She wanted with all her heart to stay with him.
But honor would not allow it. Her accursed loyalty to France, to a country that had scorned and labeled her traitor, would not allow it.
And yet even if she put honor and loyalty aside, could she live in the same castle as Bryce, knowing he only felt –
“Fond,” she whispered. “I couldn’t, Polly. I just couldn’t stand it.”
Polly’s face saddened and she stepped away from the bed, her hands at her sides. “Talbot is waitin’ for ya outside. We’d best hurry.”
Polly helped her into a simple black velvet gown and combed her hair in silence. When she finally stepped back, Ryen clasped her hands together and rose. She led the way to the door, and when she opened it, she saw Talbot standing in the hallway. He turned when she stepped outside the room. He stared hard at her, until she had to drop her eyes to keep him from seeing the agony that tortured her.
Wordlessly, Talbot escorted them to the Great Hall.
The meal was served and Ryen watched blandly from her seat with the peasants as the soldiers attacked the food like barbarians.
Ryen’s eyes were again drawn to Bryce’s empty chair. Sadness creased her forehead and drooped her shoulders. When Ryen turned back to the trencher before her, she hardly noticed how strangely quiet her table was as the peasants cast pensive stares her way. She picked at the bread, tearing off small pieces and nibbling on them.
Suddenly Ryen heard a grunt and a hollow thud. She glanced up to see McFinley standing over an empty chair, reaching for a bowl. A woman was on the floor, scrambling away from him.
McFinley inspected her bowl, then tossed it aside and grabbed more bowls and cups and tossed them to the floor. Peasants cleared the table, running for cover, and Ryen leapt to her feet.
“Stop it!” she screamed, grabbing his arm. His fist came around to smash into her cheek. The blow was strong enough to knock her to the ground. Stars of pain blinded her. When the white blotches faded enough for Ryen to see, the man was grabbing the edge of the table and lifting it, flinging it onto its side. Trenchers, food, and mugs all fell, clattering into a heap on the floor. Ryen watched helplessly, slowly pushing herself up onto one elbow, as all her work, all her effort, was destroyed.
Then, suddenly, McFinley whirled on her. His eyes were wild with rage.
Ryen lay sprawled on the floor, her cheek stinging. She watched as he took a step forward, his face filled with loathing, his eyes burning with hate as they glared at her.
Bryce was gone and somehow Ryen could not muster the strength to defend herself. She lowered her head to the floor.
“Ya ain’t gonna hurt ‘er,” a small voice proclaimed bravely.
Ryen forced herself to sit and saw Jimmy standing before her, his arms akimbo, as he faced the brute.
McFinley’s gaze, as well as his anger, focused on the boy.
Ryen shot to her feet, pulling Jimmy against her to protect him.
McFinley snarled, his lips curling, and took a step toward them.
Ryen’s heart raced. If it were just her…but Jimmy. She couldn’t allow him to be hurt because he was brave enough to defend her. She pushed Jimmy behind her.
Talbot appeared between them. “That’s enough, McFinley.”
“Out of my way, Talbot,” McFinley growled.
“You need a rest, man. Go down to the yards and work it off.”
McFinley stepped forward.
The hiss of metal against metal sounded in the suddenly quiet room as Talbot drew his sword and pointed it at McFinley’s chest. “I think you’ve been drinking much too early this morn. Go to the yards – now.”
McFinley’s eyes shifted to Talbot, and for a moment, the anger receded. Then, his gaze snapped back to Ryen and hate slammed down like a hammer.
He stepped back and reached to his waist to draw his own sword.
“Don’t do this, McFinley. My word is law while Prince is gone,” Talbot warned.
“Stand aside,” McFinley said, his red eyes trained on Ryen. “I only want to teach her a lesson.”
The tip of Talbot’s sword lowered a hand’s breadth and Ryen stared in disbelief. He was going to let McFinley ‘teach her a lesson’!
Then Talbot’s jaw stiffened and he raised his weapon again.
McFinley moved swiftly, pulling his sword and arcing it down in a sweeping motion. Talbot deflected the blow with a slicing movement and the sound of swords clanging echoed in the hall.
