Bryce rose and began to pace. What was he doing? he wondered. He had defended her before his soldiers, before his friends, and before the Wolf Pack. He had called her his. The idea that he could want this infamous French killer was outrageous. And still, when McFinley had touched her, Bryce had exploded with rage, a fury that had never taken hold of him before. The anger had flooded his senses and his logic, totally obliterating his self-control.
She stirred and Bryce moved to her side, sinking to one knee by the bed. He gently wiped a stray strand of hair from her cheek as he leaned over to be closer to her. He smiled softly to himself, not quite believing that he had rose to her defense so swiftly. He studied her angelic face. There was a serene quality to her restful features, a calmness that belied the troubled soul beneath. Then, just as quickly, his smile vanished. I may be her protector now, but there will come a time when I will have to protect my people from the Angel of Death, he thought.
The door banged open and Lotte entered the room.
Bryce rose from the floor, turning his gaze to her. “What is it, woman?”
“You told McFinley to take me. In front of all those men. They will think I am for their amusement,” Lotte said, her dark eyes flashing.
Bryce merely turned back to Ryen.
“Prince,” she whimpered, stepping forward, “she killed our son. She tried to sit in his chair. I –”
Bryce whirled on her. “I told you,” he snarled, “she had nothing to do with the fire.”
Lotte withdrew as his tall form loomed over her, her eyes filled with a cold realization. “She has changed you,” she whispered. “You are not the Prince of Darkness any longer. The Prince I knew would have ripped out her throat for killing his kin.”
“Hear you nothing that I say, Lotte? She did not start the fire! She would not kill her own men and animals just to kill Runt.”
“Listen to yourself defend her,” Lotte hissed. “She has worked magic over you.”
“Leave me. Go to McFinley,” Bryce said, his voice strangely calm, even while his hatred for her burned like the flames that took his boy’s life.
Lotte gasped and slowly backed to the door.
He waited until she was gone and the door had closed behind her before he clenched his fists and turned toward the window. His anger stretched his nerves taut like a bowstring. He would not tolerate her disobedience. He stared out at the village beyond the window, his fingers still curled tight.
Ryen watched Bryce. She could see his corded neck muscles, the stiff set of his jaw as he stood at the window. A vague memory flashed through her mind of Bryce standing, half-wild, before the window in her father’s castle. Suddenly, she longed to throw her arms around him to prevent him from jumping. She sat up in bed –
Bryce turned, and for a moment their gazes locked. Ryen shivered under the intensity of his rage, the flame of a candle reflected in the inky depths of his eyes.
He moved forward; the power in each step, each movement, was intoxicating. She found herself dizzy and calm in the same moment. He was wreaking havoc on her senses.
“Ryen,” he said. His voice held no hint of the anger that was aflame in his eyes, but the timbre of his voice sent shivers of ice down her spine. Her heart pounded under the heat of his dark gaze.
“We have unfinished business,” Bryce commented.
Ryen could barely swallow. She could not help but glance at his lips before turning her eyes back to his.
“A punishment,” Bryce said. “Not only for attempting escape, but I warned you to stay away from my men.”
It was like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped over her head. She scowled at him. “Punishment? Sitting among those savages you call your soldiers was punishment enough.”
“Silence!” Bryce roared. He moved to the side of the bed, towering over her. “You have defied me, Ryen De Bouriez. I will not tolerate such insolence from my prisoners.”
Anger, fierce and sudden, jarred Ryen. Her eyes widened with rage and she knelt on the bed, her back as straight as a board. “You ordered me down there! Did you not expect some sort of clash? Your people despise me.”
His glowering eyes darkened and he reached out to seize her wrist.
Ryen dodged his grasp easily, moving to the other side of the bed.
Slowly Bryce straightened. His hair brushed the black velvet material that hung from the bed. His black eyes shimmered. “You are making this harder on yourself, Angel.” His lips curled and she saw a flash of white from his teeth.
