She was too tired to comment, but the words a fairly pleasant little place filled her head with comforting images of a hot bath, a fluffy, down-filled mattress, a roaring hearth to chase away the chill. She almost groaned in longing.

As they neared the town, Royce slowed the stallion to a walk. His arm slipped from around her waist for a moment, and she could feel him fumbling with something at the neck of his tunic. She heard a muted snap, like a leather thong breaking.

"Here." He pressed a small object into her hand. "Put this on."

Ciara closed her fingers around the object. Though she could not see in the darkness, she could tell what it was.

A ring.

"Why?"

"Since we will be sharing a room, we had best make it look as if we are husband and wife."

Startled, she whipped her head around-and collided with his jaw.

He cursed. "Princess, do you think you might warn me before you try to knock me from the saddle?" He rubbed at his injured chin.

Dizzying stars swam through her vision. She did not know if they came from the impact or his unexpected announcement. "We ... we ... w-we will be-"

"Sharing a room. Stop stuttering. And do not look at me that way." Placing his fingertips atop her head, he turned her forward again.

Her heart was beating so fast she could not breathe, and his touch only made matters worse. "B-but ..."

"You have naught to fear from me, Your Highness. You have my word of honor that my behavior will be perfectly chivalrous."

"I ... y-you-"

"Aye. You. Me. Together. In one room." He sounded exasperated. "I explained this morn that you must stay within reach at all times. That means day and night. I doubt the rebels will be so polite as to inform us of their plans, and they could strike after dark as easily as during the day. If they have half a brain between them, they would prefer the cover of night."

The idea of sharing a bedchamber ... sharing it with a man ... with him ... "Could we not pretend to be brother and sister and take two rooms?"

"What an excellent idea. That way, when the rebels carry you off, my sleep will not be disturbed."

Ciara shivered. "I ... I see your point."

Her mind and vision finally cleared long enough for her to see the logic in what he was saying. He could hardly guard her from a distance.

His voice gentled a bit. "The ring will help ward off any questions or unwanted attention you might attract. The rebels may be seeking information on your whereabouts, but no one will think to mention a young wife traveling in the company of her husband. If anyone asks, we will say that I am a tradesman from France who has come here to buy garnets."

She frowned, still holding the ring in her palm. "Will they not wonder why you would bring your wife along on a trading journey?"

She felt his shoulders lift in a shrug. "I suppose they will think that you are so irresistible, I could not live without you."

"In other words, we will lie."

He started to say something, then did not.

Ciara peered down at the ring, still hesitant. The moon was not yet bright enough for her to see it, but her fingertips told her it was a wide, heavy band, with some sort of raised pattern. The metal had been warm when he placed it in her hand. He must have been wearing it against his skin.

"Princess, I am merely trying to protect you."

"Aye," she said softly, "that is what you are being paid to do." Giving in at last, she slipped the ring onto the correct finger of her left hand.

And noticed that it fit. It was a woman's ring.

Why would he be wearing a woman's ring around his neck?

She banished the question, told herself it was no affair of hers. "If we are to keep my identity secret, I suppose you had better stop calling me Princess."

He chuckled ruefully. "Aye. Mayhap we should choose a new name for you." His laugh deepened. "How do you like-"

"Ciara will do," she said flatly, stopping him before he could suggest something awful. "It is common in Chlons. Many parents consider it lucky to name their daughters after the princess."

"Very well ... Ciara."

A warm tingle chased down her body. She could not remember any man ever calling her by name, with no title before it. All her life, she had been Princess Ciara, or Princess, or Your Highness. Never just ... Ciara.

Somehow it was more intimate than even the physical closeness between them.

Especially spoken in that deep, soft voice.

It struck her that all the outward signs of her rank had now been stripped away. But instead of feeling happy about that, she was beginning to feel terribly ...

Exposed.

"Just remember, Ciara, you are supposed to be a commoner," he warned as they neared the town gate. "Try to act accordingly."

She would prefer to sleep outdoors on the grass, Ciara thought, standing in the doorway of the chamber where she would spend the night. Or mayhap she could persuade Anteros to make room for her in his stall.

Either would be more appealing than this ... this ... she could not even think of a word for it. Room was far too complimentary.

Mouth open, she followed Royce inside, setting down her satchel. When she failed to shut the door, he frowned and closed it securely behind them before he inspected the chamber.

Pushing back the hood of her cloak, Ciara watched, lifting the stubby candle the innkeeper had grudgingly provided. The light illuminated a single pallet in one corner, covered with a threadbare blanket, its mattress stuffed with a scant handful of straw. A four-legged stool with one leg missing sat beside it.

Glancing down, she realized that the floor beneath her soft leather boots was not made of stone or wood, but hard-packed dirt. And there were no rushes to lend the chamber warmth, no hearth, no torches. An oily goatskin served as a rug. Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant smell. There was not even a window to provide fresh air.

Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion and dismay pressed down on her. She had hoped for soft pillows and a warm bed at the very least. How could Sir Royce-or rather, Royce, she corrected-have called this a pleasant place?

No wonder the innkeeper had laughed at her when she had inquired about a hot bath.

"This will do," Royce said tiredly, sitting on the bed, raising a cloud of dust.

Ciara sneezed. "Please tell me you are jesting." She spied a ewer of water on the floor in one corner. Picking it up, she warily peered inside.

"So sorry if the lodging does not meet your lofty expectations, milady." He gave her an annoyed look. "It is the best that a town as small as Edessa can offer. I have stayed in worse places." Under his breath, he added, "I have lived in worse places."

She wanted to ask him to explain that comment, but knew he would not comply. "I suppose if we will only be here one night ..." There seemed to be a film of ice on the water. Trying to dislodge it, she turned the ewer sideways, hoping to find enough liquid to wash her face and hands.

