The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Kit plunged her hand into the porridge and Ryen blanched.

  “Kit,” Polly chastised, and when Kit glanced up, a smear of pudding on her nose, Polly scowled at her and shook her head. Polly lifted a trencher and delicately sank the bread into the pudding.

  Kit raised her own trencher and stared at it for a moment. “Gaw,” she said, before immersing it in the food.

  Ryen grinned in pride and was about to put her trencher into the pudding when she felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked down to see Jimmy standing beside her. He licked his lower lip as he stared at her food.

  Ryen smiled and pointed to the bowl next to Polly. She watched as the boy ran to the seat and ate to his heart’s, and stomach’s, content.

  And the people came. There were more peasants at the noon meal, and still more at dinner. The food was good. There was hot, fresh bread with each meal. As it turned out, it was Polly who was an expert in the kitchen, having been the eldest of twelve children.

  Two days later, they needed another table.

  Bryce sat slumped before the hearth, having failed to drown his lust in the mugs of wine and ale he had drunk through dinner and into the night. Now, as he stared into the fire, a mug of ale held loosely in his hands, he saw only her blue eyes in those dancing flames.

  “You can’t allow it to continue,” McFinley cried. “She’ll turn your people against you.” The redheaded knight glowered at his lord. When Bryce did not reply, he added, “I hear murmurings from the servants of how she’s not such a bad angel.”

  “You cuffed one of them yesterday for saying something like that,” another knight called.

  “And I’d cuff another if they said it again,” McFinley snapped, pounding his thigh with his fist. “She is the Angel of Death! How much worse can she be? Poisoning the servants’ minds, little as they may be.”

  Bryce downed the rest of his ale, tilting the mug until the bottom was raised. Then he lowered his cup and continued to gaze into the fire.

  “Did you hear me, Prince?” When Bryce did not reply, McFinley dismissed him with a wave. “Aw, you sit there like a wart on the king’s ass.”

  “I heard you,” Bryce grumbled.

  McFinley paled. The last man who had insulted Bryce was at the end of his sword the following day.

  “I just think you’re wrong,” Bryce said quietly.

  McFinley quickly departed and Bryce noticed that the seats around him had vacated. He bent his head to stare into his empty mug. She was wreaking havoc in his home, his castle…among his people. She was turning the peasants against him, or so McFinley claimed. But though he had seen her befriend many of the servants, had seen her treat them well, never had any of them shown any rebellion against him or England.

  So, what was he to do? The only difference he’d seen was in his men. They were angry because they feared her influence on him and his people. They thought the Angel of Death would somehow overrun the castle.

  That was impossible. What could she do with no weapons against a stronghold? But…he had underestimated her before. Was she truly turning his peasants against him?

  “You seem to have frightened off your men,” a voice stated.

  Without looking up, Bryce knew it was Grey. He heard the seat beside him creak as Grey fell into it. “May I offer some advice?”

  “No,” Bryce replied.

  Grey chuckled. “Your mood is foul, my brother. But I will give it to you anyway.”

  Bryce grunted. He knew that Grey would speak his mind, regardless of what he said. Grey was one of the few men Bryce respected as an equal. He was the only man he could never seem to defeat in battle, and who had never defeated him.

  “You are very stubborn,” Grey said. “Your Angel is a rare woman. She is smart, educated, be that good or bad, and beautiful. She can win the hearts of her enemy with just a look. And on top of all this, she is a warrior.”

  “And?” Bryce demanded sharply.

  Grey leaned forward so his arms were resting on his knees. His face was less than a hand’s breadth away from Bryce’s ear. “I see how she looks at you,” Grey stated quietly. “The way her eyes follow you when you cross the room.”

  “She is my enemy,” Bryce snapped.

  “Oh, no, my brother. She is just the opposite.”

  Bryce turned to look into his wise eyes. There was confusion etched into the wrinkling of Bryce’s brows, disbelief in the scowling of his eyes.

  “Forget the ransom. Make her yours,” Grey advised earnestly.

