The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Ryen opened her teary eyes and found him beside her, closing the wooden shutters, closing out the cold. But her shaking would not subside.

  When he turned his gaze back to her, his face was void of emotion. Dark eyes regarded her with a calculated coldness. Ryen’s knees trembled and she knew she could not hold up under his scrutiny much longer. She leaned heavily on the wall, silently begging him to leave.

  “Prepare to break your fast,” he commanded. “I will have Polly prepare a meal.” In two strides his powerful legs took him across the room until he stood at the door. “And do not open those windows again.” The door closed behind him and Ryen slid down the wall until she had buried her head in her arms, her hair covering them like a blanket.

  The vial she had tucked into her chemise dug into her skin, stabbing at her like a silent accusation. For her king…

  Bryce stared at the door to his room for a long moment without really seeing it. His eyes were focused on the scene he expected to find on the opposite side. A feast fit for a king, mountains of bread, meat pies, lampreys, meats of all sorts – venison, ox, chicken and goose, and puddings, pear tarts – the best Polly could make.

  Ryen would be eating until her stomach was full, stuffing the food into her small, delicate mouth with eager hands. He would join her for the meal, feasting on her with his eyes. He had already made up his mind. If she did indeed love this other man and she was not happy at Dark Castle, he would allow her to leave.

  Bryce shoved the open the door.

  The food was piled high, as he had imagined; its smell wafted to him on tendrils of steam. But Ryen was not there. His brows furrowed as his eyes scanned the room for her. When he spotted her sitting on the floor near the window, his scowl deepened. Her head was bent to her knees, her long, dark hair falling over them to the floor.

  He took a step toward her. Ryen lifted her head and Bryce saw the sadness lining her dull blue eyes. His heart twisted. Her eyes had been so vibrant, so full of life. But now she could not stand to be near him. His kiss had made her sob. She would rather be kissed by Dumas, he thought.

  Anger crashed over him at the thought of a young, tall, fair-haired man holding Ryen. Bryce turned his back on her, his fists clenching. He walked to the table of food and stared at it. He had no hunger left.

  “You should eat,” he commented.

  He heard nothing for a long moment. And then, just as he was preparing to turn and confront her, he heard the soft rustle of her dress, the quiet swoosh of her skirt and the delicate padding of her footsteps as she approached.

  “What shall I eat?” she asked. Her words were as listless as her lackluster eyes.

  Bryce glanced at her to see if she was being sarcastic, but she was not looking at him; her eyes were focused on the table. Bryce studied her profile, her soft hair highlighted by the cold morning’s filtered sun, her smooth, silken skin, her long, feathery lashes and full, pouty lips. “Perhaps some bread?” he reached out to pick up a small loaf and handed it to her.

  Ryen took it without looking at him. Bryce watched as she placed a piece into her mouth and chewed almost absently. He turned away from her, unable to watch her sadness or experience her coldness.

  “Will you not eat?” she wondered.

  Her words startled him and he turned to see those blue eyes penetrating his thoughts, searching his soul. He felt his chest ache and tighten. She uses that look as a child uses tears, he reminded himself.

  Ryen raised a loaf of bread to him.

  Bryce narrowed his eyes. “I think not, Angel,” he replied coldly.

  Slowly, her offered hand lowered and a crestfallen look descended over her face.

  Bryce steeled himself against her hurt look and gazed at her with angry eyes. She was nothing to him, he told himself, even as his body ached with wanting. His mind refused to acknowledge her shapely form, but the torn gown revealing more skin than was decent drew his gaze nonetheless.

  Ryen turned to the table, picking up a mug and filling it with ale. She heard his soft footsteps and knew he had moved away from her. Ryen felt for the vial in her waist cloth. The image of Bryce dead filled her mind, and her hand began to tremble. She glanced over her shoulder to see Bryce standing, his back to her, staring at the tapestry. She removed the vial and uncorked it.

  The liquid edged toward the lip of the vial as she held it poised over the ale.

