Grabbing his shield, Royce tossed the lance to her but she dropped it, utterly taken by surprise. She snatched it from the ground as he leaped from the saddle. He placed himself between her and the other four men, taking a sword from the one who lay groaning on the forest floor.

"The lady is telling the truth," he snarled, keeping the shield raised as he backed through the trees, away from the guardsmen who were spitting curses and drawing their swords. "We are from Chlons and she is Daemon's betrothed. In the spirit of peace, I would prefer to avoid killing any of you-but if you dare touch even the toe of her boot, you will answer for it with blood."

Trying to look brave instead of terrified, Ciara raised the lance to ward off the men who had dismounted and were advancing on them.

"Try the other end, Ciara," Royce advised calmly. "The pointy end is more effective."

With a squeak of dismay, she realized she had been holding it backward. So much for looking fearsome. She turned the heavy weapon around, her heart pounding a panicked race.

The guards spread out, preparing to come at them from several directions at once. And the two Royce had knocked to the ground were getting to their feet.

Royce backed her into a tree, positioning himself in front of her. "I suggest all of you think carefully before you make any more mistakes," he snapped. "Your prince is not known to be a forgiving sort."

The guards were too angry to pay him heed.

Ciara screamed in terror as all six closed in at once and Royce stepped forward to meet them with shield and sword raised.

But before more than two or three blows could be struck, the thunder of hoofbeats and the yelping of hounds echoed through the trees. The rest of the hunting party rode into view.

"What is this, Gilroy?" an angry voice called out as a score of riders surrounded the combatants. "Why have you interrupted the hunt?"

Ciara took him to be the falconer, for he carried a huge bird of prey on his arm-and he was apparently a person of some importance, for the guardsmen lowered their weapons and turned to face him.

She rushed to Royce's side, but he warned her away with his eyes. The look stopped her, made her keep her distance as if a tree had suddenly fallen between them. She understood his message as clearly as if he had said it aloud: she dared not touch him.

They could not allow any trace of their feelings for each other to show.

"Your Highness, we caught these two peasants ..."

Ciara gasped, the rest of the guard's words dissolving in a strange buzz that filled her ears as she turned to stare up at the man holding the falcon. As if in a dream, a nightmare, time itself seemed to stop.

Your Highness.

She noticed only now that the guards were all dropping to one knee and bowing to him.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

He was dressed like the others, in black hunting garb with heavy gauntlets and a fur-lined cape. Yet this was the man responsible for the seven years of killing and destruction that had been visited upon her country. For the murder of Royce's family.

For Christophe's death.

She felt as if she had turned entirely to ice. He did not look like a warrior-slender, his face youthful, almost handsome. He could not be much older than Royce, though his brown hair was streaked with gray.

But his silvery eyes were as cold as a mountain peak in midwinter. And the way his upper lip curled in a permanent sneer made him look as if he disdained everything and everyone around him.

When he spoke, there was no mistaking his identity.

"More mewling peasants trying to fill their bellies by poaching from my forests?" He looked at Royce, then at her. "Kill them."

Ciara felt all the blood drain from her face, stricken and outraged by the way he could so easily order the deaths of two people he thought were his own subjects. She stepped forward. "Prince Daemon, I am-"

Those colorless eyes fastened on her. "Who is this wench who dares approach me with a weapon?"

Ciara realized that she still gripped the lance in her hand. "I am not a wench. Nor am I a peasant or a poacher." She threw the spear aside but stood her ground. "I am Princess Ciara of Chlons."

If she had claimed to be the pope, he could not have looked more surprised.

"She speaks the truth, Your Highness," Royce said, throwing aside the sword he had stolen from the guard. "We have come from Chlons, sent by King Aldric himself." He lifted the shield he held. "Mayhap you remember me."

Daemon tore his gaze from her just long enough to study Royce's face-and the family crest on the shield. "Ferrano," he bit out, his eyes widening in recognition. "How in the name of Christ did you come to be here? How is it even possible that Aldric let you live? If any of my emissaries had done what you did four years ago, I would have fed him to my royal hounds."

