The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (6 page)

“—identity,” Aldric finished.

Shaking his head, Royce turned his back.
“Surely you have other men you would prefer to entrust with this.”
A hint of his earlier sarcasm returned. “
Noble
men.
Knights.”

“None who know those mountains as well as
you do. None who would be willing to use whatever means necessary
to see her to safety.”

When Royce turned around, he found the king
casting a meaningful glance over the garments he wore: his black,
sable-lined cloak, his embroidered gauntlets, the fine belt that
cinched his tunic, the gold hilt of his sword. Commoners were
forbidden to wear such finery. There were laws about such
matters.

But Royce cared little for rules that made
no sense to him.

He grimaced. ‘Twas his lack of respect for
the code of chivalry that had landed him in trouble and gotten him
exiled four years ago. Ironic that the king now found such audacity
admirable.

Nay, not admirable, he corrected.
Useful.

He exhaled a harsh, bitter laugh. “So now
that you have need of my services, you are suddenly willing to
forget the past, and you expect me to forget as well. You expect me
to simply lay down my life—and mayhap lose it—in the name of this
noble cause you place before me.” His voice rose as his anger
deepened. “By God’s breath! Do you think it is so easy to forget
that I have been an outcast? Condemned to live without a country?
Without even my family name? Do you think I can forget the way you
ripped my life to pieces?”

Though the king stood only a few paces away,
he showed not even a flicker of response. “Nay, I do not expect you
to forget what happened four years ago,” he said coolly, “because I
assure you, I have not. Your exile was entirely of your own making.
The discipline you received was naught more than you deserved.”

“
Deserved?”
Royce almost choked on
the word. “The negotiations were falling apart long before I
unsheathed my blade.
You
were the one who set us an
impossible task. Then you refused to tolerate failure. You were
looking for someone to blame. I was convenient, so you had me all
but spitted and roasted.” His voice dropped to a harsh tone filled
with pain. “Without so much as blinking an eye. I had been like a
son
to you, and you did not care half a
damn
what
happened to me.”

Aldric faced the accusations without
flinching. He stood there, his gaze, his face impassive. And said
naught.

Royce spun on his heel, paced away. Had he
actually expected a reply?
Arrogant, demanding, unreasonable,
unforgiving.
Aldric would never explain himself. Never admit
that he had been wrong. It was far more important to him to be
right than to be fair.

Some men never changed.

“I do not ask you to do this for me,” Aldric
said quietly. “What I am offering you is a chance to serve your
homeland once more. A chance to redeem yourself for a mistake that
cost Châlons a great deal—”

Royce shot him a seething glare.

“—and to secure a peaceful future for your
countrymen. I once depended upon your military skill, your courage,
and your loyalty, Royce. And it would seem to me that all of those
qualities are still present in the man before me.”

Royce ignored the accolades, too angry to
hear them. “And what will be my payment, if I survive? You will
excuse me for asking, Your Majesty, but I have grown accustomed to
receiving something more than gratitude in exchange for my blood
and my blade. Lords from Paris to Navarre have plied me with
riches. What have you to offer?”

“Something of far more value to you than
coin. The moment the princess is safely in Thuringia and wed, I
will restore to you all that you lost.”

Royce’s heart skipped a beat. He fought the
astonishment—and the hope—that he knew must be written on his face.
“You mean all that you
took
from me,” he corrected
sharply.

“Your spurs, your title, your name and
position.” Aldric could have been reading from a list of
foodstuffs, for all the feeling he revealed. “Along with whatever
lands you wish that are mine to give. And a generous reward.”

Eyes narrowed, Royce slowly walked back
toward the king, toward the table that held the cups and the
glittering garnet, drawn by Aldric’s words like a greedy man toward
gold. Until this day, he had expected to spend the rest of his life
as an outcast, as a man without a country. For four years, his best
hope had been that someday, when Christophe took the throne …

But his best friend was dead.