  She stood that way for a long moment, staring into the mug. Before a drop could fall, Ryen withdrew her hand, corked the vial, and replaced it at her side.

  She could not do it. God help me, she thought. But I cannot hurt him. Not even for my country. Ryen sighed, thinking he probably wouldn’t have taken it anyway.

  Ryen picked up the mug and approached him.

  When he set those dark eyes upon her, she froze. They were accusing and distrustful.

  “Ale?” she asked.

  His eyes narrowed slightly and she felt his gaze rake over her body. Then he took the cup, never taking his eyes off her. He lifted the mug to his lips and paused once before draining it!

  Ryen’s face paled and she staggered away. She could have killed him! The thought made her stomach churn, and for a moment she had trouble catching her breath.

  Bryce drew himself up to his full height. “I have something to tell you that I think will make you very happy,” he said, in a strangely restrained voice.

  Ryen hated to hope, but she felt her heart begin to soar.

  “I am taking you back to France,” Bryce said.

  Ryen’s jaw dropped, her surprise written in her wide eyes and slackened shoulders.

  “Back to your fiancé,” Bryce finished.

  His voice was cold and without feeling. It carved out Ryen’s heart and hopes as swiftly as if it were a knife. As she stared into his dark eyes she wondered how she could have been so fooled by him. Unable to bear his anger and disdain, Ryen dropped her gaze. She watched his feet as he turned and moved to the door.

  Ryen glanced up one final time to see his stiff back and broad shoulders as he closed the door. She stood frozen, staring blankly. He was bringing her back. Bryce did not want her. No more than her father did. He never loved me. Only desired…

  The bile rose in her throat. Never loved. Her chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked from her.

  The nights they had spent together had been wonderful. She had been so happy in the warmth of his arms. But their memory was tainted. It had all been a lie. He had used her. Humiliated her. And the worst thing was that as much as she wanted to hurt him, to give him some of the agony he was inflicting upon her, she knew she would not kill him.

  Ryen removed the vial and stared at it for a long time. Then she threw it out the window.

  Chapter Forty Four

  It was agony, knowing she was in his castle. Once he’d seen she was safe, the rage he had experienced when he had first found her missing evaporated, leaving him with a relief so great that he had almost trembled. But now, as he sat alone behind a large table, in the room where he usually kept track of the harvest, his mood darkened. He was staring at a painted picture of a wolf that hung over the door. If he’d truly been as wild as the Wolf Pack, he’d have taken her and then slit her throat. It would have been easier.

  But now…the thought of that flawless white neck, that stubborn jaw, plagued him. He could never hurt her. Yet he had. He had kept her from the man she loved.

  His head drooped. He only wanted her to be happy. But he could not even accomplish that. He had to let her go.

  Bryce raised his weary eyes and saw Grey strolling toward him. His usual furs had been shed in favor of one of Bryce’s cotton white tunics and a pair of black leggings. Bryce looked away from his friend, ignoring his change of clothing.

  “Have you heard anything from Count Dumas since we sent his messenger back?” Bryce asked.

  Grey’s eyes narrowed as he sat on a corner of the table. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Bryce sat back in his cha
ir.

  “Bryce,” Grey said quietly, “I have known you for many years. And in all this time you have never kept anything from me. So I ask you now, brother to brother, what does this woman, this Angel of Death, mean to you?”

  Bryce stared hard at Grey. He wondered why he was asking this pointed question, why he was getting involved in his private affairs. Usually, the Wolf Pack asked little, but knew everything. Finally, his thoughts turned to Grey’s question. He saw Ryen in his mind’s eye, saw her stubborn jaw clenched with rage, imagined her bright eyes filled with hot anger. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, the image vivid and agonizing.

  “Doesn’t matter?’ Grey repeated. Then a slow smile slid over his lips. “If you truly believe that, then you are more blind than that beggar who stands outside the gatehouse.”

  “Honor dictates I return her to France.”

  “Honor,” Grey snorted, waving a dismissing hand. “Your grand solution to everything. Let me tell you something. Honor has no place in the matters of the heart.”

