The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Read Online Free PDF

neatly arranged
candles, as if seeking some sort of benediction from the holy
relics. He also surrendered his flask, though a bit more
grudgingly.
    He saw no reason to mention the second
Persian dagger hidden in his boot.
    Satisfied, the placid-looking men nodded
among themselves, then led him through a door at the far end of the
entry hall. He trailed them down one dark, cool corridor after
another, the low music of the chants following everywhere, mingling
on the air with the scent of bread baking for the evening meal.
    Finally, they brought him to what appeared
to be a large chamber, motioning him to enter, nodding pleasantly
before they slipped away to go about their silent business.
    Royce paused a moment, assaulted by memories
of the last time he had seen Aldric. And by the sudden twisting of
the knot in his stomach.
    But he was not a man to give in to second
thoughts. He gripped the iron ring, drew a deep breath, and pushed
the door open.
    It was the monks’ vast dining hall, dark but
for a single torch by the door and a scattering of candles that
glimmered on tables here and there, empty but for a solitary figure
standing on the far side of the chamber. A man half concealed by
shadows. Tall, imposing. Familiar.
    Royce took a single step forward. It
occurred to him that he should bow. The old training, instilled
from childhood, was so much a part of him that he nearly did. But
he stopped himself, quelled the impulse.
    He owed no man homage and fealty. Not
anymore.
    Especially not this one.
    “Your Majesty.” His voice echoed strangely
across the stark, undecorated chamber. “Against my better judgment,
I have come in answer to your summons.” He kicked the door closed
with his heel.
    Aldric remained in the shadows. “So I see.”
The deep, regal voice held an edge of affront. Or anger. “And I see
also that your time away has made you forget your manners.”
    Your time away. The pretty phrasing
made Royce’s jaw clench. “In many of the places I have been, a man
has little use for manners.”
    “You are in Châlons now. Men here know the
proper way to address a king.”
    “You are no longer my king,” Royce shot
back. “And if you think I will fall to my knees and kiss the hem of
your robes and beg forgiveness, you are mistaken.”
    “If your anger has cooled so little in four
years, why did you come at all, Ferrano?”
    Royce fell silent, the name and Aldric’s
attitude striking a sharp double blow. How could the old cur expect
years of exile to cool his resentment? And how could Aldric,
of all people, address him by the old title? “Saint-Michel,” he
corrected. “That other name is old and forgotten. And I almost did not come. Your missive said little.”
    “Yet in spite of that”—a familiar, cunning
tone crept into Aldric’s voice—“here you are.”
    “What have I to lose?” Royce demanded hotly.
“A man who possesses naught risks naught. I could turn and walk out
that door anytime. Mayhap now.” He clenched his fists, ignoring the
pain in his slashed palm. “But first I would know what purpose you
had in asking me here.”
    Aldric came forward, slowly, closing the
distance between them one measured step at a time. Royce saw no
welcome in the old man’s eyes. No sign of relief, no
thank-God-you-are-here expression.
    And certainly no hint of forgiveness.
    By nails and blood, had he truly hoped he might see any of that? Was he that much a fool? How could he
have expected aught but this: disapproval.
    Yet the old wound opened. And old questions
struck like a hail of arrows. What right did Aldric have to judge
him so harshly? To hold him to impossibly high standards and then
find him lacking? Royce was merely a man like other men. Flawed and
imperfect—
    All thought of himself abruptly stilled as
the king came fully into the light. Royce could see him clearly at
last.
    And what he saw hit him like a war
hammer.
    Old was the word that leaped to his
mind. Old and haggard and spent. Too