Touching her?

Royce shoved away from the table and rose, ignoring the pain that stabbed up his wounded arm. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Kill. If he did not find an outlet for the violence coursing through his veins, he was going to cause yet another incident that would jeopardize yet another peace agreement.

As he strode through the kitchen door, he was quickly flanked by his two shadows-the guards Daemon had assigned to him "for his own protection" during his stay at the palace.

One guard was an older man whose jowls and downturned mouth made him resemble a bullfrog. The other was a skinny twig of a lad who always seemed to have something to eat in his hands. Both had volunteered for the duty, apparently undaunted by the tales whispered among the guardsmen of how he had taken on six armed men in the forest.

They hastened to keep up with him. "Are you ready to retire, milord?" the younger one asked hopefully, biting into the wing of roast chicken he carried.

Milord. Royce's mouth curved. It seemed odd to be called that again after four years of being addressed as a commoner. Astonishing how much had changed in a single afternoon.

"Nay," he said curtly. "Do the two of you intend to keep nipping at my heels all night?"

"We have been assigned to protect you, milord."

Royce's frown deepened at the irony in that statement. He was beginning to appreciate how Ciara must have felt at first, when she had been forced to deal with an unwanted companion day and night.

The older man yawned wearily. "It is late, milord." His deep, resonant voice matched his bullfrog appearance. "We could show you to your quarters." They passed several servants on their way to bed.

"I do not feel tired. I wish to go"-beat someone or something to a pulp-"riding."

"But the gates are closed and the drawbridges raised by this hour," the younger one said around a mouthful of chicken. "No one can leave the palace."

Royce ground his teeth. "Then mayhap I shall spend some time on the practice ground in the bailey." Stabbing a few straw-filled training dummies would be satisfying.

"It is cloudy tonight, milord. There will not be enough moonlight for you to see. You could injure yourself-"

"And then we would have to explain it to Prince Daemon," the younger one said tremulously.

Royce stopped in the middle of a torchlit corridor, turning to regard them with a frustrated glower. Glancing from one to the other, he briefly considered starting a fight.

Then he thought better of it. He did not wish to bring down the wrath of their merciless prince upon them. And if he abused his throbbing right arm any further, the wound might start bleeding again. But he had to do something.

A fat cook ambled down the corridor and he stepped aside to let her pass, trying to think of a more peaceful way to ease his black mood. "Mayhap the two of you could tell me where I might find Prince Mathias. I wish to speak with him, but I have not yet seen him."

"Prince Mathias?" the two guards said in unison.

"Aye." By all the saints, what was wrong with them now? He could not interpret the odd look that passed between them. "Mathias. Daemon's older brother, King Stefan's middle son. Mayhap you have heard of him?"

The older man cleared his throat, his jowls dancing. "Prince Mathias has been gone these four years, milord."

"What?" Royce stared at him in disbelief. "Gone where?"

"On pilgrimage," the younger one explained. "He was deeply saddened when the first peace negotiations ended, and blamed himself for their failure. He could not abide seeing his country at war, so he left to continue his search for spiritual peace, on a pilgrimage to Rome."

Royce absorbed all this in stunned silence. It was hard to believe that Mathias would leave his country at such a crucial time-but then, he had always been a sensitive man, sickened by the brutal business of war, better suited to serve as a priest than a prince. He had been about to take vows and join a holy order before the war interrupted.

Still, how could Mathias just walk away, abandon his people to his brother's cruel tyranny?

"Milord?" the older guard asked. "If you wish to speak with Prince Daemon about it-"

"Nay." Royce shook his head. The less he saw of Daemon, the better. "I believe I will retire after all."

"Very good, milord." The younger man smiled in relief, finishing his chicken and tossing the bone aside. He took a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor to lead the way. "The rooms that have been prepared are in one of the outbuildings."

"Fine." Raking a hand through his hair, Royce followed them out, knowing he would not sleep tonight, no matter how much he wished he could lose himself in unconsciousness.

Moonlight sprinkled across the bailey outside, offering just enough light for him to glance up at the towers above ... to seek some hint of where she might be. To hope he might catch a glimpse of her at one of the windows.

But all the shutters were closed tight, and guards prowled the walls.

If she were on the other side of the world, the distance between them could not be greater.