  “I can’t do that,” Bryce retorted angrily, returning his gaze to the fire. “How honorable would it be were I to bed her before the messenger arrived from France?”

  Grey studied him silently for a long moment. “Why do you make excuses? You are in love with her.”

  “No,” Bryce answered firmly. “I want her, yes. But I do not love her.”

  Grey sadly shook his head. “You are a stubborn man, Bryce Princeton. Answer me this. What does honor dictate you do when the ransom is denied?”

  “She will be mine. I will do with her as I wish.”

  “You will bed her and then perhaps throw her in the dungeon?”

  The image of Ryen chained in the dark, cold dungeon with murderers and traitors roused his fury. “That is not your concern,” Bryce ground out between clenched teeth.

  “And have you considered if her king agrees to pay the ransom?”

  “That is impossible.”

  Grey chuckled quietly. He was about to speak when he caught sight of Talbot entering the Great Hall and crossing the large room toward them. Talbot stared at Bryce for a long moment before he announced, “The French messenger has arrived.”

  The day had finally come. Ryen would be his.

  Bryce Princeton stood on a battlement of his castle walk, looking out over the town, past the harvested fields to the horizon. He found his heart soaring. He wanted to give Ryen everything. To make her happy. And he would finally be free to do this.

  He stared at the rising sun in satisfaction. For the first time in his life he knew the course of the future…and liked it.

  He turned from the scene before him and descended the stairs. He opened a wooden door and entered the castle.

  It was silent inside, quieter than the dawn before a battle. The receiving room was being prepared for greeting the French emissary. Four large pillars lined the empty room near the center aisle, looking more like four massive giants overseeing the justice that was rendered within. A large red velvet chair was being positioned against one of the walls…his favorite chair. The judgment chair.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

  Bryce turned to find Ryen’s maid friend wringing her hands before him. Polly was her name, he remembered. His gaze finally came to rest on her hands, which were nervously twisting in her apron. None of the servants had ever spoken to him, nor he to them. He found that his presence intimidated them, and he could not abide their shivering and shaking. He looked back at the chair. “What is it?”

  “I was wonderin’, sir. What might ya be doing ta the Lady Ryen when no ransom comes for her?”

  Bryce’s gaze snapped to her, his brows furrowed. “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Yes, sir. But she is only a slip of a girl, and ya just can’t be throwin’ her into the dungeons now.”

  Bryce’s look clouded over like an approaching storm.

  But Polly was not interested in his frowns. “Sir, it jus’ wouldn’t be Christian –”

  Bryce grunted. He did not believe in God. He believed man made his own opportunities. But he had never voiced his opinion. The church wielded almost as much power as the king himself. He could not afford to be in disfavor with either of them.

  “She’s a good girl, sir. She don’t deserve ta be locked up like a common thief.”

  “Your opinion is noted. Not that you should have one.”

  Polly bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, m’lord.”

  Bryce watched her waddle away. What had
Ryen done to his servants? Since when did Polly exchange two words with him, let alone have the courage to speak her mind? Bryce shrugged his large shoulders. It was inconsequential. His mind drifted back to Ryen. What would her face look like when she found out that her king would not meet his demands for a ransom? Would she throw herself to her knees and beg for his mercy?

  His lips turned up into a grin. Not his Angel. She would raised that defiant little chin and demand to know what he intended to do with her.

  “Will you break your fast?” Talbot wondered, entering the room.

  Bryce sat in his chair, his eyes coming to rest on his friend. “Not until she is mine. Show the messenger in.”

  Minutes later, the room was overflowing with the curious. Servants hid outside the door, hoping to hear what the French king would do. Some of Bryce’s men lined the room while his officers placed themselves behind their lord. The Wolf Pack, as usual, lounged in the shadows that the morning sun created behind the pillars.

  The messenger stood alone in the middle of the room.

