He stared hard into her eyes as if he were reading her mind.
Ryen watched the emotions play over his face: recognition, disbelief, and then furious anger.
His eyes widened with incredulity. “The Angel of Death? A woman?”
“You have heard the legends --?”
“Unchain me this instant!”
Ryen could not help but laugh as he rattled his chains and ordered her around like a serving wench. “I welcome you to my camp.”
His eyes grew cold, narrowing to razor thin slits. When he spoke, his voice was a thick growl of acrimony. “I don’t feel much warmth in your greeting, woman. Perhaps you are truly made of ice, as the stories say.”
Ryen felt the heat of his hateful gaze sweep her body. It chilled her blood. “And should I welcome a most deadly enemy with open arms?” she asked softly. Her slim hand flew to her belt in a sudden, swift motion, drawing forth a sharp dagger. “Or with the edge of a blade?” She paused waiting to see the fear flash over his handsome features.
But it never came.
Instead, her prisoner laughed.
Fury, immediate and hot, coursed through her body in a churning black cloud of rage. Like a lightning bolt, erupting from a dark haze of anger, her hand shot out and she slapped him. The edge of the dagger caught his cheek, cutting the surface of his skin, and the open cut spewed forth red, glistening blood. She watched the crimson liquid drip down his face and a feeling of horror cooled her flaring temper. She had not meant to hurt him.
The smile never left the Prince of Darkness’s face as he cocked his head. “You are indeed brave, my lady. It takes the stoutest of hearts to strike a defenseless man.”
She recovered with a nervous laugh. “Do you take me for a fool? Shall I release your bonds so you can snap my neck with your bare hands?”
He turned his unscathed cheek toward her. “Perhaps you’d like to cut this side.”
Ryen stood, appalled. However, his goading made the idea attractive, and she raised the sharp blade to press it against his skin. Her knuckles brushed his cheek and a tremor ran down her spine. She stared for a long moment at his profile, realizing how close she was to him, and that the shiver was neither coldness nor repulsion. She enjoyed touching his skin. Angry with the knowledge and with herself, she narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Her hand trembled as she pulled the blade away. “You’d like it too much.”
“Bitch,” he snarled.
Ryen ignored his outburst. “Tell me how many men your Henry has in his army.”
As she expected, the Prince of Darkness’s witty mouth remained closed to her question. She returned the dagger to its sheath.
“Is he going to attack France?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet his, slipping the tips of her fingers into the pouch tied to her belt. The powder felt soft and velvety to her touch. It was a mixture of herbs, roots, and wildflowers all ground together into a fine powder. Lucien had gotten the ingredients from an old Gypsy woman he used to frequent when he wanted his fortune told. Ryen had used it well, its strange power adding potent fuel to the spreading fear her legend had ignited in the weak minds of France’s enemies.
“If you really expect me to answer your questions truthfully, then you must be more of a halfwit than legend has it,” he replied.
Ryen dismissed his insult and leaned closer to him so their lips were almost touching. “You will tell me all your deepest thoughts. Nothing will remain a secret from me.”
“I think not,” he spat.
Ryen, seeing the confusion in his eyes despite his brave words, grinned. She lifted her powdered fingers and ran them seductively over his lips before he could turn his face away. She stepped back as he jerked his head from side to side, spitting out the powder.
Suddenly, his teeth started chattering. Then his entire body twitched! Ryen knew spears of ice, thin and sharp, were speeding through his blood, solidifying, threatening to burst his veins. He struggled to speak, the powder speckling his lips like pixie dust. “I…I…” He stopped as another onslaught of chills racked his body. “I…will…”
“Yes. You will,” Ryen said. She frowned, feeling cheated. It had been so easy to subdue the legendary Prince of Darkness. He was no prince, she thought. He was just a man like all the others.
