Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Couldn’t stay away?” he murmured with a soft chuckle.

  “Don’t talk,” she said. “Get me water and a cloth,” Ryen called to Andre, not taking her concerned gaze from the wounded knight before her. Ryen’s hands skimmed Bryce’s stomach, his already bruised ribs. Then her hands fluttered over his strong arms, his legs. Nothing. Nothing was broken. She breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on her heels.

  “I don’t think your brother likes me,” Bryce said.

  The light from the flickering candle cast a halo of light around his body, making it appear as if the fire were raging within him. She stared at him for a long moment before dropping her gaze.

  Andre returned with a basin of water and some cloth, which he set at her side.

  “You may leave us,” she commanded.

  “He’s your enemy,” Andre whispered. “Never forget that.” Then he turned and went out of the tent, leaving them alone.

  Ryen soaked a cloth in the basin of water, then reached for Bryce’s face…and froze. The impulse to ease his hurt had been so natural. She had tended her father’s wounds when she was younger and her brothers as she grew. But this, this was Bryce, not her brethren, not her family. He was her prisoner. Slowly she touched his face, carefully wiping the blood from his lip, and found that her hand was trembling. She willed the shaking to cease, but her fingers shivered as she began to wipe away more blood. As she drew the wet cloth across his mouth and watched his lips emerge, she recalled the fierce fire those lips ignited inside of her.

  She ran the cloth gently across his forehead, all the while staring at his handsome face, a face marred by the wound she had inflicted, a bruise on his cheek and a light bruise above one brow. Her gaze dropped to his naked chest. It gleamed with perspiration in the candlelight, his stomach flat and lined with muscles. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers over his smooth skin, skin that housed fire beneath its burning surface. Embarrassed and frightened by these forbidden emotions, she lowered her gaze unwittingly to the part of him that had joined them in their lovemaking. Even covered by his leggings, it was huge. She turned quickly away only to meet his dark eyes. Ryen froze for a moment. Did he know what she was thinking? She could not meet his gaze and dropped her eyes immediately, turning away to dip the cloth into the cool water. As she wrung out the wet cloth, she couldn’t erase the feeling of embarrassment that flamed her cheeks.

  I am bringing him back to father, she thought. That is why I would not leave Bryce in the forest. That is the reason why I ran after him. The only reason.

  When she turned back to him, she saw the narrowing of his eyes as he regarded her and the change in his flippant countenance to a more quiet and pensive mood. Ryen reached up to the bruise that was turning a purplish color on his cheek. As she brushed over it with the cloth, she saw his jaw clench before he reached up and grabbed her hand, pulling it away from his face.

  Her eyes locked with his black, mysterious orbs.

  “I will never forgive you for the life of my son,” he stated quietly.

  Ryen dropped her eyes. It had not been her fault. But she understood that it was necessary to blame someone. If it would ease his pain, then she would take the responsibility. “I know,” she murmured.

  The silence stretched on in the small tent. Ryen knew the sounds of the camp were around her, the distant chatter of conversation, the ping-ping of the blacksmith’s hammer. But she heard nothing but the beating of her heart. Then she felt his fingers squeezing hers and realized that he was still holding her hand. The grip became painful, and she looked up. His eyes were like an abyss, drawing her closer and closer. She felt him leaning into her and closed her eyes in anticipation of the feel of his lips on hers.

  Suddenly the tent flap whipped open and Lucien stepped in. “Ryen, I thin…”

  Ryen jumped away from Bryce quickly, shooting to her feet.

  Lucien stood for a moment without moving.

  Ryen could not look at him. She knew he would read the guilt on her face. “Yes?” she asked.

  Slowly, Lucien pulled his sword from its sheath, the metal hissing like a snake as it emerged from its protective covering.

  Ryen stepped toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Lucien’s turbulent blue eyes slashed past Ryen to Bryce. “Stand aside, Ryen!” he roared.

  She found herself trapped between the two of them. “He is unarmed!” she cried. “Would you run him through without a chance to defend himself? It would not be honorable!”

