The large room was filled with decadent laughter and loud guffaws. Maids fended off groping hands as they attempted to keep mugs full of wine. Soldiers, barbarians, sat at the long wooden tables. The tables themselves barely supported the pounding of fists as the demand for food resounded through the room. Four-legged beasts sat beside some of the tables, looking more like wolves than dogs. A belch sounded in the air somewhere.
Slowly the clamor stopped as all eyes turned to Ryen. She felt the hatred in their gazes like knives through her skin. She glared around the room at each dark look. Then something called her attention to the front of the room. Bryce was sitting straight ahead, his dark eyes locked on her, his face unreadable. He was leaning back in a large chair, one black-hosed leg lying casually over the arm. His white shirt was open to his navel, and Ryen suddenly recalled how hot his skin had felt against her naked flesh. Ryen tried to push the thought from her mind, but it lingered like the aroma of a freshly cut rose.
An empty chair was positioned to Bryce’s right. Had he saved that chair for her? Ryen felt a tingle of hope touch her breast because even if she hated herself for it, she ached for his acceptance. Next to that chair, a dark haired woman sat hurtling venomous glances at Ryen, her dark rimmed eyes overflowing with loathing. Ryen was sure she’d seen her somewhere before, but she couldn’t remember where. She raised an unconcerned eyebrow, successfully ignoring the woman’s poisonous stare. To Bryce’s left sat a blond woman whose hair appeared to have been hacked off at the nape. She sipped from her goblet, keeping her gaze locked on Ryen over its rim. Beside the dark-haired woman sat a group of people who looked like nomads with their fur and unkempt hair. From their gazes, Ryen felt humor and curiosity, but no animosity. She wondered briefly who they were to be seated at the head table.
Bryce swung his leg off the chair, returning her attention to him, and rose. He grinned at her. Ryen felt her knees weaken at his heart-melting smile. She walked slowly down the long room, leaving her guards behind, her gaze never wavering from Bryce.
“Join us,” Bryce said.
Was she a prisoner or a guest? Ryen wondered. Did she have the right to refuse? Ryen moved around the long table, ignoring the English soldiers and their women as they turned to follow her passage, to sit in the chair at Bryce’s right. But Bryce quickly grabbed her elbow and lifted her back to her feet. The dark-haired woman exhaled a hiss between her clenched teeth.
“Over there,” Bryce said, and motioned to an empty chair at a table near the hearth, in the middle of his men.
Ryen knew that to show defiance now might mean death. Although she feigned nonchalance, she could not help but feel disappointment. She silently berated herself for falling victim to his smile.
She was a prisoner.
Bravely she walked to the spot he had designated for her and sat down.
She glanced at the men around her. To her right was a man who wore a gray tunic with ripped leggings. His brown hair was unruly and looked as though he had never combed it. When he noticed her staring at him, a lopsided grin spread across his face. He looked like he belonged in the woods.
“Pour her some wine,” Talbot suggested from his seat opposite her. “It will help loosen her bowels. They must be all puckered up, judging by that unpleasant look on her face.”
The men roared with laughter. Ryen swiveled her head toward Bryce just in time to see a smile twitch his lips. He motioned for a servant to fill her glass.
“The unpleasant look on my face is from the company. It has nothing to do with my bowels,” she retorted evenly.
Talbot ignored her and raised his mug high, some of the wine splashing onto the table. “A toast. To the dreaded Prince of Darkness, the man who captured the cursed Angel of Death!”
The men cheered and slapped their mugs together.
Bryce raised his golden goblet, nodding in acceptance of the toast. He took a deep drink.
Ryen watched his throat work as he drank, saw the way his lips kissed the lip of the cup. A rebellious stirring formed in her lower stomach. She quickly looked away to her own mug on the table. She fought the heat that surged through her body the only way she knew how…with defiance. She pushed the mug away.
“Perhaps she does not like English wine,” a soldier sitting at her left commented, glaring at her.
“She likes English swords,” McFinley chuckled. He was seated beside Talbot. “She let Prince show her how one is properly handled!”
All around her, the table shook with laughter and lusty chortles.
Ryen’s jaw stiffened with outrage. She glanced up at Bryce to find him speaking earnestly with the dark-haired woman. He wasn’t even paying attention to her! At least when he was in her hall she knew what he was doing every second. Her straight shoulders slumped. A lot of good it had done him, she thought. Her countrymen had still challenged him.
“Your gaze does not seem to be turning any of our blood to ice,” Talbot murmured.
