The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (19 page)

And then suddenly she knew, parted her lips,
opened to welcome him inside.

A groan shuddered through his chest. She
felt as well as heard it, made the same sound as he deepened the
kiss. His tongue glided over hers, exploring, plundering with silky
thrusts that left her shivering. Never had she
imagined
anything like this.

She became lost in him, in the liquid heat
of this scorching, infinite joining. Aware of no hesitation, no
fear, no shame. Only these sensations, like snowflakes tingling
over her skin, melting into a fire in her heart that burned for
him.

Snowflakes and flame.
Fire and
ice.

His tongue lingered over hers, stealing the
sweetness of the potent drink she had consumed, and she
tasted
him. Foreign and yet familiar. Spicy and hot and …
male. A velvety, volatile heat pooled low in her belly, demanding
that she find some way to be even closer to him.

And when he dragged his mouth from hers once
more, the cry she made was one of protest. With a ravenous growl,
he trailed sharp, wet kisses down her throat, his hand shifting to
cup her breast. She gasped at such a bold caress, stunned by the
intimacy of it. And by her own excited response.

Then he lowered his head and lifted the taut
peak for a kiss that shocked her breathless.

With lips and tongue, he drew her deep into
the hot wetness of his mouth. A low, violent sound tore from her
throat. Her head tipped back, her hair trailing down her spine as
unbearably intense sensations spilled through her. His arm locked
tighter around her, holding her fast as his tongue touched the hard
pearl of her nipple through the thin cloth she wore, brushing over
it again and again. The ribbons of fire whirled around her, through
her, until she thought she would go mad. She cried out, a plea, his
name.

He lifted his head, but his hand covered her
possessively, his fingers kneading her softness through the sheer,
damp fabric. She fell forward, collapsing against his chest, heart
pounding, head spinning, and his arms shifted to cradle her
tenderly.

“Ciara … my God …” His voice was so deep
and so rough she barely recognized it. He swore, dropping his head
to press his cheek against hers, the stubble of his beard abrading
her skin, his lips close to her ear. “If you were mine …” A
bitter sound of longing, of frustration, issued from his chest. “If
you were mine …”

He held her tight for a long moment that
would never be long enough.

Then he choked out another curse and
untangled her from his embrace. And let her go.

She sagged against the hearth, feeling as if
she would never have the strength to stand again.

He backed away from her a step. Then
another. “I want you to bolt the door behind me,” he commanded.

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes,
her lips still tingling and warm from his kisses. “Royce …” She
felt astonished by the husky depth of her own voice.

He turned and crossed the room in three
strides.
“Bolt the door,”
he repeated forcefully.

And then he was gone, closing the portal
with sharp finality.

It seemed to take forever to cross the same
distance, to do as he had bidden, for she understood what he was
asking of her: she was not locking the door to keep out her
enemies, but to keep out her guardian.

She slid the bolt into place, then went limp
against the wood, knowing that he was there on the other side,
leaning back against the cold, hard oak even as she leaned into it.
She could hear him breathing, shallow and fast, swore she could
feel
him, his heart pounding as hard as her own. And she
closed her eyes, not understanding the hot tears that welled
there.

And wondered what they would do on the
morrow, when there would be no door and no lock to separate
them.

“I
am dying.”

“You are not dying, Princess.” Royce held
her long hair out of the way, kneeling beside her while she
crouched in the snow and lost what little she had been able to eat
this morn.

He had been forced to halt Anteros in the
middle of a mountain pass when she could ride no further. Steep,
icy slopes surrounded them with walls of white, and clouds dulled
the midday sunlight to gray, but a mild breeze made the air
unseasonably warm.

“I am,” she insisted weakly, her face a
sickly shade of green as she huddled on his cloak, which he had
spread across the ground for her. “I hate cassis. I hate it. I …
I intend to order every drop of that foul drink banned from the
realm!”

Royce fought a pained smile, remembering the
first time he had gotten drunk on cassis. “The feeling will wear
off anon,” he assured her.

