Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Wide, innocent blue eyes returned his gaze before falling to his lips. Carefully, without taking his eyes from hers, he slid the sleeve down her arm. The roar of the waterfall was nothing compared to the roar of passion that raged through his body. He stepped closer to her, his hot body touching the linen chemise, his hard muscles caressing the softness of her skin. He felt her inhale, pressing her breasts against his chest. A curl from her hair floated down the side of her face, and he reached up to brush it aside. Her arm was all but forgotten; his fingertips traced the outline of her cheek as he brushed the strand back. Her hair was as soft as her chemise. He ran his fingers through her mane of curls. Crushing the waves of her hair in an iron grip, he suddenly pulled her face close to his.

  She opened her mouth slightly and her sweet breath fanned his lips. Her body pressed close to his, hot and soft.

  Then he was kissing her. His hot kiss moved across her mouth, demanding entrance, forcing her to yield to his expertise. When she parted her lips, he drove his tongue deep into the recesses of her mouth. It was like tasting a sweet berry. And he wanted more…so much more.

  “Ryen!”

  It was his passion crying out to her. God, how he wanted her.

  “Ryen!”

  Bryce broke away, glancing over his shoulder. Voices!

  “Ryen! Where are you?” A search party! Had they been seen?

  He turned back to her. She was opening her mouth to call out. He quickly clamped his hand over her lips. “Not a word,” he hissed. His passion had suddenly cooled. Had she somehow seen them coming? Tried to distract him by saying her arm was broken? He glanced down at her arm. He had seen many limbs that had been broken in battle, but hers looked nothing like those. It had been a ploy, he was sure. He glanced back through the falls, trying to make out how many there were, but he could not see even one. He swiveled his head to the cause of all of his problems. She stared at him with those wide eyes, eyes that only moments before had seduced him into wanting her. He would deal with her seduction later. He moved her back into the darkness of the cave.

  “I won’t be taken again,” he promised her. “Not by the French.”

  Something flashed in those large eyes…something soft and tender.

  “Ryen!”

  Bryce braced himself for her attempt at escape, but she was motionless against him. He pulled her back into a dark corner of the cave. Again his eyes sought the entrance. He could see no movement through the waterfall, but they were out there. He glanced down at Ryen. She was staring at him, quietly, not moving. He frowned. If it were him, he would be fighting to free himself. Perhaps she realized a fight was useless against his strength. Perhaps she was smarter than he realized. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had…

  Cursing, he whirled her around so her back was pressed full against him, his hand tight over her mouth. God’s blood! he thought. I cannot enjoy the thought of such things. She is my enemy. I must see her delivered to England.

  “Ryen!”

  Even thought the voice was growing closer, he didn’t fear discovery. The falls would hide them well enough. The French knights didn’t know they were here. But then Bryce tensed as a new thought struck him. The clothes! Good Lord, if they discovered the clothing, they would scour the area and there would be no chance for escape.

  He pulled Ryen to the waterfall, holding her close against him, and stepped out onto the ledge. He peered cautiously around the falling water to the spot where he had placed the clothing between two boulders to dry in the sun. His sharp eyes searched the surrounding wood. No one was near the clothes. They were safe.

  Then the branches on a nearby bush shook and parted as a French knight stepped forward, moving closer to the muddy shore of the river. He was looking down, searching the ground, flicking aside stones with his drawn sword. All he had to do was glance up over the boulder to his right and all hope for escape would be gone. Bryce held his breath. He had never prayed to God before, but he did now. The knight stepped closer to the rocks.

  Ryen shifted her stance just then and her foot hit a small stone, sending it over the ledge and into the roaring water.

  Bryce angrily pulled her back against the wall. His eyes fastened on the man. Had he heard? The knight was using his toe to brush aside a small plant growing in between the rocks. Bryce glanced down into the falls, following the path of the small stone. That’s when he saw them, more small rocks littering the side of the ledge. He raised his eyes to the knight. Without releasing his hold on Ryen’s mouth, Bryce bent and scooped a good-sized stone into his hand. He arced his arm over his head, sending the stone flying through the air. It landed behind the knight in the forest, cracking loudly against the trunk of a tree.

