A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  She had been so angry with Lucien. She had never forgiven him. He could not die without giving her that chance!

  Despair filled her and her shoulders slumped even though she fought to right them. In her mind, she couldn’t judge who were the more barbaric, the English or the French, and it tore her apart. How could she be certain that the constable had given the order to slaughter the English squires, and not some vengeful knights?

  She was no longer certain who was right.

  The door opened and Polly entered with a group of servants carrying pails of water, trailed by two others carrying a wooden tub. She was out of breath, as if she had run the entire way.

  With a last glare at Ryen, Talbot quit the room.

  Ryen did not watch him leave. She raised her head to see the servants lift the pails they had carried in and dump the water into the tub. Steam rose, its white vapors twisting and turning as they reached toward the ceiling.

  Polly came toward her. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but when she locked gazes with Ryen, she closed it and frowned. “Did that bloody scoundrel touch ye?” Polly finally asked.

  Ryen shook her head. “I’m not going, Polly.”

  “But m’lord…” Polly’s words disintegrated as she saw the pain in Ryen’s face, her agonized gaze. “Yes. Ya are pale. Perhaps ya have a bout of illness. I’ll inform Lord Princeton that you are not well enough to dine.”

  When Ryen glanced away from Polly, the maid’s brows drew together in concern.

  Ryen sat on the edge of the bed, letting her hands fall to her lap. Her brothers…her countrymen. She had to know. She had seen the arrow in Andre’s stomach; the bloody scene played over and over in her anguished mind.

  Lucien must have gotten to him and dragged him to safety. But no one had saved her.

  She distantly heard Polly clap her hands and shout for the servants to leave. Then the door closed.

  She was alone. The fear ate away at the corners of her mind, demanding acknowledgement. But Ryen stood, pushing her doubts aside. She walked to the window and gazed out over the gates of the castle and into the town. Ryen saw farmers in their fields far in the distance.

  She remembered that once, when she was younger, she had gone to watch the men practice their swordplay. Andre had been there, young and handsome. He had stopped to speak to a maiden from the village, and Ryen remembered how jealous and angry she had been at his attentions to the girl. Why, he hadn’t even noticed that she had arrived. Ryen had thrown herself between the two, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing, demanding to see his swordplay. He had smiled at her, his eyes full of humor and understanding.

  She knew he had given up having a wife and family to fight beside her. Now, he would never have a family of his own. No, she thought, and turned from the window. He is not dead.

  But images of Andre’s kind face flooded her eyes. What if he is? a tiny voice inside asked. And Lucien? She had been so angry with him for burning the body she had thought was Bryce’s. He couldn’t die before her rage dissolved! She had to forgive him. She had to speak with him again. It couldn’t be true! Had her brothers really been murdered by the English?

  She found herself staring at the tapestry, at the horned man. His mocking grin, his knowing eyes. It was Bryce. He would know. He had the answers.

  Ryen ran to the door and threw it open, intending to go to the Great Hall for Bryce. She reared back as a wall of flesh blocked her path. She jerked her head up to find Bryce standing before her. Her fear-filled mind clouded her reality and she did not see the dark, stormy look on his face.

  “Attempting another escape?” he wondered, stepping toward her.

  “No. I…was going to find you.” She retreated into the room as he approached.

  Bryce paused to close the door behind him. When he turned to face her, his eyes glowed hotly. “In your chemise?”

  Ryen looked down, startled to find that he was right. She wore only the transparent cloth. “I – I…” her voice died as she turned large eyes to him. Ryen self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest, only to find her hands trembling. She felt her resolve weakening under his presence and tears welled up in her eyes.

  Concerned, Bryce stepped forward. “Are you ill?”

  “Bryce,” Ryen gasped and swallowed hard. “My brothers.”

  Bryce froze at her words.

  “Where are they?”

  Something close to fear crossed his face before anger lowered his brows. “They’re dead.”

  His words, delivered in a cold, vindictive tone, made her stumble back from him, her face pale. She backed up and wilted onto the bed like a dying flower.

