“Royce …” She could not move as he walked toward her. Did not want to move.
“I have been going mad since the day we met,” he said hoarsely, “and I think I may have finally lost my mind completely. I told you—I told myself—that I was bringing you here to keep you safe. But that was a lie.”
Her heart pounded as he came to stand before her, towering over her. “A lie?” she whispered.
“I did not bring you here to keep you safe. I brought you here thinking that I could keep you. Steal you away. From Aldric, from everyone …”
“From Daemon.”
“I thought we could stay here for a while, and then keep going, that we could just—”
“Disappear.”
The thought made her tremble even as she said it. She clung to that idea as if it were a bright star that had fallen from the sky and into their hands.
She gazed up at him, possibilities spinning through her mind. “No one would know,” she whispered. “We would simply vanish into the mountains.”
“We could keep riding south—”
“To Provence or Granada, or some island no one has ever heard of—”
“Some place not found on any map. A land where no one fights wars.”
She closed her eyes. “And we could make our home there.”
“And stay,” he said softly. “Forever.”
“Together.”
The spoon in her hand clattered to the floor as she stepped into his arms, holding on to him tightly as he crushed her against him. Holding on to that glorious vision.
Just for a moment.
She pressed her cheek against the hard muscles of his chest, imagining a small cottage in a faraway land, hidden, secret, where he could hold her this way every night. All the rest of her life.
She closed her eyes to savor the feeling of his arms around her, wanting to emblazon it on her memory forever. “If only we could take them all with us,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Nevin and Oriel, and Vallis and Warran, and Elinor and Bayard and all the children in their castle. Everyone in Châlons. Everyone who needs us.”
“I need you,” he said roughly. “I need you. In the name of all that is holy, why do our needs matter least?”
“Because of the war. If only it had never happened, if you had not been sent away, if we were still at the palace and you were Christophe’s best friend and—”
Royce made a choked sound. “By now Christophe would have run me through with the nearest available blade.”
She lifted her head, gazing up at him in surprise. “But he was your best friend.”
“And your brother. Can you imagine how he would have reacted to seeing his swaggering friend pursuing his little sister?”
“I suppose you are right.” She closed her eyes, resting her forehead in the middle of Royce’s broad chest. “But I do not think he would have looked unfavorably on your asking for my hand. We might have—”
“Nay, Ciara, it never could have been. Even if the war had never happened, even if I had never been banished, if I were still a knight and one day baron of Ferrano.” He wound his fingers through her hair, drew her head back until their gazes met. “Princesses do not marry mere barons. A princess must marry a prince, or a king. Or an emperor if one is available.” His mouth curved in a sad, defeated expression. “I am not of royal blood. I would never have been allowed to ask for your hand.”
Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. “If only I had never been born a princess, if only I had been born a mere noblewoman—”
“And I your lord.”
“Or a shepherdess—”
“And I your shepherd.” He lowered his head to hers.
“I would be anyone, anywhere,” she whispered against his lips, “if only I could be with you.”
His mouth covered hers, softly, gently. Briefly.
And with her next breath, she said the words she had promised herself she would never speak aloud.
“I love you, Royce.”
She felt just how much she startled him, felt the shudder go through him, saw his eyes gleaming, almost black, when he lifted his head.
And felt hot tears slip past her lashes. “I have tried to deny it, even to myself, but I cannot keep it inside anymore. It is too big, so big sometimes that it feels as if my entire heart and soul are filled with you.” His face shimmered in her vision. “I … I used to be better skilled at keeping my feelings hidden. I do not know how …” Her throat seemed to be closing off. “It is all your fault.”
“That you love me?” he asked roughly, his thumbs whisking the tears from her cheeks. “Or that you cannot keep from saying it?”
“Both,” she accused.
He was smiling that sad, bittersweet smile. “You are certain that you cannot try to hate me, little one? Even a bit?”
“Nay. It is too late for that.”
“You once called me blackhearted,” he reminded her helpfully. “And an ill-mannered knave, and impossible, and—”
“That was before I learned that you are kind and brave and giving,” She looked up at him stubbornly, defiantly. “And the most caring, most noble man I have ever known.”
“You have not known very many men.”
“I have no wish to know any others,” she whispered. “I love this one.”
He cupped her cheeks in his broad, callused palms, angled his head.
And when his lips covered hers this time, the kiss was neither soft nor brief. She twined her arms around his neck, welcoming him, wanting him in a way that went beyond all she had felt before. He sealed her mouth with his and they came together in a fierce, mutual claiming, a taking of breath and body and soul.
Heat arced between them, flashing inside her, a bolt of lightning that struck deep at the core of her being. His tongue parted her lips to thrust inside and sparks of longing glittered through her, cascading into a liquid heat. She drew him deeper, moaned at each velvety stroke, needing more. Needing to be closer to him, to give and to share and to know more of him. An unbearable, hollow ache had begun low in her belly, an emptiness that demanded to be filled.
And when his hand slid down her back, pressing her closer, fully against him, she responded eagerly, arching her hips to rub her softness against that hard, male part of him. Groaning deep in her throat at the torment of being separated from him by the rough fabric of their clothes.
