The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Ryen stepped outside into the sun. Warmth washed over her entire body and she turned her face up toward the origin of the heat. She inhaled the fresh air, then stepped forward. As she did, she slipped in the mud and almost fell, but regained her balance. She carefully picked up her skirts to avoid the puddles. She walked around the inner ward, past the kitchens. As she approached what looked like a small alleyway between the kitchen and a building that she guessed was the barracks, a voice from the shadows called to her.

  “M’lady?”

  Ryen paused, shivers of alarm creeping up her spine. She peered into the shadows, trying to discern the man’s outline. Vignon stepped into the light.

  She felt every nerve in her body tense. What did he want?

  He immediately stepped back into the darkness and she followed him into the alleyway. “What are you doing here, Vignon?” she demanded in a whisper.

  “Call me Jonathan Wells,” he murmured. “I am here on the command of King Charles.”

  Ryen was speechless. His words held no trace of a French accent. He even had an English inflection. Tingles shot up her spine. He spoke the language flawlessly…as if he’d been born here. She thought back to her first meal, when she had sat opposite him. He had fought for his food with a vengeance. He fit in perfectly. Almost too perfectly. She did not trust him.

  “We cannot be seen together.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  His gaze darted about the walls. “We cannot speak here. I will contact you,” he said. “But remember, I am Jonathan Wells.” Suddenly, his head tilted and he stood absolutely still.

  Then Ryen heard it. Whistling. She turned to gaze in the direction the sound had come from. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she turned back to him, Vignon was gone.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Birds sang happily, their cheerful song filling the morning sky as they flew from tree to tree in their constant search for food. In the distance, the low rumble of surging water echoed through the forest. The air was heavy with dampness. Bryce noticed none of it as he stared straight ahead into the greenery before him. He was sitting with his back to a large tree that rose majestically to the sky. His knees were bent and his wrists rested on them, hands drooping over his legs like the tree’s large branches.

  Again and again his mind returned to Ryen and her large, trusting eyes, her soft, pliable lips, her womanly body. It was hard as well as painful to imagine her as a warrior, because that was where his trouble lay. He had seen the death and destruction she could cause…had caused. Had she changed? Did he really want her to?

  He recalled their lovemaking of the night before. He had never experienced such exquisite passion. She had matched him thrust for thrust, never tiring. Just the thought of it was enough to send a surge of lust pounding through his veins that was so powerful it threatened to overcome his sensibilities.

  And yet his knights treated her roughly, badly. The thought of McFinley striking her, causing a flaw to her skin, causing her pain, brought a sudden and swift anger that had not faded during all these hours. He wanted Ryen with him at Dark Castle. But was that asking too much of her? Would he be willing to give up his home, his lands, his country and king to be at Ryen’s side, as he was asking her to do?

  He bowed his head, raking his hand through his ebony hair. Yes, he thought. I would be willing to go to France to be with her. God help me, but I would give up everything for her. Will she do the same for me?

  She already has. She has been labeled “traitor” by her people because of me. What does she have in France to go back to?

  A fiancé. The thought of another man kissing her lips, touching her face, enraged him. I have nothing to fear, he told himself. For whatever reasons, she has chosen my bed rather than return to France and her fiancé’s arms.

  And now, she was not the problem; it was his soldiers, who looked at her and saw the Angel of Death when there was a passionate woman capable of showing them kindness and tolerance. Could he subject her to their brutality and their anger? Was there no place for them to live in peace?

  Bryce tensed at the crunch of footsteps trampling the fallen leaves behind him. Slowly his hand reached for his sword, which lay at his side.

  “I thought I might find you here,” a voice called out.

  Bryce released his sword handle. “I usually come here to be alone.”

  Grey sat down heavily beside him, chuckling. “Should I take that as a hint, brother?”

  “I need to think,” he replied.

  Grey lifted his nose to the air, inhaling its scent. When he lowered his head, he said cheerfully, “I am willing to guess that your problems center around a very headstrong French woman.”

