"You are welcome, milady. Are you ready for ..." As he turned to face her at last, the question died on his lips.

She had not covered herself with all the blankets; she had chosen only one.

The fur.

He felt every drop of blood in his veins surge into his lower body like a flood of fire. The silky fur covered her from neck to toes, leaving only her oval face and damp hair exposed.

The thought of her pale nakedness hidden from him by only that soft robe ...

He was suddenly aware of his arousal pressing painfully hard against his leggings. Of the overpowering desire to step toward her, slide that coverlet from her shoulders, reveal her body one slow inch at a time ...

He forced his gaze back to her face, could not make himself look away fast enough to conceal his feelings. She saw it all in his eyes. How powerfully she affected him.

How much he wanted to make her his own.

He heard himself speaking, as if from far away. "Are you ready, Princess?"

She took a step toward him, even before he amended the question.

"For your supper," he said quickly. "Are you hungry, Princess?"

Mayhap if he kept calling her that, it would be enough to remind him of all the barriers between them. Of why he must not do what every fiber of his being urged him to do.

"Starving," she said with a tremulous curve of her mouth, drawing closer one hesitant step at a time. "But I ... think I may have a problem."

She lifted her bandaged hands, still clutching the fur, and he understood: she was having a hard enough time keeping her makeshift robe in place. She could not eat and remain covered at the same time. Which meant she could either stay warm and go hungry ...

Or eat her supper naked.

He shut his eyes, trying to banish that delectable image. And then he thought of a third possibility.

Opening his eyes, he gestured to the hearth, noticing that his voice sounded too deep, too husky when he made the suggestion. "Come and sit by the fire, and I will ... see what I can do."

Turning away, he filled a trencher with food at the table in the corner while she settled herself before the fire. From outside their chamber, the delicate strains of a harp and pipes drifted on the night air.

"Where is that music coming from?" Ciara asked.

"The tavern down the street."

"The stringed instrument sounds like a tympanum. I have one of those at ..."

Home.

She did not say the word, and Royce felt something inside him wrench tight, reminded that she had left her home behind. Forever.

'Twas a feeling he knew too well. His heart beating strangely, he felt somehow that he knew her thoughts as she gazed toward the window.

She had become an exile, as he had been. In a matter of days, she would be arriving at her new home, Mount Ravensbruk.

Where they would part, forever.

He stood there watching her, holding a trencher of food in his hands, racked by denial and frustration. And by another, new emotion. One that should have startled him. Alarmed him.

Instead, he could only yield to it, wonder when it had happened.

When it was that she had claimed his heart so completely, this lady with the topaz eyes and quiet grace, delicate as snowfall, rare and precious as a Chlons garnet. This princess who was both regal and ravishing, who had a soft spot in her heart for every child she met and courage enough to climb an icy cliff.

And willingness to sacrifice her own happiness to save her people.

Mayhap, he thought, swallowing hard past a lump in his throat, he had first realized it on the cliff today. Or later when she had walked for hours without telling him how badly she was suffering.

Or mayhap it had happened the moment he first saw her in the chapel, when she had appeared like an angel drifting into his life on a beam of morning sunlight.

He was in love with her.

His grip tightened on the carved wooden trencher, almost hard enough to break it, as everything inside him was breaking. He was in love with her. With this sweet innocent who looked so vulnerable huddled within the fur, her damp hair trailing down her back. Princess Ciara. Christophe's sister. Aldric's daughter. Daemon's betrothed.

A lady who belonged to everyone but him.

He looked away, had to set the platter down before he snapped it in two. Brutally reminded himself that she was never meant to be his. He could not change what had to be-and he could not make the same mistake he had made four years ago.

Peace depended on him carrying out the mission he had been entrusted with. This time, he had to do what duty and honor demanded. This time, he had to put his country's needs ahead of his own.

The music still drifted in through the shuttered window, and he knew he would never again hear the sound of harp and pipes without remembering this night, this moment.

This bitterness.

Steeling himself against the forbidden feelings, he picked up the trencher again, poured a cup of wine for her, and returned to the hearth. Sitting with his back against the warm stone wall, he tried to keep his voice casual.

"You say that instrument is called a tim-what?"

"Tympanum." Ciara was still looking toward the window. "It is a stringed instrument, like a harp, native to Scotland. I have rather a large collection of stringed instruments at ... home."

She finished in a scant whisper, still holding the fur close with her bandaged hands.

