If she had been upset in the great hall, it was merely because she was tired. Overwrought. Exhausted by a day filled with new adventures and dizzying emotions-excitement at learning to defend herself, dread upon catching her first sight of Mount Ravensbruk, delight when she had played with the children, happiness upon discovering what it could feel like to have a friend.

And this other feeling. The one that was all tangled up with the way Royce looked at her, and touched her ...

Shivering, she lifted the flowing kirtle over her head, making a soft sound as it drifted down her body like a cloud. Then she leaned against the bedpost, gazing into the fire as she began unplaiting her hair, trying at the same time to unravel this feeling Royce stirred in her.

It had been building since the moment they met-and it had taken a sharp, unexpected turn when she had noticed the other women in the hall noticing him. The brunette had been only the most obvious in a roomful of sighing damsels, all enchanted by his rugged features and windswept dark hair, his brown eyes, the way he moved with such confidence, the disarming smile that flashed at the most unexpected moments ...

Gritting her teeth, resolved not to think of him anymore, she grabbed her book and climbed into the bed. She reached for the decanter on the table beside her and poured a draught of wine, taking a small sip. Her royal tutors had always insisted that a princess must take care with strong drink, must only partake in the most restrained, ladylike way ...

She emptied the cup in one swallow and poured herself another. Tonight, she decided with a wicked smile, she would find out what it felt like to get well and truly drunk.

"A toast," she declared, raising the goblet, "to freedom."

Piling up pillows against the headboard to cushion her back, she sank into them with a sigh and picked up her book, enjoying the sweet taste of the wine and the heady scent of the crushed rose petals.

Only to find herself remembering how very different and strangely pleasant it had felt to rest against Royce's hard, muscled chest today, how his musky scent had enveloped her ...

She dropped the book into her lap, disgusted with herself. Angry at him. How was it that the man could dominate her thoughts when he was not even in the room? Did he make such an impact on every woman who looked at him?

She swallowed hard, setting her cup aside, knowing that was the real question that had been bothering her all evening.

Did those other women feel this same tingly-hot sensation when they thought of him? Did their hearts beat faster whenever he glanced their way? Did they, too, wonder what his kiss would be like?

And did he care naught more for her than he did for them?

She sat up, pushed the covers aside, plucked a rose petal from the sheets, and tore it into shreds. This morn, in the woods, he had seemed kind, concerned for her ... even tender. But it had not lasted long.

Hanging her head, she buried her face in her palms. Why, by all the saints, why was she doing this to herself? Why should it matter what Royce Saint-Michel felt for her, or she for him? He was her guardian, the man appointed to take her to her betrothed. To Daemon. She was not supposed to have any feelings for him.

All her life, she had been taught that her duty, her responsibilities, her crown must come first. Her people were what mattered. Her feelings were unimportant.

Had she not said as much to Royce, only hours ago?

Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she lifted her head and reached for her wine, refilling the cup. She had to calm herself. Had to subdue all these feelings that were so new, so perplexing.

So forbidden.

The candles had flickered out, and the fire had burned low, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. That was the first thing Ciara noticed when she opened her eyes. The second was a heavy, thick feeling that clouded her senses, an unnatural drowsiness that made her thoughts ... and everything around her ... seem muffled ... slow.

The third was a footstep. Near the door.

There was someone in her room. Ciara's eyes opened wider and her heart struck hard against her ribs. But even the jolt of panic felt oddly sluggish. She could not seem to wake up fully, could not stir. Befuddled as much as frightened, she lay on her side beneath a jumble of covers, facing the wall, her cheek pressed against her book, her empty goblet still clutched in her hand.

Then she heard another footstep, closer this time. Quiet. Stealthy.

Into her foggy mind came a memory of the night she had been attacked in the palace.

Followed by a single desperate thought, a name. Royce. Help me! But he was not here. He had left her. Why had he left her? She could not remember. She opened her mouth to call out, but her tongue seemed too thick to form words. The only sound she uttered was a moan.

The intruder crept closer to the bed. Still did not speak. And who would be sneaking into her chamber so late except someone who meant her harm? Someone who had waited to attack until she was alone, helpless.

But ... nay, she was not helpless. A new thought broke through the lethargy that dulled her mind, with surprising clarity.

Elbow and heel. Elbow and heel.

Closing her eyes, she pretended to be asleep. Prayed she had the strength. Waited until the intruder drew close ... leaned over her.

Then she summoned every ounce of will she possessed and jammed her elbow upward, catching him by surprise, connecting with something hard.

Only to hear a familiar oof and a string of curses.

And the discordant twang of her mandolin hitting the floor.

The shock that rushed through her veins gave her enough energy to sit up, only to find herself tangled in the rumpled covers. She gave up trying to push them aside, blinking through the strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes, recognizing the brawny person sitting on her floor, even in the shadowy darkness. "Royce?"