“How soon?”

“A day or so.”

She groaned, hunching over again, retching.
He remained by her side, offering what comfort be could. Her
features drawn and strained, eyes bleary, Ciara was the very
picture of misery and regret—the same two emotions that wracked
him.

He had delayed their departure from Bayard’s
keep as long as possible, allowing her to sleep late, telling
himself it was for her benefit. In truth, he had dreaded facing
her.

Had not wanted to remember her body so warm
and pliant in his hands, her lips and tongue like hot velvet
against his, her sighs like silk. Because this longing he felt for
her, this possessiveness, was something more than desire. Much
more. He could no longer deny it.

He shut his eyes, secretly grateful for
Ciara’s wretched condition. Thus far, he had been spared any
discussion of what had happened in her bedchamber. When she joined
him in the bailey this morn, she had shaded her eyes against the
bright sun and mumbled only a few words about a pounding
headache.

“How can a drink that makes one feel so
pleasant,” she asked in a feeble whisper, “make one feel so
vile
only a few hours later?”

Royce was not about to tell her she should
have known better than to indulge so freely in something so
intoxicating. He removed his hand from her long tresses as she sat
up, trying not to remember how it had felt to wantonly tangle his
fingers in the thick curls last night. “Why did you not braid your
hair this morn?”

“Must you speak so loudly?” she protested,
pressing one hand to her head.

He was already speaking softly but lowered
his voice even more. “You usually braid your hair. But today you
did not.”

“I could not. It hurts.”

“Your hair hurts?”

“Everything hurts,” she said miserably,
looking forlorn. “My head feels as if an entire legion of drummers
is marching through it. And the sun is much too bright. Even the
breeze is too loud. And I do not think I can ride anymore …” She
grimaced as if the very idea made her queasy.

Royce nodded in sympathy, knowing that
Anteros’s smooth gait must feel to her like riding a ship on a
storm-tossed sea. But he needed to get her fit for travel; sitting
outside in the snow all afternoon would do her no good.

He pushed to his feet and walked over to
where Anteros stood a few paces away. The stallion tossed his head
impatiently while a shaggy gray nose poked out from a basket tied
next to Ciara’s mandolin. Hera growled.

Royce frowned at the puppy. “Ungrateful
little beast,” he muttered under his breath, closing the basket’s
lid. His hand still stung from the bite he had received while
fitting her with a collar and leash. “Stay in your nice padded
basket and do not make me regret bringing you along.”

After searching through one of the packs
lashed to his saddle, he tossed a handful of oats into the snow for
Anteros, then withdrew three other items.

He returned to Ciara’s side, crouching down.
“Can you manage a sip of this?”

She had covered her eyes with her hands once
more, and parted her fingers just enough to peek at the flask he
held out. “Nay,” she croaked.

“It is only water, Princess. I filled a
flask from the well before we left Bayard’s keep. I thought you
might have need of it.”

Still looking dubious, she took it, then sat
back on her heels. She just stared at the flask accusingly for a
moment. It seemed she did not want to drink
any
liquid ever
again. Then she uncorked it and bravely lifted it to her lips.

“Just a sip at first,” he instructed. “Rinse
your mouth and then spit.” Almost to himself, he added, “But not at
me.”

Her mouth full of water, she lifted an
eyebrow, as if the thought had not occurred to her. Then she turned
her head and spat into the snow.

He handed her a cloth, along with a small
pouch. “Chew some of these. They are peppermint leaves. Elinor said
they will ease the sour taste and calm your stomach.”

Ciara’s eyes widened. “You told Lady Elinor
that I—”

“Nay,” he explained quickly. “I said that
you have been feeling ill in the mornings.”

Ciara shut her eyes, twin spots of pink
replacing the greenish hue in her cheeks. “So
that
is why
she hugged me so tightly when I left. She thinks I am …” She
started to shake her head, then stopped and quickly covered her
mouth with the cloth, groaning, her voice muffled. “I believe this
has been the most embarrassing morning of my entire life.”

