Daemon lifted an eyebrow and stared down his long nose at her, studying her face, which was grimy from the day’s travel, and her masculine garb, which was in little better condition. “You will forgive me, wench, if I find it difficult to believe you are a princess.” He flicked a glance at Royce. “What sort of trick is your king playing this time, Ferrano?”
“It is no trick.” Royce’s jaw clenched. “The only ones who have been tricked are the rebels who sought to kill Her Highness before she could fulfill the agreement King Aldric made with you.”
“Ah, the agreement.” As if that had given Daemon an idea, he looked over his shoulder, flicking a hand to summon one of the other hunters forward. “If you are who you claim, milady,” he said sarcastically, returning his attention to her, “you will no doubt recognize this man.”
Ciara stared up at the bearded, grizzled, portly man who came to the front of the group of riders.
It was one of the emissaries Daemon had sent to settle the terms of peace with her father, more than three months ago. “Aye, of course I remember him. He is...” She desperately searched her memory for the name. “Sir William Cameron, minister of your treasury.”
Daemon squinted at her in disbelief. “Cameron,” he asked slowly, “is this indeed the princess?”
The older man dismounted from his horse, puffing from the exertion, and walked over to look at her more closely. His bushy eyebrows knitting together, he examined her face as he might examine a ledger of accounts.
Then he nodded emphatically. “Aye, Your Highness,” he said in his distinctive Scottish accent, “ ‘tis indeed King Aldric’s daughter.”
Ciara managed a tremulous smile. “So good to see you again, Sir William.”
Daemon recovered quickly from his shock. “You will forgive me, Your Highness,” he said with smooth, courtly charm, “if I was taken by surprise by your unexpected and”—he glanced at Royce—“unorthodox arrival. It would seem you have endured a terrible ordeal. But I am pleased that you have arrived safely.” He gestured for one of his knights. “Dalian, escort Her Royal Highness to the palace, and order the servants to see that she is made comfortable.”
The knight rode forward, extending a hand to lift her onto his horse, but Ciara backed away a step. “Wait, I...”
Suddenly afraid, she turned to look at Royce.
His gaze met and held hers, but he made no move, no gesture. Gave no outward sign of what must remain, now and forever, secret.
Ciara felt as if the sunlight and the trees whirled in a dizzying blur around her. This was the end for them.
The end of all they would ever have, all they would ever be.
Not yet. I am not ready yet. Had she thought herself prepared for this moment? It was all happening too fast. She had counted on having the chance to say her farewell to him in private. A chance to hold him one last time.
To tell him she loved him, just once more.
“I...” She tried to swallow and failed, her throat too tight. “I would be assured that my escort will be well treated.”
Daemon exhaled a low, amused sound that was not at all reassuring. “In the spirit of our peace agreement, I shall personally guarantee his safety. He can stay in the quarters that have been prepared for members of the wedding procession.”
Ciara tried to thank her betrothed politely, tried to say or do something appropriate, but could not even draw a breath. Could not tear her gaze from Royce’s.
Then, as if to rescue her one last time, Royce stepped toward her—and did something he had never done in the entire time they had been together.
He bowed. Dropped to one knee and bowed before her.
“It has been my honor to serve as your protector, Your Highness.”
His deep voice betrayed no emotion. Only one who knew him as well as she did would detect the soft huskiness.
And when he lifted his head, only she was close enough to notice that his eyes had become so dark they were almost black.
“I wish you every happiness, Princess Ciara,” he said formally.
Only she could have marked the way he drew out her name ever so slightly, as if he could not bear to let it go.
Standing there above him, fighting to keep her expression impassive and her hands from shaking, she did not trust herself to speak.
The time had come to give him her gift. She might never have another chance. Using every ounce of will she possessed, she studied the guards who had accosted them earlier, then held out her hand toward the one who still held the sword he had claimed from Royce.
“Give me his sword, sirrah,” she ordered in her most regal tone.
The man glanced toward his prince, then quickly did as she commanded.
Royce remained on one knee, his eyes filling with curiosity and a hint of uneasiness.
When she had the heavy weapon in her hands, she lifted it by its gold hilt, and stepped back from him a pace.
She fought to keep her voice steady as she touched the flat of the blade to his left shoulder.
“In the name of Saint Michael”—she lifted the sword to touch his right shoulder—”and Saint George, I dub thee Sir Royce Saint-Michel, knight of Châlons and baron of Ferrano. For your most loyal and noble service to the crown of Châlons, for fulfilling your oath and your duty, I restore to you your title and all the position and privileges attaining thereto.”
His calm expression dissolved in a storm of emotions, his dark gaze shining with astonishment.
And love.
Quickly, before the burning in her eyes could become tears, she withdrew the small, cotton-wrapped package she had been carrying in her tunic since they left Gavena, slipped the ring from her finger, and pressed both into his hand.
Then she straightened, turning the sword around to offer it to him in the traditional way, holding it by the blade.
