The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  A woman! Bryce thought. It could not be. A man had to help her. “Your lovers command your army for you.” It was part statement, part question.

  Furious eyes snapped up to lock with his. “I need no help to command my army.”

  His brows furrowed. She lies, he told himself. No woman could have captured him without the help of a man. He straightened his shoulders against the feeling deep inside him that she spoke the truth. His eyes narrowed, trying to see the real woman, not the loveliness of her. But even as he squinted, her anger blazed across her brow, tightened her lips, and only enhanced her radiance. He cursed.

  Quickly, she bent down to pick up a flask from the ground. “You must be thirsty,” she murmured, her voice tight with hidden anger.

  Bryce did not reply. Was the flask filled with more poison?

  She approached him and he couldn’t help but notice the slight sway of her hips. She stopped just before him, holding the flask out. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, his eyes shifted up to hers. He saw the grin she wore. She knew. She knew he didn’t trust her.

  She took the flask, uncorked it, and brought it to her lips.

  Bryce watched her slender throat work as she drank the liquid. Then she stopped and handed it to him. The thought of his lips touching what had just moments before been pressed so intimately against hers kindled his anger and desire. He could have pulled her to him and kissed her with all the passion and frustration that was pummeling his body. Instead, he grabbed the flask and raised it to his lips, angrily drinking down the wine. The liquid flowed smoothly down his throat, some overflowing from his lips to wash down his neck. Somehow, as he drank, his anger receded. He had been thirsty. Very thirsty. When he lowered the flask to look at the Angel of Death, he realized that his thirst was quenched, but his hunger was still very much alive. He handed the flask back to her.

  She turned her back to him and bent down. Bryce’s gaze was fastened on her every move, the way the plate mail fit her tiny figure, the way her delicate hands picked up a loaf of bread. She straightened and turned to him.

  He eyed the bread warily. She broke the loaf in half and presented him with one part. Bryce frowned as he took the offered bread. “Have you no one else to attend me?”

  A smile touched her face, curving her lips, easing the tension and solemnity there. Bryce found his spirit lifting against his will.

  “Would you not do the same if I were your prisoner?” she asked.

  Aye, he thought. I would attend you. But in an entirely different manner. He took a bite of bread.

  She looked troubled for an instant and shifted her gaze away from him.

  He could not clear his mind. All he thought of was the way her white throat worked when she drank the wine. It was ridiculous. He could not believe that she, this small woman, led an entire French army, one that conquered his troops and captured him. Why, most women cowered before him. But not this one. “You are not frightened by me?” Bryce asked.

  She straightened and locked eyes with him. “A knight is never frightened.”

  He stepped closer to her and watched with amusement as that little chin rose in challenge. When he was towering over her, looking down into her deep blue eyes, he whispered, “But you are a woman, too.”

  Her eyes crackled with insolence. “I have never known fear.”

  “Perhaps you should learn,” he murmured, and ripped a piece of bread from the loaf with his teeth. A mocking grin curved his lips.

  “I suppose you have known enough fear that you could teach me,” she answered.

  “I have instilled enough fear that I can teach you.”

  “Teach away,” she replied with a slight shrug of her shoulders that sent a lock of her hair tumbling about her breastplate. “You will find that I am a most uncooperative subject.”

  Bryce caught the lock of hair with his fingertips and raised it, turning it this way and that, inspecting it. He was fascinated that it was so soft. Not at all what he’d expected of a warrior.

  “Is that your way?” she asked suddenly. “To intimidate?”

  Startled, Bryce raised his eyes to hers. “I did not know I was intimidating you.”

  She pushed his hand away from her hair. “You looked as though you were going to eat me up.”

  His grin was wolfish. “The idea is not unappealing.” She appeared startled and then furious, her cheeks turning a deep red. It only enhanced her already flushed cheeks and Bryce was somewhat dismayed to find that his passion flared again. Angry with himself, he reminded both the Angel and himself, “Even though you are French.”