He sputtered another oath, one hand pressed to his forehead. "Excellent aim, milady," he said with a muffled groan. "Right between the eyes."

"Oh, my ... by all ... the saints." Her words felt too slow, her head still muddled. She could not seem to focus either her thoughts or her vision. She tried squinting. "I did not hurt you, did I?"

"Nay." He remained on the floor, rubbing at his injured head, his voice full of annoyance. "I suppose I should be grateful you remember your lessons."

She tilted her head to one side, still confused by what he was doing here. "Why did you sneak up on me?"

"I was not sneaking. I only came to bring you this." He thumped her mandolin, which lay in the rushes beside him. "The accursed thing is so precious to you, I did not think you would want it left in the hall. I meant to leave it by the door, but then you made that ... sound, and I ..." He dropped his hand, resting both arms across his upturned knees, and looked away. "I also wanted to make sure you remembered to bolt the door-which apparently you did not."

"I must have ... um ... forgotten."

She could not explain why she had forgotten. Locking the door had been important, and it was most unlike her to forget something important. But at the time, she had been thinking about ... What had she been thinking about? Fie, but her brain did not seem to be working at all well.

Royce pushed to his feet, sniffing the air. "What is that smell? Was something burning in here?" He walked over to the hearth.

"Lady Elinor ... um ... left us a few surprises. She seems to have thought ... that you and I ..."

"Sandalwood. Why would Elinor put sandalwood in the hearth?" He bent to stoke the fire. The glow brightened the chamber. "God's blood, but the woman is a fanciful sort. Reads too much."

The comment made Ciara frown at him indignantly. Which helped her recall what she had been thinking about when she had forgotten to lock the door: she had been cross with him.

"And what is wrong with reading?" She untangled herself from the covers and got out of bed, fists clenched, swaying on her feet.

"I did not mean to say that there is-" As he turned to face her, his voice choked out. His gaze slowly dropped from her face to her toes. "Ciara," he said hoarsely, "where did you get that gown?"

"Elinor. I told you." The room tilted crazily and Ciara reached out to steady herself on the table beside the bed. It seemed awfully hard to keep her balance. "She left it for me, along with this very lovely wine, and-"

"Wine? What wine?" He stalked over and picked up the silver decanter, looking alarmed. "Where did this come from?"

"Elinor," she said in exasperation. Honestly, men could be such buffleheads. "I found it here in the room, with all the rest."

"Do you mean you just went ahead and drank this without asking anyone? God's breath, woman, it could have been poisoned." He took the stopper from the decanter, sniffed at the contents.

"Why would Elinor do that?"

"Not Elinor, you silly fool. Anyone in this keep could have left this here."

"I am not a silly fool. And you are a very suspicious person."

"I am supposed to be suspicious," he said angrily, setting the wine aside. "It is my duty to keep you safe-a duty you make damnably difficult. If this had been tainted, you would be dead right now!"

She flinched, stepping back from the fury in his eyes. "Well, I do not seem to be dead."

"And you do not seem entirely well, either." He caught her arm as she began to sway on her feet.

Ciara shook her head, trying to clear it. "I cannot understand it." She was still cross with him, but she felt grateful for his strong, steadying hand. "I felt quite pleasant after the first two or three glasses, but now-"

"The first two or three? How much did you drink?"

"Five glasses ... I think." She opened her eyes, but her mind still seemed fuzzy.

All she could think about was the way the firelight and shadows cast his features in harsh angles.

Handsome angles.

A ridiculous smile came unbidden to her lips. "It was a very mild, sweet wine."

"Ciara ... it is not wine at all." A reluctant grin eased the harshness from his face, and his voice softened. "No wonder you can hardly stand up straight. What you have been pickling yourself in is called cassis, milady. It is a drink made from the blackberries that grow in these mountains-and only meant to be enjoyed in very small quantities. Bayard's family has been brewing it for generations."

"Ah. Now I see." She blinked drowsily. "It is a very pleasant drink."

He chuckled. "And very potent. Legend has it that it enhances ..." His smile faded and he suddenly released her, stepping back a pace. "Never mind the legend. But I should warn you, little one, that you are going to awaken with the devil's own headache in the morn."

She kept smiling at him, deliriously pleased to hear him call her little one. What a pleasant title. Much nicer than princess. "It matters not to me if I wake up with a headache on the morrow. I do not want to ... think about the morrow."

All she could remember was that they would be leaving. And she did not want to leave here. This place that was so full of kind people and sweet children and merry laughter.

This place where the rest of the world seemed so far away.

The fire on the hearth sounded unnaturally loud in the darkness as she stood there. His gaze lingered over her face, her hair, and she felt warm all over, suspected that it had naught to do with the cassis.

Then a painful memory intruded through the pleasant fog enveloping her: the reason she had left him in the hall earlier. She dropped her gaze to her bare toes. "Was the view from the east tower very pretty tonight?"

