Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Have you heard anything from Count Dumas since we sent his messenger back?” Bryce asked.

  Grey’s eyes narrowed as he sat on a corner of the table. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Bryce sat back in his chair.

  “Bryce,” Grey said quietly, “I have known you for many years. And in all this time you have never kept anything from me. So I ask you now, brother to brother, what does this woman, this Angel of Death, mean to you?”

  Bryce stared hard at Grey. He wondered why he was asking this pointed question, why he was getting involved in his private affairs. Usually, the Wolf Pack asked little, but knew everything. Finally, his thoughts turned to Grey’s question. He saw Ryen in his mind’s eye, saw her stubborn jaw clenched with rage, imagined her bright eyes filled with hot anger. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, the image vivid and agonizing.

  “Doesn’t matter?’ Grey repeated. Then a slow smile slid over his lips. “If you truly believe that, then you are more blind than that beggar who stands outside the gatehouse.”

  “Honor dictates I return her to France.”

  “Honor,” Grey snorted, waving a dismissing hand. “Your grand solution to everything. Let me tell you something. Honor has no place in the matters of the heart.”

  “This is not a matter of the heart,” Bryce retorted.

  “Still denying it? Then forget her,” Grey dared. “Throw her in the dungeons and don’t think on it.”

  Bryce grunted. If only it were that easy. If he could only wipe away the haunting image of those large sapphire eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft touch of her hands.

  “Bryce, you cannot send her back to France. She has no place there,” Grey said.

  “It seems preferable to what she has here,” Bryce grunted.

  “Then death would be preferable.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, Grey.”

  “Her brother was trying to run her through when we came upon them.”

  Outrage roared through Bryce’s body, bringing him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

  Grey nodded once. “His sword was at her throat,” Grey stated. “I am sure.”

  Bryce came around the table so fast that the breeze sent papers fluttering to the floor. “I’ll kill him,” Bryce promised.

  Grey’s hand slammed on his shoulder and Bryce halted, whipping around to pin Grey to the spot with his fevered gaze. “And killing him would settle your problems?”

  Bryce angrily shrugged Grey’s hand from his shoulder. He glanced longingly at the door, his look so hot that it threatened to melt the iron handle. Finally, he turned and paced to one side of the room, his fists clenched with anger.

  “You care for the wench. Admit it, Bryce,” Grey encouraged. “It would make things a lot easier.”

  “She left me. I will never admit I care for her.”

  “She left you for kin. You’d do the same for one of us.”

  Bryce threw him a dark look. “Her brother is dangerous. I was trying to protect her!”

  “She is a knight. She needs no protecting.”

  “God’s blood!” Bryce exploded. “She is a woman, too.”

  “You have won the woman,” Grey answered softly. “It is the knight you must be concerned about.”

  “I have not won the woman. She loves another,” Bryce murmured.

  “Then why did she write this missive?” Grey tossed a piece of paper onto the desk.

  Bryce stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. He cast a speculative glance at Grey before scanning the paper.

  “I had one of your men translate it,” Grey said, shrugging sheepishly. “She was going to stay.”

  Bryce frowned at the paper. It was true. She had begun the letter to Dumas announcing her intentions of remaining in England with him. If that was so, how could she love this Count Dumas? Something was wrong. Something did not make sense.

  Polly was happy to hear that Ryen was finally coming down to eat. Rumors were running rampant. Some said Lord Princeton had killed her and was keeping her corpse locked up in his room, others that he was starving the truth out of her.

  Polly was waiting anxiously near the tables she had assembled with lady Ryen when finally she spotted her. Polly took a step toward her but stopped cold when she saw that Ryen was being led by one guard and followed by another. Ryen was as white as a ghost, as if the life had been drained from her. She was placed at the soldiers’ table, across from Talbot.

  Polly watched her during the meal. Her eyes were cast downward and she sat silently, not eating. When Polly turned angry eyes to Bryce, she saw that he, too, sat stoically, the food before him untouched. Through his hard, emotionless face, Polly saw the anguish that touched the corners of his eyes, the pain that turned his lips into a sneer.

