The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch

by Shelly Thacker

  The stonemasons had finished it only days ago, after four months of work. They had affixed a small brass cross to mark where Christophe …

  A sob escaped her, welling up from a place so deep, it seemed to come from the very center of her heart. Or what was left of her heart.

  Looking at the bailey as it was now, she could almost believe that the castle had never been touched by war. That she and her father had not been captured by the enemy, had never spent a month as prisoners in their own palace.

  That no lives had been lost here.

  She rubbed at her eyes, letting her garnet-studded crown slip from her fingers. She had no tears left to cry. The grounds below looked so peaceful now, every stone restored to the way it had once been. Every drop of blood scoured clean.

  But there was no way to change what had happened. No denying the truth of what her father had shouted at her when told of his only son’s death: she was in part to blame for what had happened.

  And she had no escape from the destiny that had been decided for her.

  A knock sounded at the door. Startled, she glanced toward the thick oak portal that separated the spacious meeting chamber from the great hall. Then she turned her back and remained silent, deciding to ignore the summons. No one could know she was here. She had not lit the torches that flanked the door, or the fire in the hearth. And she had locked the door behind her, wanting to be alone this night.

  For this was the last night she would spend here, in the only home she had ever known.

  “Princess?” a soft feminine voice called. The knock sounded again, as insistent as the woman’s tone. “Princess? Are you in there?”

  Ciara sighed, recognizing that voice. Normally, she would not respond to an intrusion by a servant, but she knew that any hope of solitude was finished now that her lady’s maid had set out to find her. Miriam knew all her favorite hiding places. And she would be as relentless as a mother hen rounding up a lost chick.

  Setting her book down beside the flickering candle, leaving her crown in the rushes, Ciara rose and crossed the vast chamber. She threw the bolt and pulled on the heavy iron ring, opening the door just a crack. Just enough to admit a slice of light and music and mingled spicy aromas that poured in from the great hall—gingered rabbit and steamed cinnamon custard and pheasant roasted with violets. The sounds and scents of a grand feast.

  Of her betrothal party.

  “Good eventide, Miriam.” Ciara blinked in the brightness.

  Miriam dropped into a deep curtsy. “I should have known this was where you would be.” Rising, she smiled, her expression, like her voice, gentle and concerned. Her generous height put her eye to eye with Ciara, and though she was eight years older, she could pass for the same age. But the similarities between them ended there, for Miriam was blond and strikingly beautiful. “Nose-deep in a book, no doubt?”

  Nodding, Ciara stepped back from the entrance to admit the serving woman. “Did my father send you to find me?”

  Miriam hesitated for a telltale moment. “Well, he … that is—”

  “Nay, do not lie to save my feelings,” Ciara said tonelessly, turning away. The less her father saw her of late, the happier he was.

  His shouted accusations still rang out in her memory. If you had not been so stubborn, if you had heeded my wishes, if you had listened to Christophe, if …

  If. The word had been like a dagger in her heart for four months.

  “Your Highness …” Closing the door, Miriam followed her into the chamber. “It is his majesty’s many concerns of state that have kept him from you these past weeks. The negotiations with Thuringia, the signing of the peace accord, the repairs to the palace …”

  And he has not forgiven me, Ciara thought, reclaiming her place beside the solar’s huge stained-glass window. He will never forgive me.

  Nodding, saying naught, she ran one hand over the worn stone of the window seat. It seemed much smaller than it had when she was a child.

  When she was four, after her mother had died in childbirth, her father used to spend hours with her here. Sometimes cuddling her in his lap. Sometimes telling her stories or performing magic tricks.

  Sometimes simply holding her while she cried.

  A single tear formed on her lashes. She and her father had gradually grown distant over the years, as she had grown from child to young woman.

  And now it was clear that Christophe’s death had built a wall between them that could not be crossed.

  “I am sure you are right, Miriam,” she whispered, blinking the dampness away. “He has many concerns that require his attention. Especially the plans for my departure on the morrow. My wedding to Prince Daemon.”

  Her gaze fell to her gold coronet gleaming on the floor. Daemon had demanded her hand as part of the terms of surrender. Royal advisors on both sides of the border had agreed that their marriage would be the best way to seal the fragile new peace agreement. Ciara had not been consulted.

  But she had offered no resistance.

  “Your Highness …” Miriam started to say something more, then held her tongue and turned away, moving to the unlit hearth. “Do you not find it rather cold in here, Princess Ciara?” she asked lightly. “You must take care not to fall ill. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

  “Aye, we have,” Ciara replied numbly. Miriam was being prudent, remembering her place, as a proper servant should.

  Staring at her discarded crown, Ciara thought of how often the royal tutors had scolded her for forgetting her place. A princess, they had lectured endlessly, must be regal and dignified and proper at all times. A shining example for her subjects to follow.

  But she had never felt particularly shiny. And tonight more than ever, she longed to be a woman like any other, free of royal rules and restrictions.

  Free to confess how frightened and inadequate and alone she felt.

  Glancing up, she realized that Miriam had returned to her side. The older woman was waiting to speak until spoken to. As was proper.

  “Miriam?”

