Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  Her father had no reaction at all for a second. He blinked down at her as if she had just declared she planned to marry Anteros.

  And then he turned the same stunned look on Royce. “Prince Mathias wishes you to marry... Sir Royce?”

  “Aye.” She hastened to mention all the reasons Mathias had spelled out for her. “The prince realizes that I am the sole heir to Châlons’s throne, that one day I will be queen of this realm. There are many unscrupulous princes and kings in Europe who might seek my hand for less than noble reasons. He wishes to see me wed to a man he can trust. A man strong enough to rebuild and to rule, brave enough to fight if he must”—she snuck a secret smile at Royce, who had not been present when she and Mathias made up their list of his good qualities—“and gentle and honorable enough to care for his people. And to keep the peace.”

  Her father said naught, still regarding Royce with an assessing gaze. The two men faced each other for a long, tense moment.

  Ciara tried to think of something more to say. Some way to nudge them both past the stubbornness and hurt of the past, to persuade them to reconcile. “Father, if you can forgive the Thuringians for the war, if you can forgive me for what happened to Christophe—”

  That brought the king’s attention swiftly back to her. “Forgive you for what happened to Christophe?” he asked in confusion.

  “I... I know you blamed me for his death. When you and I were hostages after the palace was taken, when you said—”

  “Nay, Daughter. Saints above, nay.” He shook his head. “Can it be that you have believed all this time that I...” A look of pain crossed his features. “I spoke to you in anger, Ciara. God in Heaven, I am sorry. The fault was Daemon’s, not yours. You were innocent.” He reached out to brush a tear from her cheek. “Can you forgive me for my harsh words?”

  “Aye, Father.” She looked up at him with a tremulous smile, her heart lightened. “I forgive you, gladly.”

  “This is, I think, a day for forgiveness,” Royce said quietly. “Your Majesty, I spent four years in exile being angry at you. Hating you because I thought you had purposely disgraced me and my family name in order to make an example of me—”

  “Nay, Ferrano, my intent was never to shame you, only to make you understand the seriousness of what you had done. I told no one that you had been banished.” He paused, his voice becoming heavy. “Only Christophe knew. After you disappeared so suddenly, he pestered me for the truth about what had become of you until I told him. He always insisted I was wrong for punishing you so harshly... and mayhap he was right.”

  “Mayhap, Your Majesty.” Royce shrugged one shoulder, as if it no longer mattered to him. “But I have come to understand that sometimes a king must do a thing he finds distasteful, for the greater good of his people.”

  “True.” Her father shook his head with a rueful expression. “But I was trying to punish you for losing control of your anger—and yet I acted purely out of anger when I banished you.”

  “We were both angry that day.”

  “Aye.” Her father glanced toward the window behind Royce, where the sun was setting. “But Christophe always knew it would not last. He intended to bring you home after the war.”

  “And you knew that?” Ciara asked.

  “Your brother was as stubborn as his sire.” Her father glanced at her before returning his attention to Royce. “And I never meant for the exile to last forever. That is one reason I never wished to shame you publicly, that and...” He stopped himself.

  Royce regarded him with a puzzled expression.

  Finally her father continued. “You said it yourself, when we met at the abbey.” His majestic voice wavered with emotion as it had when he embraced her. “You have been like a son to me, Royce.”

  Royce swallowed hard, his look of confusion dissolving into one of gratitude and pride. He bowed his head. “I am honored, sire.”

  “The honor is mine.” Her father reached out to clasp his shoulder with one hand. “Sometimes it is possible for even a king to forgive.”

  Ciara felt tears gather on her lashes again—of joy and hope. “Then will you give us your blessing to marry, Father?”

  Her father turned to her, his gaze searching. “I once promised you in marriage to a man you did not want. I will not do so again, regardless of Prince Mathias’s request. Do you wish to have Royce for your husband?”

  Did she wish to have him? Ciara dropped her gaze to the toes of her boots, furiously fighting a blush, realizing there was a great deal that was better left unsaid in front of her father. “I came to know him well during our travels, Father. I believe I could make the best of it.” Lifting her head, she could not hold back a broad smile. “Aye, I wish to have him for my husband.”

  Her father nodded his acceptance of her answer, turned to Royce. “And you?”

  “Your Majesty, earlier today, outside in the bailey, I made a vow to Christophe, and I give you the same promise.” He looked at Ciara, his brown eyes darkening. “I vowed that I would protect her and care for her and love her all the rest of my life.”

  Ciara felt her heart soar, let her love for him shine through in her eyes.

  “There is yet a problem,” her father pointed out slowly, reluctantly. “In that Sir Royce is not of royal blood...”

  “Nay, Prince Mathias has remedied that problem for us.” She turned a beaming smile toward her father. “You recall that I mentioned the band of neutral territory he wishes to create between our countries? With your permission, he intends to make those border lands a separate state and give them a name: the Principality of Ferrano.”

  She looked at Royce again. “And in honor of Royce’s service to both the crown of Thuringia and the crown of Châlons, Mathias wishes to bestow those lands on him. Along with a new title—prince of Ferrano.” Turning back to her father, she shrugged. “I had already made him a baron, you see, and Mathias could think of no other honor suitable enough to reward him for all his help.”

