Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  Groaning wordless, hollow sounds of pleasure, he buried one hand in her hair, his body rigid. Never had a woman enjoyed him so. Never had a woman given such passionate, loving attention to every part of him.

  When she lifted her head, glancing up to meet his gaze, her eyes had darkened to molten gold. She turned her face into his palm, kissing his hand, pausing to glide her tongue between his fingertips. Innocently teaching her teacher of the sensual pleasures to be found in the most unexpected places. He reached for her when she pulled away, but she evaded his grasp to continue her loving explorations.

  Slowly... so slowly... she moved lower, sliding her hands along his rib cage, exhaling a soft expression of awe at its breadth. When she touched the ridges of muscle on his flat stomach, all the air left his lungs.

  For the next thing he knew, her fingers were working at the laces that bound his leggings.

  He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, felt his lower body throbbing with heat until he was so hard he feared he would burst before she so much as touched him. It took her a moment to unfasten the garment, and he allowed her to do it alone, seared by anticipation, undone by the erotic experience of having Ciara undress him.

  She moved more quickly now, pulling the snug garment down his body. With his eyes still closed, he was intensely aware of the warm air against his nakedness, of the sudden silence.

  A second later, the sound of breathless excitement she made almost brought him to release, without so much as a single caress.

  She moved over him as if she were made of liquid silk, stretching out beside him. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, just enough to see her regarding his rampant arousal with dark eyes... and parted lips.

  “Ciara...” He could not gasp enough air to say more.

  She stared without shock or shame, her expression one of fascination at the naked evidence of his desire for her. And she would not be swayed from her purpose. Lifting her gaze to his, she raised one hand to caress that rigid, male part of him, her touch gentle, almost reverent.

  He fell back into the soft fabric beneath him, wrenched by a hoarse groan, cut to ribbons by sharp blades of pleasure. By talons that sank into him with every light, feather-soft brush of her fingertips as her hand glided down to the base and back to the rounded crest

  His entire body went taut as her fingers circled him, clasping tight and then releasing and then clasping tighter again. The sound that escaped him was one of pure, animal hunger, the frustrated roar of a lion being tormented by his lioness.

  She made a softer, answering growl, a feminine, feline sound. Unmistakably possessive. And pleased. As if she enjoyed the effect she had on him. Discovering the drop of silky liquid at the tip, she paused to explore it with her fingers.

  Then leaned down to taste him.

  His heart thundered in his ears as he felt the first touch of her lips. His body drenched with sweat, with strain, he dug his fingers into the pallet, wrestling for control, for sanity. The sensation of her tongue gliding over the most sensitive part of him rendered him senseless. A blinding, dazzling shower of flame shot through him, tearing away the last of his control.

  Then he felt her lips close around him, felt her take him deep into the hot satin of her mouth.

  Her exquisite, ravishing mouth.

  “Ciara.”

  The strangled sound of her name was warning, plea, profanity, prayer. He could endure no more.

  But she would not stop. Reckless, shameless, she abandoned herself to the glorious, unspeakably carnal kiss. He felt his hips lifting toward her, knew he was lost. Lost to her, to the feminine power she wielded over him as she worshiped every inch of him with her lush, wet lips and darting tongue.

  An instant later the entire world exploded in hot shards of fire as a shattering release ripped through him. His hoarse shout thundered through the chamber as he felt his seed rushing forth. Felt the very essence of his self, of his soul pouring out of him and into her.

  Collapsing back into the soft pallet, spent, drenched with sweat and ebbing rivulets of pleasure, he could not find the strength to open his eyes for several minutes. When he did, it was to find her curled up alongside him, her head pillowed on his flat belly, her eyes shining with love and tenderness—her lips curved in the most satisfied, wanton smile.

  “My God,” he choked out, repeating it in a whisper. “My God.”