"Fortunately for me," Royce replied coolly, "my king is a more lenient man."

Daemon made a sound of derision and turned to stare at Ciara again. "And you ... nay, you could not be my betrothed. She is to arrive on the morrow. My couriers told me only this morn that the wedding procession is yet a day's ride distant."

Ciara glanced at Royce, struggled to find words. What would happen to them if she could not convince Daemon?

The guards still stood eager to tear them both to pieces.

"My father feared for my life," she explained, turning back to face the sneering prince. "I was attacked in our palace. You must have received word of that-"

"Aye. The work of the rebels," he said with distaste.

She nodded. "My father thought it too dangerous for me to travel in the wedding procession, so he had another take my place, and sent me here in secret by a southern route. Through the mountains, with"-she remembered at the last second to speak impersonally-"this man to serve as my escort and protector."

Daemon lifted an eyebrow and stared down his long nose at her, studying her face, which was grimy from the day's travel, and her masculine garb, which was in little better condition. "You will forgive me, wench, if I find it difficult to believe you are a princess." He flicked a glance at Royce. "What sort of trick is your king playing this time, Ferrano?"

"It is no trick." Royce's jaw clenched. "The only ones who have been tricked are the rebels who sought to kill Her Highness before she could fulfill the agreement King Aldric made with you."

"Ah, the agreement." As if that had given Daemon an idea, he looked over his shoulder, flicking a hand to summon one of the other hunters forward. "If you are who you claim, milady," he said sarcastically, returning his attention to her, "you will no doubt recognize this man."

Ciara stared up at the bearded, grizzled, portly man who came to the front of the group of riders.

It was one of the emissaries Daemon had sent to settle the terms of peace with her father, more than three months ago. "Aye, of course I remember him. He is ..." She desperately searched her memory for the name. "Sir William Cameron, minister of your treasury."

Daemon squinted at her in disbelief. "Cameron," he asked slowly, "is this indeed the princess?"

The older man dismounted from his horse, puffing from the exertion, and walked over to look at her more closely. His bushy eyebrows knitting together, he examined her face as he might examine a ledger of accounts.

Then he nodded emphatically. "Aye, Your Highness," he said in his distinctive Scottish accent, " 'tis indeed King Aldric's daughter."

Ciara managed a tremulous smile. "So good to see you again, Sir William."

Daemon recovered quickly from his shock. "You will forgive me, Your Highness," he said with smooth, courtly charm, "if I was taken by surprise by your unexpected and"-he glanced at Royce-"unorthodox arrival. It would seem you have endured a terrible ordeal. But I am pleased that you have arrived safely." He gestured for one of his knights. "Dalian, escort Her Royal Highness to the palace, and order the servants to see that she is made comfortable."

The knight rode forward, extending a hand to lift her onto his horse, but Ciara backed away a step. "Wait, I ..."

Suddenly afraid, she turned to look at Royce.

His gaze met and held hers, but he made no move, no gesture. Gave no outward sign of what must remain, now and forever, secret.

Ciara felt as if the sunlight and the trees whirled in a dizzying blur around her. This was the end for them.

The end of all they would ever have, all they would ever be.

Not yet. I am not ready yet. Had she thought herself prepared for this moment? It was all happening too fast. She had counted on having the chance to say her farewell to him in private. A chance to hold him one last time.

To tell him she loved him, just once more.

"I ..." She tried to swallow and failed, her throat too tight. "I would be assured that my escort will be well treated."

Daemon exhaled a low, amused sound that was not at all reassuring. "In the spirit of our peace agreement, I shall personally guarantee his safety. He can stay in the quarters that have been prepared for members of the wedding procession."

Ciara tried to thank her betrothed politely, tried to say or do something appropriate, but could not even draw a breath. Could not tear her gaze from Royce's.

Then, as if to rescue her one last time, Royce stepped toward her-and did something he had never done in the entire time they had been together.

He bowed. Dropped to one knee and bowed before her.

