She had to get out! But how? There wasn’t a way. She had looked and looked! You fool, she chastised herself. You were a child! Now you are a warrior. But what am I to do? Splinter the door? How do you win battles? she asked herself. Through brawn? No. Through brains. Think!
Ryen paced the room, trying to come up with a plan while attempting to calm the anxiety that was racing through her veins. Her gaze scanned the room again. She ran to the window, again a child of eight, and looked down the sheer wall of the castle. Like an abyss, the descent to the brackish water gaped before her. To a child’s mind, the curving banks of the moat seemed to frown up at her.
Ryen turned away to scan the room once more. Her eyes came to rest on the four-poster bed. Even if she tied all the blankets together, they would not be enough to reach the ground. It was too far. If the fall to the ground did not kill her, and through some miracle she reached the moat, it was unswimmable. Of course, Ryen knew this. For she had thought of it before.
Again she ran to the door, retracing the steps she had taken as a child. She pounded on the wood, screaming to be let out.
But no one came.
The tears of a scared little girl welled in her eyes. They would leave her here…she would never get out. She would grow old and die in this room, and no one would know.
Slowly, Ryen’s hand clenched. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it. There is a way out of here. And it’s not setting fire to the room, as you thought those many years ago. And it’s not jumping into the moat.
Ryen forced herself to calm her breathing and walked quietly to her bed. She sat down, her chin bowed to her chest. There is a way out, she told herself.
The blind fear of a child was slowly replaced by a burning anger. How dare Lucien lock me in here, Ryen thought. I will get out. And I will get him back.
Calmly, Ryen considered the door. It was much too thick to break down. But it was not the door itself that was her barrier. It was the bolt. She knew how a bolt worked. Somehow, she had to breach the bolt.
Ryen shot to her feet, ran to her bureau, and dug through the silk dresses and gauzy chemises as if they were old rags. Finally, after parting rich bolts of material, she found it. After all these years, it was still there, buried deep beneath layers of Spanish satin and Venetian velvet. Carefully, she picked it up and held it before her eyes. The candlelight sparkled off its long, thin metallic surface. It was a hunting knife, Lucien’s pride and joy. She had taken it from him many, many years ago, after he had hidden a dead fish under her pillow. She grinned. He had never found it. It served him right for his prank.
She raced to the door and carefully inserted the blade between the frame and the door. She bit her lip, squinting as she pushed the blade up. All she had to do was slide the bolt back and push the door open. Slide the bolt back, she told herself. Careful. She felt the weight of the bolt on the blade as she slowly tilted the weapon to the side. But it slipped and the bolt slid heavily back into place with a thud. Ryen clenched her teeth. Getting angry won’t move that bolt, she told herself. Her jaw relaxed and she took a long, slow breath before making another attempt. Lift the bolt, move it back. Back. I have it, she thought. It’s working! Then, scrape. The bolt shot back into place. Silently, Ryen cursed. Lift. She wiped the perspiration from her brow. She pictured the bolt in her mind. Slide it back as if opening the door. Ryen bit her lips gently as the bolt eased back. Further. Don’t pull yet. Not yet. Her hands shook with the effort of holding the bolt open. Then, Ryen yanked on the door. It swung open and she nearly stumbled back into a bedpost. Elation coursed through her like the dawn bursting through the night sky.
Ryen kissed the blade and quickly glanced down the hallway, half expecting Lucien to still be standing guard before her room.
The hallway was empty.
Ryen returned her gaze to the knife, staring at it for a long moment, knowing that she should bring it with her. The picture of her brandishing a knife before her brother seemed ridiculous. She would never hurt him, no matter what, and he knew it. Finally, she tossed the dagger back into the room.
Ryen closed the door behind her and slid the bolt back into place, just in case Lucien happened to pass by while she was gone. Swiftly but quietly, she made her way down the hallway toward a stairwell, her bare feet making no sound. The stairwell should be empty at this time of night.