  “You taste very silky and sweet,” she whispered, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, not even blushing. She glided upward along his body, and he caught her face between his hands and kissed her thoroughly, deeply. Kissed the taste of his own desire from her lips.

  And wished the morning would never come.

  * * *

  THE WEATHER GREW warmer with each passing day as they traveled north and east. The songs of birds and the damp, earthy scents of spring filled the air, together with the splash of water that could be heard at every turn of every trail—drops trickling together into streams that joined to form powerful rivers as the snow began its annual melt. Ciara found it bitterly ironic that spring, with all its brightness and beauty, should finally come to the mountains now.

  Now, just when all the light and warmth were about to vanish from her life.

  Royce had brought two useful mementos with him from his home: his father’s sword and shield. But in three days of riding, they encountered few people on the roads, despite the pleasant weather. These were the borderlands, he explained, where occasional skirmishes had been erupting between the people of Châlons and Thuringia, no matter that peace had formally been declared. Few travelers wanted to risk getting caught in the middle of an outbreak of hostilities.

  Ciara almost wished she and Royce would meet with some kind of trouble, some interference, some delay that would keep them from their destination. But no one paid them any particular attention. And the rebels had apparently lost their trail.

  So it was that at midafternoon on the fourth day after they left the Ferrano lands, they entered the thick forests that ringed the foot of Mount Ravensbruk.

  Ciara’s insides wound into a knot as they rode through the hushed shadows, amid dancing beams of sunlight that broke through the pine boughs as if to guide their way. Royce slowed the horse to a walk, his arm tightening around her waist. But they kept going forward, both silent.

  She could find no words to express this feeling inside her, this awful rending asunder, as if something deep within her were being torn away. She looked up at the sky, blinking hard, not wanting his last memory of their time together to be of her tears.

  High above, she could see the towers of Daemon’s palace, just visible through the trees. Could see the red-and-gold royal pennants snapping in the wind above the parapets.

  By nightfall, she would be confined within those walls, dressed in royal robes... separated from Royce Saint-Michel by an impassable chasm of law and custom and responsibility.

  She would once again be what she had been: a princess. Dutiful and proper. Set apart and above, distant from everyone around her.

  Everyone she loved.

  With naught but memories of the places and freedom and feelings she had come to cherish. Of the man who had shown her a whole new world. Who had opened her eyes, and her heart.

  “How long?” she whispered, still staring up at the towers.

  He did not ask what she meant, did not look at the castle. “Another hour.”

  She dropped her gaze, looking down at his arm holding her so tight. They had not dared tempt fate by sharing any intimacy these past three days. She had barely allowed herself to touch him at all, except to change his bandages. “Is your arm feeling any better?”

  “The wound is healing well enough, now that the fever has passed.”

  She knew he was in more pain than he would admit. “Royce, I...” She almost could not make herself say it. “I could go on from here alone. You do not have to—”

  “I am your guardian, Ciara, bound by my oath and my honor to protect you until you are we
d. I have no intention of abandoning you.”

  “You mean to stay until the wedding?”

  “Until the last possible moment.”

  She closed her eyes, rested her hand over his. “I do not want to part either... my love...” Her voice became dangerously unsteady. “But we both know that we must, anon. And there could be danger for you here. When last you met with Daemon and his men four years ago, you did not leave on the best terms. I am afraid for you—”

  “I can deal with Daemon’s men.”

  “An entire castle full of them? Even with your sword arm injured?”

  “Ciara, I am not sending you into that place alone.”

  “But Royce... once we pass through those gates, I will be alone. I can bear it only if I know that you are safe.”

  His voice became as soft and warm as his breath against her cheek. “I cannot leave you yet, little one. Not yet. Not while there is still even a moment left that we are—”

  “Hold!”

  The shout came from the trees on their right. Royce yanked hard on the reins, turning the mare as he drew his sword.

  Ciara screamed, gripping the saddle as a half-dozen men came galloping toward them. She saw at a glance that these were not rebels. They were royal guardsmen, wearing red-and-gold silk surcoats over black hunting garb.