  Her cheeks turned redder. He watched her full lips thin, her blue eyes spark.

  “And you find French women so unappealing?” she demanded.

  He shrugged, stating the truth. “Usually.”

  “I’ve heard to the contrary. You are said to take females in every town, be they French or English…or horse or sheep.”

  He grit his teeth. Her words were truly barbed. If his hands were not tied, she would not speak to so to him, the Prince of Darkness. “Untie me,” he ordered.

  “You treat all women like servants. Well, Lord Princeton, you have much to learn. And I will gladly teach you. For now you are my slave.”

  Bryce’s fury was boundless. If only he had another chance. If only he could escape. If only he hadn’t underestimated her!

  Suddenly, she was before him, grabbing his face with one hand, his chin in her palm, her fingers squeezing into his cheeks, pulling his chin down. Startled, he bent his head and she pressed her lips angrily, roughly, against his open mouth, stealing a kiss. Just as quickly, she shoved his chin away from her.

  Surprise washed over him like a warm rain. Every nerve in his body was tingling, demanding response.

  Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing, her eyes large with surprise. He stepped toward her.

  The Angel of Death retreated a step and he watched a cold wall close over her face before she turned her back to him.

  Fury crashed down around him. He silently cursed himself for his instant response to the feel of her lips on his, that uncontrollable rush of sheer pleasure that warmed his entire body. Again, he cursed. What was this game she was playing? Was that kiss the start of his lessons? He tightened his jaw. If it was, he had a few surprises in store for her.

  “Guard!” she cried out.

  Bryce stiffened as an armored man came running into the clearing, his eyes fastened accusingly on Bryce.

  “We ride. Return him to his horse.”

  Bryce opened his mouth to speak, but she was leaving the clearing. He slowly closed his lips and found that he was clenching his teeth. He looked down at his bound hands.

  The loaf of bread was crumbled into pieces, flaking and falling through his fingers to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  “We should stop for the night,” Lucien said from behind Ryen.

  Ryen’s mind refused to focus on his words. She watched the sun set beneath the horizon, smearing a trail of blood red across the sky. Somewhere inside of her, she knew Lucien was right, but she was worried, afraid of the dreams that night would bring…the dreams of hot lips and a dark face with eyes the color of shadow. He would be there in her fantasies, beckoning to her.

  Ryen urged her horse forward with a slight kick. Why did I do it? she wondered, staring down at her hands as they clutched the reins so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Why did I kiss him? Was it truly to show him his proper place as my prisoner? Even as she thought this, Ryen knew it was not true. She had wanted to feel his lips against hers from the very first moment she had seen him in the tent.

  Even now, she could not concentrate. He filled her mind, dominated her thoughts. She wanted to see him, to touch him. Ryen imagined being held in his strong arms, pictured how tenderly he would gaze at her, and then lower his lips to hers –

  She shook her head harshly, driving the thoughts from her mind. He is the enemy! she told herself. Even as she did so,
she reined in her horse, allowing Lucien to pass her, a scowl clearly creasing his brow. Andre was next, his gaze boring into hers with concern. Then, the rest of her knights filed by. They were weary from the long ride that was bringing them ever closer to De Bouriez Castle, and some grumbled as they rode by. Ryen paid them no attention. Her eyes were searching the middle of the column of men where the prisoners were guarded.

  She spotted him immediately. His tall form sat straight in the saddle. With the sun behind him, his bare shoulders glowed red. His hands were bound and his ankles were tied beneath the horse, but the guards still gave him a respectful distance.

  “You certainly don’t look like the Prince of Darkness I pictured,” Ryen heard one of the guards say as they drew closer to her.

  “They must give out titles to any beggar off the streets in England,” another mocked.

  “Where are your horns?”

  “Where is your legendary strength?”

  “If this is the best England has to offer, then we have nothing to worry about – isn’t that true, dog?”

  “Come on. Show us how strong England is,” one of the men goaded.