Ryen’s gaze turned back to him. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth thin. He hated her with all his soul; she could see it in his eyes. He would like nothing better than to run her through.
McFinley stood, leaning over the table toward her. “Come on. Turn my blood to ice. Let me see one of your looks.”
Ryen slowly raised her eyes to his. She did not say a word, but challenged him with a slight narrowing of her eyes. If only she had her truth powder, she would show him where that legend had originated.
Ryen wished with all her heart that she had a weapon. She didn’t like the gleam in this knight’s eye. She glanced down and saw that his wrist, where she had cut him, was wrapped in a dirty cloth. At his side, she saw her salvation – a sheathed sword. Confidence filled her.
Ryen felt eyes on her and subtly shifted her gaze to see Bryce watching her. He was staring at her with such intensity that it made her body burn. She swung her gaze back to McFinley. She needed to get close to him to get his sword. If only, for once, she could use her body to be seductive. But how? She was not trained in such things.
But the whores with her army were. She had seen how they seduced her soldiers. A sweet smile, a show of flesh, a bold caress. She smiled coyly. “The legend is wrong,” Ryen said quietly, leaning toward him. “It is not ice.” She glanced up at him through lowered lashes and watched as his lecherous gaze swooped down to her breasts, then hungrily rose to her eyes. As an afterthought, despite the growing feeling of nausea in her stomach, she licked her lips.
“Then what is the truth?” McFinley demanded in a hoarse voice.
As a hush fell over the table, Ryen smiled, savoring the moment of control. “Ask your lord.” She casually reached for the mug of wine she had previously pushed aside.
McFinley vaulted the table, grabbed her elbow, and pulled her to her feet in the blink of an eye. Her wine sloshed onto the table as the mug was knocked over. “I wasn’t asking him, I was asking you,” he snarled angrily. His breath, thick with wine, was hot on her lips; his teeth ground each word out; his blue eyes burned into hers. “What does men’s blood turn into?”
Ryen stared at McFinley, returning his hot gaze with one of her own. “Fire,” she whispered. She leaned into his body, reaching for his sword.
Suddenly, she was pulled away from McFinley and landed on the floor in a mound of blue velvet. Her head was spinning, and when she shook it clear and glanced up, Ryen saw Bryce land a blow to McFinley’s jaw.
She stood quickly as Talbot and Grey planted themselves between the two.
McFinley rubbed his jaw and stood slowly. His brows were furrowed with disbelief, his lips drawn down in a pout of perplexity. He gestured at Ryen. “She’s just a prisoner!” he said vehemently.
“She is mine,” Bryce growled, and surged forward only to be caught by Grey and another soldier.
“We have always had free use of the prisoners,” McFinley stated.
“Not ransomed prisoners. Not this prisoner,” Bryce replied. He calmed in the men’s hold, but his jaw was stiff
and his back straight. “Take Lotte instead.”
McFinley paused, looking at Ryen, then slowly withdrew.
Ryen felt herself tremble as Bryce turned to her. The two men had released him and he approached her. His furious gaze made her heart pound. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her chair. She could feel the heat of anger radiating from him, feel his strong grip on her wrist. He leaned close to her and Ryen trembled. He whispered, “Next time, I will not stop them.”
Her spine straightened at the threat, her heart beating frantically from the encounter. Suddenly, darkness began to close around her and she struggled to fight it off, but it advanced like a swarm of arrows.
Bryce’s supporting hand withdrew and he started to return to his seat. Suddenly, he turned back to her to add something. But she never heard what it was, for in the next moment, she was falling under the impact of those arrows…
Chapter Thirty
Bryce stared down at Ryen as she lay in his bed, at her soft, soft skin, her peaceful expression, the way her eyelashes rested on her cheek, her full lips. She was the picture of a sleeping angel. A smile curved his lips. What a deceitful creature she is. Even in sleep she seeks to seduce me.
Bryce rose and began to pace. What was he doing? he wondered. He had defended her before his soldiers, before his friends, and before the Wolf Pack. He had called her his. The idea that he could want this infamous French killer was outrageous. And still, when McFinley had touched her, Bryce had exploded with rage, a fury that had never taken hold of him before. The anger had flooded his senses and his logic, totally obliterating his self-control.