  “This is not a matter of the heart,” Bryce retorted.

  “Still denying it? Then forget her,” Grey dared. “Throw her in the dungeons and don’t think on it.”

  Bryce grunted. If only it were that easy. If he could only wipe away the haunting image of those large sapphire eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft touch of her hands.

  “Bryce, you cannot send her back to France. She has no place there,” Grey said.

  “It seems preferable to what she has here,” Bryce grunted.

  “Then death would be preferable.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, Grey.”

  “Her brother was trying to run her through when we came upon them.”

  Outrage roared through Bryce’s body, bringing him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

  Grey nodded once. “His sword was at her throat,” Grey stated. “I am sure.”

  Bryce came around the table so fast that the breeze sent papers fluttering to the floor. “I’ll kill him,” Bryce promised.

  Grey’s hand slammed on his shoulder and Bryce halted, whipping around to pin Grey to the spot with his fevered gaze. “And killing him would settle your problems?”

  Bryce angrily shrugged Grey’s hand from his shoulder. He glanced longingly at the door, his look so hot that it threatened to melt the iron handle. Finally, he turned and paced to one side of the room, his fists clenched with anger.

  “You care for the wench. Admit it, Bryce,” Grey encouraged. “It would make things a lot easier.”

  “She left me. I will never admit I care for her.”

  “She left you for kin. You’d do the same for one of us.”

  Bryce threw him a dark look. “Her brother is dangerous. I was trying to protect her!”

  “She is a knight. She needs no protecting.”

  “God’s blood!” Bryce exploded. “She is a woman, too.”

  “You have won the woman,” Grey answered softly. “It is the knight you must be concerned about.”

  “I have not won the woman. She loves another,” Bryce murmured.

  “Then why did she write this missive?” Grey tossed a piece of paper onto the desk.

  Bryce stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. He cast a speculative glance at Grey before scanning the paper.

  “I had one of your men translate it,” Grey said, shrugging sheepishly. “She was going to stay.”

  Bryce frowned at the paper. It was true. She had begun the letter to Dumas announcing her intentions of remaining in England with him. If that was so, how could she love this Count Dumas? Something was wrong. Something did not make sense.

  Polly was happy to hear that Ryen was finally coming down to eat. Rumors were running rampant. Some said Lord Princeton had killed her and was keeping her corpse locked up in his room, others that he was starving the truth out of her.

  Polly was waiting anxiously near the tables she had assembled with lady Ryen when finally she spotted her. Polly took a step toward her but stopped cold when she saw that Ryen was being led by one guard and followed by another. Ryen was as white as a ghost, as if the life had been drained from her. She was placed at the soldiers’ table, across from Talbot.

  Polly watched her during the meal. Her eyes were cast downward and she sat silently, not eating. When Polly turned angry eyes to Bryce, she saw that he, too, sat stoically, the food before him untouched. Through his hard, emotionless face, Polly saw the anguish that touched the corners of his eyes, the pain that turned his lips into a sneer.

  What have I done? Polly silently demanded.

  It was then that she saw Grey approaching her. At first Polly was sure he would pass her by, but as his steps took him closer, she knew he was coming for her. She sat heavily in her chair. Grey did indeed stop before her.

  When all conversation ceased around them, Grey’s sharp eyes scanned the faces of the peasants who were all turned to him. He turned back to Polly. “Lord Princeton wants to see you.”

  Polly shuddered, casting her glance at her lord. He was staring at her, those dark eyes penetrating her skin as if he could see into her mind.

  He knew. She was sure of it.

  “After the meal, in the judgment room,” Grey finished, and turned, moving to his seat.

  Polly knew her sentence had been ordered. Her only defense now was his mercy!

  Later that night, Polly shoved aside her dread and hesitantly pushed open the door. “M’lord?” she called.

  The room was cast in a red glow, lit by the setting sun streaming in from the high windows. Polly gasped, for it appeared that the judgment chair on which Bryce sat was glowing.