  What have I done? Polly silently demanded.

  It was then that she saw Grey approaching her. At first Polly was sure he would pass her by, but as his steps took him closer, she knew he was coming for her. She sat heavily in her chair. Grey did indeed stop before her.

  When all conversation ceased around them, Grey’s sharp eyes scanned the faces of the peasants who were all turned to him. He turned back to Polly. “Lord Princeton wants to see you.”

  Polly shuddered, casting her glance at her lord. He was staring at her, those dark eyes penetrating her skin as if he could see into her mind.

  He knew. She was sure of it.

  “After the meal, in the judgment room,” Grey finished, and turned, moving to his seat.

  Polly knew her sentence had been ordered. Her only defense now was his mercy!

  Later that night, Polly shoved aside her dread and hesitantly pushed open the door. “M’lord?” she called.

  The room was cast in a red glow, lit by the setting sun streaming in from the high windows. Polly gasped, for it appeared that the judgment chair on which Bryce sat was glowing.

  He was lost in the blackness of the shadow cast from the back of his chair.

  Polly stepped forward, carefully closing the door behind her. “M’lord,” she said and suddenly had the urge to flee under his deadly gaze. “I – I have somethin’ ta confess.”

  The silence rang in her ears like the echo of his voice until she was forced to speak to quiet the bells. “I lied ta ya, m’lord.” He still didn’t move or speak, and Polly wondered if he had heard her. She stepped closer. “But I had ta. She was threatenin’ me. I was not sure what ta –”

  “Stop rambling, woman, and say what you’ve come to say!” His voice rumbled through the room like a drumbeat.

  “Lady Ryen was not returning ta her lover in France. Ta be quite honest, m’lord, we never talked of lovers.”

  Bryce was absolutely still; Polly couldn’t even see him breathing. She panicked. “My lord. Ya have ta understand why I did it. I never meant ta hurt ya, and I would never harm a hair on lady Ryen’s lovely head. I knew no matter what the cost ta me, I could not keep the two of ya apart. Ya belong together.” Polly’s fingered her apron, twisting it tightly. Bryce was still silent and Polly was forced to continue. “I was the one who gave lady Ryen the dagger! The bread was as hard as a brick, and she was such a thin thing, so sickly. I never intended her to escape with it… That witch found out somehow, and she said I’d end up in the dungeon! Well, I couldna very well –”

  “Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

  Bryce’s voice shocked her into silence. When she couldn’t find the words to answer, he rose up slowly out of his chair. The fiery sunlight splashed over his hair and shoulders. His face was still in shadow, but Polly saw the bunched muscles of his tensed arms. Anger emanated from his tight body and Polly knew he would kill her. She fell to her knees. “Please, m’lord,” she begged, “I meant no harm.”

  “Do not try my patience. Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

  “I did not tell ‘er a thing! I just brought the horses!” Polly trembled. “She made me do it. She said –”

  Bryce approached her. “
I could kill you right now for this.”

  “Lotte made me do it! She threatened ta tell ya of the dagger!”

  “Lotte?” Bryce’s brows knit.

  Polly raised clutched hands to Bryce as if to a god. “Please! Please give me another chance! I’ll do anything! I’ll never –”

  “Talbot!”

  Polly wept, unable to hold back her fear. “I beg of ya, m’lord. Please. Give me life so I can make it up ta ya.”

  “Talbot!” Bryce hollered, before turning his deadly gaze on Polly. “Do you think that my ears are deaf to my people? Did you think I would not listen to you?”

  “M—McFinley,” Polly gaped. “Ya almost killed ‘im.”

  Bryce shut his mouth tightly into a thin line of anger. “He hurt Ryen. You were trying to help her.”

  The door banged open and Talbot raced in, breathless. “Prince?”

  “Find Lotte,” Bryce commanded in a dark voice. “And bring her here.”