  Bryce snorted. “It must have taken you all day to figure that out.”

  “At least your humor does not wane.”

  “My men do not approve of her,” Bryce said.

  “And?”

  “And I plan to keep her at Dark Castle.”

  Grey picked up a branch from the forest floor and began stripping the smaller twigs to make a single stick. “Then I believe you have a battle on your hands.”

  Bryce’s fists clenched. “I will destroy any man who stands against me.”

  Grey chortled. “Most of your men will not stand against you. You are respected and admired. After all, she is a very comely wench. Any man could easily fall under her spell.”

  Bryce’s eyes flashed. “The Prince of Darkness does not fall under spells.”

  “And what of Bryce Princeton?”

  “It is not a spell,” Bryce insisted. “She enflames my very soul when I am with her. Haunts my thoughts and my dreams with her eyes and –”

  “It sounds like a spell to me.”

  Bryce shrugged and grumbled, “So be it. But the people will say that the Prince of Darkness tamed the Angel of Death.”

  “Maybe. And maybe it will be the other way around.”

  Bryce shifted his suddenly rigid back. “You are trying my patience, Grey.”

  Grey waved a hand. “Regardless, that is not the battle I was speaking of. What do you think Count Dumas will do when he believes you are holding her against her will?”

  Bryce frowned, anger tightening his jaw. God’s blood, he thought, she is causing me another problem. “She will not be held against her will.”

  Grey tapped the stick against his thigh. “Let’s assume she wants to stay.”

  “There is no assumption about it.”

  “Still…put yourself in her place. To stay willingly in England would be to prove to all of France that she is indeed a traitor.”

  Bryce stiffened.

  “That is a lot to ask of anyone…even if it is for love,” Grey murmured.

  Bryce glanced at him, frowning deeply. Doubts descended in his mind, plaguing him like a festering wound.

  A soft snicker sounded in Ryen’s ears. Instantly she woke, reaching for her sword. Highwaymen! she thought. Or worse. But her sword was not there. Then she remembered where she was. Bryce had not returned the whole day and she had continued her tour of his castle. It was late when she had wandered into the stables to look at the horses and sat down in one of the stalls with a large warhorse, thinking of her beautiful white steed. She must have fallen asleep.

  She stood and reached out in the darkness, blindly feeling for the wall. Her hands brushed the wood of the stall, then she felt her way around the horse to the door. Her fingers skimmed the wooden frame until she found the bolt. She drew it back, opened the door, and stepped out.

  When she was out of the stables, she cut across the inner ward quickly, moving past the kitchens and, pausing at the entrance to the castle, saw that the portcullis was lowered. She yawned and stretched her arms far above her head, looking up into the sky. The stars were twinkling high overhead and the moon stared down at her like a slitted eye. It was so dark! She wondered how long she had slept. Had she truly been that tired? Well, Bryce hadn’t allowed her much time to rest la
st night.

  Grinning at the memory, she continued on. The hallways were dim except for an occasional torch. She began to ascend the stairs to her room.

  Mumbling reached her ears as she approached the second floor. Polly and Kit were standing in the doorway to her room, wringing their hands and looking fearful. Bryce was in there; she knew by the tension that straightened the servants’ shoulders. Then, she heard his voice. He sounded angry and something else. Afraid?

  Her brow furrowed as she hurried forward, past Kit and then Polly, who gasped at seeing her.

  “Find her,” Bryce commanded, “and bring her back. I don’t care what it takes.” He was leaning out the window, his hands grasping the ledge.

  Talbot stood two steps behind Bryce, his back to Ryen. “But Prince, we’ve been searching all night. It’s too dark to see.”

  Ryen stopped just inside the room to gaze in confusion at the two men.

  “I don’t care,” Bryce snapped, pounding the ledge with his fist. “She’s out there somewhere, and I want her back.”

  “What’s wrong? Who are you searching for?” Ryen wondered.

