Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Finally, Bryce moved forward. Hope beat in Ryen’s heart, along with desperation. What will I do if he chooses to sit beside his whores? What will I do if he places Lotte above me?

  Murmuring broke out around the room as they strolled toward the peasant’s table.

  Her heart raced as he stood looking over the table for a moment. She took her usual chair. Bryce’s gaze shifted to Polly, who sat beside Ryen.

  Immediately, the old maid rose and stepped aside. Ryen watched her walk down the table to the extra place they always set.

  When Ryen turned back to Bryce, he was taking Polly’s seat. “Later you will eat at my table, by my side,” he said.

  Ryen nodded slightly, numb with happiness.

  Bryce stared at the food before him for a moment. He turned his gaze to the peasant beside him. “Take another chair.”

  Immediately, the man scrambled from his seat and Talbot, who had followed them, replaced him at Bryce’s side.

  Contentedly, Bryce’s eyes scanned the table until he came to Grey. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head.

  Grey shrugged. “The food’s better.”

  The bowls were placed before them and Bryce picked up his trencher.

  “M’lord,” Talbot said, stopping Bryce before the trencher reached his mouth. Dark eyes focused on Talbot and he continued, “They know not what to do.”

  Ryen and Bryce turned together, following Talbot’s stare. His soldiers sat, whispering among themselves, casting speculative glances at Ryen’s table.

  Bryce’s gaze swiveled to Ryen.

  “I will have another cauldron made,” Ryen offered. “It won’t take long.”

  Bryce nodded, then announced, “Let them eat what we eat.”

  Ryen nodded to Kit and the girl jumped up and ran to the kitchens.

  Bryce raised the trencher to his mouth, glancing at Grey. “You have not been wrong yet.” He shoved the trencher into his mouth. “Ah!” he cried, and spat the pudding from his mouth. “God’s blood! It’s hot!”

  “Of course, m’lord,” Ryen answered, with laughter in her voice. “Here. Allow me.” She removed the trencher from his hand and dipped it beneath the pudding, scooping up some food. She carefully wiped the excess off on the side of the bowl and brought the bread to her lips. She blew gently on the pudding until it cooled and finally moved the trencher to his lips.

  A grin curved his mouth as he opened it for her, taking the bread into his mouth. Subtly he drew his tongue along one of her fingers.

  Ryen blanched and quickly looked around to see if the others had noticed, but no one was watching them. When she turned back to him, her smile was sly and seductive.

  “Prince,” Talbot exclaimed. “I have not tasted food this good since…well, since before I was in your service!”

  “Aye,” Bryce replied quietly, never taking his eyes from Ryen. “The best.”

  After the meal, Ryen noticed that Bryce’s mood turned somber. He was quiet and pensive, thoughtful. He escorted Ryen into the hallway and stopped, turning to her. “There is something I do every month on this day.”

  Ryen took in the slight droop of his shoulders, and the way he averted his eyes. When he did look at her, she was startled at the sadness in his eyes, the pain hidden behind his scowling brows. It pulled at Ryen’s heart and she asked, “What is it?”

  Bryce seemed to be studying her, every detail of her face, every aspect of her soul. Finally, he said, “Four months ago, on this day, Runt died. I go to honor his memory.”

  Even though his voice was strong, she felt the agony that emanated from his body. She knew that she could help him just by being there, by staying with him through his tortured memorial. “I want to go with you.”

  He blanched as if in disbelief, as if she had said something sacrilegious. She saw it coming. He was going to say no.

  Then something happened. His expression changed from one of almost horror to one of gratitude. Bryce held out his hand to her.

  Ryen put her palm against his. Silently he led her through the hallway and down a drafty corridor. Many of the servants scurried out of his way after giving Bryce a respectful bow or curtsy. It was reassuring to be at his side. He exuded an air of power that was reflected in every reverent movement of the servants.

  As they walked, the corridor became sparse and empty. The darkness was cut only by the firelight from the torches on the wall. Bryce moved toward two wooden doors that were open, welcoming.