Glancing from his face to the platter in his hands and back again, she regarded him with a bewildered expression. "Have you given thought to how I might eat that, or are you teasing me?" She attempted a smile, lifted an eyebrow. "Nay, now I have guessed-you mean for me to gobble my supper like a hog at a trough."

He realized she had noticed his somber expression and was trying to lighten his mood. But he could not muster even the slightest grin. "Nay, I thought we would try something more civilized. Not to mention more tidy." He cut a bite-size chunk of meat for her and held it out toward her.

"Ah, I see. Instead of a hog, I shall be fed like a loyal hound." Still smiling, she leaned forward and nipped it from his fingers.

He tried to ignore the sensual impact of the brief contact, dropped his gaze to the trencher, and cut another piece for her. "Have you always liked music?"

"Aye," she said between bites. "It is hard to say whether I like reading or music best."

"A lady of many talents."

She shrugged at the compliment. "A lady with a great deal of time on her hands," she corrected. "And many costly tutors."

"You are being generous, milady. And modest."

She chewed and swallowed before speaking, shaking her head. "Nay, my musical skills are entirely the fault of my royal tutors." She laughed. "When I was young, you see, I used to sneak away from them whenever possible to spend time with the minstrels who visited the palace. The minstrels were the ones who taught me to play and compose."

Royce could not help grinning, picturing a mischievous little princess skipping her lessons. "And the musicians were no doubt more colorful and fun than your stuffy royal tutors."

"Much more fun." She nodded. "But in truth, I believe I have always favored intellectual pursuits like reading and music simply because I have never been particularly good at physical ..." She had leaned toward his outstretched hand again, her eyes on his as she spoke, and it took her a moment to finish the sentence. "... activities."

He held her gaze, silently sharing her memories of the various physical activities they had engaged in together.

Not only today, but last night.

Her mouth hovered just above the meat in his fingertips. Then she took it quickly.

And sat back, drawing the fur closer around her, as if suddenly aware of the erotic aspect of what they had been doing-of the way the pads of his fingers just brushed against her lips each time ...

Of the savory juices on his fingertips, and in her mouth ...

Of the unintentional, wet touch of her tongue against his skin ...

"B-but I-I should ..." she stammered, "I should not be so critical of my tutors. They were most ... most ..."

"Most fortunate to have a pupil who is both intelligent and gifted," he whispered, "as well as beautiful."

Her eyes widened, shining. Her gaze searched his for a long moment before she replied, softly, "No one has ever said that to me before."

He knew he had no right to be the first. Knew he should stop.

And instead he heard himself telling her more. "Ciara, you are more beautiful than"-he searched for a comparison worthy of her-"than snow falling in the mountains at dawn. You are more beguiling and more lovely than any woman I have met."

Her cheeks colored. "I always thought that I ... I did not compare well to other women. My eyes are too dark, and my mouth is ... and my hair ..." She reached up to touch the jagged ends of her damp tresses.

"Your eyes are much better than blue, and your hair is like copper and gold spun together. Not even my handiwork could mar its beauty." He lifted the cup of wine toward her. "And your mouth ..."

She leaned forward and took a sip from the offered goblet, lifting her gaze to his.

He purposefully ran his thumb over her lower lip. "Your mouth is perfect, Ciara," he said huskily. "You are perfect. And you have become more precious to me than anything in my life."

If she had not looked at him that way, her eyes suddenly glistening with dampness, filling with warmth and longing and so many other, deeper emotions ...

He might have been able to stop himself. But the need had become too strong, the feelings in his heart and in her gaze too powerful to resist. As if in a dream, he picked up another piece of meat and held it out to her, leaning closer. Groaned softly as she parted her lips to let his fingertips slip inside.

And then he was sharing the taste of it with her, kissing the succulent juices from her lips. Sliding his tongue along hers. Meeting her mouth as she sought his and devouring her with a hot, deep kiss.

One of her hands came up to rest in the center of his chest, over his heart, and he flinched. Thought for an instant that she might push him away. End this now. Now, before it was too late.

Instead, she made a low sound of need. Of wanting. Kept her mouth molded to his.

And then she released her grip on the fur, slid her palm up over his chest to the nape of his neck.

He dropped the trencher, undone by her touch. Lost in her silky heat and delicious sighs. Cupping her face, he deepened the mating of their mouths, reason gone, sanity slipping. All he knew was that he needed her, wanted her. Loved her.

