Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Free at last, the Angel of Death straightened to greet McFinley as he charged at her. He skidded to a halt just before the chair and eyed the confident grin, the new glint in her eyes. This was not the woman he had faced a moment ago.

  Ryen saw a frown of apprehension slide over his features and she leapt to the top of the chair. As it fell flat, she rode it to the floor, bringing the sword up. She attacked him, giving in to the longing in her heart for a sword fight.

  Under her blows, McFinley was forced backward until they had moved across the room, near Bryce’s chair.

  Finally, McFinley responded with his own set of thrusts and arcs. But Ryen read his moves in his eyes, anticipating his swing. Ryen allowed him to attack, saving her strength until McFinley was panting from exertion of the onslaught. She raised an eyebrow at him and a grin lit her face. “Is that the best you’ve got?” she wondered.

  A growl of rage issued from deep in his throat and he assaulted her with a flurry of thrusts until he could barely hold the sword up.

  “Dance until your feet burn, all night long,” Ryen sang, bring the sword around to her right, attacking his left flank.

  McFinley blocked her blow.

  “Seven and twenty maidens singing a song.” She arced the sword to his left.

  He parried.

  “When the song was finished the maidens said…” Arc right.

  McFinley blocked her sweep.

  “Your sword will be a lovely gift to set before the prince.” Ryen thrust, catching his sword, and twisted her wrist, jarring the weapon loose from McFinley’s hold. It sailed through the air and landed with a clang against the far wall.

  Ryen raised her sword to McFinley’s neck. A smile of triumph lit her face.

  “I yield,” he said, his voice rising so that all could hear him.

  “You cur,” Ryen snapped, every bit of humor disappearing. “Don’t ever attack helpless people again. Do you understand? If you do, you will answer to me.” She pressed the point of the sword against his skin.

  “I yield!” he shouted.

  A moment stretched in the silent hall as Ryen relished the return of the Angel of Death. She felt her heart pounding and the battle lust coursing through her veins, the familiar feeling of victory as McFinley stood defenseless against the point of her weapon.

  “Give me the sword.”

  She raised her eyes at the words and saw Talbot standing next to her. Suddenly, she heard the quiet that had settled around her. Her gaze swept the room. Nobody was moving. Nobody even seemed to be breathing. Every eye was locked upon her, fearful yet curious. On the faces of the knights Ryen saw unabashed disbelief – disbelief and caution. She straightened.

  Wary distrust was thick around her and Ryen suddenly understood the anxiety. She had a weapon. Did they really believe she would try to fight her way out? Against immeasurable odds? The Angel of Death was not that stupid.

  She had worked her legend well.

  Ryen flipped the sword up and gently caught the blade in her open palm. “It’s a little unbalanced,” she commented, offering the weapon to Talbot.

  He carefully took it from the Angel of Death’s hands. “I know.” His face was grim as his eyes met hers.

  “M’lord!” A young boy ran up to Talbot. He was out of breath as he reached his lord’s side. “M’lord,” he repeated when Talbot glanced at him, “the Frenchman has arrived!”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Ryen sat staring down into her lap where her folded hands twisted. She had changed from her torn dress into the beautiful blue gown Polly had brought her – the one with the lowest neckline she could find – hoping that at the sight of her Bryce would proclaim his love and take her into his arms. Or at least, find some reason for her to stay with him. But he could not do that if he never returned to the castle.

  Ryen had kept watch all day, staring at the gate from the window of her room, willing his return. But as the sun crept over the horizon and there was no sign of him, Ryen’s hopes dwindled like a rose withering from a lack of sunshine.

  Why would he care? His ransom was paid. He had his gold.

  Slut. His words came back to haunt her. I already have two whores and I have no intention of keeping another. So, she was being turned out. Still, what of the rage she saw in his eyes, the hurt, when he had questioned her about Count Dumas? Ryen’s shoulders slumped at the thought of her fiancé. Why would he pay her ransom? What did he want of her?