The cold stones stung her feet as she descended, but she ignored the biting chill, watching and listening for any movements.
“Are you ready for the joust?”
Ryen came to an immediate halt, the momentum of her forward movement almost hurtling her down the rest of the stairs toward the source of the voice. She pulled back into the shadows of the staircase, pressing her back against the wall.
“I can’t wait to slice him in two.”
“You must leave some for me. Not all the fun can be yours.”
Ryen was certain the second voice belonged to Lucien and she pushed herself further against the wall until she could feel the stones against her skin. A chill twisted up her spine. She must not be found. Least of all by Lucien.
A chuckle sounded from below. “If you wanted to put your lance through him, why didn’t you challenge him first?”
There was a rustle of clothing before Lucien’s words, whispered and furious, ascended to Ryen’s ears. “If you kill him before I have a chance, I will have your head!”
Then, footsteps echoed in the Great Hall as one of them walked away. After a moment, the second, softer pair trod the same path. Slowly, she took one step and then another, until she could see the Great Hall stretching out before her. Lucien and the other knight were gone, and the hall was strangely empty. Long flickering shadows cast by the torches on the walls stretched across its length.
Ryen dashed around a corner and ran down the stairs. It was dank and foul-smelling below. But the quick pounding of her heart pushed her on, down another narrower set of steps, to enter the dungeon from the rear entrance.
A small, dark corridor stretched before her, ending at a barred door. She approached slowly, her bare feet slushing over cold, wet stones. Where was the guard who was stationed here?
When she reached the door, she was surprised to find it ajar. Ryen stood on tiptoe to peer through the bars. The room beyond was black and she could make out no movement. Foreboding snaked through her body as she pressed the tips of her fingers to the door’s slimy wood and it opened slightly. She pushed harder and the hinges groaned as it swung inward.
She stepped into the dark room and the hem of her nightdress snagged on something. Fearing a rat, she lashed out with her foot only to hit cold metal. Chain mail. She took a quick step back, startled by her discovery. The guard!
Suddenly, Ryen saw a shadowed movement. Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her gasp. Instantly, another hand seized her slim waist and pulled her back to a wall of muscle. Ryen’s heart raced as she cursed herself for being so stupid. She felt the sharp edge of a dagger press into her chin, stilling any struggles before they could start.
“Not a word,” a husky voice whispered.
A shadowed form stepped before her and looked out into the hallway. “It’s clear,” the second man said as he moved aside.
Ryen felt herself being shoved forward through the dark hallway, to the stairwell, the first man right behind her.
A familiar chuckle caressed her ear. “Come for the escape, Angel?” The hand about her waist loosened to roam upward, caressing her skin. “Or perhaps for another romp?”
Bryce. Embarrassment blazed through her body, fueling her courage, and she began to struggle. When the dagger’s tip was again pressed into her chin, she stiffened.
“Oh, no, my little Angel,” the voice stroked her ear with rich sarcasm. “We cannot have you calling attention to our venture.”
Relief and anger surged through her as he half carried, half dragged her up the narrow stairs. He turned and continued up the next flight. Her bare feet scraped against
the ragged stones because she couldn’t keep up with his large strides as he took two steps at a time.
At the Great Hall, Bryce paused. Ryen tried to catch her breath, but it was difficult while his hand was over her mouth. They began crossing the large room. Fools, Ryen thought. How can they hope to escape through the Great Hall – shadows sneaking across the vast expanse of hall, metal glinting in the torchlight?
“Someone’s coming,” the other man stated.
They pulled back into the shadows of the stairway that led to Ryen’s room. She heard a soft whistling accompanying the echo of the footsteps as the person approached from the hallway, the way Lucien had disappeared.
At that moment, a soft clang of rustling chain mail came from the entrance that led to the castle doors. It was the guards from the tower! And they were coming straight for them.