  “If you approve, Your Majesty,” Royce emphasized. “The decision is yours.”

  “And of course, were Royce and I to marry,” Ciara added, “our holdings would be joined, and our heirs would rule over both as one.”

  The king looked from her to Royce and back again.

  And then he smiled.

  And then he began to chuckle. “A wise man, this Prince Mathias. I think I will like him.”

  “I am certain you will.” Ciara’s heart was thrumming. “So... will you give us your blessing, Father?”

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Aye, Daughter. I give my blessing. To all of it. With all my heart.”

  She hugged him, her joy spilling over. “I love you, Father.”

  “And I love you, my sweet girl.” He extended a hand toward Royce, and the two men grasped forearms. “And you, Royce Saint-Michel, prince of Ferrano.” His smile widened. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  * * *

  CIARA STOOD AT the entrance to the palace’s chapel, feeling as if she were in a dream. Hoping no one would awaken her.

  Joy filled her heart to overflowing, the feeling even brighter and more dazzling than the flood of morning sunlight that lit the small sanctuary. She glanced over her shoulder as Miriam gave the long train of her wedding gown a final adjustment. Ciara had chosen white silk because Royce said the cloth reminded him of snowfall.

  After sharing a warm smile with her friend, she waited for Miriam to rejoin the other guests, then turned and started down the aisle toward the priest.

  And her groom.

  Standing beside her father, Royce gazed back at her, his dark eyes brimming with so much love that it brought an ache to the very center of her chest.

  He looked so handsome, she had to keep herself from sighing aloud. His dark blue tunic and leggings made his hair gleam blue-black and set off the white ermine lining of the royal robes he wore casually thrown back over his broad shoulders. His new crown sparkled in the sun, as did hi
s silver spurs and the gold hilt of his father’s sword at his side.

  Despite all the tingles coursing through her, Ciara did not allow herself to rush, wanting to savor every moment of this day. As she walked slowly down the aisle, the beams of silvery brightness pouring in through the arched windows danced between her and Royce—and she had a strange sensation that she had been here before, walking through the nave of a small chapel toward Royce and her father....

  Then she remembered that she had experienced this moment before: on the day they had met in the abbey. Almost every detail felt the same.

  Except that this time, the look in Royce’s eyes was one of love. His expression warmed the air all around her, made her feel as if she were floating, and promised that the feeling would last forever.

  At the front of the chapel, she took her gaze from his long enough to steal a glance at the friends who had gathered to celebrate with them. She and Royce had decided to wait a fortnight for their wedding so that everyone could join them.

  The pews were crowded with pardoned rebels and peasants and nobles from both Châlons and Thuringia. Including Bayard and Elinor. Prince Mathias. Karl and Miriam and Landers, whose arm was still in a sling. And Royce’s friends from France, Duc Gaston de Varennes and his wife, Lady Celine.

  And Thayne.

  Or rather, Sir Thayne, she corrected herself, giving him a quick smile as he bowed his head toward her. Not only had the former rebel leader been pardoned but Mathias and her father had offered him so many honors and accolades, he had been overwhelmed and somewhat embarrassed by all the attention.

  In the end, he had accepted only two of the rewards offered him: a knighthood and a small keep to go with it.

  With her last step toward the altar, Ciara came to stand between her father and her groom. Royce took her hand, and the sensation that glittered through her made her catch her breath.

  Shimmering rays of mountain sunlight danced around them as they exchanged their vows.

  And gleamed on the gold band that he slipped on her finger, the same ring he had given her once before... except that this time it was truly a wedding band, and truly hers. As he was hers, and she his. Now and forever.

  You and no other, the heart conquers all.

  When they sealed their vows with a kiss, ‘twas to the sound of the rebels cheering.

  Ex-rebels, she reminded herself happily.

  As her husband kissed her thoroughly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and did not care that she was making a shameless emotional display. Being a princess did not mean she had to be proper all the time.

  * * *

  “OUT YOU GO, fierce little Hera. Your mistress has no need of a protector tonight.” Royce chuckled. “Besides, that duty was mine well before you came along.”

  Dislodging the frisky puppy, who had chomped onto his soft leather boot, he scooted her into the corridor. Then he closed the door to his wife’s darkened bedchamber and leaned against it, throwing the bolt with a happy sigh.

  At last, he had escaped. The wedding feast and dancing and revelry would have to continue without him. It was already near midnight.

  As tradition demanded, after the guests had showered the bridal couple with handfuls of grain, the men had kept him occupied with overlong toasts—involving copious amounts of cassis, thanks to Bayard—while the ladies spirited the bride away to garb her for her wedding night.

  That had been two hours ago. His friends had finally given up their mirthful efforts to pickle him, letting him go after he vowed revenge on all future grooms in the group.

  With a wicked grin, he tucked that vow away in his memory and moved into the room, which was lit only by the glowing embers on the hearth. He caught the scent of sandalwood shavings that had been added to the flames, no doubt well over an hour ago, before they had burned down to almost naught. A large bathing tub filled with water had been set before the fire... and a sheer cotton kirtle lay draped over a chair beside it.

