Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Bryce’s look clouded over like an approaching storm.

  But Polly was not interested in his frowns. “Sir, it jus’ wouldn’t be Christian –”

  Bryce grunted. He did not believe in God. He believed man made his own opportunities. But he had never voiced his opinion. The church wielded almost as much power as the king himself. He could not afford to be in disfavor with either of them.

  “She’s a good girl, sir. She don’t deserve ta be locked up like a common thief.”

  “Your opinion is noted. Not that you should have one.”

  Polly bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, m’lord.”

  Bryce watched her waddle away. What had Ryen done to his servants? Since when did Polly exchange two words with him, let alone have the courage to speak her mind? Bryce shrugged his large shoulders. It was inconsequential. His mind drifted back to Ryen. What would her face look like when she found out that her king would not meet his demands for a ransom? Would she throw herself to her knees and beg for his mercy?

  His lips turned up into a grin. Not his Angel. She would raised that defiant little chin and demand to know what he intended to do with her.

  “Will you break your fast?” Talbot wondered, entering the room.

  Bryce sat in his chair, his eyes coming to rest on his friend. “Not until she is mine. Show the messenger in.”

  Minutes later, the room was overflowing with the curious. Servants hid outside the door, hoping to hear what the French king would do. Some of Bryce’s men lined the room while his officers placed themselves behind their lord. The Wolf Pack, as usual, lounged in the shadows that the morning sun created behind the pillars.

  The messenger stood alone in the middle of the room.

  Bryce eyed him. The man was thin and short, certainly not an imposing figure to face the Prince of Darkness. Bryce’s spirits soared. He glanced at Talbot, who stood beside him. Talbot appeared cautious, his brows drawn together. Before Bryce had time to dwell on this, the messenger produced a scroll from his tunic. He unfurled it and spoke in broken English. “The royal King of France, his mighty lord, bids the English lord, the Prince of Darkness, to release his most valued –”

  “Get on with it,” Bryce growled. “Will he pay the ransom or no?”

  The messenger straightened with indignation. Dark eyes focused on Bryce as shaking hands rerolled the scroll and returned it to his pocket. “The King of France will not pay your ransom.”

  Murmurs broke throughout the room as the word spread.

  Bryce broke into a smile. He stood, slapping Talbot happily on the back. She was his. Ryen De Bouriez would yield to his terms now. He had never felt so relieved. Bryce turned to go to Ryen, to tell her of her king’s judgment.

  “Count Dumas will,” the messenger said.

  The words froze Bryce where he stood. Silence sliced the room like a blade as all eyes shifted to Bryce.

  Slowly, he turned a deadly gaze to the messenger. “What did you say?”

  There was a cocky glint in the messenger’s eye as he answered, “Ryen De Bouriez’s fiancé, Count Dumas, will pay your ransom demand.”

  Rage crept over Bryce’s face slowly, erasing all traces of his previous joy. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed before he turned and stormed from the receiving room.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  The door slammed open and Ryen jumped away from the window. She whirled to find Bryce approaching like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. Before she could move to shelter, his hands slammed down around her arms, buffeting her with the force of a gale wind. His white teeth gnashed as he growled, “Do you love him?”

  Ryen’s mouth dropped open.

  “You do, don’t you? Why? Why him? Did he love you, Angel?” Bryce crushed her brutally against his chest; his mouth closed over hers, savagely bruising her lips.

  Ryen turned her face away long enough to murmur, “Stop it. Please,” before his lips silenced her pleas.

  Bryce tore his lips away from her and cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Did he touch you, Angel? Like this?” His palm closed over her breast, twisting and teasing.

  “Bryce!” Ryen cried. “Stop it! Stop it!” She tried to push his hand away, but it was like rock, unmovable.

  “What’s wrong? Is my touch not as gentle as your lover’s?” He shoved her away, hard, and Ryen’s back slammed into the wall.

  Bryce’s face was twisted with anger, and something else, as he glared at her.

  “W-what are you saying?”

  “Your ransom will be paid. Your lover, Count Dumas, is paying for you.”

  Count Dumas? Ryen’s mind screamed. “No,” she gasped.