  Any relief she might have felt vanished when she saw how they were brandishing their weapons.

  Royce did not try to outrun them. Several were armed with bows and arrows. “You will need no blades. We will go with you peacefully. We are—”

  “You are trespassing on royal lands,” one of the guardsmen snarled as the riders came to a dirt-spraying halt only paces away.

  “Poachers,” another surmised as he stared at their homespun garments. He raised his lance, aiming the gleaming point directly at Ciara. A third man blew on a hunting horn, the sound rising above the trees like the howl of an unholy beast.

  Ciara realized they had leaped to the wrong conclusion, did not even know she was a woman—and were ready to mete out swift punishment. “Nay, you do not understand!” She reached up to push back her hood.

  Royce caught her hand, stopping her. “Do we look as if we were poaching?” he demanded hotly. “We have no bow or arrows—”

  “Discarded, no doubt, when you saw us coming.” One of the guards grabbed the mare’s reins.

  Another disarmed Royce. “On the ground, thieves.”

  “Before I run you both through,” the man with the lance threatened.

  Ciara shook off Royce’s restraining hand, shoved back her hood. “You are making a mistake! I am Prince Daemon’s betrothed!”

  The guardsmen all froze, gaping. Royce swore.

  Then one of the guards laughed. “And I am King Stefan,” he scoffed.

  A chill snaked down Ciara’s spine. Too late she realized her error—she had no way to prove her identity. They thought she was a thieving peasant, lying to save herself. “B-but it is the truth! I am Princess Ciara of Châlons and this is—”

  The tip of the lance pressing against her middle cut off her words. The man holding it leered at her. “Mayhap we shall enjoy a bit of sport before we hang this one.”

  One of the others dismounted, leaving his weapons as he came toward her. “Off the horse, my lovely.”

  Ciara’s heart hammered in her chest. She and Royce were going to die. Here at the foot of Daemon’s castle. After all they had survived, she was going to be raped and they were both going to be killed.

  Royce slipped his arm from around her waist. “Do as he says, Ciara,” he ordered in a low voice.

  “But Royce—”

  “Do as he says,” he repeated, deadly calm.

  His tone gave her no choice. She awkwardly swung her right leg forward, up over the mare’s neck, and slid from the saddle. Felt all six pairs of eyes on her as she dropped to the ground.

  Which was apparently what Royce had been counting on—for he suddenly burst into action. Lunging forward, he seized the lance with both hands and yanked hard, pulling the man who held it from his horse.

  Jerking the weapon free, Royce swung it sideways with a grunt of pain, catching the guard on the ground a solid blow across the back of the head before the man could reach Ciara.

  Grabbing his shield, Royce tossed the lance to her but she dropped it, utterly taken by surprise. She snatched it from the ground as he leaped from the saddle. He placed himself between her and the other four men, taking a sword from the one who lay groaning on the forest floor.

  “The lady is telling the truth,” he snarled, keeping the shield raised as he backed through the trees, away from the guardsmen who were spitting curses and drawing their swords. “We are from Châlons and she is Daemon’s betrothed. In the spirit of peace, I would prefer to avoid killing any of you—but if you dare touch even the toe of her boot, you will answer for it with blood.”

  Trying to look brave instead of terrified, Ciara raised the lance to ward off the men who had dismounted and were advancing on them.

  “Try the other end, Ciara,” Royce advised calmly. “The pointy end is more effective.”

  With a squeak of dismay, she realized she had been holding it backward. So much for looking fearsome. She turned the heavy weapon around, her heart pounding a panicked race.

  The guards spread out, preparing to come at them from several directions at once. And the two Royce had knocked to the ground were getting to their feet.

  Royce backed her into a tree, positioning himself in front of her. “I suggest all of you think carefully before you make any more mistakes,” he snapped. “Your prince is not known to be a forgiving sort.”