  His breathing became heavy as he glanced around to see where his wife was hiding. Then he saw her: already in the bed, almost hidden beneath the covers.

  Asleep.

  A groan escaped him and he frowned over his shoulder at the door, thinking that revenge might not be enough for Thayne and Karl and all the rest. He might just have to kill them. They had kept him drinking in the hall so long that his bride had fallen asleep waiting for him.

  But a moment later, as he turned with a sigh and walked closer to the bed, he did not mind so much after all. Looking down at his lady, his wife, so pale and lovely and innocent, he felt a warmth that had naught to do with the cassis he had consumed. And he knew that he would cherish this memory as he did all the others this day had brought him.

  She lay on her side, snuggled beneath the silky-soft white sheets, her hair damp and dark against the pillow, a smile gently curving her lips. One of her hands curled around the wedding gift he had left here for her.

  He had placed it in the middle of their bed earlier today, festooned with silk ribbons: a new mandolin.

  His heart thudded against his ribs as he stood there, silent, watching her sleep. She looked so sweet, she reminded him of...

  He smiled at the thought. She reminded him of a princess in a troubadour’s tale, awaiting a kiss from her prince to awaken her.

  He unfastened the chain that held his ermine-lined mantle in place, let it slide from his shoulders, then shed his boots and belt and the rest of his garments.

  And when he lifted the covers and slipped into bed, he realized that she, too, wore naught but a smile. He moved closer, gently draped his arm around her waist to draw her against him, placed the lightest kiss on her shoulder.

  She stirred, sighing in her sleep, then shivered as the bristly hair of his chest touched her back and his bearded jaw tickled the nape of her neck. “Mmmmm...” Her lashes lifted. “Oh, saints’ breath... did I fall asleep?”

  “Aye, wife,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, inhaling deeply as he caught the intoxicating scent of her perfume.

  She tilted her head back with a drowsy sound of pleasure as he kissed his way along her throat. “I was waiting for you,” she murmured, “and then I decided to wash the bits of grain from my hair... and then I was just so... sleepy...”

  “Fear not, my love, you can stay just as you are for the moment. You do not even need to move.” He heard her breath catch as she felt his arousal nestling against the lush curve of her bottom. “I have no intention of leaving this bed for at least two days.” He nibbled at her earlobe.

  “Mayhap three,” she agreed with a soft moan.

  “And then we will find a creative use for the tub....”

  “And then in front of the fire?” she asked hopefully.

  “Definitely in front of the fire.”

  She lifted her hand from the mandolin to reach back and caress his stubbled cheek. “Thank you for the wedding gift, Royce,” she whispered sleepily. “Wherever did you get it?”

  “I left instructions with Landers before we left Thuringia. He picked it up at a little shop in Gavena that Karl and I are familiar with.”

  “It is beautiful.”

  “No more so than its owner.” He kissed her jaw.

  “But I do not have a gift for you.”

  Reaching across her, he set the mandolin on the floor. “I am sure you will think of something.”

  She grinned sleepily as he settled back beside her, as he slid his hand downward to press her hips against him. “Oh, aye,” she whispered. “Aye, I think I will. If I told you some of the dreams I have been having the past fortnight...”

  He groaned, his palm moving down her body in a long, slow caress. “No doubt they would match the ideas that have been running through my mind while I lay awake at night, in my guest chamber on the opposite side of the palace, thinking of you here... in bed...”

  “What sort of ideas?” she asked huskily.

  “Unspeakable ideas,” he growled, his hand stroking upward slowly, over h
er knee, her thigh, her hip. “I was contemplating another midnight raid through milady’s window, but I discovered one problem.” He lifted his head just long enough to shoot a glare at the thick panes of glass built into the window on the opposite wall. “Whoever designed this keep intended to make ravishing any damsels within damnably difficult.”

  She giggled, and laughter rumbled from deep in his chest as he brushed kisses through her hair, over her jaw, his arm circling her waist again. “Of course,” he added, “when we rebuild the keep at Ferrano, I will no doubt want to do the same, to protect our daughter.”

  “Our daughter?”

  He smiled, remembering the dream he had had in Gavena: of the two of them together, in front of the hearth at Ferrano, watching their children at play... a little girl with her mother’s eyes, and a dark-haired boy just learning to walk. “A daughter first, and then a son, I think.”

  “You are quite certain, my prince?”

  “It is just something that I”—he paused, tracing the curve of her mouth with his thumb—”wished. What is that secret little smile, wife?”

  “Oh, I was just”—she sighed, snuggling closer to him—”thinking.” She closed her eyes with a look of bliss as his hand moved downward again, over her flat belly, lower. “About how long it has been since that night, that first time you and I—”

  “Five weeks, four days, twenty-one hours, and fifteen minutes, more or less.” He nudged her thighs apart, moving his hips to position himself against her feminine heat. “Not that I have been keeping count.”

  His fingers glided into her silky curls, and he heard the soft music of her excitement as he stroked her.

  And then there were no more words. Only her yearning sighs and his deep groans as he pleasured and teased her with his touch, drawing out the anticipation, the tension until neither of them could bear it any longer.