The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  She glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the silent forest behind her. Where was Bryce? Then a movement caught her eye and she looked up at the rock. Bryce stood there, his splendid body glowing in the moonlight. He spread his arms out to the side as if worshipping the black sky.

  She stepped forward, her eyes riveted on Bryce as he raised his arms and bent his knees. Her heart skipped a beat as fear clamped a cold hand around her.

  She could not move, could not breathe. Then, like a graceful cat, he leapt, diving head first like a spear toward the shimmering pool.

  “No!” Ryen finally screamed, hearing only a small splash as his body pierced the turbulent water. “No!”

  She searched the pond for him, but the surface was unbroken. “Bryce!” Ryen ran forward, moving toward the falls, cutting the water with her body as she waded in. The black liquid rose from her ankles to her waist and then to her shoulders. She began to swim, searching the water and shore with her eyes as she moved. She could barely breathe for the terror that gripped her chest. Over and over again she saw the brackish moat below her window at De Bouriez Castle. All those weeks of gazing at it had carved the image into her memory. All those days of hoping and praying that Bryce was alive. And now, as she pictured Bryce’s body lying broken on the rocks, she found herself praying again.

  Something slithered about her waist and for a moment she panicked, fighting the grip of death, afraid she would not reach Bryce in time to save him. A soft chuckle came from behind her. “You have not learned yet?” he wondered.

  Bryce pulled her trembling body to him, his powerful legs treading water, keeping them both afloat.

  Ryen wrapped her arms about his thick neck, relieved in one breath, wanting to strangle him in the next.

  “I have been swimming in these waters since I was a child. I learned to dive from the highest cliff. Learned to expand my lungs so I could stay below water for as long as I needed to,” Bryce whispered, a hint of light laughter in his tone.

  Ryen could only watch his lips as they caressed each word. Suddenly, she felt the length of his solid body against her, felt the blood pound through her veins like molten fire.

  “I had no idea what agony my disappearances caused you, or I would have returned,” he murmured. His lips brushed her neck and he lifted a hand to push her hair back from her shoulder.

  Ryen’s arms wrapped languidly around his back, wanting the warmth, wanting his strength.

  With a powerful kick, Bryce sent them toward the shore. Ryen’s feet just briefly touched the ground when he swooped her up in his arms and carried her swiftly inland. He slid her against the length of his body slowly, never taking his eyes from hers. His eyes were dark with passion, glittering like two black coins.

  Ryen felt the heat blazing from his wet skin. She opened her mouth to sigh, but before she could utter a sound, his lips took possession of her own. She leaned her head back, responding with all her being to the demands of this god of darkness. She pressed her body closer to his and felt the warmth of him, the essence of heaven and the fires of hell. She felt his hands lightly stroking her back with feathery touches that sent currents of flame up her spine.

  Her hands caressed the power in every muscle of his back, his chest, his stomach. But what amazed her the most was not his strength. It was the moonlight that seemed to radiate from his body, as if he had swallowed the radiance of the moon and it had formed a halo around his figure. He was a god.

  His hand closed over her breast and she arched toward him.

  He was wondrously gentle, yet as wild as an April whirlwind as he crushed her body to him. He lifted the tunic over her head to reveal her glorious breasts. They were copper in the waning moonlight and his lips descended over the peaks eagerly. She saw a flash of white teeth as he teased and caressed her. With silken caresses his hand moved down her breeches to her hip.

  Ryen pulled his head closer to her heart, wanting more of his touches. She bent her lips over his dark hair, fluttering kisses over his head. She felt her breeches drop away, and when he stepped back she saw his eyes brush over her nakedness.

  Impatiently, she put a hand against his chest and gently shoved him. He stumbled a few steps away from her until his back hit a tree. Ryen pursued him.

  He reached out to her, but she caught his strong wrists in her hands.

  She leaned her entire body into his, pressing her lips to his startled ones. Instantly his surprise gave way to passion and desire, and the kiss deepened sending ecstasy swirling through Ryen. She felt her breasts pressed against his strong chest and couldn’t resist trailing a path of light kisses over his jaw, down his neck, down to his chest. When her tongue circled one of his nipples she heard him sigh deeply. She moved her mouth down over his stomach, reaching around to cup his buttocks.

  His hands dropped to his sides and he groaned in pleasure. She planted slow kisses down to his manhood, marveling that it grew as her lips neared. She pulled slightly away and raised a hand to caress him. She had no sooner touched his warm flesh when he grabbed her arms and raised her up to his lips. His kiss buffeted her like the winds before a savage storm.

  His manhood pressed firmly into her lower stomach and Ryen groaned, shifting her hips in response, wanting him inside her, needing him.

  Bryce lifted her leg to his hip and Ryen felt the pressure move to her womanhood. She gripped his shoulders and lifting her other leg, wrapped her slim thighs around him. He took the invitation, plunging deep inside her with one mighty thrust. She moaned as he took possession of her body. She met the cadence of his thrusts and felt passion rising in her like the sun. Finally it shattered into a million glowing stars, and for one moment she had a glimpse of heaven.

  When she opened her eyes, he was gazing at her.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips before his hips began to move again and his face contorted in ecstasy. “Ryen,” he groaned softly, pulling her closer to him. “My Angel.”

  Chapter Forty

  The next morning, Bryce and Ryen returned to the castle. Ryen sat before Bryce on his horse, his strong arms around her as he held the reins. The white mare trailed Bryce’s stallion. When they reached the inner ward, Bryce slung his leg from the animal. For a moment, they stood face to face, sharing the secrets of the night before in their heated expressions. Ryen’s lips slowly turned up into a grin.

  Bryce’s face lit with a warmth that was foreign to the Prince of Darkness. He took her hand and began to walk into the castle.

  A miller who had come from town and was unloading his wares paused to follow them with his eyes. Two knights halted as they walked by to stare after their lord and his enemy.

  “Prince!” Talbot called, as they entered the castle. When Bryce did not stop, Talbot was forced to hurry to catch up with him. “There is a matter of the harvest you must see to.”

  “It can wait,” Bryce said, staring raptly at Ryen.

  Talbot halted his steps. Never had Prince declined to see to the proper running of his estates and his people.

  Bryce led Ryen to the Great Hall. When they entered, Ryen faltered. Where would he lead her to sit? Ryen’s gaze swept the table where the peasants sat and noticed that the wild-looking people were now at that table. There were seven of them seated in a row. Was that a good sign? she wondered.

  Then her eyes were drawn by Bryce’s empty chair at the front of the room, a frown creasing her brow. Lotte and Elli sat on either side of his chair. Would he choose to sit beside them?

  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. His 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 bl
ack 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.”