  Bryce’s eyes hardened. “No? You think your pretty thighs are not worth the amount I have requested? You’re wrong, Angel. I would pay the devil himself to have you again.”

  His admission stunned her and she stood still before him, dumbfounded. He wants me, she thought, and although she heard the words in her head, it was a moment before they sank in. He wanted her with a hunger that drove him to this madness. She had never seen such…rage in a man’s eyes, except in battle.

  Bryce watched the play of emotions on her face. “Tell me of him,” he commanded.

  She stared up at him unable to speak, unable to say anything. His cold words chilled her blood, froze her heart.

  “Come, come, Angel. Tell me if he is old or young. Tell me what color hair he has, how his eyes look. Tell me how his kisses affect you. Does he make you wet with desire?”

  “What would you have me say?” she wondered quietly, hurt and embarrassed.

  “Tell me! Damn you to hell, Angel! Tell me he made love to you. Tell me so that I can strangle that flawless white neck of yours!”

  Her face paled and her eyes looked huge, the blue of a hauntingly clear sky. He turned away and stalked to the nightstand, where he stood for an unending moment, his long fingers grasping the side of the table. His black hair hung over his face, obscuring his profile from her vision.

  Ryen watched his shoulder muscles bunch and release beneath a coat of anger. Suddenly, Bryce exploded, swiping a basin off the table. It shattered as it struck the floor, a hundred fragments spinning away in every direction.

  “Bryce,” Ryen said, softly. “Count Dumas is my fiancé, but –”

  “Your admission comes a little late,” Bryce snarled, turning. “I should have left you for dead.”

  Ryen’s eyes filled with tears of humiliation before she turned her back on him.

  Her tears pierced the blanket of rage that coated Bryce like a knife slicing silk. For a brief moment, he almost reached out to her. But he could not stop the image of his Angel in the arms of another man from snaking its way into his mind. He steeled what remained of his heart.

  His obligation to king and country was complete with the paid ransom. If losing her was the taste of duty, he wanted nothing to do with its bitter flavor. The little tart’s ransom was paid. What could he do?

  Bryce backed away from her. “Prepare yourself. You will be returned within the week.”

  Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his sensual mouth turned up in a devilish grin. The scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over her left ankle. The wind ruffled his glossy hair as his ebony eyes caressed her skin, their gaze sweeping slowly over her breasts, hips, legs. Then they shifted, rising to hers. She saw the whispered words reflected in those eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful.

  Ryen tossed on the great bed. Tears streamed from her closed eyes. Groans escaped her lips.

  Beautiful.

  “M’lady!” Polly cried, entering the room with a tray. She rushed to the bed, placing the platter on the table. Polly grabbed Ryen’s shoulders, shouting, “M’lady! Wake up. You’re dreamin’!”

  Ryen’s eyes snapped open. She looked fran
tically around the room for a moment, her eyes mirroring her fright and confusion.

  “It’s all right,” Polly soothed, her worried expression relaxing, as Ryen’s look calmed. Polly shook her head, offering Ryen a towel. “Another dream.”

  Ryen turned from her, embarrassed by her weakness. She wiped her cheeks with the cloth. She could not remember the end of the dream. She knew there was more, that it was painful, but she couldn’t recall it.

  “It’s all right, m’lady. My mother told me once that tears weren’t nothin’ to hide. They are the heart’s soul.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Ryen mumbled into the towel.

  “Beg yer pardon?”

  “Don’t call me ‘m’lady’.”

  Polly gazed hard at her. “’N what should I call ya?”

  “Ryen,” she answered. When the quiet stretched, Ryen turned to Polly. The older woman was staring at her with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes.

  “I can’t call you that,” Polly finally said, shaking her head and looking away.

  “I’m not your lady, Polly,” Ryen said quietly, a hint of remorse in her tone. “I’m leaving the castle in a few days.”

  Polly nodded, kneading her apron. “Can’t say that I’m pleased meself.”

  “Some will be very happy. Talbot –”

  “Aw, but Sir Talbot has a good heart.” Polly turned to the tray and poured Ryen some ale. “He just don’t know ya, is all.”

  “Lotte.”