And if Royce wanted to restore his family
name and honor, erase the stain of disgrace and banishment, if he
wanted to return
home
…

This might be his best chance. His only
chance.

He reached down and picked up the garnet
gingerly, as if it might burn him. “And what is she like, this
daughter of yours?” he asked evenly. “What makes you think she
could endure such a journey?”

“Though she is delicate of form and face,
the princess is not so fragile as she may appear. And she will do
what she must to carry out the duty that accompanies her crown. She
understands the seriousness of her responsibility, and she has
great strength of will.”

Royce lifted his gaze to Aldric’s. The
princess sounded much like her father. Dutiful, responsible,
strong-willed.

Which meant she could prove to be a royal
handful, he thought sourly.
If
he agreed to serve as her
guardian.

He glanced down at the gem in his hand. Try
as he might, he could remember little about Christophe’s sister.
When he had been exiled from Châlons, she had been only … twelve?
Fourteen? His only memory was of a plain, mousy child, always going
about with her nose in a book. She had all but blended into the
furniture.

And after growing up in the royal palace,
with servants to see to her every wish and whim, she had no doubt
blossomed into a spoiled, demanding, genuine princess. Not the sort
of female he favored. Not in the least.

Still, he asked the question anyway.
Bluntly. “Tell me, Your Majesty, how is it that you trust me with
her virtue?”

Aldric blinked. Once. Slowly. “I have never
questioned your honor”—he held up a hand, closing that argument
before Royce could open it again—“in regards to women. It was your
quick temper that I objected to four years ago. I ask only that you
give me your word. Swear to me that you will deliver her untouched
to her betrothed, and I will believe you—”

“How refreshing.”

“—and if you break your vow, I will take
much more than your spurs, your title, and your lands this
time.”

Their gazes locked. Aldric’s meaning was
unmistakable: if Royce dared touch one royal hair on the princess’s
royal head, the king would cut out his heart.

Not to mention other vital portions of his
anatomy.

And he would do it. Even if it meant hunting
Royce down in the darkest corner of the continent. Aldric did not
make idle threats.

The king’s voice was deep, forceful. “Do we
understand one another?”

“Perfectly.”

“Excellent. Then you may retire for the
night. The brothers have prepared a chamber for you, and you look
as if you need the rest. Weigh the merits of what I have offered.”
He turned to leave, walking back across the dining hall the way he
had come, into the shadows. “I will expect your answer at first
light.”

C
iara’s vision swam
dizzily as she stepped into the chapel where her father had said to
meet him after breakfast. Bright morning sunlight drenched the room
and dazzled her eyes as the door closed softly behind her.

She reached for the back of a stone pew to
steady herself, blinking hard, taking a deep breath. Neither her
father nor the black-haired man beside him seemed to notice that
she had entered the chapel. They both stood at the altar, bent over
a map, engaged in a tense discussion about ice in the mountains at
this time of year, and the chances that the rebels would find her
before she reached the border, and—

Sweet holy Mary.
She shut her eyes,
wanted to cover her ears. For a moment, it was all she could do not
to turn and run. Her stomach lurched.

Her heart and mind had been in turmoil for a
fortnight now. Not even two weeks in this quiet, remote abbey had
been able to heal the shock and pain of being attacked by one of
her own subjects in the palace.

One of her own subjects.
Not the
enemy, but someone who was supposed to hold her in the highest
honor and respect.

Opening her eyes, she clung to the cool,
solid stone of the pew and tried to stop trembling. Tried to
remember that Miriam had called her brave.

Good, kind Miriam, who had volunteered to
take her place in the wedding procession—making herself a target
for the rebels’ arrows.

That
was bravery, Ciara thought, a
lump in her throat. Exactly the kind of bravery a princess should
have. But she herself possessed no courage at all. Fear had wrapped
its cold, black fingers tightly around her.

Fear of the traitors who wanted to kill
her.

Of the cruel prince who would be her
husband.

And of the journey ahead. She was about to
venture into treacherous mountain passes, through small villages
where assassins might be waiting for her around every corner.

