Free The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch by Shelly Thacker Page A

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
Châlons has existed peacefully for