Driven by the deafening, pounding demand of his heart, he lifted his mouth from hers to nip a hungry path along her jaw, her throat. Glancing down, he caught a breathtaking view of her ivory skin warmed to gold by the firelight. The fur had parted just enough to reveal the soft curves of her breasts, their rosy peaks taut.

He went still, stared in awe at the sheer perfection of her, exhaled a harsh gasp of air. And the touch of his breath made the tempting pearls tighten even more. Dusky pink, they were, just as he had imagined. He told himself he should not, must not ...

But then his hand was there, cupping one exquisite globe, his thumb whisking over her nipple. Her skin was so satiny pale against his dark, callused palm; her voice so soft as she inhaled a small cry of pleasure, of discovery.

Of longing.

A single drop of wine had trickled from her lips to splash onto that soft curve of flesh, and he could not resist the urge to bend his head and kiss it away. She shuddered in response, making small, passionate sounds that touched him like hot brands and set him ablaze. His lips and tongue licked up the tiny dot of liquid ... and then he lifted her to his mouth, tasted her, suckled her.

His boldness did not seem to make her afraid. Or even cautious. She had become as reckless as he, as lost in the flames that threatened to burn them both to ashes. Her fingers buried in his hair and she arched her back, allowing him to take her more deeply, allowing the fur to slide down her body. Revealing more of her, all of her. Her slender rib cage, her impossibly tiny waist, her flat stomach ...

Driven to the edge of madness by her response, he lifted his head, slanted his mouth over hers once more, encircling her with his arms. The feel of her soft, naked body against his, the way she pressed herself closer to him, snapped the last threads of his control.

And before he knew what he was doing, he lowered her to the floor, pressing her down into the fur.

Ciara trembled in his arms, not from fear or even uncertainty, but from an unfamiliar excitement that left her gasping for breath between his deep, hot kisses. Royce's words and his touch and the steely strength of his arms had all woven a glittering tapestry of magic around her.

She surrendered to it, to him, to the tumult of emotions in her heart and the infinite gentleness of his hands, until naught existed outside of this small chamber and the firelight and the heat and longing that bound them together.

The bristly hair on his chest felt rough against her breasts, made the sensitive tips pinch tight. When he tore his mouth from hers, she heard a moan of protest issue from her throat, but then he was sliding down her body, his lips closing over one aching crest. He kissed and teased it with his tongue until her breath broke and she arched up off the soft fur beneath her, his name a whispered plea on her lips.

His arm slid around her back to hold her fast as he gave hungry attention to each tender peak in turn. The need that twisted through her, the shocking, indescribable sensations felt like tendrils of flame. Like lightning. Sharp, glittering. Her pulse pounding, she tossed her head helplessly, lost in the exquisite storm.

She knew she should stop him, knew that what they were doing was wrong. By all the laws of God and man, this was wrong. Forbidden. He was not her husband and never would be.

Her hands sought him, her fingers curling into the hard muscles of his arms. But she did not stop him, did not even try. To the depths of her soul, she felt-knew-that this was what she was meant for, what she had been born for, to be held in this man's arms. Caressed and cherished and claimed.

She heard his breathing, ragged and hoarse, as he lowered her back down onto the fur, balancing his weight on his forearms. She felt his body so hard and hot against hers, streaked with sweat, shuddering with his own need. Yet he nuzzled her gently, brushing his stubbled cheek over the wet, delicate skin he had kissed, making her shiver and writhe beneath him.

She buried her fingers in his hair, did not care if she was condemned to spend eternity in Hell as punishment for this one sweet night of Heaven-for she had already been condemned to spend the rest of her life without him.

Nay, she could not think of that. Not while they were still together. Not tonight. Unable to deny him her body or her soul, she offered up both willingly, gladly. For he already possessed a part of her that Daemon never would.

Her heart.

And all that mattered was here, now, him.

She tried to draw him back to her, longing to wrap her arms around him, to be closer to him in a way she could not begin to understand. But he pulled away from her grasp, moving lower over her body. Tracing a damp path down her ribs, her belly.

Unable to reach him, she grasped handfuls of the fur beneath her, shock lashing through her when he kissed his way even lower. His fingers followed, brushed against her hip. Her thigh.

She went rigid, stunned breathless, unable to believe what he meant to do. Surely he could not ... dear God, he could not ...

He answered her unasked question with a touch. With a breath. His fingertips burning her like a brand, he gently nudged her thighs apart.