The shutters had not been smashed from outside but unlocked and opened from the inside. He realized, too, that the bedclothes had been neatly tucked in place—not left rumpled, as they would be if she had been snatched from her sleep.
And her boots and the garments he had bought her were missing.
He stalked to the window, already filled with dread.
It was market day, the streets jammed with peasants and peddlers shouting their wares, housewives and servants haggling over bargains, beggars pleading for alms. As he stared into the crowd, fear tore at his heart. Ciara could be anywhere.
What could have possessed her to venture out in such a throng? Had the woman lost her senses?
Did she not remember that there were men out there who sought to kill her?
Ice trickled down his spine. “By nails and blood, Ciara,” he choked out under his breath, already turning to grab his homespun cloak and his weapons. “Where the devil are you?”
Muttering every curse he knew, he returned to the window, wondering whether any woman could possibly make it more difficult for a man to protect her. He pulled himself up onto the sill and leaped out.
An hour later, he was still searching the streets and alleyways, stopping at every stall and shop. He had begun his search in those establishments offering musical instruments and books for sale, but he had found no trace of her.
What else would Ciara have been tempted to buy? Stepping out of a perfumer’s workshop, he squinted in the bright light and moved into the bustling street, his pulse unsteady.
She could have been found by those searching for her.
She might be dead already.
Shoving that possibility to the back of his mind, he pushed through the throng, heading back toward the inn, praying every step of the way. Mayhap she had merely gone out for a moment and returned. And he would find her waiting for him, sitting on the bed, smiling at her own audacity, eyes sparkling with delight over her adventure.
If so, she would be treated to the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.
Before he kissed her breathless.
Mayhap after he kissed her breathless.
He hurried past fishmongers offering the latest catch from mountain streams, women struggling to balance laden baskets on one hip and babies on the other, peddlers extolling the virtues of their spices, fabrics, dyes, candles, or meat pies. Rounding the last corner, he came to the street where the inn was located. He almost reached their room when he noticed a shop he had not seen earlier: a tiny place with no sign to advertise its wares—only a single mandolin displayed by the door.
Of course. If Ciara had peeked out their window and seen that, she would have found it impossible to resist. Royce headed straight for the shop and darted through the door.
Inside, he found the proprietor seated at his worktable amid a clutter of tools and wood, already engaged in a discussion with another customer, a well-dressed man who stood with his back to Royce.
“… and you would have marked her appearance,” the customer was saying. “She is tall and most fair, her hair reddish brown, her eyes a pale gold like …”
Royce froze, his every muscle clenched taut just as the man turned to look at him while finishing his sentence.
“… topaz.”
Their gazes locked across the scant paces that separated them. Royce’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. A rebel. He did not recognize the blue-eyed, sandy-haired stranger—but did the man recognize him?
Was this one of the four who had been at the cliff? One of the traitors who had tried to kill him and Ciara in the avalanche?
“You are looking for someone?” he asked, trying to sound merely curious, helpful.
“I am,” the fair-haired man replied with equal caution.
Royce saw no light of recognition in those eyes. And something else gave him hope: if the rebels were still searching the town, asking questions, it meant they did not have Ciara.
“Mayhap I can help you,” he offered.
“Indeed, good sir?”
Royce managed a rakish smile. “I am well acquainted with the women of this town.”
“The lady I seek is not from this part of Châlons.”
“Oh?”
The man had a height and build similar to his own, Royce noted, but looked several years younger. Experience might give him the advantage in a fight.
“She is the daughter of my liege lord, and has run away from a marriage she does not wish.” The sandy-haired rebel moved away from the table. Royce noted that he kept his hand on his sword. “We have been sent to bring her home.”
“We?”
“My comrades and I.”
Comrades. Royce wanted to spit in disgust. Traitors. Assassins. He kept his expression bland. “Mayhap you could describe her.” And mayhap you could tell me how many “comrades” you have and where they are.
“Gentlemen, please.” The mandolin maker rose from his seat, his eyes darting from one to the other, his fingers nervously turning the small hammer in his hands. “Would you prefer to discuss this matter outside? I have already told you, sir, that I have never seen this lady you seek.”
That piece of information was most helpful, Royce thought, his gut tightening into a knot. Ciara had not been in this shop.
So where in the name of all that was holy was she? Safely in their room?
Or in the hands of one of this man’s “comrades”?
The rebel never took his gaze from Royce’s. “I thank you for your help, sirrah,” he said to the proprietor. “So sorry to have interrupted your work.” He nodded toward the door. “Mayhap this would be best discussed outside.”
“Aye,” Royce agreed, with a smile he hoped was more friendly than feral. He politely gestured for the stranger to precede him.
The younger man hesitated, just for an instant.
Then he stepped past him and out the exit.
Which allowed Royce to fall in close behind him. They had barely cleared the doorway when he pressed a small, sharp knife into the rebel’s back.
“Do not call for help,” he said with soft menace. “This blade will spill your guts in the street before you finish the first word.”
The man froze. “What do you want?”