  At the sound, the knight whirled, raising his sword before him. He hesitated for only a moment before moving off into the forest.

  That had been close. Too close. Anger quickly replaced Bryce’s relief. He pulled Ryen back into the cave and released her. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her. “I will not be so easily distracted next time.”

  She turned her back on him. She could not be trusted, he decided. She would have to be watched. But could he watch her and keep his distance from her at the same time?

  It was growing more and more difficult to convince himself that it was she who had killed Runt. She had not set the blaze. But I would not have been in her camp if she hadn’t captured me, and if I was not in her camp, then Runt would not have been there. So it was her fault! Still, if I had not allowed myself to be caught…he did not like the way his argument was turning. Angry, he spun away from her to step onto the ledge.

  Bryce’s eyes scanned the forest. The knight was gone. There was no sign of any other men, either, although he knew they were still out there. He returned to Ryen and clasped her shoulder.

  She pulled it free, wincing as her abrupt movement jarred her wounded arm. “You don’t have to lead me around like an animal,” she snapped.

  His dark eyes narrowed. “I have no chains to bind your wrists; therefore my hands will act as such.”

  Her sapphire eyes danced darkly in the twinkling light that reflected through the shimmering waterfall. “Have no fear, Prince. If I chose to escape I’m sure that you, of all men, could easily thwart me. Your touch is not warranted, even by a mere slut.”

  His words thrown back in his face were unsettling. Yet the rich sarcasm with which she delivered them roused his anger. She was mocking him. Still, beneath the sarcasm he heard a hidden pain and he wanted to recant the accusation. Confused by the emotions she fueled in him, he turned toward the entrance. “Then follow me.”

  They had stopped only long enough to don their boots and for Ryen to replace her wet clothing. By midday, her tunic was dry, but the muddy forest and occasional puddles soaked her boots through to her leggings. Her feet were cold and her legs ached. Bryce had led her on, resting only once all day. Ryen’s pride would not allow her to request a break from his grueling pace, so she had trudged along after him.

  Finally, well after the sun had set, Bryce halted. Ryen’s entire body was numb. She was grateful for the pause and leaned her back against the cool bark of a tree. When she looked up at Bryce, his back was to her and the white light of the moon washed over his shoulder muscles. His head was raised to the sky for a long moment, his dark black hair falling over his strong shoulders. Then he turned to her. “We rest here for the night.”

  She waited only long enough for him to brush by her before she sighed and slid down the tree to the forest floor. As soon as she rested for a moment, all her pains came to life, culminating with a throbbing ache in her head. She put her head in her arms, wondering what he was trying to prove.

  Ryen raised her head slowly to see that Bryce was standing not far from her, staring out into the forest. He was like a statue, dark, impenetrable, and absolutely still. She wondered if she would ever be able to break through his defenses. Not that she wanted to, she told herself. She only wondere
d if it were possible. He is my enemy, she thought, as he has reminded me so many times. I only wanted my father to see what a great warrior I am to have captured the Prince of Darkness. I do not care of him.

  Then his head dropped in weariness and there was something in the movement that made her see him as a man instead of a soldier. The need to soothe his tired brow brought her to her feet. For some reason, she wanted to speak with him as if they weren’t enemies, as if they were merely a man and a woman. Perhaps it was his refusal to speak to her throughout the day that made Ryen want his conversation, perhaps it was because he looked so miserable that made her want to comfort him. Whatever it was, she found herself moving up behind him and placing her hand carefully on his shoulder. She felt every sinew tense, felt the conflict that clenched his fists. “What?” he asked tersely. “No dagger in your fist?”

  Ryen refused to be baited. But she dropped her hand at his open rejection. “If I were an English warrior would you hate me so?”