As the men exchanged blows, Ryen’s expert eye caught flaws in McFinley’s techniques: his eyes gave away the direction of his thrust and he hesitated a split second before acting. But Talbot was faltering under McFinley’s relentless attacks. She knew Talbot would not last much longer. He was not left-handed and his right arm was useless, forever damaged by his dangerous leap from her window. Ryen moved Jimmy to the safety of his mother’s arms, her eyes scanning the room.
McFinley attacked with unswerving steadiness. He rained blow upon blow down about Talbot, who was wilting under his barrage. McFinley arced his sword and then quickly thrust. Talbot blocked and jumped back, but his foot caught on a fallen bench and he went down. His sword flew from his grasp and skittered across the floor as he crashed to his back.
McFinley stared down at his prone victim for a moment, his face void of any emotion. Then, with a grimace, he howled, raised his sword, and drove the sharp tip down toward Talbot’s chest.
Before the deadly aim struck flesh, McFinley’s arms were jarred as a sword struck his and his blow missed its target entirely. His blade struck the stone floor. Talbot rolled away, and rising to his feet, turned to see who had saved his life.
Ryen stood tall before him, gripping his sword with two hands, its tip pointing directly at McFinley’s chest.
McFinley slowly circled to her left, away from Talbot, his eyes narrowed in contempt, his lips curled with hatred. “I have a debt to settle with you,” McFinley snarled.
Ryen felt unsure, but she tried to hide the feeling deep in her chest. It was not easy. The sword felt awkward, and her dress inhibited her steps. She knew she would somehow have to get rid of the dress or die. Her heart pounded as she saw his eyes shift to the left.
Ryen raised the sword and blocked the blow. Then he swung again and again. The impact of each parry jarred her arms. But confidence and familiarity began to creep through her body with each crossing of the swords. The old feeling of power came back to her with each clang of metal. This was who she was, what she did best.
He swung again and thrust. Again Ryen diverted the blows. She grew comfortable with Talbot’s sword, but in order to defeat McFinley, she knew she had to get her legs free.
She allowed him to drive her back to the fallen table with each blow. She was defending herself and not attacking. McFinley became cocky, playing with her as though she were a squire. Let him underestimate me, Ryen thought with a smirk. Ryen kicked an overturned stool at him and he stumbled, falling heavily to the floor.
Instead of attacking, Ryen fled her foe, running for cover. As she ran, she slashed the heavy sword at her black dress, cutting the velvet material just above her knees. She ripped it as she ran and, pausing behind a fallen chair, tore the rest of her gown from her legs. As she tugged the black velvet off, Ryen lifted her eyes to find McFinley climbing to his feet. She grinned as she stepped from the tatters of velvet.
Free at last, the Angel of Death straightened to greet McFinley as he charged at her. He skidded to a halt just before the chair and eyed the confident grin, the new glint in her eyes. This was not the woman he had faced a moment ago.
Ryen saw a frown of apprehension slide over his features and she leapt to the top of the chair. As it fell flat, she rode it to the floor, bringing the sword up. She attacked him, giving in to the longing in her heart for a sword fight.
Under her blows, McFinley was forced backward until they had moved across the room, near Bryce’s chair.
Finally, McFinley responded with his ow
n set of thrusts and arcs. But Ryen read his moves in his eyes, anticipating his swing. Ryen allowed him to attack, saving her strength until McFinley was panting from exertion of the onslaught. She raised an eyebrow at him and a grin lit her face. “Is that the best you’ve got?” she wondered.
A growl of rage issued from deep in his throat and he assaulted her with a flurry of thrusts until he could barely hold the sword up.
“Dance until your feet burn, all night long,” Ryen sang, bring the sword around to her right, attacking his left flank.
McFinley blocked her blow.
“Seven and twenty maidens singing a song.” She arced the sword to his left.
He parried.
“When the song was finished the maidens said…” Arc right.
McFinley blocked her sweep.