Instead she was rewarded with a solid block of ice, which slid out and shattered on the floor.

Royce started to chuckle.

Ciara wanted to cry. The crystalline shards and Royce's laughter were more than she could endure after this long and trying day. She had always wanted to experience the life of an ordinary woman, but this was not at all what she had imagined.

Still, she would not give in to tears, she thought fiercely. Nor would she give in to the urge to throw the empty pitcher at her amused guardian's head.

Keeping her expression neutral and her hand steady, she held the ewer out toward him. "If you would be so kind as to fetch some water. And find a way to make a fire so that we may have a bit of heat." With her other hand, she pointed at her satchel, which was still in the doorway. "And you may place my things on the-"

"I may?" He leaned forward, his gaze as hard as his chiseled features. "I am not your servant, Ciara. How long will it take to disabuse you of that notion? I will not be treated like a lackey or a lady-in-waiting, and I have no interest in playing nursemaid to a spoiled, demanding child who cannot do the least little thing for herself."

Startled, Ciara withdrew the pitcher, holding it against her as if the metal might provide armor against his barbs. Dampness burned in her eyes. She felt worn out, frustrated, and sick of being mocked and insulted. She had phrased her request politely. What more could he want? Could he not be the least bit kind?

She bit her tongue to hold the questions back, knowing there was no point in asking for the impossible.

"Very well." Still holding the pitcher, she walked over to the door, picked up her satchel, and carried it inside. "I will manage on my own. If you would send in a serving woman-"

"There are no serving women here. Only the innkeeper and his wife." Royce got to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes. "If you want your skirt mended, your hair brushed, or your royal feet rubbed, you will have to use your own two hands."

Ciara turned her back on him, fighting a hot retort. She mentally recited the first ten letters of the Greek alphabet before she trusted herself to speak. "I suppose there are no laundresses about, either?"

"None. You will have to grow accustomed to a bit of dirt here and there. Like the rest of us commoners." He moved past her, toward the door. "But your toilette can wait. Supper is being served in the keeping-room, and I for one am starving."

"Keeping-room?"

"The group of tables near the entrance. Surely you noticed when we paid for our chamber. There was a hearth? With a soup cauldron? And platters on the tables?"

"Aye, but I do not think I should-"

"We will be perfectly safe, Ciara. There is no one staying at the inn tonight but an elderly man and woman and two small children. I asked the innkeeper's wife while you were busy pestering the poor innkeeper about a bath."

"But I do not wish to-"

"This is not the palace, milady." He turned on his heel, his voice sharp. "If you want food, you will eat like everyone else. In the keeping-room."

She did not flinch, regarding him with her most regal cool. "I am perfectly willing to eat with everyone else." She pronounced each word distinctly, enjoying his expression of surprise. "What I was about to say-before you interrupted-was that I do not wish to eat until after I have washed and changed."

"There is no need for that."

"I have never worn muddied garments to supper and I see no reason to start now." After a pause, she added, "You have my permission to await me in the keeping-room."

She purposely said it like a royal dismissal.

His jaw tightened and a muscle flexed in his tanned cheek-and he did not obey her.

He leaned back against the door, crossing his boots at the ankle and his arms over his chest.

"What are you ..." She blinked at him in confusion. "Not even you could be so bold as to-you are not staying in this chamber while I change!"

"Rules, Your Highness. Remember?"

"Nay, this I will not endure! I must have at least some privacy. Can I not have ten minutes to myself?"

"Ten minutes is long enough for someone to abduct you or-"

"But you just told me there is no one but an elderly couple with two small children staying here tonight. Our chamber has no window. And the keeping-room is next to the inn's entrance. The only entrance, if I recall. No one could possibly reach me without going past you."

He still made no move to leave. Ciara was grateful she no longer held the pitcher-else she surely would have hurled it at his stubborn head.

Which would have dented a perfectly good pitcher.

They glared at each other, neither budging.

"Ten minutes," he grated at last. "No more. If you are not in the keeping-room in ten minutes, I am coming back to collect you." Without another word, he grabbed for the door and left, closing it sharply behind him.

Ciara stood there shaking, unable to move for a moment, surprised-and relieved-that he had given in.

Then she walked over to the bed and let herself go limp, sinking down onto the mattress. The straw stabbed at places that already felt sore and bruised, and the dust made her sneeze. She stared down at her skirt in numb silence. Anteros's flying hooves had left her cream-colored gown speckled with mud, the wind had sculpted her hair into spiky disarray, and though she could not be certain, she was fairly sure she smelled like a horse.

Propping her elbows on her knees, she rested her face in her hands and gave in to a soft sound of pure misery. Thus far, the world beyond the palace walls-the world that had intrigued her for so long, that looked so beautiful-was proving to be dirty, rough, and thoroughly unpleasant.

Much like her guardian.

Vexing, perverse man. She did not understand him at all. The more pleasant she tried to be, the more surly he became.

Sighing, she reached behind her, feeling for the laces at the back of her gown, tugging at them. She had best hurry and join him in the tavern, lest he come back and bark at her some more.

Chapter 5.

He was doomed.

Royce sat alone in the keeping-room, oblivious to the barley soup the innkeeper had placed on the table in front of him. The fragrant steam rising from the bowl made his stomach growl, but he barely noticed. He sat with his back to the roaring fire, a single thought circling round and round through his mind.

He was doomed.

And the weapon of his destruction would not be a rebel arrow or an icy mountain pass.

It would be the scent that had permeated his tunic and his cloak-a delicate blend of rare roses and costly myrrh. Her scent.