"But there is still the matter of the peace agreement between Chlons and Thuringia-which includes a betrothal." He set the cloth aside and moved away from her, toward the hearth.

"Aye, but everyone has said that Mathias prefers the life of a monk or a priest," she pointed out, following him. "Is it not rather presumptuous of us to be arranging his marriage? You do not even know if he would want me for his wife."

Royce spun to face her, about to utter some quick retort, but as he looked down at her, only a strangled groan escaped him.

Ciara followed the direction of his gaze, realizing that the water he had used to clean away all evidence of his kiss had created a different, and far more sensual, display: the damp front of her kirtle clung to the curves of her breasts, the cloth almost transparent in the low firelight.

"There is not a man alive who would not want you," Royce grated out, his voice hot and thick, his broad shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath. "And regardless of whether Mathias wants you or not, I am not of royal blood, and that fact will never change. Your father would never allow you-"

She stepped closer, lifted a finger to his lips. "But there is still Provence, or Granada, or an island somewhere. Some place that appears on no map, where no one will care who or what we are." Her lips curved gently as she revealed the plan she had been holding in her heart all day. "And I am still perfectly willing to live as a shepherdess."

His eyes met hers, those potent depths gleaming.

She let her fingers slide downward along his hard jaw, to his throat, to his chest, let her hand rest over his pounding heart. She could almost feel the battle being waged within him.

Knew they were both very close to surrender.

His hands came up to cup her cheeks, and he threaded his fingers through her hair. "What have I done?" he asked, his voice raw. "You used to be such a sane, sensible lady."

"You took me on a journey," she whispered, "into my own heart."

He closed his eyes, murmured an oath, bent to press his forehead to hers.

"On the day we met," she whispered, "you told me that the world does not exist to satisfy my wishes. And you were right. But sometimes, Royce ... sometimes I believe that wishes really can come true." She slid her fingers into the thick silk of his hair. "I love you, and I want you. You and no other."

With a groan, he captured her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, pulling her hard against him. Branding her with his touch as his and his alone.

Her heart soared with love and joy, swept up on wings of new hope. His fierce embrace made her shiver with need, and when he finally allowed her a breath, her lips felt swollen and tingling as she asked the question. "How much time is there until first light?"

He whispered something profane, the rampant evidence of his arousal pressing against her belly, his teeth closing on her earlobe. "Ciara, we cannot-"

"But it is not yet dawn. You do not have to go. Not yet."

His voice had become so deep she hardly recognized it. "But if I do not return, on your wedding night Daemon would-"

"There will never be a wedding night," she insisted, "until the one I share with you."

And if all their dreams and plans ended on a mountain in the Ruadhans, if he never returned and she were forced to marry Daemon, if she were condemned to a lifetime without the man she loved ...

She wanted one memory. One night to cherish forever.

His name was a hot, tremulous plea on her lips. "Royce."

She awaited his answer, saw it in his eyes before he said the words, low and urgent.

"Bolt the door."

Chapter 19.

He released her just long enough to let her cross to the door, watched her kirtle flowing around her like a veil of mist, her slender curves washed in firelight and shadows. The only sounds in the night were the crackle of the flames behind him and the unsteady rhythm of his own breathing.

His entire body felt heavy with desire. For so long he had wanted her, his princess of fire and grace. Wanted her in every way a man could want a woman-to cherish and claim, to possess and protect. She had become a fire in his blood, a gentle rain in his soul.

And now he would finally make her his, tonight and forever. In that ancient way that bound a man and a woman more deeply than any vow.

As she came back toward him, she paused near the bed, looking puzzled when he remained by the hearth.

"Come here to me, Ciara," he said in soft, husky command, holding out a hand toward her.

She did as he asked, her eyes wide, curious. He did not explain his reasons, did not want to tell her that they dared not risk leaving the mark of her lost virginity on the sheets and the mattress.

Catching her hand, he pulled her close, lifting his other hand to her hair. He would take her here, before the fire, as he had always imagined her in his midnight dreams.

She looked up at him with complete trust, complete love ... and the smallest hint of uncertainty, as if she realized only now, standing before him, that his body was large and muscled and heavy, while hers was soft and light and delicate.

The hint of maidenly shyness only endeared her to him more. There was time, he knew, lowering his head to brush a reassuring kiss over her lips. Two hours, mayhap more. Time enough to make it perfect for her.

Taking both her hands in his, he drew her with him as he backed toward the huge, thick pelt of ebony wolf fur that covered the floor before the fire. Then he gazed down at her for an instant, letting her anticipation build, letting the moment become a memory.

And when he glanced down, he once more saw her nipples draw tight through the damp, sheer fabric of her gown, merely because he was looking at her.

And this time he was the one who trembled. With awe at what she felt for him. With the need to touch and to taste. To feel her sweet passion igniting in his hands. To watch her innocent longings blossom into a woman's desire while he was inside her.

His hand moving down her back, he bent his head and tasted one sweet pearl through the sheer cotton, sliding his lips across it, then his tongue.