“Your sword will be a lovely gift to set before the prince.” Ryen thrust, catching his sword, and twisted her wrist, jarring the weapon loose from McFinley’s hold. It sailed through the air and landed with a clang against the far wall.
Ryen raised her sword to McFinley’s neck. A smile of triumph lit her face.
“I yield,” he said, his voice rising so that all could hear him.
“You cur,” Ryen snapped, every bit of humor disappearing. “Don’t ever attack helpless people again. Do you understand? If you do, you will answer to me.” She pressed the point of the sword against his skin.
“I yield!” he shouted.
A moment stretched in the silent hall as Ryen relished the return of the Angel of Death. She felt her heart pounding and the battle lust coursing through her veins, the familiar feeling of victory as McFinley stood defenseless against the point of her weapon.
“Give me the sword.”
She raised her eyes at the words and saw Talbot standing next to her. Suddenly, she heard the quiet that had settled around her. Her gaze swept the room. Nobody was moving. Nobody even seemed to be breathing. Every eye was locked upon her, fearful yet curious. On the faces of the knights Ryen saw unabashed disbelief – disbelief and caution. She straightened.
Wary distrust was thick around her and Ryen suddenly understood the anxiety. She had a weapon. Did they really believe she would try to fight her way out? Against immeasurable odds? The Angel of Death was not that stupid.
She had worked her legend well.
Ryen flipped the sword up and gently caught the blade in her open palm. “It’s a little unbalanced,” she commented, offering the weapon to Talbot.
He carefully took it from the Angel of Death’s hands. “I know.” His face was grim as his eyes met hers.
“M’lord!” A young boy ran up to Talbot. He was out of breath as he reached his lord’s side. “M’lord,” he repeated when Talbot glanced at him, “the Frenchman has arrived!”
Chapter Thirty Seven
Ryen sat staring down into her lap where her folded hands twisted. She had changed from her torn dress into the beautiful blue gown Polly had brought her – the one with the lowest neckline she could find – hoping that at the sight of her Bryce would proclaim his love and take her into his arms. Or at least, find some reason for her to stay with him. But he could not do that if he never returned to the castle.
Ryen had kept watch all day, staring at the gate from the window of her room, willing his return. But as the sun crept over the horizon and there was no sign of him, Ryen’s hopes dwindled like a rose withering from a lack of sunshine.
Why would he care? His ransom was paid. He had his gold.
Slut. His words came back to haunt her. I already have two whores and I have no intention of keeping another. So, she was being turned out. Still, what of the rage she saw in his eyes, the hurt, when he had questioned her about Count Dumas? Ryen’s shoulders slumped at the thought of her fiancé. Why would he pay her ransom? What did he want of her?
Suddenly, the door opened behind her and Ryen came half out of her seat in her anxiousness.
When Polly entered the room, Ryen’s wishes and prayers were once again smashed. She plummeted back into her seat, turning her gaze back to her hands, which lay limply in her lap. Ryen listened to the rustling of Polly’s cotton smock as she came closer.
“Lady Ryen,” Polly said, her voice calm, “the messenger awaits to escort you to your Lord Dumas.”
Ryen felt despair overwhelm her. My Lord Dumas, her mind repeated.
“Lady Ryen?”
Ryen did not raise her eyes as she asked, “Has he returned?”
“No, Lady,” Polly replied quietly.
All hope disappeared with the setting sun. Tears glistened in Ryen’s eyes like dew. Good life, Bryce, she bade him in her mind, and stood. Without lifting her gaze, she moved past Polly. Together they headed out the door. She fought the urge to look one last time at the room, for although she wanted to, she did not think she could bear the memories. So close to him, yet so far…
She followed Polly through the hallway and down the stairway. Ryen knew she should try to escape, to stop this. Perhaps if she told Talbot the rumors of Count Dumas’s cruelty…but why would he care? Why would they care? All she was to them was a bag or two of gold.
They stepped into the hallway before the great wooden doors that led to the outside of the castle. The anteroom was large, almost as big as her room at De Bouriez Castle.