  Suddenly, the door opened behind her and Ryen came half out of her seat in her anxiousness.

  When Polly entered the room, Ryen’s wishes and prayers were once again smashed. She plummeted back into her seat, turning her gaze back to her hands, which lay limply in her lap. Ryen listened to the rustling of Polly’s cotton smock as she came closer.

  “Lady Ryen,” Polly said, her voice calm, “the messenger awaits to escort you to your Lord Dumas.”

  Ryen felt despair overwhelm her. My Lord Dumas, her mind repeated.

  “Lady Ryen?”

  Ryen did not raise her eyes as she asked, “Has he returned?”

  “No, Lady,” Polly replied quietly.

  All hope disappeared with the setting sun. Tears glistened in Ryen’s eyes like dew. Good life, Bryce, she bade him in her mind, and stood. Without lifting her gaze, she moved past Polly. Together they headed out the door. She fought the urge to look one last time at the room, for although she wanted to, she did not think she could bear the memories. So close to him, yet so far…

  She followed Polly through the hallway and down the stairway. Ryen knew she should try to escape, to stop this. Perhaps if she told Talbot the rumors of Count Dumas’s cruelty…but why would he care? Why would they care? All she was to them was a bag or two of gold.

  They stepped into the hallway before the great wooden doors that led to the outside of the castle. The anteroom was large, almost as big as her room at De Bouriez Castle.

  Two men stood near the doorway. One she recognized as Talbot, the other she had never seen before and could only assume was Count Dumas’s emissary. He was an older man, his dark hair graying at the temples. He was dressed in a black tunic and leggings and a black cape. A dingy bag lay at Talbot’s feet, and Ryen was sure it was the ransom. One bag of gold.

  They turned to her in unison and Ryen visibly shivered at the coldness in the stranger’s eyes. The repulsion she felt rising inside her threatened to crash down over her like a tidal wave and send her screaming, fleeing for help. But she was a De Bouriez. She was the Angel of Death. She would not cower from this man, nor Count Dumas himself. She lifted her chin and approached the stranger.

  Talbot stood between her and the man as she approached. Ryen read the confusion in his eyes, the indecision. His dark brows drew down before he lowered his head and stepped aside.

  Ryen’s eyes came to rest on the man. He was thin and as tall as a small oak. She raised her eyes to his and saw his gaze traveling slowly over her body. His thin lips turned up in a grin and it sent shivers down her spine. When he reached out and took her arm into his hold, his finger brazenly caressed her skin.

  Ryen blanched at him, pulling her arm free. His chuckle sounded like the breaking of glass in the quiet hallway.

  He reached out and seized her arm again.

  Suddenly the door flew open and a gust of wind swirled about their feet, rustling Ryen’s gown.

  Bryce stood there in the open door, a shadow against the darker night. His dark eyes were bright with rage as he took in the scene before him. Clenching his fists, he stalked to Talbot’s side in two strides, bending for the bag.

  The gold, Ryen thought in agony.

  Suddenly, Bryce whirled, hurtling the bag at the emissary. “Take your gold and get out.”

  The bag hit the man in the stomach and he stepped back. It fell to the floor and gold coins rolled out, glittering in the torchlight as they skittered across the stones. “But…” the man said.

  Bryce stepped forward, his teeth clenched, his b
ody rigid. “She is mine!” Bryce roared. He moved to Ryen in two strides, grabbed her waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder.

  Ryen was breathless as Bryce took the stairs two at a time, jogging her with each step. His strong shoulder dug into her stomach as he raced down the hall. He kicked open the door and proceeded into his room.

  “Bryce, stop,” Ryen begged, feeling her stomach churn. No sooner had she said the words than she was unceremoniously dumped on the bed.

  Ryen tried to right herself, fighting down the layers of velvet and silk of her dress to see Bryce moving toward her, across the bed. He grabbed her arms before she could move and snarled, “You have bewitched me, woman. Your image haunts me wherever I go. I cannot sleep without growing stiff from wanting you.”