She uttered a soft cry, burying her fingers in his hair. He teased and nibbled, pulling her closer, bending her backward over his arm. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles through the rough material of his tunic. Her low moan was feminine music that ignited his blood and sent hot, sharp bursts of desire through his veins.

Impatient at being separated from her by the cloth, he slid the garment down over her shoulder, exposing her other breast before he captured its naked, rosy crown. With a sound of ravenous longing, he sipped at it, curling his tongue around her nipple, tugging and suckling until her breathing came shallow and fast and she was writhing in his embrace.

His free hand skimmed down her body from her wet bodice to the soft triangle between her thighs, seeking and finding a different sort of dampness. Sweeter. Hotter.

She was ready for him. Dear God, she was so ready, so wet. Groaning hungrily at her response, he sank to his knees before her, pulling her close, nuzzling her through the thin fabric. The spicy scent of her desire clouded his senses and he remained there a moment, closing his eyes, breathing hard. Shaken by how much he loved her, needed her-all of her, every soft inch of her.

She moved as if she would slide down beside him, but his hands held her still, kept her on her feet. And then he reached down to draw the hem of her gown upward, his fingers lifting the fabric, his palms gliding up past her knees, her thighs, exposing her one glorious inch at a time.

Until he could see those soft, dark curls glistening in the firelight.

He bent his head and blew softly, felt her quake in his grasp, heard the low, sharp cry of surprise and excitement that came from her throat. Ignoring the throbbing hardness of his own body, he inched forward and pleasured her with the lightest kiss. Then he drew her nearer, his hands sliding behind her to knead and caress as he brought her fully against his mouth.

He explored her softly with his lips, the tip of his tongue, until she was gasping, shivering with tremors, her hands braced on his shoulders. He sought and found the tender bud of her desire, licked at the small, hard pearl, urging it to fullness. Her breath broke, her hips beginning to move in small, insistent motions that brought a groan of approval from deep in his throat. He slipped one of his hands around to the front, stroking her with his fingers, gently, delicately.

She twisted in his hold, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her body shook with spasms that came faster and stronger as he continued the dual torment, sampling her with his fingertips and his tongue. Suckling ... tickling ... nibbling.

"Royce." His name tore from her, deep and demanding.

But he would not stop, kept urging her onward, higher, wanted more, wanted to watch and to taste her fulfillment. He kept teasing that sensitive nub with his thumb, with his lips. And suddenly her whole body stiffened.

He felt the first vibration against his mouth, felt her arching above him, curving away from him like a taut bow-and she shattered, caught in an explosion of pleasure that he could feel rippling through her as release took her violently.

Before it had even passed, she collapsed against him, sinking to the floor as if her legs would no longer hold her, sliding down into his arms.

He held her close as they knelt on the fur, caressing her, whispering in her ear. Assuring her that that had been but the first.

That the next would be even sweeter, with him inside her.

She uttered a husky sound that was half growl, half whimper and lifted her head, her eyes molten with desire, her body damp with perspiration that made the gown stick to her skin. His every muscle shuddering, taut with his own need, he removed the garment with quick, gentle hands, pulling it over her head, casting it aside.

Sighing, she wrapped herself around him, her mouth meeting his, the feel of her in his arms so slender and soft, her curves so pale against his black tunic.

Reaching for the discarded kirtle, he spread it on the fur behind her and gently lowered her onto it. Then he let go of her just long enough to tear off his own garments, kneeling beside her, reveling in the way her gaze traced over him-from his face, to his chest, to the rampant evidence of how much he wanted her.

He had never felt more aware of his own sensual, masculine power than he was in that moment. Her expression as she looked at him with such passion and possessiveness made him feel ...

Like a king. Like a god.

Kicking free of his tunic and leggings, he moved over her, pressing her back into the furs, set ablaze by the long-awaited friction of his naked skin against hers. Her moan of welcome was a softer echo of the sound that poured from him. Her breasts felt so exquisitely soft against his chest, her nipples hard and tantalizing against the mat of black hair. As his body covered hers, she slid her arms around his back to hold him dose.

He feasted on her, kissing her lips, her cheek, her lashes, her shoulder. She tasted luscious and feminine, felt softer and silkier than the fur beneath them. He lingered over the hollow of her throat, pressing his mouth there to feel the throb of her pulse against his lips.

He wanted to go slowly this first time, to treat her with such care and tenderness, to sweep her to the brink of ecstasy before he entered her. But she moved restlessly beneath him, instinctively lifting her hips-and he almost lost his grip on his control. The contact of her naked, downy triangle against his rigid arousal wrenched a strangled exclamation from him.

"Royce, now," she pleaded, raining urgent, hot kisses along his throat, his jaw. "Please, my love, now."

Her eagerness, her passionate demand unraveled the tether that held him in check. His lady was impatient to give him more, to give him everything, to share what they had waited so long to share.

His lady, his love, his Ciara. His.