Ryen jerked, trying desperately to move toward the stairs that led up to her room. But Bryce’s hold was like a shackle, binding her movements. If only he would follow her!
Ryen yanked her head away sharply, hitting Bryce in the cheek. He mumbled a curse as Ryen gasped, “The stairs.” After a second’s hesitation, Ryen felt his hold on her loosen and she grabbed his arm, moving a step up the stairs. She tried to pull him, but he was like a wall to move. He had to come of his own will. It was the only way he would be safe. In the soft glow of the wavering torchlight she beseeched him with her eyes.
Bryce moved unexpectedly, almost running her over. He bounded up the stairs, her wrist in his tight grip. Bryce paused at the top of the stairs and gazed down the hall. It was empty. Ryen hurried down the hallway, leading them to her room. She opened the lock and then the door, and let them pass before closing it quickly behind her. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Bryce was safe for the moment. Together, they could collect their thoughts and formulate a plan of action.
“It’s a trap.”
Ryen whirled, facing her accuser. It was the first time she had seen the man. And she disliked him on sight. His eyes were filled with loathing, his lip curled in a sneer. His clothes, the ragged trappings of a common beggar, were mud splattered and stained. Ryen looked closer at his eyes and saw an alert sharpness behind the loathing; this man was no beggar.
“Where is the escape route?” he demanded. “The witch has led us into a trap.”
“Yes,” Ryen answered bitterly. “You see thousands of my men crawling from beneath my bed to apprehend you.”
The man raised the dagger he held in his hand and stepped toward her menacingly.
Bryce’s strong hand rose in a motion to halt.
Ryen’s gaze shifted to him. The candlelight washed over his features, bathing him in a soft, golden light. The scar on his cheek was ghostly. “This is no trap, Talbot,” Bryce murmured.
As Ryen watched, his eyes shifted and she followed his gaze to the bed that stood invitingly near. She blushed and could not help turning back to Bryce. His dark, smoldering eyes raked her from the tips of her hair to her feet. Ryen crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how transparent her nightdress was.
“She must die,” Talbot said grimly, approaching Bryce.
Bryce tore his gaze away from Ryen to look at Talbot.
“Vengeance for all those she killed in camp.”
Bryce turned away from him. “I know.”
With shaking hands, Ryen grabbed at the handle of the door. She had to escape! But a hand beside her head held the door in place when she attempted to pull it open. She tried once again, but the door didn’t move even a hair’s breadth.
Ryen closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, prepared to feel the dagger’s death bite on her throat.
It never came.
Instead, a gentle hand upon her upper arm guided her away from the door. Numb, she could not lift her head to look at him, sick with the realization that she would betray her country to help him and in return he would kill her – the Prince of Darkness would slit her throat. She had given everything to him. And he would give her death.
Bryce turned her body and seated her upon her bed.
“Here,” Talbot said.
As Bryce left her side, Ryen looked up. Talbot stood at the window, gazing down. Had they seen something she had missed? There was no escape there – just the dirty jaws of the moat fifty feet below.
Bryce nodded. “Good.”
Both men’s gazes then shifted to her. There was a moment of indecision, and silent tension poisoned the air. Without a word, Talbot raised his weapon and came toward her.
Ryen squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She was a soldier. She would not cower before death.
“I’ll do it,” Bryce said.
Talbot faltered. He did not take another step, but his dark eyes probed Ryen as she sat on the bed; her eyes dared him to finish his task.
“Go,” Bryce commanded.
Talbot took two steps backward before turning to Bryce. He replaced his dagger in its sheath.
Bryce did not take his eyes from Ryen. “I will join you in a moment.”
Ryen watched incredulously as Talbot mounted the inside ledge of the window. She rose, crying, “You’ll be killed!” as Talbot casually stepped from the window. She ran to the vacated ledge and quickly peered over the side to the moat below. In the light just before sunrise, the gray waters of the moat appeared tinged with red. There was no sign of Talbot.