  Polly frowned and shook her head as if the name itself was painful to her ears. “That one is bad blood.” She handed Ryen the cup. “If there’s anything ta be glad about, it’s that yer getting’ away from her.”

  Ryen looked down into the dark liquid. “Bryce.”

  “Now, yer wrong about that,” Polly insisted. “His lordship may be stubborn, but he is very fond of you.”

  “Fond,” Ryen repeated dully.

  “Aye. He wants ya to stay. Don’t ya see how miserable ‘e is?”

  Ryen shook her head and waves of soft hair swayed over her shoulders. “I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “He’s left the castle.”

  Ryen raised her eyes to look at Polly.

  “Some sheep raiders…or somethin’.”

  “Oh.” Ryen’s shoulders slumped. Life here was so much better than life would be if she married that old hermit. She had been harboring the hope that somehow Bryce would find a way for her to remain. So she could…could what? Be Bryce’s whore?

  “Ya do want ta stay, don’t ya?” Polly wondered.

  Ryen turned to gaze out the window at the rising sun. Bryce’s image, powerful and dark, rose before her mind’s eye. To be with Bryce; it was everything she wanted. Every time he came close to her, she melted. She wanted to touch him, to feel the power she knew was coursing just below his bronze skin. But every time he looked at her, every time he touched her, she felt anger…and something else. Beneath his anger she sensed something…something more powerful, yet something he hid very carefully, even from himself. She wanted time to find out just what it was he guarded so closely.

  She wanted with all her heart to stay with him.

  But honor would not allow it. Her accursed loyalty to France, to a country that had scorned and labeled her traitor, would not allow it.

  And yet even if she put honor and loyalty aside, could she live in the same castle as Bryce, knowing he only felt –

  “Fond,” she whispered. “I couldn’t, Polly. I just couldn’t stand it.”

  Polly’s face saddened and she stepped away from the bed, her hands at her sides. “Talbot is waitin’ for ya outside. We’d best hurry.”

  Polly helped her into a simple black velvet gown and combed her hair in silence. When she finally stepped back, Ryen clasped her hands together and rose. She led the way to the door, and when she opened it, she saw Talbot standing in the hallway. He turned when she stepped outside the room. He stared hard at her, until she had to drop her eyes to keep him from seeing the agony that tortured her.

  Wordlessly, Talbot escorted them to the Great Hall.

  The meal was served and Ryen watched blandly from her seat with the peasants as the soldiers attacked the food like barbarians.

  Ryen’s eyes were again drawn to Bryce’s empty chair. Sadness creased her forehead and drooped her shoulders. When Ryen turned back to the trencher before her, she hardly noticed how strangely quiet her table was as the peasants cast pensive stares her way. She picked at the bread, tearing off small pieces and nibbling on them.

  Suddenly Ryen heard a grunt and a hollow thud. She glanced up to see McFinley standing over an empty chair, reaching for a bowl. A woman was on the floor, scrambling away from him.

  McFinley inspected her bowl, then tossed it aside and grabbed more bowls and cups and tossed them to the floor. Peasants cleared the table, running for cover, and Ryen leapt to her feet.

  “Stop it!” she screamed, grabbing his arm. His fist came around to smash into her cheek. The blow was strong enough to knock her to the ground. Stars of pain blinded her. When the white blotches faded enough for Ryen to see, the man was grabbing the edge of the table and lifting it, flinging it onto its side. Trenchers, food, and mugs all fell, clattering into a heap on the floor. Ryen watched helplessly, slowly pushing herself up onto one elbow, as all her work, all her effort, was destroyed.

  Then, suddenly, McFinley whirled on her. His eyes were wild with rage.

  Ryen lay sprawled on the floor, her cheek stinging. She watched as he took a step forward, his face filled with loathing, his eyes burning with hate as they glared at her.

  Bryce was gone and somehow Ryen could not muster the strength to defend herself. She lowered her head to the floor.

  “Ya ain’t gonna hurt ‘er,” a small voice proclaimed bravely.

  Ryen forced herself to sit and saw Jimmy standing before her, his arms akimbo, as he faced the brute.

  McFinley’s gaze, as well as his anger, focused on the boy.

  Ryen shot to her feet, pulling Jimmy against her to protect him.