He tore his mouth from hers, curses hot on his lips. “I want to be inside you.” He nibbled at her jaw, her throat, her earlobe. “I want to become part of you and hear you make that sound when I take you. I want to feel you tight and hot and silky around me.”
His words and his kisses sent shocks of need and excitement through her. “Now,” she whispered, a single word of agreement, of consent, of demand.
But he was already lifting his hands to her shoulders, as if he meant to push her away, though he could not stop kissing her, nuzzling her neck, her chin. “Ciara …”
“I love you, Royce.” She kept her hands linked around his neck, refusing to let go. “I love you. I need you—”
“And I love you. More than I love my own life.”
That made her go still, as if she had been drenched with ice, suddenly reminded of the price he would pay if they dared give themselves to one another. “Dear God.” Her hands were trembling when she slid them down to his chest, started to push away. She shook her head, tried to clear her passion-fogged senses. “We cannot. They will kill you if we—”
“I do not care if they kill me,” he said hoarsely. “You are worth dying for.” His hands closed around her wrists. “Ciara, it is you I am worried about.”
She stared up at him mutinously. “If I cannot be with you, I do not care what happens to me.”
His hold on her tightened. “But I care. And by all the saints, I cannot take the risk. I will not. If Daemon were to discover on your wedding night that you are a maiden no more, there is no way of knowing what he might do to you. I h
ave to protect you, Ciara.” He loosened his grip, slowly letting her go, his voice ragged. “I love you too much to break my vow.”
When he released her hands, she slid them around his waist, holding on to him for one last, long moment, unable to stop the tears that slipped down her cheeks and into the mat of hair on his chest.
He remained rigid in her embrace for only an instant before he gave in, tucking her close, allowing himself to hold her. Only to hold her.
“When will we leave here?” she whispered when the silence had stretched to its limits.
She knew he understood what she was asking: not when they would leave for Provence or Granada or some distant, secret island, but when they would leave for their final, inevitable destination.
Mount Ravensbruk.
“In the morning,” he told her, the words edged with pain and regret.
Ciara nodded, silently accepting, telling herself that if she could just stay here with him a few more hours, could just rest here in his arms where she always felt so safe and cherished and loved, it would be enough.
Enough to last a lifetime.
Chapter 15
Darkness had claimed the room, but for a few banked coals still glowing on the hearth. As Royce opened his eyes, he wondered drowsily how much was left of the night, whether morning was an hour away or two. The kitchen’s stone floor still held the heat, warming the soft cloth piled beneath him. His wounded right arm felt stiff and painful.
But he did not move for fear of waking Ciara.
His fingers gently curling into the silky strands of her hair, he gazed down at the lady nestled in his arms on the makeshift pallet, her breathing soft and even against his bare chest. The two of them lay entwined together, sharing a bed for the first and last time.
He had selfishly wanted a night with her. One night to hold her, to memorize the softness and scent and feel of her in his arms.
One night to remember during all the rest of the nights he would be spending alone.
She sighed in her sleep, as if she were enjoying a sweet dream, and snuggled closer. The small movement made him agonizingly aware of how his body had responded to having her beside him. But he would endure the discomfort willingly, would endure any pain if it meant keeping her near for even a short time longer.
She settled back into blissful slumber but a moment later made another soft sound, this one a whisper of his name. Her lashes lifted. She gazed up at him sleepily, blinking, as if unsure whether her dream had ended.
They both remained still for a moment, enveloped in the quiet, peaceful darkness, warmed by the glow from the hearth. Then her soft gasp told him she had just become aware of his arousal pressed against her hip.
She did not move away, did not say a word.
Instead she startled him for the second time this day, nestling closer and brushing a kiss over his cheek.
Then his jaw.
“Ciara …”
“I love you, Royce,” she said in a scant whisper, her voice husky and sweet. “Let me love you. Let me please you—”
“Nay, sweet angel, we cannot—”
She pressed a fingertip against his mouth. “Not in that way,” she murmured, tracing the outline of his lips before she nuzzled her cheek against his, whispering in his ear, “but can I not please you as you pleased me … with a special kiss?”
He felt as if he had been speared by a hot lance. Felt every drop of blood in his body suddenly set ablaze, sizzling straight to that hard part of him that so ached for her attentions. He struggled to answer her, could not find words. She sounded so innocently curious about whether it was possible, so passionately ready to give him pleasure, to ease his torment.
And the thought of what she wanted to do, what she was eager to do … the thought of that exquisite, ravishing mouth of hers …
“Ciara,” he whispered roughly, unable to catch his breath, “there are … certain things a man does not ask of a lady—”
“You are not asking.” She nibbled at his earlobe as he had done to her earlier. “I am.”
The hot spear twisted, drawing everything inside him into a tight cord that threatened to snap. “But many … ladies find the idea—”
“I have found,” she said, making a low, sensual sound in the back of her throat, “that I enjoy many things that some would consider unladylike.”