Two men stood near the doorway. One she recognized as Talbot, the other she had never seen before and could only assume was Count Dumas’s emissary. He was an older man, his dark hair graying at the temples. He was dressed in a black tunic and leggings and a black cape. A dingy bag lay at Talbot’s feet, and Ryen was sure it was the ransom. One bag of gold.
They turned to her in unison and Ryen visibly shivered at the coldness in the stranger’s eyes. The repulsion she felt rising inside her threatened to crash down over her like a tidal wave and send her screaming, fleeing for help. But she was a De Bouriez. She was the Angel of Death. She would not cower from this man, nor Count Dumas himself. She lifted her chin and approached the stranger.
Talbot stood between her and the man as she approached. Ryen read the confusion in his eyes, the indecision. His dark brows drew down before he lowered his head and stepped aside.
Ryen’s eyes came to rest on the man. He was thin and as tall as a small oak. She raised her eyes to his and saw his gaze traveling slowly over her body. His thin lips turned up in a grin and it sent shivers down her spine. When he reached out and took her arm into his hold, his finger brazenly caressed her skin.
Ryen blanched at him, pulling her arm free. His chuckle sounded like the breaking of glass in the quiet hallway.
He reached out and seized her arm again.
Suddenly the door flew open and a gust of wind swirled about their feet, rustling Ryen’s gown.
Bryce stood there in the open door, a shadow against the darker night. His dark eyes were bright with rage as he took in the scene before him. Clenching his fists, he stalked to Talbot’s side in two strides, bending for the bag.
The gold, Ryen thought in agony.
Suddenly, Bryce whirled, hurtling the bag at the emissary. “Take your gold and get out.”
The bag hit the man in the stomach and he stepped back. It fell to the floor and gold coins rolled out, glittering in the torchlight as they skittered across the stones. “But…” the man said.
Bryce stepped forward, his teeth clenched, his body rigid. “She is mine!” Bryce roared. He moved to Ryen in two strides, grabbed her waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder.
Ryen was breathless as Bryce took the stairs two at a time, jogging her with each step. His strong shoulder dug into her stomach as he raced down the hall. He kicked open the door and proceeded into his room.
“Bryce, stop,” Ryen begged, feeling her stomach churn. No sooner had she said the words than she was unceremoniously dumped on the bed.
Ryen tried to right herself, fighting down the layers of velvet and silk of her dress to see Bryce moving toward her, across the bed. He grabbed her arms bef
ore she could move and snarled, “You have bewitched me, woman. Your image haunts me wherever I go. I cannot sleep without growing stiff from wanting you.”
Ryen gazed at him for a long moment. His anguished eyes bore into her soul, searing his want and need there. “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen gasped and raised her hands, gently placing them on either side of his cheeks. She touched every spot on his face, his strong chin gruff with stubble, his cheeks, his nose, and brushed the dark hair from his forehead. Her heart pounded with passion as she stroked his face with soft caresses.
His hands moved down her arms to her waist and he pulled her closer to him until their bodies were barely touching. “Did he have you?” Bryce asked, torment edging his voice.
Ryen’s eyes moved to his lips, strangely hypnotized by their movement. “No,” she gasped, unable to lie, even to formulate coherent thoughts. “I – I never met him.” The physical need to feel his lips on hers overwhelmed her. She swallowed hard, hoping he would kiss her. His hand came up and slowly brushed her cheeks. Her skin burned where he touched her, starting a trail of fire as he traced the outline of her bow lips, then her chin, and then moved down her smooth throat.
Ryen couldn’t suppress a groan as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, baring her throat to the wolf. What was happening to her? she wondered. A feeling of growing hunger claimed her.
Bryce bent his lips to her throat, tasting her creamy skin. He pulled her closer with one hand and gently stroked her hip through the velvety material with the other.
Ryen encircled his neck with her arms, pressing him closer as his passionate nibbling slid down her exposed skin to the low neckline. She felt his tongue brush over one sensitive mound before his hand was teasing her breast, cupping and squeezing it until it was free of the garment. Ryen lost touch with reality. Her whole world was filled with Bryce and the way he touched her.
The Angel And The Prince Page 32