  The guards were too angry to pay him heed.

  Ciara screamed in terror as all six closed in at once and Royce stepped forward to meet them with shield and sword raised.

  But before more than two or three blows could be struck, the thunder of hoofbeats and the yelping of hounds echoed through the trees. The rest of the hunting party rode into view.

  “What is this, Gilroy?” an angry voice called out as a score of riders surrounded the combatants. “Why have you interrupted the hunt?”

  Ciara took him to be the falconer, for he carried a huge bird of prey on his arm—and he was apparently a person of some importance, for the guardsmen lowered their weapons and turned to face him.

  She rushed to Royce’s side, but he warned her away with his eyes. The look stopped her, made her keep her distance as if a tree had suddenly fallen between them. She understood his message as clearly as if he had said it aloud: she dared not touch him.

  They could not allow any trace of their feelings for each other to show.

  “Your Highness, we caught these two peasants...”

  Ciara gasped, the rest of the guard’s words dissolving in a strange buzz that filled her ears as she turned to stare up at the man holding the falcon. As if in a dream, a nightmare, time itself seemed to stop.

  Your Highness.

  She noticed only now that the guards were all dropping to one knee and bowing to him.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God .

  He was dressed like the others, in black hunting garb with heavy gauntlets and a fur-lined cape. Yet this was the man responsible for the seven years of killing and destruction that had been visited upon her country. For the murder of Royce’s family.

  For Christophe’s death.

  She felt as if she had turned entirely to ice. He did not look like a warrior—slender, his face youthful, almost handsome. He could not be much older than Royce, though his brown hair was streaked with gray.

  But his silvery eyes were as cold as a mountain peak in midwinter. And the way his upper lip curled in a permanent sneer made him look as if he disdained everything and everyone around him.

  When he spoke, there was no mistaking his identity.

  “More mewling peasants trying to fill their bellies by poaching from my forests?” He looked at Royce, then at her. “Kill them.”

&nbs
p; Ciara felt all the blood drain from her face, stricken and outraged by the way he could so easily order the deaths of two people he thought were his own subjects. She stepped forward. “Prince Daemon, I am—”

  Those colorless eyes fastened on her. “Who is this wench who dares approach me with a weapon?”

  Ciara realized that she still gripped the lance in her hand. “I am not a wench. Nor am I a peasant or a poacher.” She threw the spear aside but stood her ground. “I am Princess Ciara of Châlons.”

  If she had claimed to be the pope, he could not have looked more surprised.

  “She speaks the truth, Your Highness,” Royce said, throwing aside the sword he had stolen from the guard. “We have come from Châlons, sent by King Aldric himself.” He lifted the shield he held. “Mayhap you remember me.”

  Daemon tore his gaze from her just long enough to study Royce’s face—and the family crest on the shield. “Ferrano,” he bit out, his eyes widening in recognition. “How in the name of Christ did you come to be here? How is it even possible that Aldric let you live? If any of my emissaries had done what you did four years ago, I would have fed him to my royal hounds.”

  “Fortunately for me,” Royce replied coolly, “my king is a more lenient man.”

  Daemon made a sound of derision and turned to stare at Ciara again. “And you... nay, you could not be my betrothed. She is to arrive on the morrow. My couriers told me only this morn that the wedding procession is yet a day’s ride distant.”

  Ciara glanced at Royce, struggled to find words. What would happen to them if she could not convince Daemon?

  The guards still stood eager to tear them both to pieces.

  “My father feared for my life,” she explained, turning back to face the sneering prince. “I was attacked in our palace. You must have received word of that—”

  “Aye. The work of the rebels,” he said with distaste.

  She nodded. “My father thought it too dangerous for me to travel in the wedding procession, so he had another take my place, and sent me here in secret by a southern route. Through the mountains, with”—she remembered at the last second to speak impersonally—”this man to serve as my escort and protector.”