  His burning gaze shifted to her and Ryen saw resentment there. “Then you deny he was trying to rape you?” His voice was thick with rage.

  It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. Lucien had convinced himself that she would not touch an enemy. He was protecting her reputation! He was trying to shield the family name from scandal while achieving his goal of killing Bryce. Panic seized her and she had to fight to control the alarm that sliced through her. “Yes!”

  “You stand there and tell me that what I saw was you willingly embracing our enemy?”

  Ryen raised her chin in defiance, her eyes flashing dangerously.

  “And if I had been a moment later, would you have parted your thighs for him, too?” Lucien snarled and shoved her roughly aside.

  Ryen fell to her hands and knees. She heard Bryce say, “It will not be as easy this time. Are you sure you do not want to bind my hands again so I won’t scar that pretty face of yours?”

  Ryen heard a thud as Bryce and Lucien’s bodies hit the ground. Their arms were entwined like those of lovers, but their faces were grimacing with hate. Bryce held Lucien’s sword arm away from him as they rolled across the floor.

  Ryen stood slowly, her knees shaking. She saw Bryce bash Lucien’s hand against the ground until the sword jarred free. Lucien threw a blow to the side of Bryce’s head that sent him flying.

  As Lucien stood, Ryen launched herself at him, jumping onto his back, locking her arms around his neck. Lucien had always been able to beat Ryen in play fights, and this was no exception, especially since he wasn’t playing. He grabbed hold of her tunic and pulled her over his head, sending her whirling into the canvas wall. “I would rather kill you myself than see you in his arms,” Lucien threatened hotly, and spun away from her.

  Bryce climbed to his feet and was greeted by a fist to the chin. He staggered back.

  Ryen shook her head, trying to clear her vision. As Lucien went after Bryce, Ryen desperately threw herself at Lucien in an attempt to separate them, but Lucien pushed her back again. She felt herself falling, but Bryce’s arms wrapped around her, and he gently set her out of the way.

  Ryen saw Lucien dive toward Bryce and barely had time to shout a warning before Lucien hit him, pushing him back away from Ryen. Bryce absorbed two blows to his ribs and one to his cheek before he threw a fist into Lucien’s neck. The man went down in a heap of gags and coughs and Bryce pursued him to the ground, raining blow upon blow on his adversary.

  Andre rushed in, flanked by two knights. They pulled Bryce from Lucien who lay unconscious on the ground, his face a mask of blood. Bryce was shaking all over, his fists clenched at his sides. He fought to free himself, struggling with the knights who held his arms. Two more knights rushed in to help subdue the Prince of Darkness.

  Ryen knelt at Lucien’s side. She could see his chest rising and falling with his breath. Thank God, she thought, before turning her eyes to Bryce. He was wild, twisting and turning in their hold, his strong muscles straining beneath their grips.

  “Get him to the other tent. Chain him well,” Andre ordered.

  Ryen watched in anguish as they dragged Bryce from the tent, then dropped her head into the crook of her arm. Fool! she berated herself. What was I thinking, wanting him to kiss me here in the prisoner’s tent? Lucien knows now. And he will do everything in his power to hurt Bryce. Or to kill him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bryce rode beside Ryen as the French troops entered the t
own, his wrists and ankles bound tightly by metal chains. Cheers deafened him. It seemed every villager had come out to welcome the army home, the loud, excited voices filling the air with an unintelligible babble. Women raced up to the mounted knights and handed them bouquets of brightly colored flowers. Small children ran ahead of the horses, shouting the knights’ arrival. Still more people crowded into the already packed street to watch the procession.

  And to watch Ryen. She was the pride of every villager there, showered with rose petals and looks of adoration as if she were some sort of heavenly goddess, some sort of…angel.