  A large altar carved of gold and silver stood at the front of the room, a cross hanging suspended above it. Three polished wooden pews lined each side of the chapel. Only one man was sitting there, his back to them, his head bowed. A monk was lighting candles on the altar.

  As Bryce moved down the middle of the aisle, something made Ryen turn her head toward the reverent man. He looked up and Ryen froze, almost tripping over her dress.

  It was Vignon!

  She quickly turned her head away from him and went down on one knee to cover for her clumsiness.

  Bryce chuckled darkly. “You cannot tell me this is the god that the Angel of Death prays to.”

  Baffled, Ryen stood, raising her eyes to him. She tried desperately to hide the nervousness that seized her stomach. “And I suppose the Prince of Darkness worships another?”

  Bryce’s lip curled in a half-grin, but he did not answer her.

  Ryen found her hands trembling. She clasped them as the monk turned, his face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. He approached them, descending the two steps from the altar. “My lord,” he whispered, “it is not complete yet.”

  “It does not matter,” Bryce said, and continued toward the side of the church.

  Ryen quickly followed him to a wooden door. Bryce swung it aside and held it open for her. The stairway that stretched downward before them was dark, and Ryen could not see past the first two steps. Bryce took a torch from beside the doorway. As they descended, the circle of light wavered around them. Ryen glanced back, half expecting to see Vignon poised in the doorway with a dagger, but the door swung shut and blackness closed off Ryen’s view behind her. She reached out for Bryce’s arm, afraid she would tumble down the steep stairway. They plunged through the darkness for a long time until Ryen’s foot hit level ground. As she peered down the corridor that stretched before them, she felt trapped, as though the narrow walls were closing in on them. It was like a mausoleum. Torches glowed on the wall, casting an eerie glow in this tomb.

  Bryce forged on, and as Ryen moved, she saw small plaques along the wall. She hesitated at one, a golden plaque inscribed in English. Ryen puzzled out the words: Herein…rests…Lord Princeton.

  Bryce stepped up beside her, his shoulder brushing her hair.

  When Ryen turned to glance at him, his features fluttered in darkness, then in light, as the torch he held above his head flickered. As he looked at the plaque, she saw his eyes narrow with a long-forgotten memory. “It is my grandfather,” he stated, quietly. “He died defending our land. Stabbed in the back. The land fell to my father, who was twelve at the time.”

  Ryen’s gaze shot back to the golden plaque. His family was buried here. Suddenly Ryen felt cold and unwelcome. She glanced at the walls and swore they trembled as if they were going to come crashing down around her shoulders. She stepped back, hugging her elbows.

  Bryce gently took her hand and raised it to his lips. “They would have liked you,” he reassured her. He guided her deeper into the gloom, into the quiet.

  Not three steps away, he turned into an alcove. On the floor before them stood a rock about chest high. The bottom part of the stone had been expertly chiseled into a pair of armor legs, as if it were the start of a fine suite of plate mail.

  Bryce stepped forward and dropped to one knee before the small, unfinished statue.

  It was for Runt! It was a memorial to his son.

  Bryce bent his head. “I miss him so much,” he murmured, so softly that she barely heard him. Hi
s voice echoed quietly in the tomblike cave.

  Her heart twisted. She cast a doubtful glance at the cold walls, the dark ceiling, the graves marked by plaques. “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen groaned. She placed a delicate hand against his shoulder. “Then honor his memory, his spirit. Do not place this memorial in the darkness and quiet. He was a boy. Surely he played in the stables or ran outdoors, splashing in the puddles.”

  Bryce did not speak or turn to her. In the flickering torchlight she saw his back stiffen and straighten, his long black hair washing over his shoulders in waves.

  She was an intruder here. She could not tell him how to honor his son. “I’m sorry, Bryce. I spoke out of turn. He was your son and you should place the statue wherever you feel it should be.”

  “You are right,” he said, and stood, towering above her.

  Ryen nodded, turning to leave the alcove.

