. “I warned you once that I am a quick pupil.”
That made him chuckle again. “Aye.” He sat up, shifting his rumpled bed closer to the hearth so he could recline against the warm stone. “And you also enjoy proving me wrong.”
“I do?”
He nodded. “When I met you, I thought you were a spoiled, helpless girl who could not do a single thing for herself, a haughty child who cared for naught but her silk slippers and her gilded books of verse. Yet here you are wearing peasant garb, working like a kitchen maid, taking care of me. You have taken charge of everything around you.”
Ciara felt color rising in her cheeks, remembering how she used to feel inadequate. Helpless. Only now did she realize that she had not felt that way in some time.
It was as if she had left behind the regal, proper, uncertain Princess Ciara along with her royal coronet and robes. As if she had become someone new.
Someone she liked much better.
All because of this man who had come into her life so unexpectedly and changed everything so completely.
She looked down, toying with the edge of the rough homespun tunic she wore. “I have learned to take care of myself. You taught me that. You taught me”—she paused, listening to her rapid heartbeat—“a great many things.”
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a deeper, softer tone. “I was also wrong about a great many things... such as thinking that you were selfish and uncaring. I do not think I have ever been so wrong.”
Ciara did not reply, kept her gaze on the floor. She had promised herself that she would not reveal her true feelings for him. It made no sense to torment them both by discussing what was in her heart.
Turning away, she searched for another spoon to stir the soup.
“I have been wondering about something, Ciara.”
“Hmm?” She tried to keep her attention on the rack of cooking implements hanging on the wall, not on the way his deep voice made her feel so tingly and warm inside.
“You never did mention where you went in the marketplace yesterday, when you disappeared from our room. What was so tempting that you would take such a risk to have it?”
She hesitated, not wanting to lie to him, yet not wanting to reveal what she had purchased. It was to be a surprise for him.
A gift when they parted for the last time.
“I... saw something in a shop across the street, but...” She shrugged, selecting a long spoon from the rack. “It did not look so nice when I examined it closely. It was a bauble at the silversmith’s shop.”
“Ah, the silversmith’s. No wonder I could not find you. I was searching in the booths selling musical instruments and books and perfumes—”
“Perfumes?” She turned, blinking at him. “How did you know I like perfume?”
She saw the answer in his eyes before he expressed it with words. “Because the scent you wore when we were riding those first few days all but drove me mad with wanting you.”
She turned the spoon she held in her hands, her fingers fluttering as her insides were fluttering. “Oh.” Never before had she given thought to the effect her scent might have on a man. To the effect she might have on a man.
‘Twas a heady, strangely powerful... not unpleasant sensation, the idea that she could somehow weave the same magic around Royce that he had woven around her.
As they gazed at each other across the kitchen, she was suddenly aware of just how clearly the masculine leggings and tunic she wore outlined the feminine shape of her hips, her legs. Though the garments fit loosely, they were much more revealing than any skirt.
And when he stood, she was vividly reminded that he had not put his own tunic back on after she had re-bandaged his arm.
“Royce...” She could not move as he walked toward her. Did not want to move.
“I have been going mad since the day we met,” he said hoarsely, “and I think I may have finally lost my mind completely. I told you—I told myself—that I was bringing you here to keep you safe. But that was a lie.”
Her heart pounded as he came to stand before her, towering over her. “A lie?” she whispered.
“I did not bring you here to keep you safe. I brought you here thinking that I could keep you. Steal you away. From Aldric, from everyone...”
“From Daemon.”
“I thought we could stay here for a while, and then keep going, that we could just—”
“Disappear.”
The thought made her tremble even as she said it. She clung to that idea as if it were a bright star that had fallen from the sky and into their hands.
She gazed up at him, possibilities spinning through her mind. “No one would know,” she whispered. “We would simply vanish into the mountains.”
“We could keep riding south—”
“To Provence or Granada, or some island no one has ever heard of—”
“Some place not found on any map. A land where no one fights wars.”
She closed her eyes. “And we could make our home there.”
“And stay,” he said softly. “Forever.”
“Together.”
The spoon in her hand clattered to the floor as she stepped into his arms, holding on to him tightly as he crushed her against him. Holding on to that glorious vision.
Just for a moment.
She pressed her cheek against the hard muscles of his chest, imagining a small cottage in a faraway land, hidden, secret, where he could hold her this way every night. All the rest of her life.
She closed her eyes to savor the feeling of his arms around her, wanting to emblazon it on her memory forever. “If only we could take them all with us,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Nevin and Oriel, and Vallis and Warran, and Elinor and Bayard and all the children in their castle. Everyone in Châlons. Everyone who needs us.”
“I need you,” he said roughly. “I need you. In the name of all that is holy, why do our needs matter least?”
