He should have told the innkeeper and his assistants to take the hot bath away. The fire and the fur had clearly been enough to revive Ciara. She was in no danger.
But after all she had endured this day, he had found himself unable to deny her a few moments’...
Pleasure.
The word made his entire body go taut with strain. He realized he was sweating. The chamber that had seemed so cold just minutes ago now felt much too hot. Sultry. Confining.
Every splash of warm water caressing her naked skin made his heart beat harder. Each barely audible sigh that escaped her lips made his blood pound through his veins. He could not even draw a complete breath, longed to get up and pace—but that would mean turning around.
And seeing what he was hearing.
He grabbed a haunch of roast meat from his trencher and sank his teeth into it, struggling to remember that a great many lives depended on him doing what was right and honorable.
Including his own.
Wolfing down his meal, he resisted the urge to steal a glance over his shoulder... and tried to keep his mind off the large, soft bed in the corner.
At least the arrival of the tub had spared him one bit of torture: having Ciara tend his injuries. He had seen to his own cuts and bruises while she had prepared for her bath.
The thought of what her tender ministrations might have been like, of her fingers moving over his bare skin...
He gnawed the last bit of meat from the mutton bone, unable to forget the way she had looked at him when he had stripped off his tunic and turned to face her. The wonder in her gaze, and the unexpected, unmistakable arousal, had hit him like a punch to the gut, reminding him of the sweet, feminine passion he had tasted so briefly at Bayard’s castle.
The passion that he had no right to taste or to take.
“Royce?”
He almost choked on his food. “Aye?”
“Could you... mayhap hand me something to... to dry off with? Please?”
His heart thudded. Her tremulous voice revealed that she was just as affected as he was by the heat sizzling through the room.
His gaze slid to the stack of linens on the table to his left. He wished fervently that she had thought of this before getting into the tub. “Of course.”
He tried to say it casually, to act as if he had beautiful, naked women bathing within five paces of him every day.
Setting his trencher aside, he picked up some of the clean linens and moved as close to her as he dared, keeping his gaze averted. He placed them on the floor within her reach.
But he did not move away.
He heard her breath catch. For an instant, just one instant, he lingered there. Wishing...wanting...
Then he forced himself to reclaim his place before the hearth.
Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You are welcome.” He glared into the flames, felt beads of sweat slide down his temple, his neck, into the matted hair of his bare chest.
Neither of the tunics he had pilfered from the stable boys fit him, both too tight to get past his shoulders. He could only hope one of the garments would fit Ciara.
The wish became a prayer a moment later as he heard her stand. He had to shut his eyes to banish the image painted by the sounds: water sluicing off her naked body. The little rush of breath between her teeth as the night air touched her wet skin.
He imagined her nipples tightened to hard pearls, imagined them a perfect, dusky pink.
Next he heard the crunch of the rushes beneath her feet as she stepped from the tub. And the quiet rustling of the linen as she rubbed the soft cloth over her smooth, wet curves.
Then silence.
Every muscle in his body tightened. He remained still, not trusting himself to move. Knowing that if he so much as dared draw breath, he would have her in his arms and on the bed before either of them could say a word.
He blinked once, slowly. Waited.
“Royce?” she whispered tentatively.
“What?” His voice sounded rough and hollow.
She hesitated a moment. “What am I to wear?”
The chamber seemed to grow smaller and even hotter around him. He waved a hand over his shoulder, motioning her toward the corner near the door. “See if any of those fit you.”
He listened while she padded barefoot over to the pile of stolen garments. She could not put her ruined gown back on. The few bits of cloth left intact after their escape today had more or less shredded when she had disrobed for her bath. The task of getting undressed had apparently been difficult with her hands bandaged. And he had not dared to offer help.
Nor did he offer any now, as he listened to her wrestling with the homespun garments in an attempt to fit them over her curves.
She made a sound of frustration. “I do not think these will work. My hips are too... and my... my...”
He did not need an explanation. His imagination provided a complete, vivid picture.
Gritting his teeth, he whispered an oath and flicked a glance heavenward. Was it not enough that he had to spend the next few days alone with her in this room? Did she have to be as naked as Eve the entire time?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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Bonus Content: Sneak Preview Excerpt from the upcoming revised edition of FALCON ON THE WIND (Historical Romance, a prequel to the Stolen Brides Series)
Dear Reader,
I’m working on an all-new edition of my first novel, revising it from first page to last. The upcoming second edition of Falcon on the Wind will feature special bonus content, including deleted scenes never before published.
Set in 1295, five years before Forever His takes place, Falcon on the Wind introduces us to a charming scoundrel named Gaston de Varennes for the first time, when he offers refuge to a friend who’s on a dangerous secret mission.
Enjoy this exclusive, advanced sneak peek of the novel-in-progress, as our hero and heroine, Connor and Laurien, meet for the first time.