“Princess, there is no shame in drinking too
much cassis. You are not the first to make that mistake.”

“But I feel like a featherwit,” she
confessed. Wiping her mouth, she set the cloth aside. “I thought I
was being bold and adventurous, but all I did was make myself sick.
I must … I must look like a fool.”

Royce had, to fight the urge to smooth the
frown from her lips. “Nay, milady, do not trouble yourself. No one
will know but the two of us. I vow that I shall carry the secret to
my grave. In fact,” he added lightly, “I may even make it my
epitaph: ‘Here lies Royce Saint-Michel, who was once thrown up upon
by royalty.’ ”

He succeeded in chasing away her frown. “You
are teasing me again.” She opened the pouch of mint leaves.

“Nay,” he insisted with a straight face. “I
rather like it. Though it is not poetic enough. Mayhap, ‘Here lies
Royce Saint-Michel, who forsooth attended the spewing of a
princess’s breakfast.’ ”

Her grin widened. “Stop that.”

“Or mayhap, ‘Here lies Royce Saint-Michel,
who had the honor of being present when a member of the royal
family blew beets.’ ”

She laughed so hard that she winced. “One
more and you will be in
need
of an epitaph!” She rubbed at
her temples.

He grinned. “Now you are teasing me,
milady.”

She met his gaze with an expression of
surprise, as if making a jest were a new experience for her. “Only
because you are being a featherwit.” Still smiling, she took
another sip of water and chewed on a leaf, looking as if she
already felt better. “You are also being kind. Just as you were
when you presented me with Hera this morning. It was a very
pleasant surprise.” Her voice was warm, soft. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, glad that he had been able to
ease both her suffering and her somber mood. “There is no need to
thank me for seeing to your comfort, milady. The fault is mine that
you are ill. If I had been with you last night …”

He left the sentence unfinished, cursed
himself for opening the topic he would have preferred to leave
closed.

She glanced up at him from beneath her
lashes, her smile fading. “You
were
with me last night,” she
whispered.

Unable to hold her gaze, Royce stood and
turned his back, wishing the wind that raked through his hair and
tunic could pass through his heart as well—and erase all memory of
that reckless kiss. He could not lie and claim that it had not
affected him. He had no skill at concealing his emotions.

“I apologize for my behavior last night,” he
said with cool formality, hoping to end the matter quickly,
painlessly. “I took advantage of you when you were impaired,
Princess. It will not happen again.”

For a moment, the wind whirling through the
snowy pass made the only sound.

“I cannot allow you to take all the blame,”
she said quietly. “I was quite within my senses. At least as much
as it is possible for me to be within my senses when I am near
you.”

He suddenly could not breathe. God’s blood,
what was she saying?

“Royce? I—I only meant there is no need for
you to apologize. I felt the same as … I wanted you to—”

“The fault was mine, Your Highness,” he said
harshly. “What happened last night was a mistake.”

“Oh.” She sounded hurt. “I see.”

He clenched his fists, damned himself to
whatever black pit of Hell would have him. Now he was making her
feel rejected, unwanted. Was there no way to untangle himself from
the mess he had created? “Nay, milady, I do not think you see
at—”

“There is no need to explain. I am the one
who should apologize.” Her voice had become thin. “It seems I made
more than one error last night.”

“Ciara—”

“I thought when you said that …” Her words
were almost lost on the wind. “I thought you felt the same as I do.
I thought that you—”

“By nails and blood, woman.” He spun toward
her, unable to stand any more, unwilling to hear the word
cared
. “I had no right! Can you not understand that? I have
no right to touch you or kiss you or”—he swore vividly—“or
want
you the way I do.”

Her lips parted on a gasp, her eyes widening
in astonishment.

“What happened last night cannot happen
again,” he said roughly. “It cannot. It
will
not. Your
father has promised you to Prince Daemon. Thousands of lives depend
on you carrying out your duty. On
both
of us carrying out
our duty.”

She turned her face into the wind. “Of
course, you are right.”