Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  Spent, moaning, collapsing together, they fell back onto the fur, Ciara tumbling atop him, and their lips met in long, slow, hungry kisses.

  He caught handfuls of her hair, loving her mouth as he had just loved her body. Passionately, deeply. Tenderly. And this time he did not leave her, remained joined to her.

  And a few minutes later, when she felt his body stir within her, when he rolled her onto her back and pressed her down into the fur once more, she welcomed him with whispers of love.

  * * *

  IT WAS MORE than an hour later that she stood near the closed window, wrapped only in a sheet, watching him dress.

  Watching as he donned the black leggings and tunic, the gloves, the boots. He had already blackened his face with soot from the hearth.

  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. Refused to think of the dangers he was facing. Nine days, she told herself stubbornly. She would see him again in nine days. Until then...

  Dear God and all the heavens, she was not sure she could survive so long without him. Did not know how she was going to conceal her feelings for him during his absence.

  How could anyone look at her and not know that she had spent this magical night being thoroughly ravished in the arms of the man she loved? Saints’ breath, her body still burned from his touch. She felt certain she must glow like the sun.

  She would spend as much of the time as possible in her chamber, she decided, fearing that someone would notice her passion-bruised lips, a certain lambent look in her eyes. Now that her mission as a rebel spy was ended, there was no need for her to spend her time elsewhere. She would stay here.

  And pray for him.

  Picking up his ropes and equipment, he turned toward her, and she felt tears pooling in her eyes. Once again, she had to say farewell to this man she loved like no other.

  But she could not say it this time.

  “Come back to me,” she said lightly, smiling up at him. “And do try to be a bit cleaner next time, my sooty baron.”

  His grin shone white. “I shall do my best, milady.” He reached out and cupped her cheek with one hand, the leather of his gauntlet soft against her skin. “I will return in time for the wedding,” he whispered. “Our wedding.”

  “Do not be late.”

  “I promise” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Farew—”

  She stopped the word with her fingertips, not allowing him to say it. “Until I see you again,” she corrected, her gaze burning into his. “Until I see you again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  CIARA STOOD AT the entrance to the cathedral, desperately wishing that someone would awaken her from this nightmare.

  Dressed in her gold silk wedding gown, the long train trailing behind her, she stared down the aisle toward the priest.

  And her groom.

  Prince Daemon stared back at her, his gaze colder than usual, his sneering upper lip drawn into a tight smile—which was purely for the benefit of the scores of nobles assembled in the pews.

  She had delayed as long as she dared. He was already furious with her for keeping everyone waiting all morn. Numb with fear and denial, she stepped forward, into the vast sanctuary made of gray stone and brilliantly colored glass, into the smell of incense and the chanting of the choir Daemon had brought in from Avignon.

  And she prayed that she would awaken. Now. Before this nightmare could go any further. Awaken... awaken... awaken...

  But she was not asleep. It was all horribly, inescapably real. As real as the heavy royal robes she wore, the jeweled crown on her head, the lords and ladies garbed in velvet and silk who had been awaiting her arrival for two hours.

  As real as the nine days that had passed, and the tears she had cried last night and this morn.

  Not blinking, not even breathing, she walked down the smooth, stone-paved aisle toward the altar. Toward her inescapable fate.

  With each step, the horrifying images filled her mind, the ones that had torn at her heart for days: of a black mountain too difficult to climb, of ropes shredded by glassy stone, of Royce pushing himself too hard and losing his footing, falling to the bottom of a cliff...

  She did not know what had happened to him. All she knew was that something had gone terribly wrong. Miriam had received no word from the men.

  It was as if the rebels had gone into the Ruadhans and vanished. Swallowed up by the greedy maw of the Gunlaug. The Maker of Widows.

  She blinked hard and the red-and-gold banners that swathed the cathedral danced in her vision. Even as she moved closer to the altar, conscious of all eyes upon her, she kept hoping. Waiting. Thinking that Royce would burst in through the church doors. Rescue her as he had so many times before. Carry her away from this place. This moment. This man.

  But he did not come.

  She was alone.

  Not even Miriam had been allowed to attend the ceremony. There was no place at his wedding for servants, Daemon had scoffed.

  She was within a few paces of the altar when she noticed Hadwyn and Jarek, standing at the front of the twin lines of guardsmen that streamed down either side of the church. The guards were all dressed in silks, each holding a halberd, a tall pole weapon with a curving, axlike blade at one end—their presence clearly intended to impress everyone with Daemon’s power.

  Jarek’s eyes met hers, but she subtly shook her head. If they made any move against the prince, it would cost them their lives. Too much blood had already been spilled. She could not let them try to interfere.

  She had but one choice now: to do her duty, fulfill the betrothal agreement, protect her people.

  When she reached the altar at last, Daemon grabbed her hand. Though his wolfish smile was wide, even triumphant, his grip was bruising, as if to let her know he was displeased that she had kept him waiting.

  No doubt he would show her just how displeased in less subtle ways, later when they were alone.

  A numbing buzz filled her head as the choir ended its chanting and the priest began speaking in Latin. She was only remotely aware of the words. Could think of naught but a single phrase that kept repeating over and over in her mind until it became a certainty.