  Bryce studied their faces, the love in the peasants’ eyes, and the loathing when their eyes turned to him. He was amazed at how neat and clean the people were. Why, in the village of Dark Castle, there were children who could barely walk because they wore shirts ten times too big for them. And there wasn’t a man who did not have the knee or elbow ripped on his tunic or hose. Bryce straightened. His people just worked harder. His eyes scanned the shadows of the streets. Every village had its beggars or lepers who lurked in the shadows, hoping for a handout. He scowled slightly, trying to peer into each doorway they passed, behind each barrel, but try as he might, he could see no beggars! Not one. They must be here somewhere, he thought. As his eyes swept over the people, he noticed something else. They all looked healthy, well fed but not fat. His mind thought back to his own people, women who could barely keep their clothing from falling off their thin bodies, old men who looked like skeletons. He scowled.

  Bryce received his share of curses and laughter. As a cold stare in the direction of the offender would silence him, more laughter would assault him from a different direction. I was caught by a woman, he told himself. Twice! They should laugh. But this is no ordinary woman, he thought. She betrays me with a club to my head. All I wanted was for her to be safe from thieves and the like. The thought of what those men could have done to her makes me sick. Then, she hit me from behind. I should have expected as much. I was a fool to have given my trust so easily.

  Fury rose in his throat like bile. He wanted to vent his anger on someone, something. He needed to release his rage, but the cold chains around his wrists restrained any strong action.

  Unseen by Bryce, a small boy, standing farther up the narrow street, bent down and scooped up a handful of mud.

  Bryce wanted to wipe the smirk from Ryen’s face. She didn’t have to enjoy his misery so much. He glanced up at the castle ahead. The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised. The entrance was black with shadow – the mouth of a hungry beast, he thought, waiting to devour me.

  The boy packed the mud ball tightly in his palm. He tossed the compacted dirt from one hand to the other, impatiently fidgeting from one foot to the other.

  Bryce shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. His thoughts raced from one possible escape to the next. He should try and make some kind of break before he passed under the sharp teeth of the castle’s mouth, before he rode through the jagged shadows thrown by the portcullis, before he was trapped.

  The boy grinned, pleased with his plan. He was going to get the bad man. Hit him right in the face. He had heard many stories about the bad man. Stories that made him tremble in the middle of the night. Stories that made him feel very afraid. The boy did not like to feel afraid. This would be his chance to strike back at the bad man. He packed the mud ball even tighter.

  Bryce glanced into the side streets, waiting for the right moment. But all he saw were throngs of people. Malevolent faces stared, casting hate and loathing at him from every direction.

  The boy saw the horses approaching down the street, saw the bad man sitting on one. The fear came upon him like a tornado, swirling around him, making his fingers tremble as he clutched the ball of mud. He couldn’t do it. The bad man would come after him.

  Bryce was surrounded by the enemy. He had never felt more trapped in his life. He had never felt more desperate.

  The boy suddenly realized that he was surrounded by people, by guards with weapons. The bad man couldn’t get him. The guards wouldn’t let him. He raised his arm, pulled it back and threw, hurling the mud ball at the bad man. The clump of moist dirt sailed through the air, moving fast toward its target.

  The boy’s aim was off the mark.

  Ryen turned as her eyes caught a sudden movement, but she didn’t have time to react. The mud ball moved straight for her face.

  Bryce saw it coming a moment before Ryen. He reacted quickly, raising his hand to catch it.

  The crowd suddenly grew very silent, thinking the Prince of Darkness was about to strike their Angel. A guard instinctively turned his weapon toward Bryce.

  The mud ball struck Bryce’s palm square in the middle, hitting it with a resounding smack. He closed his fingers around it and pulled his hand back from Ryen’s face.

  Ryen stared in wonderment as Bryce showed her the flattened pancake of mud in his hand.

  “I’m sure it was meant for me,” he whispered to her, then let the mud ball slip from his fingers to the ground.

  Bryce watched her struggle with her emotions. Her full lips parted as if to speak, but then closed again. Not even a smile, Bryce thought with bitterness. But what had he expected? “We can’t have you looking all dirty, now can we?” he added.

  Ryen’s jaw tightened and she spurred her horse on, leading her army toward the castle.

  As they approached, Bryce watched his hope of escape dissolve as the guards from the castle rushed out to greet them. With the guards came women who eagerly ran to embrace husbands or sons. The well-armed men closed in around his horse, separating him from Ryen.