  He did not turn. “You are not English. And you never will be.”

  “Then why didn’t you just slit my throat when we were alone in my tent?” she asked.

  He turned then, his white smile glowing in the moonlight, his eyes dark and shadowed with anger. “I had no dagger.”

  She raised her chin. “Then kill me now.”

  His smiled disappeared. “There is no need now. You are my prisoner.” He stepped toward her. She retreated until he stopped mere inches from her. “Although I have every right, after what you did.”

  Fierce anger swept her. “I would never kill a child.”

  “And yet the fact remains that he is dead,” Bryce snarled.

  Ryen stared up into his black, hate-filled eyes. The boy was someone special to him, someone who had won his love. Suddenly she felt a flash of jealousy. “Who was he?”

  The question seemed to startle him. Then his face tightened and his jaw clenched. A rage so powerful that it threatened to shake the very ground beneath his feet trembled through his body. “My son,” he ground out.

  Ryen’s mouth dropped. Son, her mind repeated. How had the boy gotten into her camp? What in heaven was he doing in France? Why wasn’t he home with his mother? Mother. Even through her sorrow at Bryce’s loss, a nagging question rose in her mind; did he have a wife?

  She saw the bright agony that burned in his eyes, even through the fury. “Bryce, I –”

  “Don’t,” he growled, and whirled away from her.

  Only now did she begin to understand how deeply Bryce hated her. After a long moment, Ryen retreated to the tree she had sought shelter beneath. She sat at the base, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She watched him for a long time, standing only a few yards away, staring at the sky. She could not have felt farther from him had they been separated by a continent.

  She knew nothing of this man. And yet his kisses rendered her helpless as no weapon had ever done.

  A son, she thought again. The Prince of Darkness had a son. It had not been part of his legend. And somehow the thought made him more human. More touchable. Why would he bring his son, his most precious possession, into an enemy country? If she had children, she would see them safely tucked away in her father’s castle.

  Bryce came and sat at the bottom of the tree next to her. He did not look at her, did not face her.

  After a moment of silence, Ryen couldn’t help asking, “What was he doing in France?”

  Bryce turned his head to her, angered by her obtrusive questioning. His eyes burned into her and she felt his anger as if it were a slap in her face. He rose swiftly and marched again to his post before the stars.

  Ryen pursued him. “He was so young. Surely it was not your idea –”

  Bryce whirled on her, his face a vicious snarl. “What better place for a son than at his father’s side?”

  Ryen was horrified. “In the midst of war?”

  He stepped toward her, his look dark and dangerous. “And you know so much about my life. Tell me, Angel, would my son be happier enduring the ridicule and scorn of being a bastard, or fighting at his father’s side? Was I to forsake my son, my only joy, when I believed the best place for him was with me?”

  His voice softened suddenly and Ryen swore in the light of the moon she could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “He wanted to be an honorable knight, to fight a dragon, to lead an army for his king.”

  Ryen opened her mouth to answer, but Bryce smashed his fist into a tree beside him, making her jump.

  “What honor is there in being dead?” he demanded.

  She shook her head slightly now, at a loss for words. The only honor in death was the honor one received in dying. And he had died in the fire. “What was he doing in my camp?” she wondered softly.

  “Trying to save me,” Bryce answered bitterly.

  Ryen stared hard at Bryce. The boy had returned for his father. Ryen knew grown men who wouldn’t do as much. She turned to gaze at the stars, as Bryce had before her. There was honor in what the boy had done. And Ryen suddenly wished she had known him. “What was his name?” she asked.

  “Runt,” he replied hesitantly.

  “He was a brave boy,” she said. “You taught him well.”

  There was a long silence that stretched on. Finally, Bryce muttered, “I will miss him.”