“Because of the war. If only it had never happened, if you had not been sent away, if we were still at the palace and you were Christophe’s best friend and—”
Royce made a choked sound. “By now Christophe would have run me through with the nearest available blade.”
She lifted her head, gazing up at him in surprise. “But he was your best friend.”
“And your brother. Can you imagine how he would have reacted to seeing his swaggering friend pursuing his little sister?”
“I suppose you are right.” She closed her eyes, resting her forehead in the middle of Royce’s broad chest. “But I do not think he would have looked unfavorably on your asking for my hand. We might have—”
“Nay, Ciara, it never could have been. Even if the war had never happened, even if I had never been banished, if I were still a knight and one day baron of Ferrano.” He wound his fingers through her hair, drew her head back until their gazes met. “Princesses do not marry mere barons. A princess must marry a prince, or a king. Or an emperor if one is available.” His mouth curved in a sad, defeated expression. “I am not of royal blood. I would never have been allowed to ask for your hand.”
Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. “If only I
had never been born a princess, if only I had been born a mere noblewoman—”
“And I your lord.”
“Or a shepherdess—”
“And I your shepherd.” He lowered his head to hers.
“I would be anyone, anywhere,” she whispered against his lips, “if only I could be with you.”
His mouth covered hers, softly, gently. Briefly.
And with her next breath, she said the words she had promised herself she would never speak aloud.
“I love you, Royce.”
She felt just how much she startled him, felt the shudder go through him, saw his eyes gleaming, almost black, when he lifted his head.
And felt hot tears slip past her lashes. “I have tried to deny it, even to myself, but I cannot keep it inside anymore. It is too big, so big sometimes that it feels as if my entire heart and soul are filled with you.” His face shimmered in her vision. “I... I used to be better skilled at keeping my feelings hidden. I do not know how...” Her throat seemed to be closing off. “It is all your fault.”
“That you love me?” he asked roughly, his thumbs whisking the tears from her cheeks. “Or that you cannot keep from saying it?”
“Both,” she accused.
He was smiling that sad, bittersweet smile. “You are certain that you cannot try to hate me, little one? Even a bit?”
“Nay. It is too late for that.”
“You once called me blackhearted,” he reminded her helpfully. “And an ill-mannered knave, and impossible, and—”
“That was before I learned that you are kind and brave and giving,” She looked up at him stubbornly, defiantly. “And the most caring, most noble man I have ever known.”
“You have not known very many men.”
“I have no wish to know any others,” she whispered. “I love this one.”
He cupped her cheeks in his broad, callused palms, angled his head.
And when his lips covered hers this time, the kiss was neither soft nor brief. She twined her arms around his neck, welcoming him, wanting him in a way that went beyond all she had felt before. He sealed her mouth with his and they came together in a fierce, mutual claiming, a taking of breath and body and soul.
Heat arced between them, flashing inside her, a bolt of lightning that struck deep at the core of her being. His tongue parted her lips to thrust inside and sparks of longing glittered through her, cascading into a liquid heat. She drew him deeper, moaned at each velvety stroke, needing more. Needing to be closer to him, to give and to share and to know more of him. An unbearable, hollow ache had begun low in her belly, an emptiness that demanded to be filled.
And when his hand slid down her back, pressing her closer, fully against him, she responded eagerly, arching her hips to rub her softness against that hard, male part of him. Groaning deep in her throat at the torment of being separated from him by the rough fabric of their clothes.
He tore his mouth from hers, curses hot on his lips. “I want to be inside you.” He nibbled at her jaw, her throat, her earlobe. “I want to become part of you and hear you make that sound when I take you. I want to feel you tight and hot and silky around me.”
His words and his kisses sent shocks of need and excitement through her. “Now,” she whispered, a single word of agreement, of consent, of demand.
But he was already lifting his hands to her shoulders, as if he meant to push her away, though he could not stop kissing her, nuzzling her neck, her chin. “Ciara...”
“I love you, Royce.” She kept her hands linked around his neck, refusing to let go. “I love you. I need you—”
“And I love you. More than I love my own life.”
That made her go still, as if she had been drenched with ice, suddenly reminded of the price he would pay if they dared give themselves to one another. “Dear God.” Her hands were trembling when she slid them down to his chest, started to push away. She shook her head, tried to clear her passion-fogged senses. “We cannot. They will kill you if we—”
“I do not care if they kill me,” he said hoarsely. “You are worth dying for.” His hands closed around her wrists. “Ciara, it is you I am worried about.”
She stared up at him mutinously. “If I cannot be with you, I do not care what happens to me.”
His hold on her tightened. “But I care. And by all the saints, I cannot take the risk. I will not. If Daemon were to discover on your wedding night that you are a maiden no more, there is no way of knowing what he might do to you. I have to protect you, Ciara.” He loosened his grip, slowly letting her go, his voice ragged. “I love you too much to break my vow.”
