"I will try to be ... accommodating."

It sounded as if the words had been pried from between her teeth. He had the distinct impression that she liked him even less than he liked her.

Which suited him fine, he decided. Let her despise him. It would be better that way. Safer. He needed barriers between them. A boundary that he would not allow himself to cross.

Not even for the sweet temptation of tasting those ravishing lips.

"Good." He glanced up at the sun, high overhead. "Then gather up whatever you can fit in one of those bags of yours, and let us be on our way."

Chapter 4.

The sun dipped low behind them, gilding the fields of winter wheat that passed in a blur as Sir Royce's stallion carried them swiftly across the plain. The light struck bright sparks from the lakes that dotted the countryside and danced over the distant, snowcapped peaks.

Ciara had removed her fur-lined gloves and almost wished she could take off her cloak as well. The air here felt mild, rich with the earthy promise of spring. As they cantered through the broad, flat lowland that separated Chlons's western mountains from those in the east, a steady breeze warmed her cheeks and mischievously plucked strands from her neatly braided hair.

The sun's heat, the destrier's smooth gait, and the rhythm of his hoofbeats might have lulled her to sleep, but she held herself stiff and straight, trying to keep as much space as possible between herself and Sir Royce, uncomfortably aware of the solid wall of muscle at her back, of the musky scent that enveloped her. Both so unfamiliar. So foreign. So ...

Male.

Even after an entire day of riding, she still felt shocked by the feel of his hard-sinewed legs pressed against hers, his heavy arm around her waist.

And by an unforgivable thought that kept bothering her conscience. A desire. What Sir Royce might call a wish.

A wish to push the black-haired lout off the first and tallest cliff that presented itself.

The idea held such appeal, she found herself fighting a smile. From the moment Sir Royce first looked at her, she had guessed that he lacked manners, but she had not suspected that he possessed a knave's heart to match his black eyes. Until he proved it to her.

Thus far, she had managed to endure his behavior. She had even obeyed his order to sacrifice most of her possessions, taking only what he called "practical necessities."

Which included a few of her beloved books. And her mandolin.

She had refused to compromise on that. The instrument now hung from Sir Royce's saddle, bouncing between his metal shield and a battle-ax.

That small victory almost made up for having to share a horse with him.

Almost.

She realized that riding this way was necessary so that he could protect her. But she was not accustomed to such ... such ... intimacy. Especially not with a man.

She did not like the way she fit so perfectly against him, the top of her head neatly tucked beneath his chin. 'Twas why she had refused to remove her cloak, despite the sun's warmth.

For some reason the idea of his bare, stubbled jaw brushing against her hair tied her insides into knots. She grasped the front of the saddle and tried to pull herself forward, to gain even an inch more space between them.

"Stop squirming, Your Highness." Sir Royce's arm tightened around her, tugging her back against him.

Her breath caught in her throat as their bodies came together. "Princesses do not squirm, sirrah," she informed him loftily, hoping he could not tell she was trembling.

"You have done nothing but squirm and wriggle all day, Princess. You are lucky that Anteros has not tried to throw you from the saddle."

"Fortunately for me, Anteros seems to have better manners than his master," Ciara muttered.

"What?"

"I was just wondering how your destrier came to have his unusual name," she lied, seeking a neutral subject.

Sir Royce did not reply. She was not even certain he was listening to her. His mood had grown more tense and taciturn with each passing hour.

Reining Anteros to a halt, he paused to study the horizon behind them-as he had done frequently all day-to make sure no one was following them.

"He had the name when I bought him," he said at last as he urged the stallion into a smooth canter once more. "I understood it was after some Greek god or other. What makes it unusual?"

"Anteros was one of the lesser-known deities in the Greek pantheon, a son of Aphrodite. He was one of the gods of love. It seems an odd name for a warhorse."

Sir Royce laughed mockingly. "I apologize for what I said earlier, Princess. You do know about more than poetry and pretty shoes. You know useless ancient myths as well."