She stood facing him, the large bed a barrier between them. He never thought I was beautiful. He used the words to manipulate me. I will never forgive him. I must never forgive him. But his glare made her warm all over. She tried to fight the feeling that was washing over her like droplets of hot rain, inflaming her body slowly but completely. Ryen straightened her shoulders, her breath coming in harsh gasps, her chest rising and falling.
Bryce’s gaze slowly lowered from her eyes to her chest.
Ryen watched as his look of anger began to fade and was replaced by something else. His intense gaze burned into her, searing her to the floor, burning through her veins. He approached her, and she did not back away. She wanted him to touch her. She needed to feel the caress of his lips, his hands. She stood facing him. Tingles covered her body, running up and down her arms. He stopped directly in front of her. Her whole being froze, anticipating the feel of his strong arms around her, the heat of his body, his hot breath on her cheek.
But he did not touch her. “Your punishment, Angel,” his voice caressed the words as his eyes devoured her, “will be to accompany me to break the fast, and dine. You will be with my soldiers and people as much as possible throughout the day. And you will show them respect.” He lifted a finger and ran it along her sensuous lips. “The same respect you show me.”
Ryen parted her lips slightly at his touch, his words drifting somewhere at the front of her mind unheard. The gentleness of his caress startled her into silence as she gazed at his perfect grin, the glimpse of teeth as he spoke. Then he was turning away, heading for the door.
Ryen knew a disappointment she had never felt before. Her lips tingled where he had touched them and her skin felt cold. Suddenly and quickly, shame wrapped itself around her in a blanket of guilt. She hugged her elbows.
He paused at the door and turned to look at her.
Ryen felt his heated gaze rake over her body, smoldering like a burning ember.
“Be ready for the morn. The savages await your company,” he said and quit the room.
Outside the room, Bryce paused, his hand on the latch. The burning in his body flamed outward, searing his very skin. He wanted her. The ache in his loins was hard proof of that. For a moment, he stood, battling himself. Her curves hidden beneath her dress taunted him. The dark riotous curls of her hair dared him to return. He knew it would not be honorable to take her, not matter how much he wanted her. He had to wait until the ransom was denied. Then, instead of being the infamous French commander, she would be merely a woman disavowed by her country, a woman in danger of being locked away in the dungeon for the rest of her life. Not that Bryce would ever lock away his attraction to her that easily. When the ransom was denied, he would arouse that fire in her again. The fire that closed her eyelids dreamily, the fire that parted those luscious lips in want. He would hear her call out his name in passion. He would make her his woman in body as well as in soul.
He pulled his hand from the door. But for now, he would wait. He hoped the messenger would arrive soon. He didn’t know how much more waiting he could possibly endure. Already his blood boiled at the mere mention of her name.
“Prince!”
Bryce lifted his eyes to find Talbot approaching. “There is someone I think you should see.”
Bryce’s dark brows drew together and he pushed himself from the door to follow Talbot.
“Please, m’lord,” the man whimpered, as his round eyes locked on Bryce.
The ri
sing moon’s rays streamed in through the windows and the Great Hall was flooded with illumination from the roaring hearth, but the light just barely hit the three men where they stood at the far end beneath the stained glass windows.
Bryce stood with his arms akimbo, his confused gaze sweeping the man before him. The way he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head made him look like an abused dog cowering before its master.
“You have nothing to fear,” Talbot told the man, then turned to Bryce. “I overheard him telling the story at the Inn.” Talbot then addressed the man. “Go ahead.”
It was the way Talbot’s voice coaxed the man that grated Bryce’s nerves. He was up to something and Bryce didn’t know whether to believe what the man was going to say or behead them both.
“Go on,” Bryce said, his voice echoing softly in the large room.
When he spoke, his voice was tiny. Like a mouse, Bryce thought. If he had a tail it would swoosh. “I went up to her room.”
Bryce felt an unreasonable rush of anger, but he kept his body absolutely still. He knew instinctively that it was Ryen they were speaking of. “Did you touch her?”