  Bryce stepped toward her, but Ryen did not notice. Dead. Her brothers. She felt her insides begin to tremble.

  “Tears, Angel? Is that how the French handle defeat?”

  Stunned, Ryen glanced up at him as if he had slapped her. His vicious sarcasm stunned her.

  “Or perhaps you learned it from your brothers,” Bryce continued. “Why else would they allow their sister to command them? Perhaps they were not men at all.”

  Slowly her mouth closed and rage colored her cheeks. The vulnerability disappeared behind a mask of loathing.

  Bryce seemed pleased with himself, a tiny grin curling up his lips. “Now, bathe and get dressed.”

  Ryen sat absolutely still for a long moment, staring hard at him. Her jaw was clenched tightly and her heated gaze threw daggers of blue flame at him. Finally, Ryen brushed imaginary lint from her lap and replied matter-of-factly, “I wouldn’t eat with you if you were the King of France.”

  Bryce’s lips turned up in a grin. “But I’m not. And you will eat with me.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a hand, stopping her. “If I have to feed you every drop, you will eat.”

  Ryen’s eyes narrowed.

  “I will return for you in a half hour. Be ready,” he commanded, and strode to the door.

  Ryen watched him walk away. His step was so confident, so arrogant. Rage consumed her body, twisting the emotions of pain and sorrow, and even love, until they were concentrated on hate. She wanted to hurt him. To make him wish he had not shown her coldness when she’d needed warmth. She made her voice velvety soft. “To think I wanted you to hold me and tell me that everything would be all right.”

  Bryce stopped cold, realization dawning through him.

  “To think that I wanted your arms around me.”

  Slowly, suddenly aroused by her soft, delicate words, he turned to regard her. She was sitting on the bed, his bed, watching him with eyes the color of the sea.

  “To think that I wanted you to touch me.”

  He took one step forward.

  “Makes me sick,” Ryen finished, before his foot hit the ground.

  His foot came down hard. He stood glaring at her in shock for a long moment.

  A slow, calculating smile slid across her lips.

  At seeing her delight, Bryce straightened, dark eyes smoldering. He spun and quit the room, bolting the door behind him.

  Bryce stood outside the dungeon doors, staring through the celled window at the darkness within. The hallway was humid; his clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He could hear a drip, drip, drip somewhere in the cavernous corridor. The smell of mold, decay and urine surrounded him. But all of it faded away as his black eyes focused on the cell.

  A shadow moved restlessly within.

  Tension tightened his shoulders. He watched the thing pacing back and forth. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the cramping muscles. But the tension and guilt were engraved there. I should tell her, he thought.

  He knew he could not tell her. Not now; not ever. The man, the thing, inside the cell was wild, mad. Dangerous. He did not want Ryen to see him like this. It would be better to let her remember him as he was.

  The wild thing stopped its pacing, and Bryce saw him lift his head. The torchlight in the hallway glinted off the man’s orbs. Bryce’s eyes narrowed as the
prisoner called, “Prince? Is that you?”

  Bryce did not move, even when the prisoner launched himself at him, his hands outstretched for Bryce’s throat, until they stopped just inches short of his neck when the wild man slammed into the door that separated them.

  “I will kill you! If it’s the last thing I ever do!” he shouted.

  Bryce stood for a moment, eyeing him blankly. Then he turned his back on Lucien De Bouriez.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  The hurt that swirled inside Ryen left her listless. She had dressed in the samite blue dress and velvet blue surcoat she had picked and prepared to break her fast, absently combing the soft waves of hair that hung like a trellis around her face.

  Ryen rose and moved to the window. The sky was blue; the sun warmed her cheeks. People were moving about, entering and leaving the castle. Ryen leaned forward, resting her palms on the ledge, and leaned over to look straight down. A group of children ran past the window far below; a man herded a flock of sheep toward the gates. Then all was still for a moment. Ryen was about to pull back into the room when a movement caught her eye. Something in the shadows of the wall around the castle. Ryen frowned, staring hard. But the seconds ticked by and there was no sign of anyone.