“A compelling, memorable romance. Shelly Thacker’s Falcon on the Wind joins the ranks of the finest medieval captive/captor stories along with those by Elizabeth Stuart and Johanna Lindsey. A new star of medieval romance is on the rise. 4 1/2 stars (highest rating).” Kathe Robin, Romantic Times
Falcon on the Wind
Kidnapped from her royal wedding—by her groom’s most dangerous enemy
Betrayed by a treacherous French ally, Sir Connor of Glenshiel kidnaps the knave’s betrothed, heiress Laurien d’Amboise, from the steps of Chartres Cathedral on her wedding day. She is a hostage to be bartered for the freedom of Connor’s beloved Scotland—but the clever, defiant lady has plans of her own. From a besieged French castle to the Scottish Highlands, they’re swept up in dangerous secrets, wild adventure, and a love to last a lifetime.
Chartres, France, 1295
Connor nodded toward the wedding party assembled in the courtyard. “I wonder what causes the delay.”
From their vantage point near the gate’s barbican tower, he and Malcolm had a clear view of the proceedings. De Villiers had appeared and mounted his white horse. Then, when there had been no sign of his bride, he had gone back inside the chateau. A short time later the comte reappeared, and now stood talking quietly to his guards.
“Mayhap the lady has reconsidered,” Malcolm ventured.
“Reconsidered? A lofty position as wife to the king’s own cousin? Jewels? A life of comfort and ease? Any female would give her front teeth for...Wait.” Connor tensed. “There she is.”
Clad in a fitted blue-and-white gown and ermine-lined mantle, de Villiers’s bride stepped into the courtyard, walking unescorted toward the waiting horses. As Connor watched her move, a low whistle of appreciation escaped him. ’Twould have been a sin to keep curves like that locked away in a musty convent, hidden under a nun’s habit.
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Gliding through the crowd, a wisp of softness and silk, she stood out among the glittering nobles like a graceful angel among gaudy statues.
Connor frowned, wondering where that poetic thought had come from. Verse did not number among his talents.
The lady’s throat and cheeks were hidden beneath a tightly wrapped wimple, her hair draped in a veil, and he caught only a glimpse of delicate features. She stopped when a quartet of burly guardsmen surrounded her, but met their gazes squarely. She did not demurely lower her eyes, did not curtsy to anyone—even to her betrothed. When one guard offered to lift her onto her tall bay mare, she refused his extended hand, took the reins herself and mounted in a single fluid motion.
“Pray correct me if this is a mistaken impression,” Malcolm said, “but she does not seem like the timid, docile sort.”
“I may have been wrong on that score,” Connor agreed warily. “But how much trouble could one woman be?”
De Villiers stood staring at his bride for a long moment, and she returned the look. From where Connor watched, he could not make out her expression. Finally, the comte mounted his horse and motioned to his guards. The party moved toward the street and the impatient throngs.
Connor turned to Malcolm. “’Tis time. Away, quickly. And remember, if I dinna arrive within the hour—”
“I am off to Calais, aye. Alba gu brath!” Malcolm maneuvered his dun-colored nag toward a side street.
“Alba gu brath! For Scotland!” Connor’s jaw hardened. “And for Galen.”
He turned his black stallion and headed into the crowd.
~ ~ ~
A breeze cooled Laurien’s face, chilling the sweat that trickled down her back and under her arms as the wedding party rode through the chateau gates. The air was cold, but she felt as though she were suffocating, her fur-lined cloak an unbearable weight on her shoulders. Guards positioned along the route held back the cheering crowds as she passed into the street. She heard naught but the clop, clop, clop of her horse’s hooves on the dirt, felt naught but the slow thud of her own heart.
The autumn sun glinted on gold and jewels as the long line of horses moved through the crowd, a stream of silk-clad ladies in purple and green and red, and knights in clinking chain mail. Laurien rode in the middle of the procession, boxed in by guards on either side, one in front, and one behind. Her numbed mind wondered why they rode in this unusual arrangement, rather than two before and two behind. She watched her betrothed at the head of the line.
De Villiers had that false smile in place as he regarded the crowds, waving occasionally, glancing over his shoulder now and then to fasten those black eyes on her. Laurien stared blankly at him, at the scene about her, feeling as if she had become only a player in someone else’s strange dream.
They passed tiny buildings, clustered about the edge of the chateau like children clinging to their mother’s skirt. She looked across a sea of haggard faces, open mouths with missing teeth forming a soundless, gaping O as the spectacle moved past. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared, filled with... What was that look? Jealousy? Envy?
They would not envy her so, Laurien thought, if ever they chanced to spend a few moments alone with the comte in his chambers.
The procession passed into the marketplace at the town’s center, and the sea of peasants went on, all clothed in gray fustian or sackcloth colored with yellow and green vegetable dyes. Pilgrims dotted the crowd in their hooded brown cloaks and wooden cross necklaces. She knew Chartres and its cathedral was a popular destination—many did not want the risk and expense of a trip to the Holy Land. But she had never seen so many pilgrims in one place.
And there were children everywhere. Some stood on upturned carts, others sat on their parents’ shoulders for a better view. One little girl, wailing, caught Laurien’s attention. She had apparently hurt her knee, but her father quickly scooped her up and cuddled her, kissing away her tears. Then he kissed her knee, as if to take away the pain.