  Ryen gazed at him for a long moment. His anguished eyes bore into her soul, searing his want and need there. “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen gasped and raised her hands, gently placing them on either side of his cheeks. She touched every spot on his face, his strong chin gruff with stubble, his cheeks, his nose, and brushed the dark hair from his forehead. Her heart pounded with passion as she stroked his face with soft caresses.

  His hands moved down her arms to her waist and he pulled her closer to him until their bodies were barely touching. “Did he have you?” Bryce asked, torment edging his voice.

  Ryen’s eyes moved to his lips, strangely hypnotized by their movement. “No,” she gasped, unable to lie, even to formulate coherent thoughts. “I – I never met him.” The physical need to feel his lips on hers overwhelmed her. She swallowed hard, hoping he would kiss her. His hand came up and slowly brushed her cheeks. Her skin burned where he touched her, starting a trail of fire as he traced the outline of her bow lips, then her chin, and then moved down her smooth throat.

  Ryen couldn’t suppress a groan as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, baring her throat to the wolf. What was happening to her? she wondered. A feeling of growing hunger claimed her.

  Bryce bent his lips to her throat, tasting her creamy skin. He pulled her closer with one hand and gently stroked her hip through the velvety material with the other.

  Ryen encircled his neck with her arms, pressing him closer as his passionate nibbling slid down her exposed skin to the low neckline. She felt his tongue brush over one sensitive mound before his hand was teasing her breast, cupping and squeezing it until it was free of the garment. Ryen lost touch with reality. Her whole world was filled with Bryce and the way he touched her.

  His hands lifted her skirt. He turned to stare at her long, long legs. “God,” he whispered, as he raised a trembling hand to reverently touch her silken skin.

  Bryce pulled her close, kissing her lips urgently, his hands expertly unfastening the buttons of her dress. He moved away from her only to slide the dress and chemise up over her head. Rising up on his arms, he gazed at her gleaming flesh. With the weight of his body, he leaned into her, pushing her down onto the bed. Like clouds, the velvet and silk of her dress surrounded them.

  Bryce tasted her lips again, drinking from the honeyed pot of her mouth. Gently he brushed his fingers over her nipples. As Ryen began to respond, unconsciously moving her hips, Bryce grew bolder, kneading and squeezing the mounds, until he could stand it no more and he lowered his lips to the rosy peaks.

  Ryen threw her arms about his head, holding him against her heart. She floated on his love, high above the world. His fingers worked magic over her body, heating it until she thought she would die if he did not enter her. But he continued his exploration, bringing her to heights she had never known.

  His fingers slid down to the spot that needed, nay, demanded him. When they plunged inside her, Ryen gasped, closing her eyes. She arched her back to receive more of his feathery touch, his moist kisses.

  Bryce pulled away. Instinctively, Ryen reached out to him, wanting to pull him back to her. Bryce shed his clothing with shaking fingers, almost ripping the cloth from his body in his hurry to return to her. Cold assaulted his body; but the fire burning through his veins kept him hot as he looked down at Ryen, her hair spread over the pillows like a fan, her lips swollen with passion from his kisses, her cheeks heated with desire. He fell on her, his naked body covering hers. With his knees, he gently guided her thighs apart.

  Ryen felt the pressure at her womanhood. She looked up into his dark eyes to see the moonlight reflected in his ebony depths, then placed her hands on his large shoulders, tugging him closer. “Please, Bryce,” she whispered.

  He plunged deep inside her.

  Ryen froze, pain stilling her passion. But Bryce bent his head, his lips searing his own passion into her, warming her with his desire. When he started to move again, Ryen was surprised that there was no pain, only hot yearning. She moved with him, their bodies locked together as one.

  Bryce’s gentle caresses and kisses washed warmly over her until desire ran rampant through her. It was stronger than revenge, more powerful than bloodlust. Ryen felt it fill her until she exploded, her entire body tingling and shaking with the impact. When the feeling left her, she was breathless and weary. She looked up at Bryce to find him smiling at her. His gaze was filled with all the tenderness that she had ever dreamt of seeing in his eyes. Ryen reached up and embraced him tightly.