  Royce is dead .

  It hit her like a blow to the center of her body, but somehow she remained standing. Somehow her heart kept beating. But her strength, her breath, her soul all seemed to flow out of her, taking with them the last of her courage. And her hope.

  The priest reached the place in the ceremony when she must make her vows, asking in somber tones whether she would take this man as her husband.

  She looked up at Daemon, one last spark of spirit igniting within her. Nay, not this man. Not him. Not Daemon. Nay, she could not.

  “I will.”

  Everything became a blur after that—the endless mass, the glaring sunlight outside when they left the cathedral, the blast of trumpets, the cheers of the crowd Daemon had ordered assembled along their route back to the palace, the din that arose in the great hall when they arrived for the wedding feast...

  She remained only distantly aware of her surroundings until she found herself enthroned on a massive carved chair, sitting beside her new husband on the dais. Feeling as if she were suffocating, she stared down at the laden trencher before her, not eating a bite.

  Once, just once, she allowed a last, lingering shred of hope to make her glance up at the massive, iron-hinged doors on the opposite side of the hall.

  No one came charging through them. There was no sign of Royce. There would be no rescue.

  He was dead .

  Bleak despair settled over her. She sought a glimpse of Miriam, seated at one of the dozens of crowded trestle tables arranged in rows below the dais. The older woman shook her head, as if to say she had no answers, her expression distraught. Ciara knew that Miriam was just as afraid for Landers as she herself was for Royce.

  Over the past few days, she had poured out her heart to her lady’s maid, her friend. Had told her all she fel
t for the dark-haired swordsman she was forbidden to love, all that had happened since the two of them set out from the abbey on that cold day...

  Sweet Mary, had it been only weeks ago? It was hard to imagine, to remember how much she had disliked him that day, how annoyed she had been when he—

  The weight of a hand on her thigh made her jump, brought her head snapping around until her gaze met Daemon’s.

  “You have not touched your food, my lovely bride,” he said in a cold, mocking tone, observing her over the edge of a gem-encrusted goblet. “Did the meal not please you? Or is it the company?”

  His fingers tightened on her thigh, his grasp possessive and painful through the gold silk of her wedding gown. The cloth-draped table prevented the lords and ladies below the dais from seeing what he was doing.

  “I...” She fought the bubble of panic that rose in her throat, noticing that he glanced toward the spiral stairs in the far corner, beyond the hearth.

  The ones that led up to his bedchamber.

  “I... I am feeling unwell, Your Highness,” she choked out, trying to delay the inevitable, even for one more night. “Mayhap I should—”

  “Be put to bed,” he finished for her, eyes gleaming as his gaze slid back to hers. “So it is maidenly nervousness that has you ill at ease.” He set his cup down. “I can remedy that, my sweet princess.”

  Her heart thudded a single stroke of pure terror. And not only because she was no longer a maiden. This morn, Miriam had instructed her on how she might deceive Daemon, on a way to leave traces of blood on the sheets. But even armed with that knowledge, Ciara knew that no ruse could protect her from her new husband’s cruelty.

  Even if she were a maiden, he meant to use her brutally.

  “If you are not hungry,” he continued, pushing his heavy chair back from the table, “let us retire to my chamber. I would be happy to dispense with the usual rituals. We will not need laughing courtiers throwing grain in our faces to ensure a fruitful union.”

  He stood, his hand encircling her arm, his fingers like talons, giving Ciara no chance to protest. She looked for Hadwyn and Jarek, found them standing with the other guards stationed along the walls—saw them watching her with frustration in their eyes, as if waiting for her signal.

  But she dared not ask for help, could not endanger them to save herself.

  Her stomach clenching, she barely had time for one quick, frightened glance at Miriam before her new husband led her from the hall.

  Most of the guests were already too deeply in their cups to mind that the bride and groom were making an early departure. Only a few lords and ladies called out bawdy advice as Daemon strode to the rear of the enormous chamber, pulling her along beside him.

  He headed straight for the spiral stairs, past the four sentries at the bottom who were part of his personal guard. The men bowed as they passed, dipping their halberds—but she saw them regarding her with knowing leers as their prince led her up the steps.

  At the top, Daemon issued a single, sharp command to the two others posted there. “Do not allow anyone to disturb us until morning.” He pushed open the door to his chamber and shoved her inside.

  Then he slammed the heavy oak portal shut behind him and threw the bolt in place.

  Heart hammering, Ciara backed away from him, rubbing her arm, bruised from his ruthless grasp. The chamber glowed with light, despite the darkness that had descended outside the windows. The twin hearths blazed, making all his riches and jewels and glassware gleam.

  Her gaze fell on the reliquary and she felt tears threaten. God, please.

  “Disrobe, Princess.”

  She turned to face him, still moving away, no longer able to disguise her fear.

  Which only made him smile. “I like to see my belongings displayed before I handle them,” he said icily, taking off his crown and placing it on a velvet pillow beside the bed. “Disrobe.”

  She shook her head, mute, retreating until her waist collided with the long chest in front of the windows.