Laurien swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, wondering what it was like to have such a loving father. To know that feeling, even for a moment, she would gladly trade places with a peasant girl.
The passage narrowed on the way out of the market and the wedding party squeezed through a street of timber-framed hovels, where more onlookers leaned out of windows. The air seemed to grow thick with the smells of roast meat, spilled ale, and the refuse that lined the streets. She tugged at the gold chain fastening her mantle, wanting to throw it off, trying to breathe. The movement only made her painfully aware of the bruises around her throat.
The cathedral loomed before her.
They approached from a hill to the east, and the midday sun shone through the huge windows, making the luminous reds and blues and violets seem to dance. She had read much about what many said was France’s most beautiful cathedral—but at the moment, she could not recall a single fact from her history texts. Inside that church her fate would be sealed.
They were close enough now that she could see the outlines of the statues above the doors.
A sudden commotion made her glance to her right. A lone rider mounted on a tall black stallion was jostling for position on a side street, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space between buildings. He wore the brown cloak and wooden cross of a pilgrim, but something made the milling throng give way around him.
He quieted his horse, looked up—and Laurien immediately understood why the crowd had given him a wide berth.
He looked like some kind of brigand. Dangerous. The sort of man who should be brawling in an alehouse somewhere or doing violence in a dark alley. From his muscular frame to the scar that slashed along his left cheekbone, white against his tanned skin, he was almost alarmingly... male. And menacing. A thatch of blond hair tangled over his forehead, and he had a slightly darker beard, but neither softened the hard angles of his face. Despite his garb, he did not look at all like a penitent worshipper on a holy quest.
He looked like an outlaw intent on stealing something.
And he must be the boldest of thieves, she thought, if he meant to steal jewels from any of the nobles in the wedding procession.
But then, he was not watching the procession, she realized suddenly.
He was watching her.
Every instinct urged her to glance away, her heart beating harder, but his gaze held hers fast. He studied her, his eyes the most vibrant blue she had ever seen, blue like the sheer glass of the cathedral windows, eyes that held a look of... unyielding determination. And somehow, though she wore no gems of any kind, she sensed that all of his fierce determination was directed at her. An unfamiliar and unsettling sensation flashed through her body, searing her as if she had stepped too close to a fire.
One of the guards noticed her stare and broke out of line to question the man. But when Laurien craned her neck to watch what happened, she saw that the rider had melted away into the crowd.
The odd encounter with the outlaw shattered her grim mood. Clearly, de Villiers did not dominate everyone in this city. The thought made her sit taller in the saddle, the anger and fear she had felt earlier flooding back. She would not give her betrothed the opportunity to subject her to any further abuse.
As long as she had a horse under her and her wits about her, she had a chance.
The comte stood in front of the cathedral doors, already greeting the priest. She would have to be quick. If she could break out of the procession and push her way through the crowd, she could be away before any would have a chance to react. She would ride to Tours, to Sister Emeline. Betrothals could be broken. They would find a way. She had to get away from here, from him.
She looked again at the four guards surrounding her. Realized now why they were there: not to protect her, but to keep her in. She could kick one, grab his reins. Nay, these men-at-arms would be more than able to fend off her attack. She would need to think of something...
Her aumoniere.
Laurien wore an embroidered bag at her waist to ca
rry alms for the poor, as was the custom among nuns and noble ladies alike. But her purse held more than coins. It also held a small silver blade, with a glimmering emerald in the hilt and an inscription in ancient lettering. The knife had once belonged to her father—her real father.
’Twas all she had of him, and she kept it close, always.
Her hand moved to the bag hanging from the silken rope that girdled her waist. She felt the outline of sharp metal.
Stabbing the guard would not work, but she could nick his horse. She did not want to hurt the animal, but if she could just make it rear, mayhap toss its rider, she would have an open path to freedom. It was her only chance.
She started to open the bag and slip her hand inside when she heard a surprised shout on her right that rippled through the crowd. She turned, and what she saw stopped her breath.
She froze in shock as the blond outlaw on the huge black stallion came charging straight toward her.
The guards at her side spun their mounts to face the thief a moment too late. He plunged out of the crowd, caught her around the waist with one muscular arm.
And plucked her right out of the saddle.
Laurien screamed as she felt herself snatched into the air and pulled in tight against the brigand’s side. The crowd scattered with cries of terror. From the direction of the cathedral she heard a roar like that of an animal pierced by a huntsman’s blade.
The blond madman shifted her to an awkward position over his lap, and she could see stunned faces watching as the stallion bolted toward a side street. One of the guards managed to wheel his mount and block their path, his weapon ready. She heard the metallic ring of a sword being pulled free of its scabbard.
The horse reared, and she screamed again as she heard the clash of steel on steel just above her head. After only four thrusts, the guard was gripping a bloody wound and they were racing down the street. Behind them she heard another bellow that could only be de Villiers, then the sound of many hooves pounding after them. Terrified peasants flattened themselves against buildings as the horse thundered past.
Timeless Page 33