  Bryce eyed him. The man was thin and short, certainly not an imposing figure to face the Prince of Darkness. Bryce’s spirits soared. He glanced at Talbot, who stood beside him. Talbot appeared cautious, his brows drawn together. Before Bryce had time to dwell on this, the messenger produced a scroll from his tunic. He unfurled it and spoke in broken English. “The royal King of France, his mighty lord, bids the English lord, the Prince of Darkness, to release his most valued –”

  “Get on with it,” Bryce growled. “Will he pay the ransom or no?”

  The messenger straightened with indignation. Dark eyes focused on Bryce as shaking hands rerolled the scroll and returned it to his pocket. “The King of France will not pay your ransom.”

  Murmurs broke throughout the room as the word spread.

  Bryce broke into a smile. He stood, slapping Talbot happily on the back. She was his. Ryen De Bouriez would yield to his terms now. He had never felt so relieved. Bryce turned to go to Ryen, to tell her of her king’s judgment.

  “Count Dumas will,” the messenger said.

  The words froze Bryce where he stood. Silence sliced the room like a blade as all eyes shifted to Bryce.

  Slowly, he turned a deadly gaze to the messenger. “What did you say?”

  There was a cocky glint in the messenger’s eye as he answered, “Ryen De Bouriez’s fiancé, Count Dumas, will pay your ransom demand.”

  Rage crept over Bryce’s face slowly, erasing all traces of his previous joy. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed before he turned and stormed from the receiving room.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  The door slammed open and Ryen jumped away from the window. She whirled to find Bryce approaching like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. Before she could move to shelter, his hands slammed down around her arms, buffeting her with the force of a gale wind. His white teeth gnashed as he growled, “Do you love him?”

  Ryen’s mouth dropped open.

  “You do, don’t you? Why? Why him? Did he love you, Angel?” Bryce crushed her brutally against his chest; his mouth closed over hers, savagely bruising her lips.

  Ryen turned her face away long enough to murmur, “Stop it. Please,” before his lips silenced her pleas.

  Bryce tore his lips away from her and cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Did he touch you, Angel? Like this?” His palm closed over her breast, twisting and teasing.

  “Bryce!” Ryen cried. “Stop it! Stop it!” She tried to push his hand away, but it was like rock, unmovable.

  “What’s wrong? Is my touch not as gentle as your lover’s?” He shoved her away, hard, and Ryen’s back slammed into the wall.

  Bryce’s face was twisted with anger, and something else, as he glared at her.

  “W-what are you saying?”

  “Your ransom will be paid. Your lover, Count Dumas, is paying for you.”

  Count Dumas? Ryen’s mind screamed. “No,” she gasped.

  Bryce’s eyes hardened. “No? You think your pretty thighs are not worth the amount I have requested? You’re wrong, Angel. I would pay the devil himself to have you again.”

  His admission stunned her and she stood still before him, dumbfounded. He wants me, she thought, and although she heard the words in her head, it was a moment before they sank in. He wanted her with a hunger that drove him to this madness. She had never seen such…rage in a man’s eyes, except in battle.

  Bryce watched the play of emotions on her face. “Tell me of him,” he commanded.

  She stared up at him unable to speak, unable to say anything. His cold words chilled her blood, froze her heart.

  “Come, come, Angel. Tell me if he is old or young. Tell me what color hair he has, how his eyes look. Tell me how his kisses affect you. Does he make you wet with desire?”

  “What would you have me say?” she wondered quietly, hurt and embarrassed.

  “Tell me! Damn you to hell, Angel! Tell me he made love to you. Tell me so that I can strangle that flawless white neck of yours!”

  Her face paled and her eyes looked huge, the blue of a hauntingly clear sky. He turned away and stalked to the nightstand, where he stood for an unending moment, his long fingers grasping the side of the table. His black hair hung over his face, obscuring his profile from her vision.

  Ryen watched his shoulder muscles bunch and release beneath a coat of anger. Suddenly, Bryce exploded, swiping a basin off the table. It shattered as it struck the floor, a hundred fragments spinning away in every direction.

  “Bryce,” Ryen said, softly. “Count Dumas is my fiancé, but –”

  “Your admission comes a little late,” Bryce snarled, turning. “I should have left you for dead.”