  “There is nowhere to run, Princess.” Smiling, he stalked closer. “And I warned you once, I do not tolerate disobedience. You should have remembered that before you kept me waiting this morn. You embarrassed me in front of my lords—and for that you will pay.”

  A panicked impulse made Ciara snatch up one of the goblets from the chest and smash its glass rim against the wood.

  With a snarl, Daemon leaped toward her, grabbing her wrist, twisting hard until the makeshift weapon fell from her numb fingers.

  It tumbled harmlessly into the rushes.

  Then he yanked her against him, sending her crown clattering to the floor as well.

  “It seems you have a difficult time understanding what I mean by the word obey.” He glared down at her, his lips curling back from his teeth. “Allow me to give you a demonstration.”

  * * *

  “YOUR HIGHNESS, YOU cannot walk in without warning.”

  “Aye, I certainly can.”

  The group of ten riders reined in on a hill above the palace. They had approached from the rear, to avoid being noticed by the sentries as they came within sight of the keep.

  Royce looked toward the slender, brown-haired prince who rode at the head of the band of wearied and wounded rebels. “Thayne is right, Your Highness.” He shook his head in warning, despite the fact that his own impulse was to gallop down the slope and battle whatever odds they might face until he had Ciara safely in his arms.

  If the wedding had taken place as scheduled this morn, she was now Daemon’s bride. His only hope lay in the fact that darkness had just fallen, that the wedding feast should last several more hours—that the groom had not yet consummated the vows.

  Because the rebels dared not risk Mathias’s life.

  “Daemon’s men will try to protect him,” Thayne pointed out.

  “Aye,” Royce agreed through clenched teeth, studying the moonlit keep below, wishing in vain for some sign, some evidence that she was all right. “There is a danger—”

  “They are in truth my men,” Mathias corrected, his voice quiet yet determined. “They will not raise arms against their own prince.”

  Royce shared a look with Thayne, not at all certain that was true. They had learned a hard lesson on the Gunlaug: the ascent had not proven half as deadly as the guardsmen Daemon had placed in charge of his brother’s prison. The well-paid troops had kept the rebels pinned down on a treacherous slope for almost two days.

  Their final assault on the stronghold had cost them a half-dozen lives. They had been forced to leave two more men behind in a village, both wounded and unable to travel—including Landers, who had taken an arrow in the chest.

  “Your Highness,” Thayne said firmly, “we have risked much and lost much in the past weeks and months to come this far. If Daemon should order his men to move against you, before you have time to speak to your nobles—”

  “Then surprise is our best chance, is it not?” Mathias asked calmly, looking back over his shoulder at them, his gray eyes fearless in the moonlight. “I have been awaiting this moment for four years. It is time to put right what I should have put right long ago.”

  Royce regarded him with a respect that had been growing steadily over the past two days as they had galloped back to the palace. Despite four years as his brother’s captive, Mathias was still the noble, coolheaded man of deep faith he remembered.

  But the prince also had a steely edge no one had suspected he possessed.

  “Very well, Your Highness.” Thayne gathered up his reins and glanced at Karl, who rode beside him. Their crooked grins flashed in the darkness as if they, too, were in truth eager for a bold ending to their months of danger and secrecy.

  Mathias led the way down the slope and Royce needed no more convincing. He spurred his mount, charging forward. All ten of them descended at a gallop, straight toward the keep, swift as judgment raining down from above. They did not stop when the guards at the gate—mayhap lulled to inaction by
the festivities taking place inside—called out to them. Nor were the sentries quick enough to raise the drawbridge.

  The rebels thundered over it, their horses’ hooves pounding on the wood like blows from a catapult. They sped into the bailey, dismounting even before they had pulled to a stop. Guards came scrambling from their posts in every direction, too late to block the unknown intruders from racing up the steps that led into the keep.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, they encountered little opposition as they rushed inside, past the main entrance. It seemed that most of Daemon’s forces were stationed elsewhere this night.

  Royce’s heart was pounding as they reached the great hall. Mathias led the way through the massive doors, shoving them open to find the wedding feast underway.

  “My lords!” Mathias called above the din, throwing back the hood of the drab peasant cloak he wore. “My lords!”

  Royce barely heard the rest of what Mathias said, only dimly aware of the commotion that erupted as the wedding guests recognized their beloved long-lost prince, as the sentries finally caught up with them, as Mathias began to explain that the Thuringian nobles had been deceived by Daemon’s treachery.

  Royce’s own gaze had locked on the two chairs at the center of the dais.

  The two empty chairs.

  His mind roared with denial. He was too late. Then he saw Hadwyn and Jarek rushing forward, pushing their way through the crowd of nobles who were all surging to their feet in shock at what Mathias was saying. The rest of the silk-clad guards, many loyal to Daemon, began milling toward the entrance as well. A battle could ignite at any moment.

  But his mind and heart had only one thought. When Hadwyn reached him, Royce shouted a single word over the tumult.

  “Where?”

  The young man pointed toward a spiral stair at the back of the hall. “The chamber on the second floor, mil—”

  Royce was already running, leaving the others to protect Mathias, shoving aside wedding guests, vaulting over tables in his headlong race toward the stairs.