  “Your Highness …” Miriam reached out as if to place a comforting hand on Ciara’s shoulder, then stopped herself.

  Ciara swallowed hard, reminded again that her place set her apart and above, isolated from everyone around her. Even Miriam.

  By law, commoners were forbidden to touch her royal person.

  Miriam clasped her hands in front of her and glanced toward the door, as if to make sure it was still closed, that they were still alone. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Your Highness, I have served you for six years now, and I care a great deal about your happiness. I wish you to know that you do not have to do this.”

  “Take part in the betrothal celebration?” Ciara looked at the door with a sigh. She could still hear the merry music of harps and drums and viols on the other side. “Nay, I should return to the festivities. I have been gone more than an hour.”

  “Princess, I do not speak of the betrothal celebration. I speak of your marriage to Prince Daemon.”

  Ciara’s head snapped around. “What?”

  “Everyone has been talking of the peace accord. There are … rumors.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “Of loyal subjects who wish to fight on,” Miriam whispered quickly. “Of men who are making plans even now.”

  God’s breath, it could not be true! Ciara sat up sharply. “Nay, Daemon would crush them. He would kill every last man at the first sign of rebellion. And punish their women and children in the bargain. What could they hope to …” Her racing thoughts calmed just as quickly. “Miriam, you know there are always rumors in the palace. They fly about and then evaporate like mountain mist in a strong wind.”

  “Aye, Your Highness. And I have no evidence that this is aught more than male bluster. But if it is true …” She cast another nervous look at the door. “I could spirit you out of the castle. Now. This night. You need not marry Prince Daemon. You need not leave Châlons at all.”

  Ci
ara gaped at her in shock. Escape? The possibility dangled before her like a sparkling gem on a golden chain, urging her to reach out and take it.

  But after a moment, she slowly shook her head, her decision unchanged. “It is for the good of Châlons and my subjects that I go. Our people have been strained to their limits. Our supplies are low. Our knights are exhausted”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“and the king is undone with grief.” She shut her eyes tightly. “We cannot fight on. Under the circumstances, we should be grateful that Prince Daemon’s terms were lenient.”

  “But, Your Highness, have you not heard the tales of Daemon’s greed? His ruthlessness? It is said that he had his own mistress stripped and beaten to death in front of his men when she pilfered but a few coins from him.”

  “Aye, I have heard.” Ciara shuddered at the frightening image, one of many that had haunted both her waking hours and her nightmares. A year ago, when she had heard of that particular bit of cruelty, she had pitied Daemon’s poor victim, pitied any woman who fell into his clutches.

  Never realizing that she would soon be one of them. His bride. Bound to him for the rest of her life.

  She stood abruptly. Miriam rose with her, dipping into a curtsy.

  Ciara paced into the darkness of the room and back again, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. It was not the lack of a fire on the hearth that caused a deep chill to settle over her.

  She returned to the window, looking out into the night, searching for something solid to hold on to. Something to strengthen her resolve.

  Her gaze fell on the newly repaired curtain wall. The bronze cross gleaming in the moonlight. And she remembered her brother’s last words to her.

  I swear that Châlons will know peace and freedom once more.

  It was up to her to make his final wish come true. She pressed her hand against the glass as if she could reach up to Heaven and touch his face.

  For you, Christophe. For you.

  “My brother,” she said at last, fighting to keep her voice steady, “gave his life for his country, Miriam. Compared to that, is my sacrifice so great?” She stared down at the single candle she had lit. “After seven years of war, peace has come at last to our kingdom … and this marriage is mayhap the only way to secure it. To end all the suffering and death, to forge a lasting bond between Châlons and Thuringia. As my father pointed out, our children—”

  Her and Daemon’s children, she thought with a sickening lurch of her stomach.

  “—will one day rule both countries as one.” She could feel the darkness of the chamber closing in around her, like the black embrace of an unseen demon. “I have no choice.”

  Both of them fell into a long silence.

  Miriam broke it first, in a shameless breach of etiquette, her voice choked with emotion. “You are very brave, Princess Ciara.”

  Ciara closed her eyes, knowing she did not deserve the praise. She was not brave. Not at all. At the moment, she was thankful Miriam stood no nearer—else she would surely hear Ciara’s heart pounding.

  But she must not think of herself, of her own fears … or her own happiness. She must fulfill her duty. Her responsibility.

  For the first time in her life, she must live up to the title of princess.

  “At least the journey will be enjoyable,” Ciara said, turning to face her lady’s maid, trying to muster some of her usual optimism. “When the wedding procession leaves at dawn, it will be the first time I have been allowed to venture beyond the palace since the war began. I will at last have the chance to see the world that I have only been able to read about since I was twelve.” She gestured toward her book.

  “Indeed, Your Highness,” Miriam said warmly. “And mayhap we will find that Prince Daemon has changed. Thus far, he has been true to his word. You and the king were well treated during your imprisonment. And his mercenaries have been withdrawn from our lands.”

  “Mayhap victory has made him chivalrous.” Ciara nodded, trying to believe it. “But as you said, Miriam, we’ve a long journey ahead of us on the morrow. I must have some sleep this night, if I am to look my best.” To please my father, she added to herself. “Go and tell Alcina to prepare my chamber. I would say my farewells to the guests and seek my bed anon.”

