The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (2 page)

The forest where she and her brother had
played as children was being reduced to ashes.

“Christophe,” she whispered brokenly, “there
is
no safe place. Not anymore.”

He remained silent, not bothering with false
words of reassurance. They both knew it was true.

A second later, he abandoned royal protocol
and hugged her tight, in full view of their subjects. Closing her
eyes, Ciara buried her face against his silk surcoat and let the
tears come, not caring that his chain mail bit into her cheek.

For a moment, in the midst of the fire and
desperation and despair, there was only the two of them. Not prince
and princess, but brother and sister. Afraid and in need of the
comfort that only love could bring.

“God’s mercy, Christophe,” she said
tearfully, “Father is out there. If the enemy has gotten this
close, it must mean that he and his men—”

“Nay, little sparrow, do not underestimate
our father. He is one of the two most brilliant military tacticians
ever born in Châlons. He knows he can elude them. That is why he
insisted I …”

He did not finish, but Ciara knew what he
had been about to say. She had heard the heated argument between
her father and brother yestereve, when they had clashed over which
of them should go forth with the palace’s knights. Father had
ordered Christophe to stay behind, where he would be safer.

As heir to the throne, he was too valuable
to risk.

“We are not finished yet,” Christophe said
fiercely, his arms tightening around her. “Our ancestors built this
castle on the most inaccessible peak in the heart of Châlons for a
reason. In three hundred years, no enemy has breached these walls,
and none ever will.”

“But no enemy has ever come so close,” Ciara
whispered.

As if to underscore her words, the sounds of
the battle on the mountainside grew louder. She could hear the war
cries now. And the screams of the wounded and the dying.

Several leaders of the palace guard came
running up to ask for orders, and Christophe gently set her away
from him. Ciara turned her face toward the wall, wiping at her
tears. They both knew they had to conceal their own fear and
uncertainty, had to provide a brave, calm example for their
subjects.

Christophe addressed his men, his deep voice
crackling with authority once more. “I want you and you to go to
the rear of the castle, gather up everyone who is still outside,
and get them into the keep. If any of the men back there can wield
a weapon, send them to me.” He motioned one of the other warriors
forward. “Escort the princess to her chamber and see that she—”

“Christophe, you are the heir to the throne.
Father was right.” Ciara placed her hand on his arm as she glanced
at the night sky, which now glowed red on all sides of the castle.
Her heart pounded wildly. “You are much more important than I. You
are the one who should be escorted to safety. I will go, as you
wish, but I beg of you to come with me.”

“Nay, Ciara. My duty is here. I must see to
the gate and the drawbridge. That is the first place they will
attack.”

Their gazes met, his light brown eyes, so
much like her own, reflecting the full depth of his love and
concern for her.

“Be off now, my little songbird,” he
murmured, using one of his favorite nicknames for her and tugging
lightly at the long braid that hung down her back. “Châlons has
only one princess.”

“And she has only one brother,” Ciara
whispered desperately.

Suddenly the ground shook, so violently it
knocked her off her feet. It felt as if the mountain were a
sleeping giant that had just awakened.

“What was
that?
” she cried.

Christophe uttered a vicious oath.
“Catapults. Sweet Jesus, they are attacking the gate with
catapults. How in the name of all that is holy did they get them up
the slope?” He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her
feet, turning to the guardsmen. “Back to your posts.
Now.
I
will see the princess to safety myself.”

“But Christophe—”

“No more arguments, Ciara. Do you know what
Daemon’s mercenaries will
do
to you if they capture
you?”

The images that filled her head at his words
were enough to silence her.

Holding fast to her arm, he ran along the
curtain wall, staying out of reach of the arrows that now rained
down among the searing ashes in a deadly storm. Ciara looked back
over her shoulder, at the towers that supported the gatehouse. “Why
can we not get inside that way?”

“Because the drawbridge towers have all been
sealed from the inside,” he explained tightly, “so that each can be
defended like a miniature keep. A trick I learned from the second
of Châlons’ most brilliant military tacticians—my old friend
Royce.”

A hail of arrows thwacked into the dirt in
front of them and Christophe yanked her to a halt. “I only wish he
were here now,” he added under his breath.

Ciara barely remembered her brother’s best
friend, except that he had disappeared suddenly and mysteriously
four years ago. But she did not have time to ask any more
questions, for Christophe led her across the open bailey at a dead
run, heading straight for a mural tower at the rear of the
keep.

They reached it safely, and he tore open the
door that led inside. “Go to the secret chamber in the east wing,
Ciara. Seal it behind you.”

She nodded, trying to summon a brave look
and failing utterly.

He brushed a cinder from her cheek and
tucked a loose strand of her brown hair back behind her ear. “There
will be peace, Ciara, I promise you. One day this will be my
kingdom, and I swear that Châlons will know peace and freedom once
more.” He hugged her again, tightly.

She did not want to let him go. But he had
his duty to attend to, and she …

She could do naught but hide and hope. And
pray.

Releasing her, he gave her a brief smile
before he turned and ran back across the bailey, into the
fire-ravaged night, heading toward the front of the palace.

“God be with you, Christophe.” She watched
with her heart in her throat as he circled along the inside of the
curtain wall, trying to stay beyond the reach of the arrows.

Then suddenly the ground shook again. And
this time a whole section of wall gave way.

With Christophe beneath it.

She stared in mute horror, seeing it happen
by the unearthly light of the fire that painted the night bloodred.
Rock and mortar rained down on him. It was over in the span of a
heartbeat. One moment her brother was there, the next he was gone.
Simply gone.

Buried beneath a crushing mass of shattered
stone.

“Christophe!” she screamed, leaving her
place of safety, running across the bailey, crying out his name
again and again.

She was halfway across the open ground when
Prince Daemon’s mercenaries came swarming through the breach.

A
lone in her
father’s solar, Ciara huddled deep in a corner of the stone window
seat, an open book in her lap, a single tallow candle flickering
beside her. Bright winter moonlight gleamed through the stained
glass, spilling a pattern of blues and reds and greens across her
velvet skirts and the rush-strewn floor.

Slipping off her jeweled coronet, she rested
her forehead against the window, her breath fogging the frosted
panes. Through one of the clear triangles of glass, she could see
the mountainside stretching away into the darkness, the stars
sparkling on a fresh blanket of snow … and the newly repaired
curtain wall.

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.