“I want you to keep your hands where I can see them. And keep walking.” He nudged him with the point of the knife. “Toward that alley.”
They reached the dark space between buildings in only a few steps. Once within the shadows, Royce disarmed his opponent and shoved him away. When the young fool spun to face him, he lifted the point of the man’s own blade to his throat.
“I congratulate you on the excellent condition of your weapon.” He pressed it closer, drew a bead of blood. “It is very sharp. Possibly sharp enough to take a man’s head off in a single stroke.”
The young rebel wisely remained absolutely still, hands raised, gaze on the sword. “Who are you?”
“I think you already know the answer to that. I am not going to waste time playing games.”
“If it is money you want—”
“Do not pretend ignorance with me, you traitorous bastard. The only reason you are still alive is because you may be able to provide answers to a few questions. Starting with how many comrades are here in town with you.”
“It seems there has been some misunderstanding. I do not know what you—”
He lost the rest of his sentence in a gasp of alarm as Royce backed him into the wall. Shifting the blade to press the long edge against the rebel’s throat, Royce lifted the small knife he still held, positioning it beneath the young man’s ear.
“How many?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “And where might I find them?”
“Threatening me will avail you naught. I can reveal nothing. I took an oath.”
“How unfortunate for you.” He moved the knife upward.
“Wait! You are making a mistake, I tell you. It is all a misunderstanding. Our … our intentions are peaceful—”
&
nbsp; “Truly? Mine are not.” Royce smiled humorlessly. It was amazing how quickly a man could spout creative lies when his life teetered on the edge of a sharp blade. “Now tell me what I want to know before I carve you a new face.”
“Karl!”
The shout came from the end of the alley. Royce glanced over his shoulder.
And found one of the rebel’s comrades running toward them, sword in hand.
Royce turned on his heel and yanked Karl in front of him, keeping the sword at his throat. “Back away or this one dies!”
That stopped the other man—a strapping blond warrior with a longbow slung across his back.
“Back away,” Royce repeated, moving toward the end of the alley, keeping Karl in front of him as a shield.
“Kill him and you will not leave here alive,” the bowman replied coolly. “Your life is not particularly important to us.”
“What a surprise. I am so deeply hurt.”
“We only wish to speak with you.” The man made no move that would get his friend killed. “That is all we wanted in the mountain pass.”
“Before or after you started the avalanche?” Royce kept backing toward the street, toward freedom.
“Landers is telling you the truth,” Karl said. “If you would listen—”
“And wait here for the rest of your ‘comrades’ to arrive? I think not.” Royce was only a few paces from the crowds. He prepared to release Karl, planning to shove him forward into his friend and run. “Now, I hate to cut this pleasant rendezvous short, but I—”
He heard the sound behind him a second too late.
Recognized the thunk of a crossbow being fired at the same instant he felt the razor-sharp point of the steel-tipped bolt bury itself in his right arm.
He shouted in pain and rage as agony shot through his muscles. He lost his hold on the sword. And on Karl.
He stumbled backward, into the crowd, clutching at his blood-soaked arm, and turned to see his attacker rushing toward him, still holding the crossbow. With the snarl of a wounded, cornered animal, Royce drew his own sword with his left hand.
The throng around them erupted in screams and scattered in every direction.
Just as Ciara stuck her head out the window of their room a few yards away.
“Royce!” Her gaze on his wounded arm, she leaped from the window, heedless of her own danger.
“Nay!” he shouted at her. “Run!”
It was too late. The rebels had already seen her.
Karl and Landers rushed toward her. Royce whipped another knife from his boot, flung it with all his strength—and sent Landers tumbling into the dirt.
He turned to face his third opponent even as Karl reached Ciara. She screamed in fright.
But the third man was already on him, swinging the crossbow like a war hammer, aiming a blow to the head that Royce barely managed to dodge. He hit the ground and rolled clear of the next blow, shouting in agony as the crossbow bolt in his arm snapped off, the point driven deeper.
Burning in a haze of pain and fury, he kicked out savagely with one booted foot as his attacker closed in, landing a vicious strike to the man’s groin, sending him to his knees. Ciara was shouting for him, mayhap fighting for her life.
With no time to spare, he lunged to his feet, grabbed the crossbow, and smashed the rebel over the head with it, knocking him unconscious. He turned toward Ciara.
Karl was trying to subdue her, wrestling to keep his hold on her—until she jammed her elbow into his gullet and stomped sharply downward with her heel. Right onto the top of his foot.
Karl howled in pain, taken by surprise just long enough to let her go. Long enough for Ciara to remember the third part of her training.
She ran for all she was worth. Straight toward Royce.
He grabbed her hand and raced down the street, dodging through the crowds, not pausing to look back and see if Karl was following, if Landers or the other man had recovered enough to give chase.
They ran until she was struggling for breath, until he felt dizzy from loss of blood and the pain in his arm. Unable to go any further, he led her into a thatched-roof stable behind a small house and sank down in the hay, leaning back against the daub-and-wattle wall, gasping for air.