  Miriam dipped into a low curtsy. “All will be well, Princess Ciara. I am certain of it.” With her blond head bowed, Ciara could not make out her expression in the darkness, but as she rose, Ciara caught the glimmer of tears in those blue eyes. “I will remember you in my prayers tonight, milady. Good eventide.”

  She left to carry out Ciara’s instructions, thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

  Ciara remained where she was a moment, touched by Miriam’s concern. Then she bent down to pick up the slim volume she had left in the corner. It fell open to a well-worn page, a favorite poem by Marie de France called “The Nightingale.” The gilt letters glistened eerily in the moonlight.

  Drops of blood ran down and spread

  Over the bodice of her dress.

  He left her alone in her distress.

  Weeping, she held the bird and thought

  With bitter rage of those who brought

  The nightingale to death, betrayed

  By all the hidden traps they laid …

  Straightening, Ciara paused a moment, running her fingers over the familiar lines, words that spoke of intrigue and betrayal. She wondered whether she should tell someone of the rumor Miriam had mentioned. Of the rebels who might be plotting some sort of mad counterattack against Daemon. The tale might be mere rumor. False. Harmless.

  Or it might be true.

  Closing the book, she decided to mention it to Sir Braden, one of her father’s most trusted advisers, on the morrow before she left. He would know what to make of it. Leaning down, she blew out the candle she had lit.

  She was halfway to the door when she realized she had left her coronet behind. Turning with a whispered oath, she went back to the window, knelt down, and started fishing through the rushes for it.

  When her fingers finally encountered the slim, jewel-studded circlet, she realized it had gotten dented when she dropped it. “By all the saints,” she muttered under her breath, trying to bend the rim back into shape. “Now Father will think me careless as well as—”

  A sound on the far side of the chamber startled her and she froze.

  Turning only her head, she peered into the blackness, almost certain she had heard the door open. But the chamber remained utterly dark, silent. It must have been a mouse scrabbling through the ancient walls. Surely no one would dare enter the king’s solar without knocking. “Is someone there?”

  No one answered. And she could see no movement in the darkness.

  But even as she rose, even as she told herself she was being foolish, she heard the sound again—and ‘twas no mouse.

  “Who are you?” she cried, backing away until her spine came up against the hard stone of the wall. “I demand that you answer me!”

  “Do not fear, milady.”

  It was a male voice. Quiet. Rasping. The accent was that of an uneducated peasant. Her heart slowed. It must be some servant from the feast. Mayhap the knave was inebriated and looking for a garderobe. “Do you realize where you are, sirrah? You have wandered into the king’s solar.”

  He did not reply.

  And she heard him moving closer.

  Her heart started to pound again. Faster. He stood between her and the door. The only exit. And she could still hear music being played in the great hall.

  So loud that no one would hear her if she screamed.

  “Heed me well, whoever you may be,” she snapped, forcing any hint of fear from her voice, “do you have any idea who I am?”

  “Aye, Princess.”

  Icy claws of fear sank into her middle. Her thoughts started to race. She slid along the wall, away from the window, into the shadows. What should she do?

  “I am sorry for the intrusion, Your Highness,” he murmured in that gra
vel-rough voice, only a few paces from her now, close enough that she could make out his burly shape.

  “What do you want?” She felt behind her for a truncheon, a weapon. Something. Anything.

  All she had was the slender book in one hand and the dented crown in her other.

  He was almost upon her. “I am not going to hurt you. I give you my word.”

  Ciara darted past him, drawing breath to scream. But he was faster.

  He caught her and pinned her to the wall, covering her mouth with one beefy hand.

  “I am sorry, Princess.” His breath felt hot on her cheek. “But trying to make peace with Daemon is like trying to make peace with the plague. If we give him the chance, he will kill us all anon. We cannot allow this marriage to take place. And there can be no wedding … if there is no bride.”

  Ciara’s lungs burned for air. Her mind screamed in denial. He meant to kill her.

  She struggled against him, fighting with all her strength.

  He raised his other hand, revealing a long knife that shone silver-bright in the moonlight. “Your Highness—”

  Some instinct burst through her confusion. With a quick twist of her hand, she turned the spiky top of her coronet toward him—and jabbed it into his side.

  He cried out in surprise and pain, releasing her mouth for one crucial instant.

  “Help me!” Ciara shouted, pushing him off with a furious shove, lunging toward the door. “Someone help—”

  He was upon her before she could run two paces. One powerful hand caught her by the shoulder and spun her around. Screaming, she struck out at him, then saw the blade in his other hand. She flung up her arm to ward it off.

  And felt the knife bite into her, sharp and shocking, felt it slice through skin and muscle. Felt her own blood, hot as fire as it flowed down her arm.

  Then her legs crumpled beneath her and she was falling, blinded and deafened by terror as the rush-strewn floor raced up to meet her. Some part of her mind was distantly aware of the door opening, light spilling into the room, someone shouting her name … the sound strangely faint, as if it came from far away.

  And then blackness darkened the world and she knew no more.