  McFinley snarled, his lips curling, and took a step toward them.

  Ryen’s heart raced. If it were just her…but Jimmy. She couldn’t allow him to be hurt because he was brave enough to defend her. She pushed Jimmy behind her.

  Talbot appeared between them. “That’s enough, McFinley.”

  “Out of my way, Talbot,” McFinley growled.

  “You need a rest, man. Go down to the yards and work it off.”

  McFinley stepped forward.

  The hiss of metal against metal sounded in the suddenly quiet room as Talbot drew his sword and pointed it at McFinley’s chest. “I think you’ve been drinking much too early this morn. Go to the yards – now.”

  McFinley’s eyes shifted to Talbot, and for a moment, the anger receded. Then, his gaze snapped back to Ryen and hate slammed down like a hammer.

  He stepped back and reached to his waist to draw his own sword.

  “Don’t do this, McFinley. My word is law while Prince is gone,” Talbot warned.

  “Stand aside,” McFinley said, his red eyes trained on Ryen. “I only want to teach her a lesson.”

  The tip of Talbot’s sword lowered a hand’s breadth and Ryen stared in disbelief. He was going to let McFinley ‘teach her a lesson’!

  Then Talbot’s jaw stiffened and he raised his weapon again.

  McFinley moved swiftly, pulling his sword and arcing it down in a sweeping motion. Talbot deflected the blow with a slicing movement and the sound of swords clanging echoed in the hall.

  As the men exchanged blows, Ryen’s expert eye caught flaws in McFinley’s techniques: his eyes gave away the direction of his thrust and he hesitated a split second before acting. But Talbot was faltering under McFinley’s relentless attacks. She knew Talbot would not last much longer. He was not left-handed and his right arm was useless, forever damaged by his dangerous leap from her window. Ryen moved Jimmy to the safety of his mother’s arms, her
eyes scanning the room.

  McFinley attacked with unswerving steadiness. He rained blow upon blow down about Talbot, who was wilting under his barrage. McFinley arced his sword and then quickly thrust. Talbot blocked and jumped back, but his foot caught on a fallen bench and he went down. His sword flew from his grasp and skittered across the floor as he crashed to his back.

  McFinley stared down at his prone victim for a moment, his face void of any emotion. Then, with a grimace, he howled, raised his sword, and drove the sharp tip down toward Talbot’s chest.

  Before the deadly aim struck flesh, McFinley’s arms were jarred as a sword struck his and his blow missed its target entirely. His blade struck the stone floor. Talbot rolled away, and rising to his feet, turned to see who had saved his life.

  Ryen stood tall before him, gripping his sword with two hands, its tip pointing directly at McFinley’s chest.

  McFinley slowly circled to her left, away from Talbot, his eyes narrowed in contempt, his lips curled with hatred. “I have a debt to settle with you,” McFinley snarled.

  Ryen felt unsure, but she tried to hide the feeling deep in her chest. It was not easy. The sword felt awkward, and her dress inhibited her steps. She knew she would somehow have to get rid of the dress or die. Her heart pounded as she saw his eyes shift to the left.

  Ryen raised the sword and blocked the blow. Then he swung again and again. The impact of each parry jarred her arms. But confidence and familiarity began to creep through her body with each crossing of the swords. The old feeling of power came back to her with each clang of metal. This was who she was, what she did best.

  He swung again and thrust. Again Ryen diverted the blows. She grew comfortable with Talbot’s sword, but in order to defeat McFinley, she knew she had to get her legs free.

  She allowed him to drive her back to the fallen table with each blow. She was defending herself and not attacking. McFinley became cocky, playing with her as though she were a squire. Let him underestimate me, Ryen thought with a smirk. Ryen kicked an overturned stool at him and he stumbled, falling heavily to the floor.

  Instead of attacking, Ryen fled her foe, running for cover. As she ran, she slashed the heavy sword at her black dress, cutting the velvet material just above her knees. She ripped it as she ran and, pausing behind a fallen chair, tore the rest of her gown from her legs. As she tugged the black velvet off, Ryen lifted her eyes to find McFinley climbing to his feet. She grinned as she stepped from the tatters of velvet.