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 Chlons 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.

Everyone she loved.

With naught but memories of the places and freedom and feelings she had come to cherish. Of the man who had shown her a whole new world. Who had opened her eyes, and her heart.

"How long?" she whispered, still staring up at the towers.

He did not ask what she meant, did not look at the castle. "Another hour."

She dropped her gaze, looking down at his arm holding her so tight. They had not dared tempt fate by sharing any intimacy these past three days. She had barely allowed herself to touch him at all, except to change his bandages. "Is your arm feeling any better?"

"The wound is healing well enough, now that the fever has passed."

She knew he was in more pain than he would admit. "Royce, I ..." She almost could not make herself say it. "I could go on from here alone. You do not have to-"

"I am your guardian, Ciara, bound by my oath and my honor to protect you until you are wed. I have no intention of abandoning you."

"You mean to stay until the wedding?"

"Until the last possible moment."

She closed her eyes, rested her hand over his. "I do not want to part either ... my love ..." Her voice became dangerously unsteady. "But we both know that we must, anon. And there could be danger for you here. When last you met with Daemon and his men four years ago, you did not leave on the best terms. I am afraid for you-"

"I can deal with Daemon's men."

"An entire castle full of them? Even with your sword arm injured?"

"Ciara, I am not sending you into that place alone."

"But Royce ... once we pass through those gates, I will be alone. I can bear it only if I know that you are safe."

His voice became as soft and warm as his breath against her cheek. "I cannot leave you yet, little one. Not yet. Not while there is still even a moment left that we are-"

"Hold!"

The shout came from the trees on their right. Royce yanked hard on the reins, turning the mare as he drew his sword.

Ciara screamed, gripping the saddle as a half-dozen men came galloping toward them. She saw at a glance that these were not rebels. They were royal guardsmen, wearing red-and-gold silk surcoats over black hunting garb.

Any relief she might have felt vanished when she saw how they were brandishing their weapons.

Royce did not try to outrun them. Several were armed with bows and arrows. "You will need no blades. We will go with you peacefully. We are-"

"You are trespassing on royal lands," one of the guardsmen snarled as the riders came to a dirt-spraying halt only paces away.

"Poachers," another surmised as he stared at their homespun garments. He raised his lance, aiming the gleaming point directly at Ciara. A third man blew on a hunting horn, the sound rising above the trees like the howl of an unholy beast.

Ciara realized they had leaped to the wrong conclusion, did not even know she was a woman-and were ready to mete out swift punishment. "Nay, you do not understand!" She reached up to push back her hood.

Royce caught her hand, stopping her. "Do we look as if we were poaching?" he demanded hotly. "We have no bow or arrows-"

"Discarded, no doubt, when you saw us coming." One of the guards grabbed the mare's reins.

Another disarmed Royce. "On the ground, thieves."

"Before I run you both through," the man with the lance threatened.

Ciara shook off Royce's restraining hand, shoved back her hood. "You are making a mistake! I am Prince Daemon's betrothed!"

The guardsmen all froze, gaping. Royce swore.

Then one of the guards laughed. "And I am King Stefan," he scoffed.

A chill snaked down Ciara's spine. Too late she realized her error-she had no way to prove her identity. They thought she was a thieving peasant, lying to save herself. "B-but it is the truth! I am Princess Ciara of Chlons and this is-"

The tip of the lance pressing against her middle cut off her words. The man holding it leered at her. "Mayhap we shall enjoy a bit of sport before we hang this one."

One of the others dismounted, leaving his weapons as he came toward her. "Off the horse, my lovely."

Ciara's heart hammered in her chest. She and Royce were going to die. Here at the foot of Daemon's castle. After all they had survived, she was going to be raped and they were both going to be killed.

Royce slipped his arm from around her waist. "Do as he says, Ciara," he ordered in a low voice.

"But Royce-"

"Do as he says," he repeated, deadly calm.

His tone gave her no choice. She awkwardly swung her right leg forward, up over the mare's neck, and slid from the saddle. Felt all six pairs of eyes on her as she dropped to the ground.

Which was apparently what Royce had been counting on-for he suddenly burst into action. Lunging forward, he seized the lance with both hands and yanked hard, pulling the man who held it from his horse.

Jerking the weapon free, Royce swung it sideways with a grunt of pain, catching the guard on the ground a solid blow across the back of the head before the man could reach Ciara.