"Useless?" She wished she could turn and face him. Since he held her tight, her glare was wasted on the lovely scenery. "My education has been quite extensive, sirrah. Mythology happens to be one of my favorite pursuits, but I have also studied astronomy, philosophy, the sciences, music, languages-"

"Tell me, Your Highness, how much do you know about your own country?"

"A great deal. For example, I know that Chlons has existed peacefully for almost three hundred years, one of many small kingdoms scattered across the Alps between France and the Holy Roman Empire-"

"I mean current information. There used to be a large keep near the town of Aganor, southeast of here. Do you know how it fared in the war?"

"Nay, I do not."

"Do you at least know how the town fared in the war?"

"Nay," she repeated, "I do not know."

He did not speak for a moment, as if he had been stunned into silence. "How is it possible that a member of the royal family could know so little about her own realm? Have you been so busy with your philosophy and your music that you have no room in your head for practical matters? Do you not care-"

"Nay, that is not true at all! It is because of the war that I am unfamiliar with my realm. I have never even seen most of it."

"You were born and raised in Chlons. You have lived in this kingdom for nineteen years-"

"Aye, but despite your taunts this morn about pleasure trips and cruises down the river in the royal barge, I have experienced neither in my lifetime. Since childhood, I have lived in the palace, surrounded by courtiers and-"

"Shh."

"I will not be interrupted, sirrah! Never in my life have I been so-mmmph."

"When we are not alone," he whispered tightly, one gloved hand clamped over her mouth, "you will at least refrain from discussing your grand life at the royal palace." He nodded toward a muddy pasture on their right where dozens of serfs were at work. "If you recall, we are trying to keep your identity a secret."

When he removed his hand, Ciara lifted trembling fingers to her lips, so shocked at being thusly ... manhandled that she could not speak.

The peasants straightened to watch them pass. Several called out greetings, but Sir Royce remained tense and nudged Anteros into a gallop.

Even after they had left the serfs far behind, he did not relax. "How great a risk is there that people might recognize you?" He tugged the hood of her cloak forward to better conceal her face.

"None." She pushed his hand away. "Chlons has been at war for seven years. As I was trying to explain, I have been cloistered in the palace since the age of twelve for my own safety. My subjects are no more familiar with my face than I am with theirs."

"Good."

With that terse comment, he fell silent. Ciara muttered an oath in ancient Greek and gave up trying to hold a civil conversation with the knave. As they rode on, she sought distraction in the passing scenery.

Fortunately, there was much to see, all of it new to her. They traveled through vast, green meadows. Fallow fields studded with rocks. Tall grasses that flowed like waves in the wind. Now and then a flock of birds would explode from beneath Anteros's hooves to fill the air with color and noise.

In the distance, she could see pine trees clustered around the hills as if on sentry duty, emerald lances aimed toward the sky. And icy lakes that flashed like silver coins in the sunlight.

It touched her deeply, in a way she could not explain, to finally see for herself the legendary beauty of her country. This sensation of the horse galloping beneath her, the wind in her face, the ground flying past felt so fresh, so free. Under other circumstances, she might have found it exciting. Exhilarating.

But she could not forget that every mile they traveled carried her away from her homeland, toward Thuringia.

Fighting the wave of sadness that washed over her, she made a decision: she would not allow her ill-tempered guardian to ruin what could be a pleasant journey. During the next fortnight-for the first time, and the last-she was free.

Free of her crown and her robes and all the rules that went with them. Free to fulfill her heart's most secret dream: to experience real life, to be like any other woman. For the next two weeks, she could steal a brief taste of the world, the adventures, the fun that had always been forbidden to her.

The plan made her smile, but as the afternoon wore on, the strain of the past days took its toll, and her eyes began to drift closed ....

She came awake sometime later to find the evening sky darkened to violet, the horse's gait slowed to walk-and a hard, muscular arm locked around her ribs.

Just beneath her breasts.

She hardly dared inhale. "You may let me go now," she said sharply. "I am awake."