  The door opened slowly. The light from the hallway fell across the floor, a white sliver growing wider, slicing the blackness of the room like a dagger. Bryce watched from his judgment chair as Lotte’s form, black against the white light, appeared in the doorway.

  “My Prince?” she cooed, sure that he had summoned her to take her back.

  “Come in, Lotte,” he replied quietly.

  “It’s so dark. Perhaps a candle –”

  “No. Come in. Now.”

  Lotte hesitated. A silent alarm went off somewhere inside her. Finally she entered; the door closed behind her casting the room into the night’s pale blue light. Shadows arced from the walls toward Lotte as she passed in and out of them, approaching Bryce.

  “Prince,” she said finally. “I knew you would call for me. I knew you would return to me.” He remained silent and Lotte’s anxiety grew. Something was wrong. Had he found out? No, she told herself. That was impossible. She had the situation firmly in hand.

  “Lotte,” he sneered. “You thought that with Ryen gone I would return to you.”

  Excitement shot up Lotte’s spine. “Oh, yes. I’ve waited so long, m’lord. I knew that you would tire of that French tart before long. I can bear you another son! I can please you in many ways. Together –”

  In her excitement, Lotte did not notice the fierce anger that slowly brought Bryce out of his chair, clenched his fists. “You fool. Don’t you know that I would have followed Ryen to hell to return her to my side. You could never take her place in my heart.”

  Lotte was so shocked that she stood, dumbstruck.

  “All your plans and your conniving to rid Dark Castle of Ryen have come to no good. I have seen through your plans and discovered the truth.”

  “Truth? Conniving? Surely you don’t believe –”

  “SILENCE!” His voice boomed throughout the judgment room, his anger shaking the rafters high above their heads. “You will never come between us again. Never.”

  Lotte stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t know what you are saying. She doesn’t love you.” Her desperation was growing and she took a step forward.

  “I gave you a chance to remain at Dark Castle, but you have rejected my suggestion, instead causing me pain as I have never experienced before.”

  “My lord, I would never harm you.”

  Bryce straightened, anger tightening every muscle in his body. “From this day forth you are banished from Dark Castle.”

  “No,” Lotte gasped, eyes wide with horror. “You cannot… I have done everything for you. Everything. Including bearing your son.”

  Bryce’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Runt. “That is why you are not dead.” Bryce paused. “Talbot.”

  Talbot materialized from the shadows, Polly at his side.

  Lotte’s mouth dropped at seeing Polly. “You traitor!” she cried. “How could you do this to me?”

  “See that Lotte leaves Dark Castle, “Bryce commanded.

  “Aye, m’lord,” Talbot replied, stepping beside her.

  “Prince, no. I love you. No!” Lotte stretched out her open hands to him.

  It was Talbot who grasped one of her arms and dragged her toward the door.

  “Do not shadow Dark Castle with your presence again. If you are found on my lands you will be quartered,” Bryce said.

  “Noooooo!” Lotte sobbed, as Talbot dragged her from the room.

  Chapter Forty Five

  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 his left ankle. The wind ruffled his glossy hair and his ebony eyes caressed her skin, their gaze sweeping slowly over her breasts, her hips, her legs. Then they shifted, rising to meet hers. She saw the whispered words reflected in those eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful.

  He tilted his head back, robust laughter issuing from his open mouth.

  Ryen sat up in bed, her body soaked with a layer of perspiration, her face moist with tears. She realized suddenly that she was trembling all over and could not stop.

  He was taking her back to France. Ryen pulled the blanket up to her neck and hugged herself. She turned to stare at the tapestry. Bryce had rehung the elaborate weaving before he had left. She gazed at the horned man, staring at the image of Bryce. Why had he kept her brother’s life a secret? Was it some game he played with her? A deception? Just like when he had said that she was beautiful?

  She was drawn to the image on the tapestry and she rose out of bed, moving toward it. In his dark eyes she saw a cold and mesmerizing look that could consume people alive, make them believe what he wanted them to. It was all a lie. He had seduced her into believing his words again, believing that he cared for her, just as he had at De Bouriez Castle.