  The moat, he noticed as they crossed the wooden plank, looked deep and slimy. He wondered briefly if he could swim it.

  Bryce was led under the portcullis, its jagged spear-like frame pointing at his head as the mount led him beneath it, threatening to crush him beneath its spikes. His horse stopped in the middle of a large square and he glanced up. Her castle was smaller than his by far. Its towers were rounded where his were square. But it was immaculately well cared for. He remembered once returning home to see that one of the inner courtyard walls of his castle had crumbled. It wasn’t that there was no gold to repair it, it was just that his steward was a practical man, more concerned with keeping the castle properly armed and stocked with food supplies in case of a siege than with its appearance.

  Bryce did not fight as hands reached up to pull him from the horse. Guards surrounded him and pushed him toward the castle. He paused before the great double doors to look back at Ryen. She was patting the neck of her warhorse. Bryce wondered where her greeting party was. Had she no one to welcome her home? Then bitterness replaced his confusion. She did not even notice he was gone.

  Ryen nuzzled her horse affectionately, burying her face in his white mane. He whinnied in response, nudging her shoulder. Ryen relinquished the reins of her horse to her squire and turned, searching for Bryce. His mount was empty! Ryen knew instinctively where he had been taken. The dungeon. The thought of him locked in the gloomy, damp, rodent-infested prison made her cringe. She started to follow, thinking to stop them from throwing him into such a horrible place. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Such an act would border on treason. He was a prisoner. He belonged in the dungeon. Her heart sank to the depths of the castle with him.

  Suddenly, she almost fell over as a little whirlwind ran into her, throwing her arms around her. “Ryen!” the voice cried in jubilation. Ryen pried herself free from the embrace and stepped back to stare into wide brown eyes.

  “My Lord,” Ryen gasped.

  The girl giggled, covering her mouth with a small hand. “Please! Don’t greet me as though I am a stranger! I couldn’t bear it!”

  Ryen could not catch her breath. Could this be Jeanne? Could this be her little sister? Have five years changed her so much I would not recognize her walking down a street? Ryen wondered. Jeanne had grown up. Her hair had changed from straggly straw to golden blond. Her skin wa
s flawless, almost luminescent. Was this little Jeanne, the girl who teased me about masquerading as a boy? “You’ve changed,” Ryen muttered.

  “I should hope so! It has been a long time! I never have forgiven you for missing my wedding,” Jeanne pouted.

  “I’m very sorry, Jeanne. But I could not leave the siege. I tried to finish it before then. I lost twenty men rushing the castle,” Ryen stated.

  “Pooh. Don’t talk of war. You know how it bores me. But the silks you sent from Paris. That was really too much, Ryen. They are so lovely that I couldn’t help but make you a dress.”

  Ryen groaned inwardly. Dresses were confining and even burdensome. “They were for you, Jeanne. You didn’t have to go to the trouble –”

  “It was no trouble at all. I’ve become quite good, you know. Jules says that I am the best dressmaker in all France. I believe he is exaggerating.”

  “You’re happy, then?” Ryen asked sincerely.

  Jeanne nodded and a dreamy smile touched her lips. “I am very lucky that Father allowed me to choose. He will do the same for you someday.”

  “Where is Father?” Ryen raised her eyes to scan the crowd.

  “Oh, you know Father. He had to see Andre and Lucien.”

  Ryen’s bubble of hope burst. “Yes. I know Father,” she replied dully.

  “Don’t look so sad. Not on a day as wonderful as this. You’ve come home to us.” Jeanne seized Ryen’s arm and began to tug her toward the castle. “Come. You must meet Jules. And you really have to tell me all about this Prince of Darkness.”

  As Jeanne led her into the castle, Ryen was struck by the odd feeling that she was a stranger here. Nothing had changed, the entranceway was exactly the same as it had been, but there were little things that were proof of how long she had been away. She stopped at a tapestry hanging on the wall that depicted a knight with the De Bouriez coat of arms on his shield. She inspected the picture. An Englishman was dead beneath the foot of the knight. A stream of blood ran from the fatal wound in the fallen knight’s chest. “When was this hung?” Ryen wondered.