She dropped to her knees next to him, her voice tremulous. “Royce, you are hurt.”
“I know that,” he said dryly, grimacing as he glanced down at his blood-soaked sleeve. The broken wooden shaft of the thick crossbow bolt protruded from his upper arm, the point buried deep in the muscle.
“Oh, Royce.” She touched his shoulder gingerly, tears in her eyes. “I am sorry! This is all my fault. I was gone only a few minutes, but when I returned you were not there, and I wanted to go and search for you, but I knew you would not want me to leave again and—”
“Ciara,” he breathed, struggling to think clearly through the pain and dizziness. “You can explain later. We have to buy a horse and get out of here before they find us.”
“But they know we are here and they know we are going toward Mount Ravensbruk. How can we hope to lose them?”
Royce stared hard at her. How indeed could he hope to lose the rebels now?
How could he keep her safe—especially with his sword arm injured?
There was only one answer.
“They think we are going to Mount Ravensbruk, milady,” he said, barely able to believe he was saying the words aloud even as he heard them. “Our destination has just changed.”
Chapter 14
“Sweet Mary,” Ciara whispered, gazing down at the destroyed castle in the valley far below, a light spring breeze tangling her hair. “Royce, this is your home, isn’t it? This is Ferrano.”
She did not know what made her guess, whether the vast size of the ruined stronghold or the fact that Royce’s mood had grown increasingly somber with each passing hour as they had traveled south.
When they had left Gavena last night, he had said only that he intended to take her somewhere safe. After she had tended his wounded arm, they had used the last of their coin to purchase the best horse they could find—a finely boned, dappled gray mare, smaller than Anteros but swift and used to the mountain trails. She had carried them both all day without flagging.
Now they had halted at the top of a rise, Ciara still perched in the saddle, Royce dismounted beside her, holding the reins. They watched as the setting sun broke through the clouds overhead to bathe the deserted fortress below in fiery shades of red and gold.
“Aye,” Royce replied at last, his voice strained. “This is—was my home.”
He tugged on the reins and led the horse forward, down the gentle slope that flowed into a wide, shallow vale.
The castle dominated the broad expanse of land between two peaks, blocking what would have otherwise been an easy passage into Châlons for any force coming from the east. Ciara could make out an enormous keep surrounded by mural towers, in the center of a labyrinth of walls and gates, fortified bridges and outbuildings, all of it protected by a curtain wall and moat. The size and majesty of this place must have once rivaled the royal palace itself.
As they drew closer, she could name some of the structures—garrison quarters, stables, a chapel, a mill, falcons’ mews—most blackened by fire, many reduced to rubble.
She gathered her rough homespun cloak around her, despite the fact that the weather had turned this morn. The air felt warm, heavy with the promise of rain, of spring and the new life it would bring to the mountains, but this place had known no season but winter for some time.
Her throat dry, she glanced down at Royce, remembering what he had told her about the surprise attack by Daemon’s forces here, at the start of the war seven years ago. About how his family had died that day, murdered without mercy.
She could not see his expression, but his back was rigid, his fist clenched tight around the reins as he led the mare into the valley. He remained silent until they reached the edge of the stone causeway that spanned the moat.
&n
bsp; He stopped at the foot of the drawbridge, gazing up at the towers that flanked the gatehouse. She could hear him breathing harshly, unevenly, as if every gulp of fresh air, every beat of his heart pained him.
She dismounted, sliding from the mare’s back to stand beside him, reaching out to touch him. “Royce.”
“We used to run footraces across this bridge,” he said quietly. “Back and forth until we were breathless. And every spring, my sisters would sit in the sun, there at the top of that tower, and weave circlets of violets for their hair. And for our mother’s hair.”
Ciara’s eyes burned with tears. She slid her fingers down his back, took his left hand in hers, and let him keep talking, reliving the memories of a sweeter, more innocent time.
“They even tried to put the flowers on the hounds once.” The shadow of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Said that everyone at Ferrano should be pretty because it was spring.”
She entwined her fingers through his, closing her eyes, feeling a tear fall.
“One summer, my younger brother and I were arguing and he pushed me off the bridge into the moat. I had to swim to shore, covered with muck. I swore I would never forgive him….”
She glanced up at Royce as his fingers tightened around hers, and wished she could find words to comfort him. Instead she rested her forehead on his shoulder, telling him without words that he was not alone. Not anymore.
He inhaled, then let the air out slowly, his breath soft against her cheek. “This is the first time I have been back, the first time …. since …” His voice became a hoarse whisper. “After the war started, I could not get through the enemy lines, even to …”
She felt him tremble, did not know whether it was from the grief that wracked him or from weakness caused by his wound. The crossbow bolt had been buried deep in his arm—so deep that he had instructed her to push it through the rest of the way in order to get it out. He had endured the horrifying ordeal stoically and had refused to stop and rest even once today, though he had lost a great deal of blood.
Worried, she lifted her hand to his cheek and found his skin too warm, his eyes too bright. “Royce, you need to rest,” she murmured gently. “You need sleep.”
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 20