  Bryce turned. “Ryen!” he gasped as if he could not believe his own eyes.

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  “Are you – hurt?” Bryce demanded, a strange huskiness in his tone.

  “Me? No,” she replied, frowning. She watched as the relief on his face was replaced by furrowing brows and wary eyes.

  “Out,” he commanded.

  Polly and Kit disappeared into the hallway, followed by Talbot. Ryen straightened indignantly. She had offered help and he chose to ignore her. She moved in Talbot’s footsteps.

  “Not you, Angel,” he whispered, his voice caressing her ears.

  Ryen stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him, her hair brushing her cheek.

  The door closed. His black hose was like a second skin, accenting his powerful strides as he approached her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way they were set stiffly. His fists were clenched. “Where have you been?” he asked. His words were strangely clipped.

  Ryen turned to face him fully. “The stables,” she replied. “You have beautiful stallions.”

  “You were there all day?” he wondered dubiously.

  She felt the silent accusation even as the low timbre of his voice sent ripples down her body. “No. I wished to see your castle, and you were not here to escort me.”

  He paused just before her, his eyes boring into hers, searching for something. Then they shifted to her soft hair. He raised his hand, and for a moment, Ryen thought he was going to touch her. She gasped in anticipation of his hot stroke.

  Bryce pulled his hand back and in his fingers was a piece of straw. Together they stared at it.

  Suddenly his arms were around her, crushing her tightly to him, so hard that she could barely breathe.

  “Oh, Angel,” he whispered.

  Ryen could have sworn she felt his body tremble, but then he pulled back to look into her eyes. Ryen’s knees grew weak as the intensity in his ebony depths warmed her and chased away the night chill and the doubt. Then, she saw the dark rings lining his eyes. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “You were looking for me.”

  “I’d forgotten how cold a bed can be,” he replied.

  Ryen sighed in contentment as she stared at his handsome face, his chiseled beauty, his mysterious eyes.

  “You had many people worried, Ryen. No one knew where you had gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired I was…”

  “I believed Count Dumas had somehow returned for you.”

  Her hand lowered from his cheek and she studied his worry through admonishing eyes. “And did you think I would willingly go?”

  Bryce turned away from her. “I am not sure how much you miss France.”

  Ryen stepped up behind him. The fire from the candles cast a white hue over his ivory tunic. She gently laid a hand upon his shoulder and felt the warmth of his body soak into her palm. “Bryce,” she whispered, “it is true, I do miss France. Yet if I were to be separated from you, my longing would be unequaled.”

  Slowly Bryce turned to her. His eyes shone in happiness as he took her into his arms. “You may have the run of my castle, Angel.”

  Ryen smiled into his chest. “I know.”

  “On one condition,” Bryce added. When Ryen raised questioning eyes to him, he continued, “Never leave me.”

  Ryen grinned, feeling his arms grow heavy around her shoulders. “That is not a hard promise. I remember how cold a bed can be.”

  Bryce crushed Ryen in his embrace, then dipped his head and kissed her. She responded with a passion born of love and desire. His hands wandered across her breasts and down the sides of her body.

  He loved her again, slowly and thoroughly, tantalizing her until the earth shattered and they rode together on a cloud of passion.

  Ryen listened to Bryce’s steady breathing, relishing the comfortable weight of his arms across her shoulders. His smell, the scent of clean air, and a vague scent of something wild surrounded her. It was on the sheets, in the pillows. Ryen loved it.

  Yet even in the safety of his arms, Ryen’s mind was not at peace. Her thoughts were violated by images of Vignon. A French spy, in Dark Castle! I should tell Bryce, she thought. What if he wants to cause Bryce harm? What am I thinking? Betray my country?

  Carefully, Ryen slid out from beneath Bryce’s arms and walked to the window. The land below her was dark and vacant. She crossed her arms against the chill breeze that suddenly engulfed her.