  “He loved the gardens.” His words stopped her and she turned back to him. “He used to miss meals because he was wielding his wooden sword, cutting down make-believe dragons, which turned out to be some servant’s favorite flowers. He once brought me a frog the size of my fist from the pond. He had been warned by my servants to stay out of the gardens, away from the flowers and the trees and the pond. But he never listened.” Bryce looked at her and Ryen saw determination sparkle in his dark eyes. “No one shall ever keep him from the gardens again.”

  His eyes came into focus, and he dropped them to Ryen. They glowed with a different kind of love. She gasped as she recognized the look – it was the one that she had longed for all her life. The look her father had bestowed on her brothers, but never upon her. Respect.

  Bryce took both of her hands into his and pressed each against his lips. “Thank you.”

  At midday, Bryce had shown Ryen the armory. They were watching the skilled armorer beat a strip of metal to form a sword when Talbot entered. He informed Bryce that they were leaving to survey the lands.

  “I’ll be right there,” Bryce said. As Talbot left, he turned to Ryen.

  “May I accompany you?” she wondered.

  Bryce glanced at the armorer, and although his head was bowed over his work, Bryce knew the man heard every word that was said. Bryce took one of Ryen’s hands and led her to the door. “It would be better if you stayed behind,” Bryce murmured. At Ryen’s crestfallen look, he lifted one of her hands and pressed it against his lips. “You know there is nothing I would like more than to have you by my side. But this time I must deny myself the privilege.”

  Ryen nodded, trying desperately not to look as disappointed as she felt.

  “It will only take four days, and I promise you when I return I will make up every minute that I am away.”

  “Four days?” Ryen whispered in anguish.

  Bryce nodded, pulling her against him.

  She could hear the beat of his heart as she pressed her head against his chest. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw her anguish mirrored there. He lowered his lips to hers and the kiss was hungry and desperate.

  Then Bryce stepped away from her, not releasing her hands. Finally, with a wistful grin, he let her hands go and departed.

  Ryen stared out over the forests and plowed land, thinking about their night together. She remembered his hot touch, his eyes as they clouded over with desire, the feel of his soft hair as the wet curls clung to her fingers. She sighed, missing him already, and pushed herself from the window ledge. Four days, she thought wistfully. How long these four days will be without him.

  Her feet hit the stone floor and she began to move down the quiet hall. Her hair hung over her shoulders as she stared at the floor. She watched her feet move beneath her blue dress, back and forth, peeking from under the satin material and then disappearing with each step she took. Her mind dwelled for a long time on Bryce; his power over her was unequaled. She looked for him around every corner, in every room. A small smile tugged at her lips.

  That’s when she heard it. At first, she thought it was her imagination. The way her steps seemed to echo twice in the hallway was odd. It was almost as if…

  …she was being followed. Ryen stopped, every nerve alert for footfalls or the rustle of clothing. A second after she halted, one more footstep fell. Ryen froze, wanting to turn and glance over her shoulder, but knowing that if she did, she would give away her advantage. So she continued on, turning corners and strolling casually through the castle. Listening with heightened awareness, she heard the sound again. As she paused to study a tapestry, the footfalls halted. As she moved, she developed a certain respect for her pursuer. Whoever it was had done this before. He, or she, was matching her steps exactly, only a fragment of a second behind each of hers. And he was quiet. She could not even hear the rustle of clothing. Whoever it was did not wear armor.

  Ryen stopped again, feigning interest in a suit of armor that stood at the side of the hallway. She wondered briefly if it was Vignon, waiting for the right opportunity to approach her. But she could not discount that it might be one of Bryce’s men wanting to kill her. For a moment, her mind flashed back to Andre’s tent and the soldier who had tried to slit her throat. She glanced instinctively down to her arm, where the scar from the attack was hidden beneath her long sleeves. She vowed she would never let that happen again.

  Growing irritated at the game, Ryen stepped around a corner and quickly opened and closed a door, then pressed herself flat against the wall, waiting for the person to show himself.