She saw him force his teeth to be still and raise his head to glare at her, his eyes ablaze with ebon fire. “I…will…kill you for this,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Ryen’s eyes glittered with the challenge. No man had ever needed two doses. But this was the great Prince of Darkness. A second dosage ought to bend his will, she thought, as she again touched the powder. The white flecks adhered immediately to her fingers. She raised her hand, but as she neared he turned away and her fingers brushed his cheek, moving across his open wound. Ryen pulled back quickly, staring down at his blood on her fingers. When she looked up she saw the Prince of Darkness force back a cry of pain. She knew he was cold. So very cold. His shoulders were hunched against the chill of the powder. Her gaze traveled over his naked chest. She was awed by the size of the corded muscles in his neck and shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the ridges in his flat stomach. His body shuddered, and then he was still.
She stepped closer to him. His eyes were blank, as if his mind had suddenly been emptied. “What is your name?” she asked him, absently rubbing her fingers together.
“People call me the Prince of Darkness.” His voice was flat as he answered.
“Your birth name.”
“Bryce Princeton.”
“Tell me the number of men in King Henry’s army.”
“Enough to destroy you completely and mercilessly,” he muttered without a hint of emotion, toneless.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Ryen snapped. “I asked for the numbers.”
“Two thousand archers and five thousand men at arms.”
Ryen smiled. This was valuable information. “Tell me of these archers; are they as good as everyone says?”
“Yes, they are good, but…” Bryce said, then his voice faltered.
“Go on. You must tell me all you know.”
“The archers…” he muttered, “the archers are ineffectual now. Many bowmen have died. It will take half a year to train more men to replace them.”
Ryen could barely control the laughter that bubbled in her throat. “Is Henry planning to attack France?”
“He’s only planning on taking back the lands that rightfully belong to England,” Bryce stated blandly.
“So he is going to attack! When? Tell me when!”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
For an instant, Ryen thought she saw a flicker of light behind his dark eyes. She frowned. A moment of doubt attacked her reasoning. Is the powder strong enough? Is it working? She wiped her thoughts free of uncertainty. The powder had never failed before. She had no reason to distrust it now. But she was sure that it would not last much longer.
Ryen studied her prisoner. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, mysterious. Strangely, they reminded her of a wolf’s. But she knew it must be his legend throwing shadows over her thoughts. His unruly hair gleamed in the light of the candles, giving him the aura of a wild animal. A pang of guilt touched Ryen’s heart as she saw that a lock of his black mane was caught in the moist blood on his cheek. How could I have cut his face? It was so flawless, so perfect…
She reached up to brush the hair from his wound, but her hand froze in mid-air. What am I doing? He’s the enemy! He deserves far worse than a simple cut! She whirled away, sickened by the feelings he stirred within her, incensed at her weakness. Anger stabbed at her. How could he make her want to touch him? How could he soften her heart when his words were full of hate? The devil! The rogue! She stood with her back to him for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands. When she turned back, she was ready to explode, to strike out at him, for making her soft, for making her feel like a helpless woman!
A wind whipped up from outside, blowi
ng the tent flap aside and swirling in around Ryen, flinging her hair wildly about her shoulders and face. The fire in her soul reddened her cheeks, caused her blue eyes to sparkle.
His eyes widened and he gasped.
Ryen stopped, confused at seeing a wondrous expression on his face. She brushed an annoying lock of hair away from her eyes. “What?” she demanded.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
Shock immediately replaced her anger as she stood dumbfounded, gaping at Bryce. “What did you say?”
Bryce looked away from her.
Ryen had clearly heard his words, but her mind was refusing to acknowledge them. ‘Beautiful’ was not a word men used to describe her. The Angel of Death, Ice Queen, Black-hearted Bitch. These were the phrases men used to portray her.
She was so astonished by his declaration that she was unsure how to proceed. Ryen became flustered by her hesitancy. She was losing valuable seconds. She had to think of a question. A question…
Beautiful. He said I was beautiful. She felt herself softening, looking at him not as an enemy, but as…
No!