  She felt her duty weigh heavily on her shoulders, pulling her away from Bryce. Yet her people had scorned and ridiculed her. Her brothers were dead. Her father had turned his back on her. Still, she wished she could see her father. Make amends with him, look into his eyes and see respect. Something she would never see now.

  Still, what was left of her honor demanded that she remain silent about Vignon. After all, Bryce was the enemy.

  But was he?

  The flame of hope she carefully protected in her heart leapt higher. Dare I trust him? Can he love me? Can he truly think I am beautiful? Or is he deceiving me again?

  Doubt plagued her as she thought back to the agony she had experienced at believing he was dead. Again she pictured him perched on the window ledge. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready for action. She reached out a hand and ran it along the sill.

  “Angel?”

  Ryen jumped, hearing his voice so close to her ear. She could feel the heat of his body, the power. Then, his arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her against his chest. He had no clothing on and she gasped at the heat that radiated from his sleek body. He laughed low in his throat and she relaxed back against him.

  For a moment they stood that way, gazing out over the black land. Then his voice came to her on a breeze. “You are not happy here.”

  Ryen twisted in his arms to look at him. “Why do you say such a thing?”

  “You leave my bed in the middle of the night. Do I not please you?” he asked, his voice earnest.

  Ryen grinned as she turned and faced him. She placed her palms against his broad chest. “Oh, Bryce.” His eyes were unreadable in the darkness, his lips black in the night.

  Ryen lifted up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. She gently ran her tongue over his lips until they separated and his tongue clashed with hers. She felt his passion growing as he pulled her closer.

  Suddenly, he stepped back and gazed down at her, his brow furrowed. “Why did you leave my side? What troubles you, my Angel?”

  Some loyalty would not allow her to reveal the spy. Instead, she replied, “It’s foolish, really. But I have always wondered how you escaped De Bouriez Castle when I was sure you had died.”

  A soft chuckle reached her ears and he tugged her toward the bed. “Dress,” he commanded.

  “What?” Ryen stammered.

  “We ride,” he replied, pulling on his breeches.
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  The night’s darkness filtered through the clouds, combing the land with trails of darker shadow. Ryen rode behind Bryce’s stallion on the second most beautiful horse in his stables, a white mare. They galloped past the sleeping village and the silent farmland to the forest, Ryen admiring Bryce’s mastery of the animal, his strong thighs pressed into the dark side of the horse, the way he seemed to command without any tug of the reins.

  He led her to an impassable wall of trees. Here, Bryce dismounted and Ryen followed his lead. Grinning, he took her hand in his and led her toward the trees, commanding, “Leave the horses.”

  The branches and leaves seemed to part magically before him as he moved into the foliage. Ryen listened to the crickets, and somewhere an owl hooted. The bushes and small trees were growing so closely together that Ryen could not see more than two feet in any direction. Finally, they stepped out into a clearing and Ryen gasped at the sight that greeted her. Awash in a magical light, a glittering waterfall cascaded over a sheer one-hundred-foot cliff, its water gleaming and sparkling as it tumbled into the churning white water below.

  “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen whispered in awe.

  He moved up behind her, his long, tanned arm stretched upward before him. “See the rock next to the waterfall?”

  Halfway up the cliff, Ryen spotted the brown, flattened ledge and nodded.

  “Keep watching,” Bryce said, and disappeared silently into the forest.

  Ryen approached the water until she came to the bank, her eyes remaining on the ledge Bryce had pointed out. It was far above her head, a flat rock, protruding slightly from the falls.

  Ryen’s gaze shifted to the water as it tumbled over the slope, then followed the waves down the sheer drop until they crashed against the water pooled in a glistening lake below. Her mind flashed back to the time she had almost been swept over the edge of another falls. A shudder slid up her spine. But somehow, in the moonlight, it seemed different…somehow magical. She looked back at the rock. It had not changed.

  Ryen’s mind dwelt on the waterfall that had claimed Runt’s body. Bryce had let his son go to save her life. Why hadn’t she realized then how much Bryce meant to her?