  If he wants to kill me, let him try, Ryen thought. She heard the light fall of footsteps as they neared her hiding spot. Then they stopped. Startled, she braced herself for discovery. The seconds stretched on…and on. No one rounded the corner.

  Had she been imagining things? She took a deep breath and pushed herself from the wall, turning the corner.

  Grey! Ryen gasped at finding him leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Ryen reared back and slowly, as they stared at each other, her anger rose. “Why are you following me?” she demanded.

  After a moment, a slow grin spread over his lips.

  His smile only infuriated Ryen and her brows scowled lower. “I asked you a question.”

  “I heard you,” he replied nonchalantly.

  Her eyes raked over him, looking for some kind of weapon. His breeches were black and stained with mud; his torn tunic was in worse condition, the edges ragged. The collar was lined with fur. She could see no weapon and this only baffled her. She raised her eyes to his. For a long moment they stared at each other, her cold, angry eyes meeting his amused ones.

  “I’m doing someone a favor,” he finally answered.

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  His lips opened, showing stained teeth as he smiled full out, but his words held none of the humor in his grin. “If I were, you would be dead.”

  Somehow, she believed him. Grey did not have the power that coursed through every vein in Bryce’s body, yet he had an air of wisdom about him.

  Ryen observed him through slitted eyes. “Who is this someone?”

  “I don’t think he would appreciate your knowledge of this.”

  “No? Well, I don’t appreciate being spied on,” She retorted. “And I don’t think Bryce will find it amusing, either.”

  “You’re right. He wouldn’t find it amusing at all,” Grey commented with a glimmer in his eye.

  Ryen scowled at him. She was sure there was a hidden meaning to his words, but she couldn’t decipher it. “Stop following me,” she ordered and stormed down the hall.

  A fierce wind slammed open the shutters on the window and Ryen ran to them, pushing the wooden shutters closed. The cold wind whipped in relentlessly, its chill whistling through cracks in the moldings.

  Ryen sighed and leaned against the wood. She had returned to her room to choose fabric for some dresses Polly insisted on making for her, and now the material was strewn all over the bed. Ryen gazed at them again. They were beautiful, but hardly her style. Where there was si
lk for a beautiful dress, there should be leather for a pair of boots. Ryen sighed. The only reward would be Bryce’s face when he saw her and the feel of his hands on her skin when he removed them.

  Ryen sat down on the bed, her legs crossed, and picked up the quill and parchment that Polly had left on the table at her request. As she placed the parchment on the bed, carefully smoothing out the edges, she began to compose in her mind the letter to Count Dumas explaining that she was staying at Dark Castle of her own accord.

  The quill flew elegantly over the parchment. She began with a simple introduction and wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. She paused in her writing and stroked her chin with the large feather.

  Her eyes were drawn by Bryce’s image upon the tapestry. She placed the quill and paper on the bed and walked to the woven picture, staring at the precise accuracy of the embroidered eyes. The tapestry seemed to capture his look, his mood.

  The door swung open and Ryen turned. The smile that had begun to form when she’d thought it was Bryce vanished. A protective wall slammed down, cutting off her heart from the rest of her senses. Lotte could only be here to hurt her. “Get out,” Ryen commanded, an icy jealousy racing across her shoulders and tensing her body.

  Lotte grinned. “Such a pleasant way to greet a stranger.”

  “You are not a stranger,” Ryen retorted.

  Lotte surveyed the room, her brown eyes growing dreamy. “The things I could have done with this room. I would have sewn a brighter blanket for the bed, hung more tapestries to keep this room warmer…and mirrors. Definitely mirrors.” Lotte’s eyes swept the room until they came to the tapestry. “I would have gotten rid of that.” She pointed to it.

  “What do you want?” Ryen demanded, outrage flashing through her heart. She loved the tapestry, woven with such careful detail that the images were brought to life.

  “Why, I thought we could be friends.”

  Ryen’s eyes narrowed. Never, her mind screamed. There was something about the woman that made Ryen’s skin crawl.