"It has been my honor to serve as your protector, Your Highness."

His deep voice betrayed no emotion. Only one who knew him as well as she did would detect the soft huskiness.

And when he lifted his head, only she was close enough to notice that his eyes had become so dark they were almost black.

"I wish you every happiness, Princess Ciara," he said formally.

Only she could have marked the way he drew out her name ever so slightly, as if he could not bear to let it go.

Standing there above him, fighting to keep her expression impassive and her hands from shaking, she did not trust herself to speak.

The time had come to give him her gift. She might never have another chance. Using every ounce of will she possessed, she studied the guards who had accosted them earlier, then held out her hand toward the one who still held the sword he had claimed from Royce.

"Give me his sword, sirrah," she ordered in her most regal tone.

The man glanced toward his prince, then quickly did as she commanded.

Royce remained on one knee, his eyes filling with curiosity and a hint of uneasiness.

When she had the heavy weapon in her hands, she lifted it by its gold hilt, and stepped back from him a pace.

She fought to keep her voice steady as she touched the flat of the blade to his left shoulder.

"In the name of Saint Michael"-she lifted the sword to touch his right shoulder-"and Saint George, I dub thee Sir Royce Saint-Michel, knight of Chlons and baron of Ferrano. For your most loyal and noble service to the crown of Chlons, for fulfilling your oath and your duty, I restore to you your title and all the position and privileges attaining thereto."

His calm expression dissolved in a storm of emotions, his dark gaze shining with astonishment.

And love.

Quickly, before the burning in her eyes could become tears, she withdrew the small, cotton-wrapped package she had been carrying in her tunic since they left Gavena, slipped the ring from her finger, and pressed both into his hand.

Then she straightened, turning the sword around to offer it to him in the traditional way, holding it by the blade.

"Rise, Sir Royce."

He stood, one hand closing around the hilt of his father's sword. For a moment, they both clung to it, and she tried to say with her eyes what she was forbidden to say aloud, a silent message for him alone. I love you, Royce. I will always love you.

You and no other.

Then she let go and instead said what she was expected to say. What duty and responsibility demanded she say.

"Farewell, milord."

Trembling, she turned from him and allowed Daemon's knight to lift her into his saddle.

And forbade herself from looking back even once as the royal hunting party carried her swiftly toward the palace.

Chapter 16.

Spurs. She had bought him a pair of exquisitely made silver spurs. They gleamed in his hand as he stared down at them numbly, seated at a table in the palace's kitchen long after most of the servants had finished their supper and retired. Daemon's hospitality had allowed him a bath and a change of clothes but had not included an invitation to eat in the great hall with his knights and his lords and his betrothed.

Royce had not objected, had not trusted himself to remain impassive if he had to watch the two of them together.

Farewell, milord.

A muscle worked in his jaw and his fingers closed around the bits of silver in his palm. This was what she had risked herself for in Gavena. She had not been buying some bauble for herself but a gift for him. I saw something at the silversmith's shop, she had said.

His eyes burned, his throat hot and tight. She must have been planning her surprise ever since that day. The dubbing of knights and bestowing of titles was usually left to lords and kings, but both were within her power as a member of Chlons' ruling family.

She had fulfilled her father's promise to him, given him what he had wanted, hoped for, longed for during all his long years of exile: to reclaim his title and position, to return to the country he loved. To come home.

But if this was what it felt like to be rewarded for serving the crown nobly and honorably, it was damned hard to distinguish from the gut-wrenching pain he had experienced when he was banished in disgrace. He felt every bit as hollow, empty. Guilty.

Alone.

He glanced up at the kitchen's stone ceiling, blackened from years of soot. She was up there, somewhere, many floors above him. His Ciara, with her sweet smile and gentle grace and tender heart. Delivered into the hands of Prince Daemon.

His fist tightened until the spurs' sharp edges bit into his skin. Never had he been more inclined to murder than when he had seen Daemon looking at her with anticipation in his eyes.

Was the bastard with her even now? Talking to her?