"I would not know," he said distractedly. "I did not go to the east tower."

"Oh." It took a moment for the significance of what he said to penetrate her muddled brain. "Oh!" She glanced up, happiness bubbling through her.

As their gazes held, that strange look came into his eyes again, the one she had seen earlier today in the woods-filled with longing.

But then he shook his head as if to clear it. As if he, too, had overindulged in some intoxicating drink. He turned abruptly and walked away from her, toward the hearth. "Why were you so certain I would go to the tower?"

"Because that woman was very persuasive, and very pretty," she said honestly. "But if you were not in the east tower ... where have you been?"

"Sitting downstairs." He braced one arm against the mantel. "Keeping an eye on your door, waiting until I thought it would be sa-until I thought you were asleep."

She moved toward him, quietly, drawn to him in a way she could not explain, her earlier vexation replaced by an urge to ease the tension outlined so sharply in his shoulders. "I am sorry that I implied you do not care about your duty. You are obviously devoted to protecting me."

"My duty," he said roughly, "had precious little to do with it, Ciara."

"Are you angry with me again?"

"Nay, I am not angry." He sounded frustrated. "I was not angry before. I was merely ..." He paused, as if he could not find the right word, and exhaled a harsh breath. "Concerned. About your safety. It is my duty to ..." Hanging his head, he rested his cheek against his outstretched arm, his voice dropping to a deep, gruff whisper. "I do not want anything to happen to you, Ciara. I do not want to ... lose you."

Her heart flickered like the fire that brightened the room, his words filling her with an unfamiliar, extravagant emotion that made her feel as dizzy as the cassis. Oh, how very nice it was to hear him say that to her. To know that she had not been mistaken about his kindness and concern. "But ... but why are we always snapping at one another?" she asked in soft puzzlement. "Why are we always fighting?"

He muttered something under his breath that she could not make out. "Little one, there is so much that you do not understand. Much that is ... better left unsaid."

"But I want to understand." She reached up to touch his back.

He choked out a curse, his muscles as taut as a string on her mandolin. He turned quickly to face her, his features chiseled into harsh lines.

She moved closer to him without hesitation, leaning forward to rest her head on his shoulder, knowing only that she wanted to be near him. His tunic beneath her cheek smelled not of the brunette's overpowering perfume but of woodsmoke from the fire in the great hall. She smiled, sighing. "Help me to understand, Royce ... please."

A tremor went through him. She heard his heartbeat like wild thunder beneath her ear. "Ciara ..." He lifted his hands-and she feared he would push her away again.

But then his fingers slid into her hair.

He tilted her head up, his broad hands cupping her cheeks. "Innocent angel ... do you know what you are doing to me?" He looked and sounded as if he were in pain. "I gave my word." His eyes closed, opened again, his gaze piercing. "I gave my word."

She found it impossible to make sense of what he was saying. To concentrate on anything but his dark, potent eyes, the sound of his voice, the feel of his callused fingers against her skin.

And the way her heart had started to beat in time with his.

She reached up to soothe a muscle that flexed in his jaw, and he whispered something profane. His breathing became ragged.

And then slowly ... sweet Heaven, so very slowly ... one of his hands wound through her hair while the other slid down her back. "Fight me, Ciara," he begged in a fierce whisper, even as his arm encircled her waist. "Refuse me. Push me away."

"Nay, I will not," she breathed, her pulse jumping as her body molded to his, her lashes drifting closed as her chin tilted upward. "I cannot fight what I feel anymore."

With a wordless sound of defeat and impatience, he captured her mouth with his.

And cascades of fire swept through her.

The sensation was shocking, his mouth unbearably hot and sweet against hers. Silky and hard. Gentle and savage. His arm pulled her in tight, and she could feel his heat and hunger burning through the flimsy material of her kirtle. She trembled, drowning in ribbons of flame, moaning, the sound but a faint echo of the groan that tore through him.

All of her senses came alive, opening her heart and mind and soul to him, and he poured into her. Ravished and claimed. Filled her with his musky, male scent, the rough texture of his stubbled jaw against her skin, the steely strength of his arm around her.

He lifted her right off the ground, staggered backward a step, came up hard against the stone wall of the hearth. But his mouth remained joined to hers, the sound he made not of pain but of a feeling that wracked her just as powerfully. 'Twas a wanting, a need that went beyond any physical hunger or thirst or torment she had ever known. A feeling that she would die without this. Without him.

His fingers were buried in her hair, and he angled his head, his lips ravenous, giving more, demanding more. Her toes touched the floor but she sagged against him, unable to stand, her legs melting beneath her, her body melting into his. Her breasts felt wildly sensitive, aching from the friction of the soft fabric she wore, the roughness of his tunic, the hardness and heat of his muscled chest. Her nipples rose to hard pearls, the unfamiliar sensation drawing a soft cry from deep in her throat.