  Ryen wished with all her heart that she could take his pain into herself so that he would not have to feel it. She wished that she could make the boy live. Suddenly, an image rose before her eyes. The figure of a very young boy with hair as dark as midnight brandishing a wooden sword at a make-believe dragon. Bryce’s son. Ryen felt herself being swallowed up by his grief. She wanted to wipe away his torment with a caress, soothe his brow and his aching heart with her touch.

  She turned to him to find his dark eyes looking at her, gazing at her so intently she could have sworn he saw through to her soul.

  Ryen lifted a hand to place it his arm. His skin was hot beneath her palm.

  Bryce reached out with his other hand and took her free hand into his own.

  His palm covered her hand totally. She stared at his skin, marveling at the warm, secure feeling that spiraled up through her. When she raised her gaze to his eyes, her heart skipped a beat and she parted her lips as if to speak, but no words came out.

  He leaned forward, and Ryen thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her back and put his forehead on her shoulder.

  He needed her to comfort him, not to love him. She wrapped her arms around him and, sighing softly, rested her cheek against his soft hair. She closed her eyes, holding Bryce tightly.

  “Isn’t this a tender sight?” the French words intruded.

  Ryen and Bryce separated instantly. Her hand went automatically to her waist, only to come up empty.

  “A lover’s rendezvous.” The man stepped out of the shadows of the trees, dressed in a dirty woolen tunic, ripped brown leggings, and a torn black cape. He looked like a nobleman turned beggar, Ryen thought. She noted the confidence with which he squared his shoulders, the ease with which he had surprised them…as if he had done it before. He was a thief. She knew it instinctively. Her eyes searched the dark shadows of the forest for more men, and for an avenue of escape.

  There was movement to her right and she saw two more men rushing toward them. One was wearing only breeches with no shirt, and the other was very tall, with a thick black beard. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Bryce had seen them. In one movement, he pulled her to his left and ducked as the shirtless attacker attempted to grab him; then he kicked the legs out from beneath the bearded man.

  Ryen saw a shadow come alive. As he moved into the light of the moon, she could see his pockmarked and scarred face sneering as he raised a fist and swung, catching Bryce in his already sore ribs. Bryce doubled over as Ryen moved forward to help him.

  The thief grabbed her right wrist as she pulled it back to land a blow to the scarred man’s face. W
ith a tug he spun her around, crushing her against his chest.

  “Aim for his ribs,” a voice advised from the darkness, and Ryen looked to see a fifth man emerge from the cover of the forest behind Bryce. In the patchy moonlight shining through the leaves of the trees, his small, beady eyes reminded her of a rat.

  The bearded man drew back a fist and Ryen shoved against her captor’s chest, but could not break free. She watched helplessly as the blow to Bryce’s chin sent him sprawling.

  Ryen twisted, trying to break free of the ex-nobleman’s hold to get to Bryce. She gasped as the shirtless man, the bearded man, and the scarred man converged on him. He went down, buried beneath a sea of bodies and blows. Ryen held her breath for a long moment. Then the shirtless man flew off the group, landing with a thud in the darkness. A fist cracked the bearded man’s jaw and he stumbled back.

  Bryce rose before the scarred man like some sort of demon, his eyes glowing in the moonlight, his long hair a disheveled mass. The scarred man threw a punch. Bryce caught the blow in his open palm, closing his fist around it. His opponent quaked and gaped at the Prince of Darkness, his eyes going round with terror.

  Suddenly from behind Bryce the man with the rat eyes charged, hammering down upon his ribs with his fist. Bryce stiffened as the blow hit him, then quickly recovered and whirled to face him. The man threw another blow to Bryce’s wounded middle and Bryce staggered back, clutching at his sore ribs.

  Ryen lifted her foot and brought it down hard on the ex-nobleman’s toes. When her captor released her to grab at his foot, Ryen raced to Bryce’s side. She pulled him back away from rat eyes.

  A sixth man, trembling with fright, stepped from the cover of the trees to the ex-nobleman’s side, offering assistance. But the leader of the thieves pulled away sharply.