  The thought should have enraged her, but Ryen found it impossible to call up any anger. Sadness overwhelmed her senses. Sadness, and a pain so great that it threatened to rip out her very soul.

  With a groan, Ryen seized the tapestry and tore it from the wall, throwing it to the floor. She stared at it for a long moment. She could see his eye, his watchful gaze, among the crumpled fabric. Her heart lay in the folds of the tapestry. She would never see Bryce again. Good, she thought, as a sob welled in her throat. He will never have the chance to laugh at me.

  Her heart ached and her chest constricted until tears filled her vision. Ryen shook her head, refusing to give in to the agony that was tearing her apart. Instead, she turned her back on the tapestry and busied herself with dressing in a very plain brown velvet dress. She had no sooner finished than there came a knock at her door. Ryen turned to find Vignon on the threshold.

  Startled, Ryen shot off the bed. He slithered into the room and she forced her eyes to settle on the silver tray he held in his slim hands, but it was impossible to still the pounding of her heart or the feeling of cold terror that snaked its way up her spine.

  “Your food,” he said, and moved to the table beside the bed, sliding the tray onto it. “Did you do it?”

  “No. I haven’t had a chance,” Ryen lied, thinking of the ale Bryce had drunk. Guilt overwhelmed her and she had to turn away from him.

  Vignon swiveled his head to regard her with his cold eyes. “Rest easy. For it is done.”

  Ryen froze as shivers crept up her spine. “Done?” she echoed, suddenly breathless.

  “Yes. His wine will taste most bitter at this, his last meal,” Vignon said with laughter in his voice.

  Ryen stood absolutely motionless. “Good,” she finally murmured.

  Vignon moved past her to the door where he paused. “Our work is finished, m’lady,” he said, before exiting the room.

  Ryen shivered slightly. She stared at the tray, trying to convince herself that Vignon had actually been in her room. Her ears refused to acknowledge his words. Yet Ryen could not shake the feeling
of doom that enfolded her like a giant hand. She moved to the bed, her mind replaying the fateful words “…it is done.” They hung in the air like a premonition of ruin.

  It would be only moments before Bryce took a sip of wine, and then only seconds before his life ended. Panic surged inside her and she stood, unable to move. Finally, she paced toward the door and then back to the bed, her hands anxiously massaging each other. Perhaps he had already taken a sip and was in the throes of death.

  “No,” Ryen cried, and surged toward the door.

  She came up short just before her fist closed over the handle. How could she betray her country by saving Bryce’s life?

  The image of Bryce’s beautiful, powerful, mysterious body lying broken and still on the cold stone floor rose before her eyes. “No,” she whimpered. She thought she had watched him die once before, and the pain she’d experienced had been unbearable. God help her, but she loved him. She loved him more than honor, more than chivalry, more than the disgrace and hate that saving him would bring her. She couldn’t let him die. Not for Lucien, not for France.

  She stifled a sob and threw the door open.

  Talbot, who was bent over, lacing his boots, looked up and straightened upon seeing her.

  Ryen could not waste time. She had to get past him. She couldn’t be too late. Her pulse raced as she forced herself to walk to him.

  “What –” Talbot began.

  Ryen brought her knee up into his groin. Talbot doubled over, gasping, and Ryen hauled her skirts up to race down the hall toward the stairway, all the while praying that she would reach Bryce in time.

  She leapt down the last two steps to the main floor. She straightened cautiously, glancing first left toward the Great Hall, then right.

  Not ten paces away stood Vignon looking bemusedly at her.

  He’ll try to stop me. The words raced through her mind and she crouched to flee toward the Great Hall.

  Vignon’s gaze slowly turned into a frown as realization hit him. Disbelief flashed in his eyes as he stepped toward her.

  Ryen lifted her skirts and fled down the corridor. Her lungs ached with the exertion it took to run full out. Ryen heard the soft padding of his footsteps as he chased her, but she pushed the thought of capture from her mind. She had to stop Bryce. He couldn’t die!