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

on the bread and biting off a mouthful, “I would choose
another topic of conversation.”
    “I merely wish to understand
why
you have been in such ill humor all day. Are you concerned about
our journey? Is there something I should know?”
    Aye, there is a great deal you should know.
Starting with a few creative uses for that mouth of yours, all of
which you would find more pleasurable than blowing on soup.
    “The only thing I am concerned about at the
moment,” he growled, “is that you hurry up and finish your meal.”
He wolfed down the bread in three bites. “I need to get some
sleep.”
    She opened her mouth as if to argue, then
apparently thought better of it. “As you wish.” She returned her
attention to her food. “Mayhap the morn will find you in better
spirits.”
    “I would not wager on it.”
    She glanced up at him from beneath her
lashes. “Do you take pleasure in being disagreeable?”
    “I must take my pleasure where I can,” he
said with a meaningful smile that was completely lost on her.
    “You seem to take a great deal of it in
being rude and contemptuous to me.” She set her spoon down with a
clatter. “You would try the patience of a saint.”
    “‘Tis a gift.”
    “‘Tis a most perverse trait. Never have I
met a man so wholeheartedly devoted to boorishness.”
    “Ciara, eat your—”
    “Nay, I will not eat my soup and I will not
be quiet. All day, I have followed your orders while you have
ignored mine. I will have no more of it. I would know what I have
done to merit this churlish treatment.”
    “The fault is not yours,” he snapped. “I
will say no more.”
    “Indeed? That would be a great relief. But I
doubt you will keep your word. You seem unable to keep your
opinions to yourself for longer than ten minutes at a time.”
    “Take care, Ciara. If you insist on pointing
out my faults, I might be tempted to name a few of yours.”
    “Do you mean I have more faults than
the ones you have already thrown in my face this day? Saints’
blood—”
    “Watch your language, milady. One might
begin to mistake you for a normal woman instead of a
pampered little girl more concerned with her belongings, her
comfort, and her appearance than with—”
    “How dare you!” she gasped. “You
ill-mannered, overgrown oaf—”
    “Good eventide,” a voice called from the
opposite side of the room. “May we join you for supper?”
    The sudden interruption made them both turn
toward the corridor that led to the inn’s chambers. Royce realized
only then that he was breathing hard and gripping his crust of
bread so forcefully that he had reduced it to crumbs. He had gotten
so caught up in his verbal duel with Ciara, he had forgotten to
keep an eye on their surroundings.
    Forgotten that he was supposed to be
protecting her.
    But by God’s mercy, the four strangers
filing in were clearly the inn’s other guests: an elderly man and
woman and two small children, all dressed in the rough,
fawn-colored broadcloth favored by lowland peasants.
    “Indeed you may,” he said, sitting up
straight and giving Ciara a warning glance. “We would welcome the
company.”
    The look in her eyes told him she would
welcome any company but his. She silently picked up her spoon
again.
    The newcomers smiled and walked over to
share their table. “I am Nevin,” the man said, holding out his
hand, “and this is my wife, Oriel, and our grandchildren.”
    Royce shook the man’s hand. “I am Royce.
This is my wife, Ciara.”
    Oriel went to fill four bowls with soup from
the cauldron on the hearth while Nevin sat beside Royce. One of the
children, a boy, clambered over the bench to sit next to Ciara.
When the lad looked up at her, Royce half expected her to
recoil—the child’s face was badly scarred, as if he had been burned
in a fire.
    But instead of flinching away, she remained
quite still, then smiled down at him.
    Royce watched in stunned silence. It was not
the false, polite smile she usually relied