  He was lost in the blackness of the shadow cast from the back of his chair.

  Polly stepped forward, carefully closing the door behind her. “M’lord,” she said and suddenly had the urge to flee under his deadly gaze. “I – I have somethin’ ta confess.”

  The silence rang in her ears like the echo of his voice until she was forced to speak to quiet the bells. “I lied ta ya, m’lord.” He still didn’t move or speak, and Polly wondered if he had heard her. She stepped closer. “But I had ta. She was threatenin’ me. I was not sure what ta –”

  “Stop rambling, woman, and say what you’ve come to say!” His voice rumbled through the room like a drumbeat.

  “Lady Ryen was not returning ta her lover in France. Ta be quite honest, m’lord, we never talked of lovers.”

  Bryce was absolutely still; Polly couldn’t even see him breathing. She panicked. “My lord. Ya have ta understand why I did it. I never meant ta hurt ya, and I would never harm a hair on lady Ryen’s lovely head. I knew no matter what the cost ta me, I could not keep the two of ya apart. Ya belong together.” Polly’s fingered her apron, twisting it tightly. Bryce was still silent and Polly was forced to continue. “I was the one who gave lady Ryen the dagger! The bread was as hard as a brick, and she was such a thin thing, so sickly. I never intended her to escape with it… That witch found out somehow, and she said I’d end up in the dungeon! Well, I couldna very well –”

  “Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

  Bryce’s voice shocked her into silence. When she couldn’t find the words to answer, he rose up slowly out of his chair. The fiery sunlight splashed over his hair and shoulders. His face was still in shadow, but Polly saw the bunched muscles of his tensed arms. Anger emanated from his tight body and Polly knew he would kill her. She fell to her knees. “Please, m’lord,” she begged, “I meant no harm.”

  “Do not try my patience. Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

  “I did not tell ‘er a thing! I just brought the horses!” Polly trembled. “She made me do it. She said –”

  Bryce approached her. “I could kill you right now for this.”

  “Lotte made me do it! She threatened ta tell ya of the dagger!”

  “Lotte?” Bryce’s brows knit.

  Polly raised clutched hands to Bryce as if to a god. “Please! Please
give me another chance! I’ll do anything! I’ll never –”

  “Talbot!”

  Polly wept, unable to hold back her fear. “I beg of ya, m’lord. Please. Give me life so I can make it up ta ya.”

  “Talbot!” Bryce hollered, before turning his deadly gaze on Polly. “Do you think that my ears are deaf to my people? Did you think I would not listen to you?”

  “M—McFinley,” Polly gaped. “Ya almost killed ‘im.”

  Bryce shut his mouth tightly into a thin line of anger. “He hurt Ryen. You were trying to help her.”

  The door banged open and Talbot raced in, breathless. “Prince?”

  “Find Lotte,” Bryce commanded in a dark voice. “And bring her here.”

  The door opened slowly. The light from the hallway fell across the floor, a white sliver growing wider, slicing the blackness of the room like a dagger. Bryce watched from his judgment chair as Lotte’s form, black against the white light, appeared in the doorway.

  “My Prince?” she cooed, sure that he had summoned her to take her back.

  “Come in, Lotte,” he replied quietly.

  “It’s so dark. Perhaps a candle –”

  “No. Come in. Now.”

  Lotte hesitated. A silent alarm went off somewhere inside her. Finally she entered; the door closed behind her casting the room into the night’s pale blue light. Shadows arced from the walls toward Lotte as she passed in and out of them, approaching Bryce.

  “Prince,” she said finally. “I knew you would call for me. I knew you would return to me.” He remained silent and Lotte’s anxiety grew. Something was wrong. Had he found out? No, she told herself. That was impossible. She had the situation firmly in hand.

  “Lotte,” he sneered. “You thought that with Ryen gone I would return to you.”

  Excitement shot up Lotte’s spine. “Oh, yes. I’ve waited so long, m’lord. I knew that you would tire of that French tart before long. I can bear you another son! I can please you in many ways. Together –”