“Rise, Sir Royce.”
He stood, one hand closing around the hilt of his father’s sword. For a moment, they both clung to it, and she tried to say with her eyes what she was forbidden to say aloud, a silent message for him alone. I love you, Royce. I will always love you.
You and no other.
Then she let go and instead said what she was expected to say. What duty and responsibility demanded she say.
“Farewell, milord.”
Trembling, she turned from him and allowed Daemon’s knight to lift her into his saddle.
And forbade herself from looking back even once as the royal hunting party carried her swiftly toward the palace.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
SPURS. SHE HAD bought him a pair of exquisitely made silver spurs. They gleamed in his hand as he stared down at them numbly, seated at a table in the palace’s kitchen long after most of the servants had finished their supper and retired. Daemon’s hospitality had allowed him a bath and a change of clothes but had not included an invitation to eat in the great hall with his knights and his lords and his betrothed.
Royce had not objected, had not trusted himself to remain impassive if he had to watch the two of them together.
Farewell, milord.
A muscle worked in his jaw and his fingers closed around the bits of silver in his palm. This was what she had risked herself for in Gavena. She had not been buying some bauble for herself but a gift for him. I saw something at the silversmith’s shop, she had said.
His eyes burned, his throat hot and tight. She must have been planning her surprise ever since that day. The dubbing of knights and bestowing of titles was usually left to lords and kings, but both were within her power as a member of Châlons’ ruling family.
She had fulfilled her father’s promise to him, given him what he had wanted, hoped for, longed for during all his long years of exile: to reclaim his title and position, to return to the country he loved. To come home.
But if this was what it felt like to be rewarded for serving the crown nobly and honorably, it was damned hard to distinguish from the gut-wrenching pain he had ex
perienced when he was banished in disgrace. He felt every bit as hollow, empty. Guilty.
Alone.
He glanced up at the kitchen’s stone ceiling, blackened from years of soot. She was up there, somewhere, many floors above him. His Ciara, with her sweet smile and gentle grace and tender heart. Delivered into the hands of Prince Daemon.
His fist tightened until the spurs’ sharp edges bit into his skin. Never had he been more inclined to murder than when he had seen Daemon looking at her with anticipation in his eyes.
Was the bastard with her even now? Talking to her?
Touching her?
Royce shoved away from the table and rose, ignoring the pain that stabbed up his wounded arm. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Kill. If he did not find an outlet for the violence coursing through his veins, he was going to cause yet another incident that would jeopardize yet another peace agreement.
As he strode through the kitchen door, he was quickly flanked by his two shadows—the guards Daemon had assigned to him “for his own protection” during his stay at the palace.
One guard was an older man whose jowls and downturned mouth made him resemble a bullfrog. The other was a skinny twig of a lad who always seemed to have something to eat in his hands. Both had volunteered for the duty, apparently undaunted by the tales whispered among the guardsmen of how he had taken on six armed men in the forest.
They hastened to keep up with him. “Are you ready to retire, milord?” the younger one asked hopefully, biting into the wing of roast chicken he carried.
Milord. Royce’s mouth curved. It seemed odd to be called that again after four years of being addressed as a commoner. Astonishing how much had changed in a single afternoon.
“Nay,” he said curtly. “Do the two of you intend to keep nipping at my heels all night?”
“We have been assigned to protect you, milord.”
Royce’s frown deepened at the irony in that statement. He was beginning to appreciate how Ciara must have felt at first, when she had been forced to deal with an unwanted companion day and night.
The older man yawned wearily. “It is late, milord.” His deep, resonant voice matched his bullfrog appearance. “We could show you to your quarters.” They passed several servants on their way to bed.
“I do not feel tired. I wish to go”—beat someone or something to a pulp—“riding.”
“But the gates are closed and the drawbridges raised by this hour,” the younger one said around a mouthful of chicken. “No one can leave the palace.”
Royce ground his teeth. “Then mayhap I shall spend some time on the practice ground in the bailey.” Stabbing a few straw-filled training dummies would be satisfying.
“It is cloudy tonight, milord. There will not be enough moonlight for you to see. You could injure yourself—”
“And then we would have to explain it to Prince Daemon,” the younger one said tremulously.
Royce stopped in the middle of a torchlit corridor, turning to regard them with a frustrated glower. Glancing from one to the other, he briefly considered starting a fight.
Then he thought better of it. He did not wish to bring down the wrath of their merciless prince upon them. And if he abused his throbbing right arm any further, the wound might start bleeding again. But he had to do something.
A fat cook ambled down the corridor and he stepped aside to let her pass, trying to think of a more peaceful way to ease his black mood. “Mayhap the two of you could tell me where I might find Prince Mathias. I wish to speak with him, but I have not yet seen him.”
“Prince Mathias?” the two guards said in unison.
“Aye.” By all the saints, what was wrong with them now? He could not interpret the odd look that passed between them. “Mathias. Daemon’s older brother, King Stefan’s middle son. Mayhap you have heard of him?”