Dropping his gaze, he tried to banish the memories that filled his mind and heart. His family ring, once more hanging from a leather thong around his neck, seemed to burn his chest.

He gradually realized he had been following his escorts across the darkened bailey for some distance-all the way to the rear of the castle. The younger man had lagged behind a pace. If not for his torch, they would be in utter blackness here.

"Where exactly has the prince decided I shall spend the night?" Royce asked sardonically. "In Spain?"

"Nay, milord."

Some instinct made Royce tense, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingling. The torch suddenly went out. He whirled, drawing his sword.

Only to step directly into the blow aimed at his head. The world exploded in pain as the torch connected.

"I am sorry it must be this way, milord."

They were the last words he heard as he fell into a bottomless darkness.

Ciara paced the luxurious bedchamber, back and forth, until she wore a path through the rushes. It was a round room that occupied the entire upper floor of the castle's southern tower, so vast that she could not see the other side, despite the fire that blazed on the hearth. She had been in here all evening, had managed to avoid supper completely, claiming she was too tired from her journey to get better acquainted with her betrothed.

In truth, she would prefer to postpone their first meeting as long as possible.

Her stomach twisting with nausea, she headed toward the window, wanting a breath of air, wishing she could take off the heavy, ruby-colored velvet gown she wore, with its quilted, pearl-encrusted bodice and embroidered sleeves. Though she had worn such garments all her life, she had never before found them so ... suffocating.

Reaching the window, she pulled open the shutters and leaned out, gulping the cool night air.

The bailey seemed to be a dizzying distance below, the tower so high that the sentries patrolling the walls looked as small as a child's puppets. In the scant moonlight that penetrated the clouds, she could see that the palace grounds were deserted.

Was Royce staying in one of the outbuildings she could see from here? Or somewhere within the keep itself? Was he being treated well?

She prayed that Daemon would keep his word and ensure Royce's safety. She had promised God that if only Royce were kept safe and allowed to return home to Chlons, she would accept whatever cruelties her marriage might bring.

A knock sounded at the door. Ciara froze, paralyzed by a sudden jolt of fear.

It was almost midnight. Who would be so bold as to intrude on her privacy at this hour ... except her betrothed?

She had thought Daemon would wait until the morn to see her alone for the first time. Mayhap she had guessed wrong.

Steeling herself, she closed the shutters, clinging to the bar she dropped in place. "Come in." Her voice echoed loudly across the dark, empty chamber.

She heard the door open, then close.

Heard the bolt being thrown into place.

A trickle of fear seized her. He did not bother to announce himself. She turned, slowly.

Only to find herself facing the last person she had expected to see.

"Miriam!"

Chapter 17.

Pain wrenched him to awareness. Pain and an urgent voice that seemed to come from a great distance, echoing strangely.

"Milord?"

Royce fought his way toward consciousness, only to be battered down by the savage, pounding ache between his temples. Cold water splashed his face. He groaned in protest, tried to raise his hands to defend himself-but his wrists were bound together behind his back.

Anger pushed him upward through the last layers of black fog. A second splash of water made him open his eyes.

A dark cave shimmered into his vision-uneven walls of rock, dank and damp, glistening in the light of torches. Shadowy figures crowded around him. Voices.

"I apologize for the ambush, milord, but we needed to speak with you and did not think you would accept a polite invitation," an unfamiliar voice said. "And our need for secrecy is of great importance."

Royce blinked to clear his eyes. Water and blood dripped down his face, dampening his tunic. He was sitting on the clammy floor of the cave, his back against a wall of rock.

A dark-haired man crouched before him, a metal ewer dangling from his fingers. "Welcome back, Baron Ferrano." He handed the empty water pitcher to one of the others. "For a moment, I was afraid we might have lost you. Sometimes young Hadwyn does not know his own strength." He smiled, a crooked grin that revealed white teeth in a tanned, angular face shadowed by a week's growth of beard. "How do you feel?"

Royce furrowed his brow, not sure he was seeing or hearing right with this ferocious pain in his head. Glancing left and right, he could make out five figures surrounding him. Two he recognized as his Thuringian guards, but the other three were- The warriors he had fought in Gavena.

His eyes widened as he glanced from lanky, well-dressed Karl ... to the strapping, sandy-haired bowman called Landers ... to the dark-haired knave crouched before him, the one who had shot him in the arm.