  Bryce’s head remained bent, his eyes lidded as if he were resting, but Ryen saw his shoulder muscles bunch and release, noticed the stiff set of his jaw. She knew if he were not bound he would have her men’s hearts in his hands.

  “He has no strength. Why, my woman could bring him to his knees.”

  “And she’d like it, too,” the second guard guffawed.

  The first guard clubbed the second with a clenched fist.

  “Do you think he understands us?” the third man wondered. “Maybe he speaks no French.”

  “He understands,” Ryen said, guiding her horse up beside Bryce’s. “Look at his eyes, see how they burn with hate. All the fires of hell are locked within his body.”

  “And they burn only for you, Angel,” Bryce said in English, his dark eyes swiveling toward her.

  Ryen felt herself being swept away by the heat of his gaze. Her heart began to pound, and flames of excitement burned up and down her spine, leaving her weak. She could not tear her gaze from his. As the horses moved, their thighs bumped, and even through the chain mail she wore, she could feel the strength in his legs. Ryen felt a tremor race through her body.

  “Have you come to torture me with kisses?” he wondered in a husky voice.

  Ryen could not take her gaze from his lips as they caressed each word. Remembering their kiss, she felt her own begin to tingle. Finally, Ryen looked away, licking her lips as she did so. Bryce’s soft chuckle reached her ears and she straightened her shoulders.

  “Apparently, your legend precedes you,” Ryen stated, quickly changing the subject. Bryce did not answer, and Ryen raised her eyes to his. She saw the frown of confusion that darkened his brow. “Many would meet you. And make you suffer for the sins of your king.”

  Bryce’s jaw tightened. “Sins I would gladly suffer for.”

  Ryen watched him, amazed at the regret she felt constricting her chest. They would throw him in the dungeon or have his head on the executioner’s block. Either way, Ryen wished…

  She had no right to wish anything where he was concerned! He’d murdered her people. He’d pillaged French towns. He had the most mysterious eyes…

  Ryen dropped her gaze again.

  “Perhaps the Angel of Death’s heart is not made of ice, as the stories say,” Bryce ventured.

  Ryen steeled herself against the emotions she felt stirring in her heart. “You are mistaken.”

  “Am I?” He chuckled softly.

  Ryen glanced at him. It was a mistake; she knew it immediately. He was staring at her, the corners of his lips curved up in a smile. Warm tingles shot up her spine; fire ignited in her lower stomach, warming her. She wanted to touch him. She felt an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through his mane of wild black hair and was shocked to find herself leaning in to do just that. She quickly straightened. She was shaking with the emotions he aroused in her. She had to escape the trembling that raced through her body. It wasn’t right! She spurred her horse and returned to where she belonged…the front of her army, wishing she could flee her emotions as easily as she had the Prince of Darkness.

  “You’re beautiful,” Bryce whispered in her ear, and nuzzled the soft nape of her neck. His strong hands stroked her back with a feathery touch before pulling her into a tight embrace. His warm lips traveled lightly up her neck, across her delicate jaw line, up to her mouth. His kiss was…

  Pretend. Ryen opened her eyes to lonely darkness. Her mattress felt cold beneath her. The sounds of the night drifted into her tent – chirping crickets, faint clanging as men saw to their weapons and armor, murmured words. She paid the familiar noises no attention.

  Her mind burned with the memory of the kiss. Guilt was but a shadow in her heart. In the darkness of her own tent she let her mind run free. It ran to Bryce. The Bryce of her fantasies, the man with the gentle touch, the soft words, and the tender smile.

  Ryen did not understand what it was about this man that dominated her, why she could not dismiss his body from her mind. She didn’t want to think of him, but the thoughts, the images, were so…pleasant.

  Suddenly, the tent flap swooshed open and she was pulled out of her reverie. Immediately, Ryen rolled to the side of her sleeping mat, her hand instinctively going for her sword.

  “Ryen,” a familiar voice called.

  “Andre,” she replied, and removed her hand from the hilt of her blade. She sat up as he moved to her bedside.