  Ryen’s eyes filled with tears of humiliation before she turned her back on him.

  Her tears pierced the blanket of rage that coated Bryce like a knife slicing silk. For a brief moment, he almost reached out to her. But he could not stop the image of his Angel in the arms of another man from snaking its way into his mind. He steeled what remained of his heart.

  His obligation to king and country was complete with the paid ransom. If losing her was the taste of duty, he wanted nothing to do with its bitter flavor. The little tart’s ransom was paid. What could he do?

  Bryce backed away from her. “Prepare yourself. You will be returned within the week.”

  Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his sensual mouth turned up in a devilish grin. The scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over her left ankle. The wind ruffled his glossy hair as his ebony eyes caressed her skin, their gaze sweeping slowly over her breasts, hips, legs. Then they shifted, rising to hers. She saw the whispered words reflected in those eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful.

  Ryen tossed on the great bed. Tears streamed from her closed eyes. Groans escaped her lips.

  Beautiful.

  “M’lady!” Polly cried, entering the room with a tray. She rushed to the bed, placing the platter on the table. Polly grabbed Ryen’s shoulders, shouting, “M’lady! Wake up. You’re dreamin’!”

  Ryen’s eyes snapped open. She looked frantically around the room for a moment, her eyes mirroring her fright and confusion.

  “It’s all right,” Polly soothed, her worried expression relaxing, as Ryen’s look calmed. Polly shook her head, offering Ryen a towel. “Another dream.”

  Ryen turned from her, embarrassed by her weakness. She wiped her cheeks with the cloth. She could not remember the end of the dream. She knew there was more, that it was painful, but she couldn’t recall it.

  “It’s all right, m’lady. My mother told me once that tears weren’t nothin’ to hide. They are the heart’s soul.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Ryen mumbled into the towel.

  “Beg yer pardon?”
r />   “Don’t call me ‘m’lady’.”

  Polly gazed hard at her. “’N what should I call ya?”

  “Ryen,” she answered. When the quiet stretched, Ryen turned to Polly. The older woman was staring at her with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes.

  “I can’t call you that,” Polly finally said, shaking her head and looking away.

  “I’m not your lady, Polly,” Ryen said quietly, a hint of remorse in her tone. “I’m leaving the castle in a few days.”

  Polly nodded, kneading her apron. “Can’t say that I’m pleased meself.”

  “Some will be very happy. Talbot –”

  “Aw, but Sir Talbot has a good heart.” Polly turned to the tray and poured Ryen some ale. “He just don’t know ya, is all.”

  “Lotte.”

  Polly frowned and shook her head as if the name itself was painful to her ears. “That one is bad blood.” She handed Ryen the cup. “If there’s anything ta be glad about, it’s that yer getting’ away from her.”

  Ryen looked down into the dark liquid. “Bryce.”

  “Now, yer wrong about that,” Polly insisted. “His lordship may be stubborn, but he is very fond of you.”

  “Fond,” Ryen repeated dully.

  “Aye. He wants ya to stay. Don’t ya see how miserable ‘e is?”

  Ryen shook her head and waves of soft hair swayed over her shoulders. “I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “He’s left the castle.”

  Ryen raised her eyes to look at Polly.

  “Some sheep raiders…or somethin’.”

  “Oh.” Ryen’s shoulders slumped. Life here was so much better than life would be if she married that old hermit. She had been harboring the hope that somehow Bryce would find a way for her to remain. So she could…could what? Be Bryce’s whore?

  “Ya do want ta stay, don’t ya?” Polly wondered.

  Ryen turned to gaze out the window at the rising sun. Bryce’s image, powerful and dark, rose before her mind’s eye. To be with Bryce; it was everything she wanted. Every time he came close to her, she melted. She wanted to touch him, to feel the power she knew was coursing just below his bronze skin. But every time he looked at her, every time he touched her, she felt anger…and something else. Beneath his anger she sensed something…something more powerful, yet something he hid very carefully, even from himself. She wanted time to find out just what it was he guarded so closely.