Before he could gather up the scattered shards of his reason, before he could recover from his shock enough to resist the temptation, she was kissing her way down his chest, her gaze on his. Her soft lips and darting tongue tore a groan from his throat. And the love and desire in her eyes proved his undoing.
When she pressed her palm against his body, lightly urging him to lie back, he yielded, surrendered to the fire of her touch and the dark shadows that enveloped them, to the need that had been building in him through all the long days and longer nights. He rolled onto his back and her loose, silky tresses lashed him with fire as she moved lower, pausing to caress him, to learn the angles and planes of his body.
She outlined the muscles of his chest with her fingertips, her mouth. And every damp brush of her lips over him, every graceful stroke of her hands scorched him like a hot brand touching dry tinder. He grasped fistfuls of the fabric beneath him to hold himself still, breathing raggedly, watching her while she explored him.
Her nails grazed his nipple, as if testing to see what sort of response she might win, and when it drew tight, she made a small sound of wonder and discovery and soft, feminine hunger. As if she could not resist, she closed her eyes and covered the hard pebble with her mouth, lingering over him, licking and suckling as he had done to her. Tugging with her lips, her teeth.
Groaning wordless, hollow sounds of pleasure, he buried one hand in her hair, his body rigid. Never had a woman enjoyed him so. Never had a woman given such passionate, loving attention to every part of him.
When she lifted her head, glancing up to meet his gaze, her eyes had darkened to molten gold. She turned her face into his palm, kissing his hand, pausing to glide her tongue between his fingertips. Innocently teaching her teacher of the sensual pleasures to be found in the most unexpected places. He reached for her when she pulled away, but she evaded his grasp to continue her loving explorations.
Slowly … so slowly … she moved lower, sliding her hands along his rib cage, exhaling a soft expression of awe at its breadth. When she touched the ridges of muscle on his flat stomach, all the air left his lungs.
For the next thing he knew, her fingers were working at the laces that bound his leggings.
He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, felt his lower body throbbing with heat until he was so hard he feared he would burst before she so much as touched him. It took her a moment to unfasten the garment, and he allowed her to do it alone, seared by anticipation, undone by the erotic experience of having Ciara undress him.
She moved more quickly now, pulling the snug garment down his body. With his eyes still closed, he was intensely aware of the warm air against his nakedness, of the sudden silence.
A second later, the sound of breathless excitement she made almost brought him to release, without so much as a single caress.
She moved over him as if she were made of liquid silk, stretching out beside him. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, just enough to see her regarding his rampant arousal with dark eyes … and parted lips.
“Ciara …” He could not gasp enough air to say more.
She stared without shock or shame, her expression one of fascination at the naked evidence of his desire for her. And she would not be swayed from her purpose. Lifting her gaze to his, she raised one hand to caress that rigid, male part of him, her touch gentle, almost reverent.
He fell back into the soft fabric beneath him, wrenched by a hoarse groan, cut to ribbons by sharp blades of pleasure. By talons that sank into him with every light, feather-soft brush of her fingertips as her hand glided down to the base and back to the rounded crest
His entire bod
y went taut as her fingers circled him, clasping tight and then releasing and then clasping tighter again. The sound that escaped him was one of pure, animal hunger, the frustrated roar of a lion being tormented by his lioness.
She made a softer, answering growl, a feminine, feline sound. Unmistakably possessive. And pleased. As if she enjoyed the effect she had on him. Discovering the drop of silky liquid at the tip, she paused to explore it with her fingers.
Then leaned down to taste him.
His heart thundered in his ears as he felt the first touch of her lips. His body drenched with sweat, with strain, he dug his fingers into the pallet, wrestling for control, for sanity. The sensation of her tongue gliding over the most sensitive part of him rendered him senseless. A blinding, dazzling shower of flame shot through him, tearing away the last of his control.
Then he felt her lips close around him, felt her take him deep into the hot satin of her mouth.
Her exquisite, ravishing mouth.
“Ciara.”
The strangled sound of her name was warning, plea, profanity, prayer. He could endure no more.
But she would not stop. Reckless, shameless, she abandoned herself to the glorious, unspeakably carnal kiss. He felt his hips lifting toward her, knew he was lost. Lost to her, to the feminine power she wielded over him as she worshiped every inch of him with her lush, wet lips and darting tongue.
An instant later the entire world exploded in hot shards of fire as a shattering release ripped through him. His hoarse shout thundered through the chamber as he felt his seed rushing forth. Felt the very essence of his self, of his soul pouring out of him and into her.
Collapsing back into the soft pallet, spent, drenched with sweat and ebbing rivulets of pleasure, he could not find the strength to open his eyes for several minutes. When he did, it was to find her curled up alongside him, her head pillowed on his flat belly, her eyes shining with love and tenderness—her lips curved in the most satisfied, wanton smile.
“My God,” he choked out, repeating it in a whisper. “My God.”
“You taste very silky and sweet,” she whispered, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, not even blushing. She glided upward along his body, and he caught her face between his hands and kissed her thoroughly, deeply. Kissed the taste of his own desire from her lips.
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 22
