Giving up her attempt to lighten the mood, she studied the items at his feet. In addition to the two swords, he had peasant garments made of rough homespun-tunics, leggings-and a pair of boots. "Where did you get all that?"

"In the stables. I helped myself to a few necessities."

"You stole them?"

"Milady, the shops are not open at this hour," he said dryly. "And when we leave here, I thought it would be best if we go in disguise. We might attract a bit of attention dressed as we are, at least by daylight." He indicated her ruined gown and his own tattered, bloodied tunic. "I left the stable boys a few coins in payment."

Picking up two of his "acquisitions"-a cake of soap and some lengths of clean linen-he crossed to the table in the far corner, which held a wooden ewer and washbasin. He poured water into the bowl, then motioned for her to join him. "Let me see your hands, Ciara."

She rose, still holding the fur close as she walked over to him, her bare feet tickled by the rushes. "I think you should see to your own injuries first," she protested. The condition of his clothes told her that he had been hurt far worse than she in the avalanche. The thought made her heart ache.

He glanced down at her with a strange expression. "I am supposed to be taking care of you, milady. And I have done a damnably poor job of it today."

Ciara tried to puzzle out the emotion in his midnight eyes, seeing warmth and concern there, and ...

He dropped his gaze before she could make sense of the rest.

She had the distinct impression he was purposely trying to conceal his feelings from her.

She did not understand, knew only that the emotion she had glimpsed brought a flutter to her stomach, like a warm, flickering candle flame inside her.

"I suffered only a few scratches, Your Highness," he said briskly. "I can tend to them later." Gently taking one of her hands, he turned it palm upward.

And grated out an oath. "I am sorry, Princess," he whispered, frowning down at her raw skin.

"Do not apologize. You saved my life today, Royce. I am grateful." She realized that sounded too formal, that it did not begin to describe the feelings in her heart. "I should have told you earlier, should have told you that I-"

"There is no need to tell me anything," he said flatly. "And pray do not thank me. I almost got you killed today." Dampening a piece of linen, he began to cleanse her hand with a tenderness that belied his cool words.

"You did not almost get me killed," she insisted, struggling to keep her voice low, "You saved me. When I was trapped on the cliff, if it had not been for you-"

"If it had not been for me, you would not have been there in the first place," he said in a harsh whisper, the anger obviously directed at himself. "I should never have stopped in the middle of that pass. I should have been thinking of my duty, not my-"

He left the sentence unfinished. And completed his work in silence, bandaging both her hands with fresh lengths of cloth.

When he turned aside, his tone was once again mild. "I am finished with you, Princess."

Despite the softness of his voice, Ciara stepped back as if he had pushed her away. She told herself he was referring to her injured hands, but could not help wondering if his words held a different meaning.

She could not explain the hurt that twisted through her, but she kept it from her voice. "Then allow me to help you. The cuts on your back-"

"I can manage alone. I have done so before."

"But you do not have to manage alone," she pointed out.

He faced the corner in stony silence for a long moment. Then he reached for the hem of his tunic and yanked the garment off over his head.

For a breathless instant, Ciara could not move or speak or take her eyes from him. She had seen men dressed only in leggings before-peasants, squires at practice in the bailey, stonecutters-but always from a distance. Never had she been this close to a man so ... so ...

Magnificent. The low firelight gleamed on his bare back, on the hard planes and corded muscles that flexed as he tossed the tunic aside and lowered his arms. He looked as if he had been sculpted from warm, dark stone. His many scars and cuts and bruises made her want to reach out, ease his pain.

Then he turned to face her, and she could not hold his gaze. But glancing down only made heat rise in her cheeks, for she could not keep from staring at his broad chest and thick-hewn arms, at the mat of black hair that covered his tanned skin, the way it narrowed over his ribs to vanish at the waist of his leggings....

Before she could recover her senses, someone knocked at the door. She almost jumped out of her skin.

"Nay, " Royce whispered. "That should be the innkeeper. Back under the bed. And do not make a sound."

She scrambled into her hiding place, as quickly and quietly as possible, her heart hammering.

Royce dropped the sheet in place to conceal her completely. Holding her breath, she heard him cross to the door, unlock it, open it ...

"Good eventide to you, good sir," an unfamiliar, jovial male voice said. "We have the items you requested."

Ciara smelled the tantalizing aroma of roast meat and hot bread, heard the rattle of spoons and wooden trenchers. Prayed that her stomach would not growl.

She also heard the sound of some large object being brought-rolled-in. Something so heavy it crunched the rushes on the floor. This was followed by the splashing of a great deal of liquid.

What on earth were they having for supper?

A few minutes later, the innkeeper bade Royce a pleasant stay, and she heard the door being closed and locked once more.

"You can come out now, Ciara."

She slid from beneath the bed-and had to bite back an exclamation of surprise and delight.

It was a wooden tub full of water. Hot, steaming water.

Smiling, she lifted her gaze to Royce's as she got to her feet. In the middle of all this madness, he had found a way to provide her with a hot bath.

He remained standing by the door, his chest still bare, his eyes piercing hers. "You were so cold earlier that I feared you might ... I did not want you to catch your death, so I decided to ..."

His strained expression made her smile waver, brought that strange, hot flutter back to her stomach.

She glanced from his face to the bolted door to the barred window and back again, realizing that they were locked in. Together.