Ryen’s gaze swept from shore to shore, but the banks remained empty. Panicked, she turned to look at Bryce. The muscles in his right arm were twitching and Ryen’s gaze followed the corded sinews to his hand. He was turning his dagger over in his palm, again and again.
Her gaze shot up to lock with his, expecting to see hate. But strangely, his eyes were shadowed with sadness.
“You knew that I would not kneel to your father.” His tone was resentful as he stepped toward her.
Ryen began to back away from him. She saw a dangerous look hidden beneath the sadness. Yet she could say nothing to defend herself. She felt naked before his probing eyes, as if he could reach into her soul and pull out her deepest secrets. He continued to dog her steps, until the backs of her knees hit the bed.
Bryce stopped short before her.
Ryen’s chest rose and fell with her breathing, the tips of her breasts barely brushing his chest. Was he going to kill her now? Her blue eyes blazed defiantly, staring into his dark, unfathomable orbs.
Suddenly, he tossed aside the dagger and seized her, pulling her close. “I could never kill you,” he whispered. “I could never mar this flawless skin.” His finger caressed her neck, creating a line that an assassin would draw.
Ryen gasped at the gentle touch that sent spears of flame shooting through her body.
“Why did you come to the dungeon?” Bryce demanded. “Tell me why you risked your life to see me.”
His closeness was overwhelming, and she could not think logically. All she wanted to do was to throw her arms around his broad shoulders and kiss him.
“Damn you, tell me,” he grunted, shaking her.
He pressed his thighs against hers and Ryen could feel his passion through his leggings. She groaned softly. He wanted her!
He pushed the proof of his desire even closer against her. “Is this why?” he asked in a gentler tone, the heat of his gaze soldering her to the spot.
“No,” she choked out. She tried to pull away from him, but he would not let her go.
Bryce cupped her face gently. He stared hard at her, as if battling emotions deep within him. “Come with me,” he finally said.
Surprised rocked through her. He wanted her with him! Did he love her, as she did him? Did he want her like she wanted him? Then her elation dissipated and was replaced with doubt. Yes, he wanted her. As his prisoner. She dropped her gaze and shook her head. She could feel his stare burning into her skull.
“I’ll find you again.” His voice was filled with confidence. With promise.
She wanted to believe him. With all her
heart she wanted to fall victim to his promise. But she knew that the war was more powerful than either one of them, the hate between their countries too strong. Suddenly, a feeling of loss filled her and she looked into Bryce’s black eyes. The impact of Bryce escaping hit her full force. She was afraid she would never see him again, afraid that the place he had warmed in her heart would now turn cold. Anguish filled her entire soul.
Bryce reached up with his hand, caressing the softness of her cheek. He slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to pull away.
But she did not.
His lips moved over hers, coaxing her to open to his exploration. Ryen parted her lips, and his tongue plunged into the recesses of her mouth. His strong arms encircled her, giving her no room to retreat.
Fear jolted Ryen and she shook her head frantically, suddenly more afraid of him than she had ever been before. She yanked her head back, pressing her hands against his chest. She had dreamed of him touching her with the softness and gentleness of a man who loved her and now that he was doing just that her powerful response to his caress was overwhelming. The ecstasy he was giving her with each stroke of his hands and lips was so wonderful that it made the pain of his leaving too much to bear. “If only…” she whispered. The barrier that separated them was huge, impassable. It was not a man. It was not a country. It was honor. It was allegiance. These were things they could not fight with a sword. She lifted a sad gaze to him.
He stared at her with an intensity of promise and anguish that she felt through to her heart. She shivered under the searing look, wanting to curl up to him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to go with him, but knowing she could not. Beneath her open palm, she felt the hammering of his heart, racing as her own did until they seemed to beat as one.
Suddenly, there was a pounding at the door!
Bryce pulled away from their embrace and looked toward the door, every muscle in his body coiled tightly.
Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection Page 29