She burst out of the tent into the night air, racing past a group of men rolling dice. In her mind, Bryce’s voice softly repeated the words of praise. She ran around a spit of smoking duck as the bird was being basted by the cook, almost knocking the man down. Beautiful. The word was like a plague, spreading through her body, infesting her thoughts. She reached her tent and barely paused long enough to tell the guard who stood like a statue before the flap, “I am not to be disturbed,” before disappearing inside.
Ryen stopped just inside her quarters, her eyes sweeping the tent until they came to rest on a wooden chest bound by great bands of silver metal. She remember what she had been given by her aunt about five year ago, in hopes that she would become more ladylike. Ryen had never used it. She kept it hidden in the chest with her dresses and fancy undergarments, elaborate combs and jewelry, embarrassed by the femaleness of it all.
Ryen flung open the chest. After years of disuse, it squeaked with objection. She fell to her knees and thrust her hands into the mounds of clothes, digging through lacy night clothes, bolts of silk fabric, a necklace of pearls, ruby earrings, jeweled rings…all the items that she had accumulated through the years, rummaging for the one object that she wanted, until finally she found it.
It was a hand mirror made of gold with diamonds set into its intricately sculptured metal. She clasped it with both hands and stared at the person she found looking back at her. She was not the child she remembered from five years ago.
Her face was slender and soft, her cheekbones high. Her eyes were the blue of the deepest ocean.
Ryen tilted the mirror, trying to see her profile. She could see nothing that made her attractive, nothing that made her different. Yet he had said she was beautiful. She had never thought of herself like that. No one had ever told her she was. Not ever.
She was inspecting herself when she saw, in the glass, the flap of the tent open and Lucien ducking inside.
“What did you find out?” Lucien asked, excitement barely hidden under his words.
Ryen ignored him, staring hard at herself in the mirror, twisting her head to try to see what Bryce had seen.
“Ryen?” Lucien’s brow wrinkled with momentary confusion, then darkened with rage. “Did he hurt you? What did he do? I told you I should have been there with you!”
“Lucien,” Ryen said, and turned to face him with a trusting look. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”
Surprise was written all over his boyish face, and for a moment he could not move. Suddenly, he threw his head back, laughter bubbling from his throat like a spring.
Ryen’s face turned a deep red, her eyes going from a light blue innocence to the deep blue of an angry sea. Slowly, she replaced the hand mirror and closed the lid on the heavy wooden chest, her jaw clenched.
Lucien ceased his laughter when he caught Ryen’s murderous glare. He chuckled a bit and looked away from her. “Oh, Ryen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It just that…well, if I had even suggested the possibility, you would have cut out my tongue.”
Her jaw was still set like stone. No one laughed at her.
“Please, Ryen,” Lucien said sincerely. “Forgive me.”
Ryen whirled away from Lucien. “Get out.”
“What?” He stared at her with surprised eyes.
“Get out before I say something I will regret,” Ryen clarified.
Lucien studied her for a moment, then whirled and departed from her tent. After her brother’s footsteps faded away, Ryen chastised herself. You are not beautiful. You are a warrior, a knight. Knights are not beautiful. They are strong, rugged, relentless. I have never been pretty.
Still…in the eyes of the mightiest of legends, the fiercest of English knights, she was beautiful.
The truth powder never lied.
Chapter Five
The sun was hot on Bryce’s bare shoulders. His arms were bound before him and his feet were tied from ankle to ankle, the rope running beneath the horse he rode. None of this bothered him, even though they had been riding all morning. His mind was absorbed with his captor. He could not stop staring at her riding so primly at the head of the army. Rage consumed him. He could feel the ropes around his wrists digging into his flesh as he clenched and unclenched his hands. The disgrace of being captured by a woman! Even as he thought this, his mind raced, trying to figure out a way to escape. Still, he could not tear his eyes from her.