  Ryen straightened, about to turn back, when a man stepped from the exact spot she was staring at, moving into the bright light of morning. Startled, she jerked back into the safety of the room. The alabaster skin was unmistakable. It was Jacques Vignon! Her advance scout, the man who had recaptured Bryce after the fire had broken out in her camp. What was he doing here?

  Ryen leaned against the wall, placing a hand on her pounding heart. Vignon! After a moment, doubt pressed in on her mind and she dropped her hand. Maybe it wasn’t him. After all, what would he be doing in England? Had he come to rescue her? Ryen peered out the window once again. But the man was gone, the courtyard empty. She pressed her palms against the stones to support her weight as she leaned out the window.

  The door to her room opened.

  Ryen whirled, her eyes large with expectation. She half expected Vignon to walk in and greet her.

  Bryce stepped into the room, and met her gaze with a frown.

  Her pounding heart was replaced by a different rush as her body heated. She hated him. He was an English dog with no warmth in his entire body, she had repeated to herself, over and over, preparing herself for just this moment. But now, faced with his scorching gaze, her blood did indeed boil, but it was not with anger…

  He wore, in total disregard to conventional fashion, a roomy white cotton tunic, open at the throat to reveal just a trace of his broad, tanned chest. It was enough to ignite Ryen’s imagination. Her gaze traveled over the rest of his body. The muscles of his strong legs were clearly visible beneath the hose he wore. They clung to his legs, leaving nothing to the imagination. On his feet he wore calf-length black leather boots.

  Ryen felt her knees trembling. She tried to recall the rage she had felt yesterday, tried to remember the sting of his words as he told her of her brothers’ deaths. But he was staring at her with those black eyes, enflaming every nerve of her body.

  Bryce lifted a hand to her, palm up. It was an open invitation to take what he was offering. Including his apologies.

  For a moment, she stared at his hand. She began to reach out. What am I doing? she thought, and brought her hand down so hard that it slapped against her thigh. She raised her chin in defiance, eyes flashing like brilliant sapphire gems, and straightened her shoulders.

  He crossed the room in three strides, until he stood before her, his stare piercingly hot.

  Ryen had to tilt her head up slightly to meet his gaze. She could feel the heat from his body as they stood, barely touching. She watched his dark, angry eyes melt into pools of hot oil.

  Then, his hand lifted. Ryen could sense the movement of his corded muscles. He was going to touch her, to put his warm hand on her body. She waited, never taking her eyes from his deep gaze, anticipating the gentle feel of his caress.

  And waited.

  Finally, she tore her stare from his and glanced at his hand. It was near her shoulder, palm up, patiently awaiting her hand.

  Ryen stepped away from him, unable to bear his arrogance. No sooner had she turned her back on him, than his amused voice came to her. “Ryen.”

  She refused to acknowledge him, instead embracing her elbows.

  Silence engulfed her for long seconds. When next his voice came to her, it was whispered on a bed of clouds. “Angel.”

  She turned hesitantly, the soft timbre of his voice casting a spell over her body that she was unable to break. She expected to see victory and laughter in his eyes. But his expression startled her. It was warm and soft and caring. Everything she had ever wanted of him. Everything she had ever needed from him…except, of course, love. Confused, Ryen moved toward what she wanted to see, needed to see, in those inky depths. She placed her hand in his.

  The jolt that rocked her body as she felt the heat of his flesh against hers made her dizzy.

  Bryce watched her lower her eyes to their clasped hands. The gesture was simple, demure, and innocent, and he found himself aroused beyond reason. He felt his hand, the hand that held her fragile one so carefully, begin to tremble. Ah, God. How he wanted her. His grip tightened around her small fingers as he willed the shaking to cease.

  Alarmed, Ryen glanced up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

  Bryce turned toward the door, quickly tucking her wrist under his arm.

  As they moved, her hand resting on the inside of his arm, Ryen could feel the subtle tightening of his muscles as he reached to open the door. His chest brushed her knuckles and she took in a sharp breath.

  Bryce paused slightly, to glance at her. But when she did not meet his gaze, he continued on.