  He began to move again. He had not thrust more than twice when his body stiffened and he groaned.

  For long seconds they lay together, exhausted and sated. She loved him. Oh God, Ryen thought. This warmth, this happiness, was what it was like to love someone. She smiled into his neck, nuzzling his throat.

  “Does this mean you liked it better this time?” he asked quietly.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Much better.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Ryen lay in Bryce’s arms, held tightly against his strong chest. She could feel the muscles beneath her cheek, hear his heartbeat. She had never felt so wonderful, so warm and safe.

  His chest rose and fell slowly, and his arm draped loosely over her waist.

  Ryen languidly ran her hand over the planes of his stomach, marveling at their hardness. She ran her fingers to the edge of the blanket that covered half of his glorious body. Slowly, carefully, she lifted it, desiring to see the part of his body that had given her so much pleasure. Then a rumble of throaty laughter caused her to drop the blanket as if it had suddenly burst into flame.

  “Little vixen,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “I yielded to your insatiable appetite last night, wasn’t that enough?”

  Ryen watched the blanket magically rise before he easily flipped her onto her back and straddled her body.

  His black eyes caught the rising sun in their depths as he smiled down at her. He held her wrists in his hands.

  Ryen smiled, her gaze hungrily devouring his handsome face. She was surprised to find the hot flames of desire flaring through her body again, even after a night of lovemaking.

  Bryce bent his mouth to hers.

  Later, as Bryce led Ryen to the stairs, her arm in his, she asked, “Who wove that tapestry hanging in your room?”

  “You mean the one that was hanging until a little wench decided to use its pole for a sword?” Bryce said, his voice light.

  Ryen grinned. “Yes. That one.”

  Bryce stopped and his eyes grew distant with memory. “My mother,” he answered quietly. “It was the last thing she ever did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ryen whispered at the longing in his eyes and the pain that tightened his jaw. When he did not acknowledge her, she attempted to change the subject. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Not blood, no.”

  Although Ryen waited, Bryce did not elaborate. She turned to look out a window. The day was beautiful. Sun shone on the village; children’s laughter filled the air. Ryen inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh scent of the new day. “Bryce, I have asked you for nothing since I’ve been here,” she stated quietly, thinking to ask him to take her out into the glorious day.

  “Except to be allo
wed into the kitchens,” Bryce murmured with a quiet laugh.

  At his casual comment, the image of McFinley knocking over the table while the peasants scattered beneath his rage filled her mind. The thought sobered her and she straightened away from the window.

  “What is it?” Bryce asked, suddenly concerned at her pensive state.

  Ryen looked away, clasping her hands before her. Was she to enter the hall only to see her work lying in ruins on the floor, mugs scattered and broken in the rushes? She feared Bryce’s knights could never accept her as one of their own.

  “Ryen,” he whispered, stepping before her. “Tell me,” he urged, lifting a hand to wipe a stray strand of dark hair from her brow.

  She wanted to snuggle into the warmth of his body where nothing could touch her love for him, but the thought of her uncertain future stilled her movements. How could she live with him as an enemy, knowing his men hated her? What could the future possibly hold for them? “What will you do with me?” she wondered.

  “Do?” His lips turned up in a grin. “I will make you happy. And since it seems you are happiest in bed –” He swept her up into his arms. “—I will allow you full use of it as well!”

  Ryen couldn’t suppress the laughter that bubbled from her throat.

  “But you must eat to keep up your strength,” he warned, setting her onto the ground. “I will not tolerate you lying listlessly beneath me.”

  “Or on top of you,” she said playfully, hugging his neck.

  “Saucy wench. I should take you now.” He stroked her hair, keeping her body pressed closely to his. Very close. He nuzzled her hair with his face and his soft voice reached her ears. “Oh, God. I have never been this happy. Let it last.” When she pulled back to study his eyes, she could not tell whether she had imagined the words or not.