If the Wolf Pack ever saw him now, how they would laugh! The great Prince of Darkness captured by a woman! The thought of those men mocking him made Bryce clench his teeth. Damn, he thought. What was I thinking? Every sense in my body was shouting a warning! But I ignored my instincts. She was so quiet, so deceitful. How did she ever over power my sentries? He gritted his teeth in frustration. Enough of this, Bryce thought. It is over and done. I must not dwell on it. There is nothing to do but wait until an opportunity presents itself. And it will. I will be ready for it.
She brought the army to a halt and dismounted. His eyes followed her every movement as she stopped and spoke with one of her men, a man who towered well over her. How can they allow themselves to be led by a woman, Bryce wondered. He saw her pause and he swore that she glanced at him before disappearing into a small glade.
Suddenly, there was a tugging at the rope around his feet. He glanced down to see two of her men undoing the rope. His gaze assessed them quickly. They were fully armored, except for their helmets. He could outrun them, but he could never outfight them, especially with his hands bound.
He allowed them to pull him from his horse and he fell to the ground with a thud. They hauled him to his feet and shoved him forward. His legs ached from being immobile for so long, and he almost stumbled. He quickly righted himself when he heard a chuckle from one of her men behind him. He briefly wondered where they were taking him, but another shove answered his silent question. They were heading toward the glade. As he walked past the army, he noticed that many heads turned to regard him. There was resentment and anger in their eyes, and Bryce had a moment of satisfaction. They should hate me, he thought. As I hate them.
He was led through a small glade until he saw her standing near a tall tree. He stopped, frozen by the thought that she had summoned him. What does she want of me, he wondered. More torture?
The knights shoved Bryce to the ground at her feet. Dirt and dust filled his mouth, making him gag. He spat it out, easing himself to his knees, rubbing the dirt from his eyes with his bound hands.
The knights behind him placed a rope around his neck and handed the other end to her. For a moment he wondered if he was going to be hanged, but then he saw her tie the end of the rope around the base of a tree. Did she intend to keep him leashed like some sort of pet? When she finished, she ordered the knights away.
Bryce turned to watch them depart, then swung his head back toward her, his eyes scanning the
clearing curiously.
They were alone.
She was either very brave, or very, very foolish. She had cursed his thoughts from the moment he had seen her stepping from the mists like an angel coming down out of the clouds.
She turned away from him and Bryce felt a surge of frustration – how could he tell what she intended if he could not see her face?
He stood. Taking a large step, he came up behind her, chuckling softly. “You think tying me to this tree will save you, Angel?”
He felt her stiffen; her soft hair brushed his knuckles before he touched her cold plate mail.
“Save me from what?” she asked with a tremor. “You are my prisoner. Or have you forgotten so soon?”
“It is true my wrists are bound,” Bryce murmured, bringing his hands up as fast and unexpectedly as lightning to place them about her neck. “But my hands are far from helpless.”
Squeeze, he told himself.
She whirled and Bryce could not move. Those eyes, the color of the deepest sea, froze him where he stood. Was this more of her poison? Those lips, full and red as the softest petal of a rose, entranced him.
She moved easily out of his hold. Bryce stood, facing the tree, absolutely stunned. Was this the woman who had captured him? It cannot be! he told himself. God’s blood, she was a delectable little morsel. Even now, his passion pounded through him like a roaring flood.
He shook his head. What had come over him? He had his fingers around her neck! He could have ended her life! She must have used more of that poison on him to cloud his judgment. Instead of torturing prisoners like a true knight, she fought with powders and womanly wiles! Coward.
Angry, he turned. She was there. Watching him with those eyes – inviting, yet fearful. She was such a small thing. The fact that she led an army was inconceivable to Bryce.
She did capture you, a voice inside him mocked.
She turned away from him and her luxurious hair cascaded over her cheek, well past her shoulder. It shone in the sunlight like the wing of a sleek black bird.
The Angel And The Prince Page 4