  The door opened and a draft of cool air engulfed Ryen. It was fresh and smelled vaguely of flowers. She paused in the doorway, inhaling the invigorating scent.

  Bryce glanced back at her. He misread the look on her face as trepidation and reassured her, “You needn’t worry. No one will touch you as long as you’re at my side…”

  Ryen frowned at him. Worry? She had not thought of that. Not since Bryce had entered her room. But now that he’d brought it up, she knew she should be concerned. Last time she had entered his hall, she had been assaulted and ridiculed.

  Suddenly, Ryen had no desire to leave the safety her room offered.

  “They won’t harm you, Ryen. You have my word,” Bryce told her softly.

  At his tender earnestness, Ryen felt some of her doubt fade away, and she let him lead her down the hallway.

  The doors to the Great Hall gaped wide, and a loud clamor spilled out from within.

  Ryen glanced sideways at Bryce and he squeezed her fingers in encouragement.

  Together they entered the room, England and France, the Prince of Darkness and the Angel of Death. Immediately, talking ceased and all eyes focused on them. Bryce led Ryen down the center of the room to the seat she had occupied before, amidst his men.

  When Ryen glanced up, she saw that Talbot was in the seat across from her, his intense gaze upon her. She knew he saw not her, but the enemy. She looked away from him and noticed that McFinley’s seat was occupied by…

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared into the black eyes of Jacques Vignon! She fell into her seat, quickly closing her mouth, and looked away, unable to stare her countryman in the eye.

  She hadn’t been imagining! Why was he here? Was he a spy? Or an Englishman?

  As Bryce left her side, she followed his movement to his table at the front of the room. Ryen spotted his chair, and to either side sat the same two women who had been there before. Her heart sank. His whores still had the place of honor. Suddenly, unreasonably, she felt miserable. She looked away and her eyes locked with Talbot’s. For a moment, her hurt showed clearly on her face before she could mask it with indifference.

  Talbot frowned as Ryen met his gaze,
chin slightly uplifted, shoulders thrown back with pride.

  Ryen could feel the eyes upon her, watching expectantly. She felt the pressure of the silence, the weight of their hate. Ryen’s gaze moved past Talbot to eye the people about her. Although she purposely ignored Vignon, her mind could not. What was he doing here? Was he a traitor? Had she placed her trust in a spy?

  Then, near the door at the rear of the hall, she spotted Polly among a group of servants carrying trays and pitchers of ale. When she noticed Ryen’s gaze, Polly’s lips turned up and she smiled encouragement before disappearing out the double doors.

  Ryen’s heart sang with joy. She had made a friend among these people who hated and loathed her. Then, like a stone crashing heavily to the earth, guilt fell over her shoulders and she swiveled her eyes to Vignon, who was sipping ale from a mug. He was her reminder of France. Of her men, of her duty. Of honor. She should try harder to escape.

  Suddenly, a tingling along her spine made her swivel her head to the front of the room.

  Bryce’s gaze was locked on her. He was watching her. Had he somehow seen her reaction to Vignon? Was Vignon indeed English? Had he been a spy in her own camp? Was this some sort of test of her loyalty? And if so, who was testing her – Bryce or France? She knew that last question would go unanswered for now and turned her attention back to the scene before her.

  Ryen scanned the table to find it strangely empty of trenchers. She lifted her eyes again to Bryce. He was still staring at her, but an amused look had settled over his features. She noticed movement at the rear of the hall and turned her head. The servants were beginning to come forward, carrying large platters of bread.

  One girl bent over Ryen to place the plate in the center of the table. Ryen’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the small bread loaves piled high on the tray. As soon as the girl moved back, Ryen reached her hand out for a piece of bread. She had not made it halfway when a low growl startled her. She looked toward the noise to see the wild-looking man sitting on her right leap toward the platter.

  Ryen pulled her hand back quickly, seconds before the other men dived for the food. Chairs scraped and tumbled, wild cries filling the room as she pulled herself as far away from the food as her chair would allow. Then the men sat back, each with a portion of bread. Ryen’s stomach grumbled and she reached for the platter.