  “I sent two men ahead to announce our arrival at De Bouriez Castle,” Andre informed her.

  “Yes. Good,” Ryen responded, distracted. Her white linen nightdress rustled softly as she pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. “Father will be pleased to hear of your return.”

  He stood for a moment beside her mat. Even though she could see a sparkle of light from the chain mail he wore, she could not see his expression. She knew that he was trying to study her and was thankful for the cover of darkness, not wanting to reveal her traitorous thoughts about the prisoner, thoughts that only moments before had been dangerously blissful.

  “That’s not fair,” he said.

  Ryen lifted confused eyes to him.

  “Father will be pleased to see you also.”

  Ryen nodded dubiously. “Perhaps. After all, I have brought him the Prince of Darkness.”

  “Father has always been pleased to see you.”

  “He humors me. It is the two of you he sees as real knights.”

  “Ryen,” Andre’s voice was gentle. “All father ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

  “Father wanted me to be like Jeanne. Every time I return home with this grand army behind me, he asks if I have been to court, or what the current fashions are. As if I know, or care.”

  “Father wants what’s best for you.”

  “Father wants me to be a proper lady. He has never seen me as a soldier. I thought that once I became a knight he would regard me the way he does you and Lucien. But he hasn’t. Not once.”

  “This is why it was so important for you to capture the Prince of Darkness, wasn’t it? Just like when you had to take Burgh Castle.”

  “This time will be different,” she continued, ignoring Andre. “Father has to see that I, too, am a knight. I have captured the Prince of Darkness.” Her voice trailed off as the pride in her accomplishment warred with her disturbing feelings for her prisoner.

  Andre knelt before her. “Ryen?” His voice was concerned.

  Ryen did not respond. She could not. There should have been joy at the prospect of bringing the Prince of Darkness to kneel before her father. But suddenly all she felt was apprehension and a sense of impending disaster. She folded her hands nervously in her lap.

  Andre was so still that she couldn’t hear his armor rustle as he breathed.

  Ryen did not like the feel of his constant, intense gaze. She stood, brushing past
him. She put her hands in her hair, running her fingers through her locks, a tormented tigress. “Do you want the truth? Oh, Lord. Sometimes I fear I’m losing my mind! I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. I don’t know what it is that holds me captive so, but I feel like I’m the prisoner, not him!”

  “You needn’t worry about your feelings. When we reach De Bouriez Castle, Father will imprison him,” Andre stated.

  “No one shall lay a hand on him except for me,” Ryen said, determination furrowing her brow. Just as quickly as the words were out, surprise raced through her. It had been second nature to protect Bryce!

  “Then do it,” Andre said.

  Ryen turned to him, scowling in confusion. She paused for a moment, trying to see his face through the darkness, but could not. “I-I don’t understand. Do what?”

  “Take him as your lover.”

  “What?” Ryen exploded. “He is our enemy!”

  “He is a man.”

  “I would not think of betraying our country by lying with the Prince of Darkness!”

  “One night of passion does not constitute betrayal.”

  “I will not do that!”

  Andre stood, his form towering over her like that of some ancient god giving judgment. “Get him out of your mind. He is fogging your ability to judge.”

  To lie with the Prince of Darkness…the thought horrified her. Yet, there was a tightening of her stomach, a tingle of excitement, as she thought of his lips on hers, his hands touching her bare skin. Andre’s words sent ripples of turmoil rolling through her body like a rock shattering the tranquility of a still pond.

  “I only give you the same advice I would any other warrior,” Andre said. “If we come up against the English, I am afraid in your present state of mind you would be a poor leader as well as an easy target.” Andre turned and started for the exit.

  “Andre,” Ryen called softly. “The men take women prisoners so easily?”

  Andre smiled. “Not under your command, but in other armies, yes. Your men take willing townswomen. It usually serves the same purpose.”

  “And you think Bryce will be willing?” she wondered, trying to suppress the shiver of excitement that raked her body.