When he released her hands, she slid them around his waist, holding on to him for one last, long moment, unable to stop the tears that slipped down her cheeks and into the mat of hair on his chest.
He remained rigid in her embrace for only an instant before he gave in, tucking her close, allowing himself to hold her. Only to hold her.
“When will we leave here?” she whispered when the silence had stretched to its limits.
She knew he understood what she was asking: not when they would leave for Provence or Granada or some distant, secret island, but when they would leave for their final, inevitable destination.
Mount Ravensbruk.
“In the morning,” he told her, the words edged with pain and regret.
Ciara nodded, silently accepting, telling herself that if she could just stay here with him a few more hours, could just rest here in his arms where she always felt so safe and cherished and loved, it would be enough.
Enough to last a lifetime.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
DARKNESS HAD CLAIMED the room, but for a few banked coals still glowing on the hearth. As Royce opened his eyes, he wondered drowsily how much was left of the night, whether morning was an hour away or two. The kitchen’s stone floor still held the heat, warming the soft cloth piled beneath him. His wounded right arm felt stiff and painful.
But he did not move for fear of waking Ciara.
His fingers gently curling into the silky strands of her hair, he gazed down at the lady nestled in his arms on the makeshift pallet, her breathing soft and even against his bare chest. The two of them lay entwined together, sharing a bed for the first and last time.
He had selfishly wanted a night with her. One night to hold her, to memorize the softness and scent and feel of her in his arms.
One night to remember during all the rest of the nights he would be spending alone.
She sighed in her sleep, as if she were enjoying a sweet dream, and snuggled closer. The small movement made him agonizingly aware of how his body had responded to having her beside him. But he would endure the discomfort willingly, would endure any pain if it meant keeping her near for even a short time longer.
She settled back into blissful slumber but a moment later made another soft sound, this one a whisper of his name. Her lashes lifted. She gazed up at him sleepily, blinking, as if unsure whether her dream had ended.
They both remained still for a moment, enveloped in the quiet, peaceful darkness, warmed by the glow from the hearth. Then her soft gasp told him she had just become aware of his arousal pressed against her hip.
She did not move away, did not say a word.
Instead she startled him for the second time this day, nestling closer and brushing a kiss over his cheek.
Then his jaw.
“Ciara...”
“I love you, Royce,” she said in a scant whisper, her voice husky and sweet. “Let me love you. Let me please you—”
“Nay, sweet angel, we cannot—”
She pressed a fingertip against his mouth. “Not in that way,” she murmured, tracing the outline of his lips before she nuzzled her cheek against his, whispering in his ear, “but can I not please you as you pleased me... with a special kiss?”
He felt as if he had been speared by a hot lance. Felt every drop of blood in his body suddenly set ablaze, sizzling straig
ht to that hard part of him that so ached for her attentions. He struggled to answer her, could not find words. She sounded so innocently curious about whether it was possible, so passionately ready to give him pleasure, to ease his torment.
And the thought of what she wanted to do, what she was eager to do... the thought of that exquisite, ravishing mouth of hers...
“Ciara,” he whispered roughly, unable to catch his breath, “there are... certain things a man does not ask of a lady—”
“You are not asking.” She nibbled at his earlobe as he had done to her earlier. “I am.”
The hot spear twisted, drawing everything inside him into a tight cord that threatened to snap. “But many... ladies find the idea—”
“I have found,” she said, making a low, sensual sound in the back of her throat, “that I enjoy many things that some would consider unladylike.”
Before he could gather up the scattered shards of his reason, before he could recover from his shock enough to resist the temptation, she was kissing her way down his chest, her gaze on his. Her soft lips and darting tongue tore a groan from his throat. And the love and desire in her eyes proved his undoing.
When she pressed her palm against his body, lightly urging him to lie back, he yielded, surrendered to the fire of her touch and the dark shadows that enveloped them, to the need that had been building in him through all the long days and longer nights. He rolled onto his back and her loose, silky tresses lashed him with fire as she moved lower, pausing to caress him, to learn the angles and planes of his body.
She outlined the muscles of his chest with her fingertips, her mouth. And every damp brush of her lips over him, every graceful stroke of her hands scorched him like a hot brand touching dry tinder. He grasped fistfuls of the fabric beneath him to hold himself still, breathing raggedly, watching her while she explored him.
Her nails grazed his nipple, as if testing to see what sort of response she might win, and when it drew tight, she made a small sound of wonder and discovery and soft, feminine hunger. As if she could not resist, she closed her eyes and covered the hard pebble with her mouth, lingering over him, licking and suckling as he had done to her. Tugging with her lips, her teeth.
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