With a man who looked like he was more
accustomed to trampling enemies and plundering castles than to
guiding and guarding a princess.

In that moment, before she could summon
enough daring to interrupt her father’s discussion, her newly
appointed protector glanced her way … and the darkest, boldest
gaze she had ever encountered captured hers.

Ciara felt as if the air all around her had
suddenly become too hot, burning her lips, her mouth, her throat.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Scarlet
warmth rose in her cheeks as she realized she was gaping at him,
like a bedazzled child beholding a king for the first time. She was
powerless to move. That potent stare held her fast.

He offered no greeting. Did not even bow.
His eyes slowly widening with surprise, he remained silent.

They simply stared at each other across the
chapel, through the beams of silvery mountain sunlight that poured
in from the tall, arched widows to dance between them.

By all the saints, what was wrong with her?
Mayhap it was disbelief that held her fast.

For this could not be Sir Royce
Saint-Michel, the man her father had described as the best knight
he had ever known, noble and honorable and chivalrous. The man her
brother used to speak of with such high regard. Mayhap Sir Royce
had not answered the summons, and her father had been forced to
find another to serve as her escort.

Because this man looked like no knight she
had ever seen. She could find naught in his regard that suggested
either nobility or chivalry.

He was far too … too …
rough
-looking. From the dark stubble that bearded his
cheeks, to the tangled black hair that hung loosely about his
shoulders, to the impressive sword at his waist. She was not sure
which stunned her more: the richness of the weapon with its golden
hilt or the fact that he was wearing it here, in a chapel, in the
house of the Lord. This was clearly a man who cared little for
custom and less for the law.

If that were not enough to give one pause,
his sheer physical size was even more alarming. The dark tunic he
wore strained across a broad chest, outlining the heavy muscles
beneath, and his sable-lined cloak, flung casually back over one
shoulder, revealed thick-hewn arms.

But it was his face that held her attention
most of all, with its hard angles, sharp cheekbones, and square-cut
jaw. She had seen
stone
that looked softer.

Blinking at last, she struggled to right her
thoughts, to tell if this was the man she remembered as
Christophe’s best friend. But the last time she had seen Sir Royce,
before he had vanished from Châlons so suddenly and unexpectedly,
she had been but fifteen. She could summon no image, except of an
overloud, swaggering young lord who had never so much as spared her
a glance.

If she could hear his voice, she would know.
But before she could think of something—anything—to say, the man’s
piercing gaze left hers, sweeping to the toes of her slippers and
back again. His brow furrowed. He flicked a look at the door behind
her, as if he expected someone else to step in.

After a moment, his stare returned to her,
his expression of surprise now joined by a dismay that he did not
even attempt to conceal.

Twin sparks of indignation and annoyance
ignited in Ciara. Did the man have no manners at all? Did he find
her lacking in some way?

Or did he doubt that a woman as plain as she
could possibly be the princess?

All three possibilities stung her royal
pride. She might be wearing simple, homespun garments instead of
her coronet and robes, but she was still Princess Ciara of Châlons.
And she deserved better than this rude treatment. Lifting her chin,
she bestowed upon him a look she usually reserved for misbehaving
servant boys.

Instead of being chastened, the knave only
lifted one raven brow. The hard line of his mouth curved into an
expression that might have been a grimace or a grin.

Just then, her father finally noticed that
he no longer had his companion’s attention. Straightening, he
turned to face the chapel door. “Daughter.”

Startled, Ciara forced her fingers to
release their death grip on the pew. His cool greeting stole all
the warmth from the air around her. “I … I am here, Father.”

He extended a hand toward her. “Come.”

Swallowing hard, summoning her most regal
smile, Ciara managed to command one foot to step in front of the
other. She walked slowly down the aisle toward them, through the
shimmering rays of sunlight, and a startling image struck her: of a
wedding.
Her
wedding. Here, in her homeland, in a chapel
like this. With her father waiting at the altar, beside her groom
…