The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (30 page)

“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 have
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.

D
arkness 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 body 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.

And wished the morning would never come.

***

The weather grew warmer with each passing
day as they traveled north and east. The songs of birds and the
damp, earthy scents of spring filled the air, together with the
splash of water that could be heard at every turn of every
trail—drops trickling together into streams that joined to form
powerful rivers as the snow began its annual melt. Ciara found it
bitterly ironic that spring, with all its brightness and beauty,
should finally come to the mountains now.

Now, just when all the light and warmth were
about to vanish from her life.

Royce had brought two useful mementos with
him from his home: his father’s sword and shield. But in three days
of riding, they encountered few people on the roads, despite the
pleasant weather. These were the borderlands, he explained, where
occasional skirmishes had been erupting between the people of
Châlons and Thuringia, no matter that peace had formally been
declared. Few travelers wanted to risk getting caught in the middle
of an outbreak of hostilities.

Ciara almost wished she and Royce
would
meet with some kind of trouble, some interference,
some delay that would keep them from their destination. But no one
paid them any particular attention. And the rebels had apparently
lost their trail.

So it was that at midafternoon on the fourth
day after they left the Ferrano lands, they entered the thick
forests that ringed the foot of Mount Ravensbruk.

Ciara’s insides wound into a knot as they
rode through the hushed shadows, amid dancing beams of sunlight
that broke through the pine boughs as if to guide their way. Royce
slowed the horse to a walk, his arm tightening around her waist.
But they kept going forward, both silent.

She could find no words to express this
feeling inside her, this awful rending asunder, as if something
deep within her were being torn away. She looked up at the sky,
blinking hard, not wanting his last memory of their time together
to be of her tears.

High above, she could see the towers of
Daemon’s palace, just visible through the trees. Could see the
red-and-gold royal pennants snapping in the wind above the
parapets.

By nightfall, she would be confined within
those walls, dressed in royal robes … separated from Royce
Saint-Michel by an impassable chasm of law and custom and
responsibility.

She would once again be what she had been: a
princess. Dutiful and proper. Set apart and above, distant from
everyone around her.