Sir Royce relaxed his hold slightly, just enough so that his arm now rested around her hips.

She was not sure if that was better or worse.

"My apologies, Princess," he said with cool sarcasm. "But you almost tumbled from the saddle when you fell asleep. I had to choose between holding your royal person upright or allowing you to get trampled beneath Anteros's hooves. And I would be a rather poor guardian if you ended up crushed into a pulp on the first day of our journey."

Ciara winced. Must the man be so vivid in his descriptions? "I see."

She knew his real reason had naught to do with concern for her well-being. He did not want to risk losing the rich reward she represented.

How had he put it? Land, a castle, and coin. That is what I am risking my life for.

"Are you still tired, Princess?"

"I am fine." She fought a yawn, refusing to show any weakness, to give him any further reason to taunt her.

"Good. I would prefer to cross the lowlands before we stop for the night." With a slight tensing of his thighs-which she felt along every inch of her own-he nudged Anteros into a trot. "We should be able to find lodging in Edessa."

She nodded wearily. She had never been to Edessa, knew naught of what it might be like. But at this point, she would not quibble with any place that offered her a hot meal and a warm bed. Anything softer than a saddle would do. After so many hours of riding, even with the thick padding of her cloak and gown, her backside and thighs felt sore, bruised.

And much too sensitive, she thought, scarlet warmth rising in her face.

The movements Sir Royce used to control and guide the spirited horse kept making her flinch. Just as every time he moved one of his hands, her breath caught in her throat.

Thankfully, he seemed oblivious, as he had all day, to the strange effect his touch and his nearness had on her. He handled her with no more attention than he had shown her silk slippers or her mandolin.

If he could endure another hour or two of riding, she decided stubbornly, so could she. She would not complain, would not give him any more cause to find fault with her.

Stifling another yawn, she slid her right hand from beneath her cloak to rub at her sore left arm. The cut she had received in the attack a fortnight ago had healed, but the muscle still ached, especially when the air turned cool in the evening.

"Is that where you were wounded in the attack at the palace?" Sir Royce asked.

She felt surprised to hear what sounded like concern in his voice. "Aye."

"And it pains you still? I was told it was but a scratch."

Ciara's ire simmered. It had not been concern she heard in his tone; he had simply found another opportunity to belittle her. "Being attacked with a blade may be a common occurrence to you, Sir Royce, but this was the first time I ever had a weapon aimed in my direction. Most of the knives in my experience have been associated with supper tables-"

She cut herself off. If she wanted to enjoy her journey, she could not allow this mercenary to keep provoking her. She would not respond to his barbs anymore. She would not.

"But you are right," she amended mildly. "It is but a scratch, Sir Royce."

"Stop calling me Sir Royce."

"As you like, milord-"

"I am no one's lord," he corrected. "I am not Sir Royce. My name is Saint-Michel. Or Royce. I am just another commoner to you, Princess." He added under his breath, "At least until our journey is done and you are wed and I can claim my reward."

Ciara resisted the tart reply that sprang to mind. He did not have to keep reminding her that he was doing this out of greed rather than any sense of honor or duty.

Then her brow furrowed in confusion. "But I seem to recall that you did once have a title. And a castle. Or mayhap I am thinking of someone else?"

"So good to know I left a lasting impression."

"I meant no insult. I simply cannot remember the details."

"Indeed, Your Highness? All I remember about you is that you barely spoke two words to me the entire time I was in your father's service. A pity you are no longer so quiet."

Ciara held her tongue and glared off into the horizon, refusing to speak despite her curiosity about his past and his mysterious disappearance four years ago.

The stallion's hoofbeats made the only sound in the gathering darkness as they rode on.

An hour later, she was ready to slide from the saddle and form a small puddle of exhaustion on the ground. She very nearly swallowed her royal pride and asked Royce to stop for the night, but just then, the glint of a church spire appeared in the distance, poking up above the horizon.

"Edessa," he announced, a heavy sigh declaring his own fatigue. "I know of an inn on the south side of the village. A fairly pleasant little place."