He had been captured by the rebels.

But why now, after Ciara had been safely delivered to Daemon?

And why had they not killed him?

Royce wet his dry lips. "If you think to torture me for information, you are a little late."

The crooked grin widened. "Nay, milord. Tying you up merely seemed the safest way to make you sit still long enough to listen to what we have to say. It has become clear to us that you are a dangerous man, regardless of the odds against you."

Royce regarded him through narrowed eyes. The man had the look of a seasoned warrior and an air of confidence and command that marked him as the leader. "Where in the name of Hell am I?" He tested his bonds and found them more than secure-tight, but not painfully so.

"A cave several hundred feet beneath the palace. There is a vast labyrinth of caverns and passageways inside this mountain. The Thuringian branch of our forces has been using this particular one as their base for more than six months now."

"The Thuringian ... what?" Royce echoed.

The skinny young guardsman who had struck him over the head-Hadwyn, the man had called him-knelt beside him. "The Thuringian arm of the rebel forces," he explained, setting aside an apple he had been eating. "We have been working together since before the war ended." He folded a damp cloth and pressed it against Royce's injury. "I am sorry, milord, for the blow to your head, but it was necessary for the benefit of the sentries. In case they are asked to verify that we did our duty."

Royce winced as the lad gingerly dabbed the blood from his forehead. "And what exactly was your duty?" He could not believe he was seeing Thuringian guards in their royal colors standing shoulder to shoulder with Chlons rebels.

Mayhap he was dead after all, and God had a sense of humor, and this was some particularly bizarre corner of Purgatory.

"Our orders came from Prince Daemon himself," the older Thuringian guard explained in that bullfrog voice as he came to stand behind Hadwyn. "He said that you were not to live to see sunrise."

"Some of the guards were less than eager to face your blade after the incident in the forest today, so no one objected when Jarek and I volunteered." Hadwyn set the cloth aside. "We were ordered to spirit you out of the palace and leave you at the bottom of a cliff, where your body would be found a few days from now. It would look as if you had been drinking, gone for a walk-"

"And met with a tragic accident," Royce concluded grimly. "Good to know that Daemon's word of honor is worth as much as it ever was."

"Landers and Karl arrived three days ago, and told us to keep watch for your arrival," Jarek said, jowls quivering as he nodded toward his comrades. "Thayne felt you could be valuable to us-though none of us knew your true identity until today, Baron Ferrano."

"So when did I become valuable?" Royce turned an assessing stare on the dark-haired warrior crouched before him. "I assume it was after you shot me in Gavena?"

The man exhaled a soft sound of amusement and ran his thumb along an old scar on his bearded jaw. "Sir Royce, I believe a formal introduction is long overdue. My name is Thayne. I am a huntsman by trade, but for the last few months, I have been the leader of more than fifty of King Aldric's loyal subjects, who have unfortunately been branded rebels. For now we are outlaws, but as Karl tried to explain to you in Gavena, our intentions are peaceful."

"For a peaceful man, you are rather quick with a crossbow," Royce replied dryly.

Thayne's lips tightened. "My intent was to disarm you, milord. I merely wished to prevent you from cutting my brother's throat."

Lifting an eyebrow, Royce glanced from him to Karl, seeing the resemblance between the two. Though their coloring was different, the features were similar.

As was the crooked grin, he discovered, when Karl spoke. "Thayne never misses, Sir Royce. He could have killed you had he aimed higher. And I did try to convince you that we meant no harm."

"Aye," Royce said slowly, still dubious.

"And you were not the only one who lost a bit of blood in Gavena's marketplace," Landers reminded him.

Royce turned to regard the sandy-haired rebel whose broad shoulders almost matched the length of the longbow he favored. "It was my duty to keep all of you away from the princess."

"Indeed, and you are damned fast with a blade," Landers complained with a glower, rubbing his right thigh, which was still bandaged. After a moment, his mouth curved in a grudging smile. "Had I been the one charged with protecting Her Highness's life, I only hope I would have been as fierce. It seems King Aldric chose well."

Before Royce could respond, footsteps echoed from a narrow passage at the end of the cave.

"That will be the ladies," Thayne said, rising.

"Finally," Landers muttered, his tone one of relief.