The older man cleared his throat, his jowls dancing. “Prince Mathias has been gone these four years, milord.”
“What?” Royce stared at him in disbelief. “Gone where?”
“On pilgrimage,” the younger one explained. “He was deeply saddened when the first peace negotiations ended, and blamed himself for their failure. He could not abide seeing his country at war, so he left to continue his search for spiritual peace, on a pilgrimage to Rome.”
Royce absorbed all this in stunned silence. It was hard to believe that Mathias would leave his country at such a crucial time—but then, he had always been a sensitive man, sickened by the brutal business of war, better suited to serve as a priest than a prince. He had been about to take vows and join a holy order before the war interrupted.
Still, how could Mathias just walk away, abandon his people to his brother’s cruel tyranny?
“Milord?” the older guard asked. “If you wish to speak with Prince Daemon about it—”
“Nay.” Royce shook his head. The less he saw of Daemon, the better. “I believe I will retire after all.”
“Very good, milord.” The younger man smiled in relief, finishing his chicken and tossing the bone aside. He took a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor to lead the way. “The rooms that have been prepared are in one of the outbuildings.”
“Fine.” Raking a hand through his hair, Royce followed them out, knowing he would not sleep tonight, no matter how much he wished he could lose himself in unconsciousness.
Moonlight sprinkled across the bailey outside, offering just enough light for him to glance up at the towers above... to seek some hint of where she might be. To hope he might catch a glimpse of her at one of the windows.
But all the shutters were closed tight, and guards prowled the walls.
If she were on the other side of the world, the distance between them could not be greater.
Dropping his gaze, he tried to banish the memories that filled his mind and heart. His family ring, once more hanging from a leather thong around his neck, seemed to burn his chest.
He gradually realized he had been following his escorts across the darkened bailey for some distance—all the way to the rear of the castle. The younger man had lagged behind a pace. If not for his torch, they would be in utter blackness here.
“Where exactly has the prince decided I shall spend the night?” Royce asked sardonically. “In Spain?”
“Nay, milord.”
Some instinct made Royce tense, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingling. The torch suddenly went out. He whirled, drawing his sword.
Only to step directly into the blow aimed at his head. The world exploded in pain as the torch connected.
“I am sorry it must be this way, milord.”
They were the last words he heard as he fell into a bottomless darkness.
* * *
CIARA PACED THE luxurious bedchamber, back and forth, until she wore a path through the rushes. It was a round room that occupied the entire upper floor of the castle’s southern tower, so vast that she could not see the other side, despite the fire that blazed on the hearth. She had been in here all evening, had managed to avoid supper completely, claiming she was too tired from her journey to get better acquainted with her betrothed.
In truth, she would prefer to postpone their first meeting as long as possible.
Her stomach twisting with nausea, she headed toward the window, wanting a breath of air, wishing she could take off the heavy, ruby-colored velvet gown she wore, with its quilted, pearl-encrusted bodice and embroidered sleeves. Though she had worn such garments all her life, she had never before found them so... suffocating.
Reaching the window, she pulled open the shutters and leaned out, gulping the cool night air.
The bailey seemed to be a dizzying distance below, the tower so high that the sentries patrolling the walls looked as small as a child’s puppets. In the scant moonlight that penetrated the clouds, she could see that the palace grounds were deserted.
Was Royce staying in one of the outbuildings she could se
e from here? Or somewhere within the keep itself? Was he being treated well?
She prayed that Daemon would keep his word and ensure Royce’s safety. She had promised God that if only Royce were kept safe and allowed to return home to Châlons, she would accept whatever cruelties her marriage might bring.
A knock sounded at the door. Ciara froze, paralyzed by a sudden jolt of fear.
It was almost midnight. Who would be so bold as to intrude on her privacy at this hour... except her betrothed?
She had thought Daemon would wait until the morn to see her alone for the first time. Mayhap she had guessed wrong.
Steeling herself, she closed the shutters, clinging to the bar she dropped in place. “Come in.” Her voice echoed loudly across the dark, empty chamber.
She heard the door open, then close.
Heard the bolt being thrown into place.
A trickle of fear seized her. He did not bother to announce himself. She turned, slowly.
Only to find herself facing the last person she had expected to see.
“Miriam!”
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
PAIN WRENCHED HIM to awareness. Pain and an urgent voice that seemed to come from a great distance, echoing strangely.
“Milord?”
Royce fought his way toward consciousness, only to be battered down by the savage, pounding ache between his temples. Cold water splashed his face. He groaned in protest, tried to raise his hands to defend himself—but his wrists were bound together behind his back.
Anger pushed him upward through the last layers of black fog. A second splash of water made him open his eyes.
A dark cave shimmered into his vision—uneven walls of rock, dank and damp, glistening in the light of torches. Shadowy figures crowded around him. Voices.
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