That they would be spending the next several days alone in this small chamber.

With naught to occupy their attention but each other.

Chapter 12.

He swore he could hear each drop of water as it glided down her body.

Seated on a stool in front of the hearth, his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt, Royce kept his back to Ciara and his gaze on the untouched trencher of food in his hands. And fought a desperate battle to ignore the liquid, sensual sounds just a few paces behind him.

He should have told the innkeeper and his assistants to take the hot bath away. The fire and the fur had clearly been enough to revive Ciara. She was in no danger.

But after all she had endured this day, he had found himself unable to deny her a few moments'...

Pleasure.

The word made his entire body go taut with strain. He realized he was sweating. The chamber that had seemed so cold just minutes ago now felt much too hot. Sultry. Confining.

Every splash of warm water caressing her naked skin made his heart beat harder. Each barely audible sigh that escaped her lips made his blood pound through his veins. He could not even draw a complete breath, longed to get up and pace-but that would mean turning around.

And seeing what he was hearing.

He grabbed a haunch of roast meat from his trencher and sank his teeth into it, struggling to remember that a great many lives depended on him doing what was right and honorable.

Including his own.

Wolfing down his meal, he resisted the urge to steal a glance over his shoulder ... and tried to keep his mind off the large, soft bed in the corner.

At least the arrival of the tub had spared him one bit of torture: having Ciara tend his injuries. He had seen to his own cuts and bruises while she had prepared for her bath.

The thought of what her tender ministrations might have been like, of her fingers moving over his bare skin ...

He gnawed the last bit of meat from the mutton bone, unable to forget the way she had looked at him when he had stripped off his tunic and turned to face her. The wonder in her gaze, and the unexpected, unmistakable arousal, had hit him like a punch to the gut, reminding him of the sweet, feminine passion he had tasted so briefly at Bayard's castle.

The passion that he had no right to taste or to take.

"Royce?"

He almost choked on his food. "Aye?"

"Could you ... mayhap hand me something to ... to dry off with? Please?"

His heart thudded. Her tremulous voice revealed that she was just as affected as he was by the heat sizzling through the room.

His gaze slid to the stack of linens on the table to his left. He wished fervently that she had thought of this before getting into the tub. "Of course."

He tried to say it casually, to act as if he had beautiful, naked women bathing within five paces of him every day.

Setting his trencher aside, he picked up some of the clean linens and moved as close to her as he dared, keeping his gaze averted. He placed them on the floor within her reach.

But he did not move away.

He heard her breath catch. For an instant, just one instant, he lingered there. Wishing...wanting...

Then he forced himself to reclaim his place before the hearth.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You are welcome." He glared into the flames, felt beads of sweat slide down his temple, his neck, into the matted hair of his bare chest.

Neither of the tunics he had pilfered from the stable boys fit him, both too tight to get past his shoulders. He could only hope one of the garments would fit Ciara.

The wish became a prayer a moment later as he heard her stand. He had to shut his eyes to banish the image painted by the sounds: water sluicing off her naked body. The little rush of breath between her teeth as the night air touched her wet skin.

He imagined her nipples tightened to hard pearls, imagined them a perfect, dusky pink.

Next he heard the crunch of the rushes beneath her feet as she stepped from the tub. And the quiet rustling of the linen as she rubbed the soft cloth over her smooth, wet curves.

Then silence.

Every muscle in his body tightened. He remained still, not trusting himself to move. Knowing that if he so much as dared draw breath, he would have her in his arms and on the bed before either of them could say a word.

He blinked once, slowly. Waited.

"Royce?" she whispered tentatively.

"What?" His voice sounded rough and hollow.

She hesitated a moment. "What am I to wear?"

The chamber seemed to grow smaller and even hotter around him. He waved a hand over his shoulder, motioning her toward the corner near the door. "See if any of those fit you."

He listened while she padded barefoot over to the pile of stolen garments. She could not put her ruined gown back on. The few bits of cloth left intact after their escape today had more or less shredded when she had disrobed for her bath. The task of getting undressed had apparently been difficult with her hands bandaged. And he had not dared to offer help.

Nor did he offer any now, as he listened to her wrestling with the homespun garments in an attempt to fit them over her curves.

She made a sound of frustration. "I do not think these will work. My hips are too ... and my ... my ..."

He did not need an explanation. His imagination provided a complete, vivid picture.

Gritting his teeth, he whispered an oath and flicked a glance heavenward. Was it not enough that he had to spend the next few days alone with her in this room? Did she have to be as naked as Eve the entire time?

He stood, raking a hand through his hair. "I will have to risk a visit to the marketplace in the morn, to purchase us both some clothes," he told her, trying to think of what to do with her tonight.

Blankets were the only answer, he decided. Bundles and bundles of blankets. "For now, you will have to make do with the coverlets from the bed."

He felt relieved when he heard her cross the chamber quickly, heard the rustling of the blankets. But then silence fell again.

"Princess?" he asked warily. Mayhap she had decided to forgo her supper, to simply go to bed. It would be a relief to discover her fast asleep.

But when he heard her voice again, he realized he had not been born a fortunate man.

"I ... I feel much better now," she said. "Thank you for ordering the bath for me. It was very kind. And thank you for being so ... so chivalrous."

He would have laughed if he could breathe deeply enough. Aye, he had kept his back turned-but chivalrous was the last word he would use to describe how he felt at the moment.