For a moment, the man looked baffled. His gaze darted to Talbot before he said, “No.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
“I – I wanted to see the Angel of Death.”
“He paid one of the serving girls,” Talbot supplied.
The man clutched his hands before him. “Please, m’lord. Don’t punish me. I only wanted ta see –”
“Continue,” Bryce’s voice boomed in the room.
Visibly trembling, the man swallowed hard and lowered his fists to his side before Bryce’s dark demeanor. “She is a demon, m’lord. She had fangs the size of a cow’s calf, glowing red eyes, and claws!”
“And you actually saw these fangs and claws?” Bryce asked darkly.
The man nodded vigorously. “And she flew!”
Bryce turned away and bowed his head.
“’N she came at me like a bloody bat from…” He made the sign of the cross. “Lord protect us.” The man looked up at Bryce and finished with, “…hell.”
“You are dismissed,” Bryce whispered.
“I jus’ come in and she be all docile and quiet like. But as soon as I got close ta her, she swooped down, shrieking and saying she wanted me bloody heart!” He placed his hand protectively over his chest, his words now directed at Talbot, who was watching Bryce.
Bryce’s shoulders trembled and Talbot was positive it was with anger.
“Go!” Bryce barked.
The man promptly scurried from the room, bowing all the way out.
Talbot frowned. “Prince?”
Bryce threw back his head and gales of laughter burst from his lips, echoing throughout the large room. A servant paused as he crossed the hall to the kitchens to cast a curious glance at his lord. A dog foraging in the rushes for food raised its head, his straight, pointed ears listening to the strange sound. The thought of his Angel, with the pliant lips and soft skin, depicted as a demon, was ridiculous! The only glowing he had ever seen in her eyes was the fire of lust.
Talbot’s mouth dropped. “I – I fail to see the humor.”
“Don’t you see what the little vixen is doing?” Bryce said after catching his breath. He put his hands on his thighs and bent over from a slice of pain in his side.
“You mean, besides scare the man half to death? I’m surprised she didn’t sprout wings!”
“What a mind! Even here, a prisoner within my own walls, she continues her legend!” Bryce threw up his hands in exasperation. “And I thought it was her brothers who had spread the lies!”
“You don’t believe she’s a demon?”
“Good heavens, no.” Bryce turned to stare at him, his mood sobering as he saw the seriousness in Talbot’s eyes. “You can’t tell me you, a warrior, a knight of the realm, actually believe in demons.”
Talbot looked away from his questioning lord, giving Bryce his answer.
“Demon or no, as soon as France’s missive returns and she learns that her king has turned his back on her, she will be mine – on my terms.”
Chapter Thirty One
Polly rushed into Ryen’s chamber before the sun had even risen. “It’s gonna be a beautiful morn,” Polly exclaimed, fluttering about Ryen like a mother hen.
Ryen stretched and glanced at Polly, who was continuing her monologue. “I can tell because farmer Naughton is still sleeping. If it were going ta rain, the man would be out tendin’ his animals already. He’s got a bloody sense about such things.”
Ryen groaned and buried her face in the pillow. She wanted to return to the comfort and warmth of her slumber. Then, through the haze of sleep, Ryen suddenly realized that Polly was no longer talking. She lifted her eyes to the maid to see her standing over her, hands folded in front of her stomach.
“I – I wanted to thank ye,” Polly said contritely. Her eyes pierced Ryen with such guilt that it sent waves of sympathy coursing through Ryen. “Ya woulda been flogged,” Polly continued, as Ryen sat up. “I – I put the knife on the tray because – well, because the bread here can be like a bloody stone. And ya were sick. I never thought –”
“It’s all right, Polly. I won’t tell anyone,” Ryen said gently, a slight grin curving her lips.
“Thank you.” Polly turned away to open the door to the room. Three young women entered, each carrying a beautiful gown.
Ryen watched the nervous, jerky movement of Polly’s hands as she straightened each dress, smoothing the wrinkles. She doesn’t believe me, Ryen thought. She stood, a stab of hurt in her chest, and approached Polly.