Balancing his weight on one forearm, he reached down to stroke that silky center of her being, probing gently. With a throaty murmur of acceptance, of pleasure, she parted her thighs as he moved into position.

He tried to resist the rising storm within him. God's breath, she was so small, so tight. The urge to possess, to mate descended like a white-hot haze.

Struggling for sanity, he fitted himself to her.

Ciara's head tipped back and she inhaled a long, slow breath as she felt that rounded, hard part of him nudging open the entrance to her body.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from crying out-not because she felt any discomfort but because the sensation was more wildly exciting than anything she had ever known.

He pushed forward, so gently, so carefully, despite the fact that his own desire had reached the same feverish height as hers. She could feel his strong, muscled body shaking with barely leashed power, could hear his breathing lashing the darkness around them like a storm.

Her hands gripped his trembling, sweat-sheened arms, her fingers digging into his shoulders at the exquisite sensation of him becoming part of her. She felt stretched and filled and by all the heavens, he was so big, surely too big for the small, snug sheath that clasped him. He felt huge and hot and throbbing within her.

But he brought her no pain, even when he came to the delicate barrier that was her heart's gift to him. He made even that a gentle claiming. There was only a feeling of pressure, and then he arched his hips and she felt a single quick, sharp twinge, a giving way ...

And then he was there, fully inside her, hard and silky, embedded within her most feminine depths. Filling her as she had never imagined possible.

"Open your eyes, Ciara."

She obeyed his tense, whispered command, not even realizing that she had shut her eyes as her mind spun out into bliss. She still held her lower lip between her teeth.

He was gazing down at her, his face etched with strain and concern, his body trembling, rigid, utterly still, his chest heaving with the effort.

She relaxed her grip on his shoulders and smiled up at him, beyond words, sighing in pleasure to reassure him he had not hurt her. Never had she known a sensation like this, this feeling of fullness, of sweet, intense completion that was so deeply satisfying.

Threading her fingers through his hair, she pulled his head down to hers. Groaning, he kissed her, his tongue parting her lips even as that male part of him parted her below.

And then he began to move, withdrawing and then thrusting forward. Silky, sliding, probing the depths of her body.

She trembled at this new sensation, moaning into his mouth, caressing his tongue with hers. Sharing his breath, his body, his soul. Wanting to feel this complete, this cherished all the rest of her life.

And then without conscious thought, she began to move beneath him, instinctively seeking and matching his rhythm in a passionate dance. Her hips rose to meet his long strokes, drawing a muffled growl from deep in his throat. Enjoying his response, she did it again, moving her hips in a slow, deliberate circle this time.

He lifted his mouth from hers, shutting his eyes, clenching his teeth. "Ciara, be care-"

"Mmmm ..." Lost in the feeling, she repeated the interesting, provocative motion once more.

And felt his entire body convulse as if whipped by a lash. He choked out a curse, pressing his forehead against her shoulder as he exploded within her, throbbing, pumping deep inside her for a long, endless moment, his seed and a muted roar of release pouring from him.

Seized by spasms that she could feel rippling through his muscles, he collapsed atop her, pressing her back into the furs. She wrapped her arms around him with a smile, welcoming his weight, holding him tight, stroking his back, his hair. It was over rather sooner than she had expected, but that did not lessen her soul-deep joy and satisfaction.

After his breathing returned to normal a long moment later, a different sound rumbled in his throat. He lifted his head, looking down at her from beneath his tousled black hair, those dark eyes glazed with passion and an unexpected spark of amusement.

"There is simply no stopping you, is there, my little one?"

She blinked up at him. "Did I do some-"

"Nay," he assured her quickly, dropping kisses on her nose, her lips, her chin. "Nay, you did naught wrong. God's breath, you are the most ... I have never ..." He gave up trying to express what he felt in words. "It is only that I had planned to take longer," he whispered in her ear, "and take you with me."

"Oh." With a relieved smile, she nuzzled her cheek against his, secretly pleased in a thoroughly female way that she had made him lose control. "My apologies, milord," she teased.

Chuckling, he kissed her, long and slowly, before he eased himself from her body, despite her moan of protest. The instant he was gone from her, she felt a loss, an emptiness. As if she had lost part of herself.

But he only moved to her side to take the soft kirtle from beneath her, and she saw the spots of scarlet, the stain of her lost maidenhood. He tenderly pressed the wisp of cotton against her, removing any mark from her, from him. When he moved away from her again, it was to place the garment in the fire.

She felt many emotions, none of them regret. The strongest was her love for him, her joy at what they had shared. And a sense of contentment and pride and pleasure that she was no longer a maiden, but a woman-his woman.

"Now, milady," he whispered huskily, returning to her side, kneeling on the fur. "This time I mean to make good on my promise."

Her heart pounded with excitement as she saw that he was already aroused again, as she realized that their night of loving had just begun. She smiled at him in surprise and wonder and anticipation. Reaching up, she thought to draw him down to her, her breath quickening at the thought of his muscled body covering and claiming hers once more.