A vivid image of Jeanne, smaller and better dressed, standing before her wardrobe closet at home flashed through Ryen’s mind, the dresses that lined the walls inside glimmering in the sunlight, Jeanne’s disappointed voice saying, “I have nothing to wear –”
But then, Polly was speaking, her hands wrapping over each other nervously. “M’lord will come for ya.” Her voice quivered, betraying her anxiety.
Ryen stepped forward, gently placing her palm over Polly’s hand, stilling her movements. When Polly looked up into her warm gaze, Ryen grinned kindly at her. “I know,” Ryen said quietly.
Ryen shifted her gaze to the dresses. She chose the gown closest to her. It was a samite light blue dress with a very dark blue velvet surcoat over it. Ryen pretended not to notice how the girl shrank before her as she took the dress. She brought it back toward the bed and Polly dismissed the girls with an impatient flick of her wrist. Polly helped Ryen out of her nightdress and into her chemise. She broke the silence by saying earnestly, “Ya really should be nicer to him. He did save yer life.”
But Ryen didn’t hear her words. She sat on the bed beside the dress, her head bowed. “Polly, I have to ask you a question.”
Polly’s face turned white.
“It’s important to me, or I wouldn’t ask.”
Polly stiffened and declared, “I won’t do anything against me lord nor me country.”
Ryen’s brows drew together in confusion as she raised her sights to the heavy woman. Finally, she said, “The battle. I must know. Who won?”
“We did, of course.”
Ryen and Polly both started at the voice and looked to see Talbot entering the room. While Ryen scrambled, pulling a blanket from the bed to cover her silk chemise from his view, Polly stepped forward, hollering, “Out, ya rogue! M’lord gave strict orders –”
“To bathe her,” Talbot finished. “Not answer her every damn question. So get a tub and some servants to fill it with water.” He strode past Polly to the bed.
Ryen raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at him.
Polly shook her head. “I cannot leave ‘er in here alone with the likes a you.”
“Now,” Talbot commanded.
Polly harrumphed and whirled, heading out the door.
Ryen saw the hate in Talbot’s stare, the anger and loathing. She prep
ared for a verbal melee.
“We slaughtered your precious French army,” Talbot sneered.
Ryen raised her chin further, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I don’t believe you.”
Talbot shrugged. “Believe what you will.”
Ryen had been about to ask Polly about her brothers, but she absolutely refused to question Talbot.
Talbot stepped forward and Ryen moved away from him. She did not trust him. He fingered the silk dress lying on the bed, and somehow Ryen felt violated. Her back straightened.
“Your treacherous people struck from the rear, killing our squires and burning our supply wagons.”
Outrage soared through Ryen. While her mind realized there was earnest pain in his voice, her heart refused to acknowledge that her countrymen would commit such an atrocity.
“King Henry had all the French prisoners executed as retribution.”
“What?” she managed to gasp, as his words murdered the hope she held in her heart for her brothers. “It cannot be,” she murmured. Her brothers! She knew Andre had to have been taken prisoner. She had seen him wounded, struck by an arrow! Furious and frightened, she shouted, “Liar!”
Talbot raised his head. To her surprise, his eyes were sad, ringed with doubt and confusion. For a moment, they stopped in time, his finger still on the dress, her fists desperately clutching to the blanket she held before her.
Finally, Talbot spoke. “No warrior should die thus.”
“It can’t be,” Ryen repeated helplessly. “I, too, would be dead.”
Talbot’s eyes hardened and the hate returned. “You should be.”
Ryen blinked and her heart twisted in anguish. All prisoners killed. The French defeated. Their arrogance was, finally, their downfall.
But…Andre must have been captured. He couldn’t be dead. She would never believe it. But the scene of bodies falling to the ground and being trampled and smothered beneath the thick mud filled her mind’s eye. Ryen turned her back on Talbot, hoping to hide her turmoil and fear. Worry gripped her heart, squeezing it until it threatened to stop beating.
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