She stirred and Bryce moved to her side, sinking to one knee by the bed. He gently wiped a stray strand of hair from her cheek as he leaned over to be closer to her. He smiled softly to himself, not quite believing that he had rose to her defense so swiftly. He studied her angelic face. There was a serene quality to her restful features, a calmness that belied the troubled soul beneath. Then, just as quickly, his smile vanished. I may be her protector now, but there will come a time when I will have to protect my people from the Angel of Death, he thought.
The door banged open and Lotte entered the room.
Bryce rose from the floor, turning his gaze to her. “What is it, woman?”
“You told McFinley to take me. In front of all those men. They will think I am for their amusement,” Lotte said, her dark eyes flashing.
Bryce merely turned back to Ryen.
“Prince,” she whimpered, stepping forward, “she killed our son. She tried to sit in his chair. I –”
Bryce whirled on her. “I told you,” he snarled, “she had nothing to do with the fire.”
Lotte withdrew as his tall form loomed over her, her eyes filled with a cold realization. “She has changed you,” she whispered. “You are not the Prince of Darkness any longer. The Prince I knew would have ripped out her throat for killing his kin.”
“Hear you nothing that I say, Lotte? She did not start the fire! She would not kill her own men and animals just to kill Runt.”
“Listen to yourself defend her,” Lotte hissed. “She has worked magic over you.”
“Leave me. Go to McFinley,” Bryce said, his voice strangely calm, even while his hatred for her burned like the flames that took his boy’s life.
Lotte gasped and slowly backed to the door.
He waited until she was gone and the door had closed behind her before he clenched his fists and turned toward the window. His anger stretched his nerves taut like a bowstring. He would not tolerate her disobedience. He stared out at the village beyond the window, his fingers still curled tight.
Ryen watched Bryce. She could see his corded neck muscles, the stiff set of his jaw as he stood at the window. A vague memory flashed through her mind of Bryce standing, half-wild, before the window in her father’s castle. Suddenly, she longed to throw her arms around him to prevent him from jumping. She sat up in bed –
Bryce turned, and for a moment their gazes locked. Ryen shivered under the intensity of his rage, the flame of a candle reflected in the inky depths of his eyes.
He moved forward; the power in each step, each movement, was intoxicating. She found herself dizzy and calm in the same moment. He was wreaking havoc on her senses.
“Ryen,” he said. His voice held no hint of the anger that was aflame in his eyes, but the timbre of his voice sent shivers of ice down her spine. Her heart pounded under the heat of his dark gaze.
“We have unfinished business,” Bryce commented.
Ryen could barely swallow. She could not help but glance at his lips before turning her eyes back to his.
“A punishment,” Bryce said. “Not only for attempting escape, but I warned you to stay away from my men.”
It was like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped over her head. She scowled at him. “Punishment? Sitting among those savages you call your soldiers was punishment enough.”
“Silence!” Bryce roared. He moved to the side of the bed, towering over her. “You have defied me, Ryen De Bouriez. I will not tolerate such insolence from my prisoners.”
Anger, fierce and sudden, jarred Ryen. Her eyes widened with rage and she knelt on the bed, her back as straight as a board. “You ordered me down there! Did you not expect some sort of clash? Your people despise me.”
His glowering eyes darkened and he reached out to seize her wrist.
Ryen dodged his grasp easily, moving to the other side of the bed.
Slowly Bryce straightened. His hair brushed the black velvet material that hung from the bed. His black eyes shimmered. “You are making this harder on yourself, Angel.” His lips curled and she saw a flash of white from his teeth.
She stood facing him, the large bed a barrier between them. He never thought I was beautiful. He used the words to manipulate me. I will never forgive him. I must never forgive him. But his glare made her warm all over. She tried to fight the feeling that was washing over her like droplets of hot rain, inflaming her body slowly but completely. Ryen straightened her shoulders, her breath coming in harsh gasps, her chest rising and falling.
Bryce’s gaze slowly lowered from her eyes to her chest.
Ryen watched as his look of anger began to fade and was replaced by something else. His intense gaze burned into her, searing her to the floor, burning through her veins. He approached her, and she did not back away. She wanted him to touch her. She needed to feel the caress of his lips, his hands. She stood facing him. Tingles covered her body, running up and down her arms. He stopped directly in front of her. Her whole being froze, anticipating the feel of his strong arms around her, the heat of his body, his hot breath on her cheek.
But he did not touch her. “Your punishment, Angel,” his voice caressed the words as his eyes devoured her, “will be to accompany me to break the fast, and dine. You will be with my soldiers and people as much as possible throughout the day. And you will show them respect.” He lifted a finger and ran it along her sensuous lips. “The same respect you show me.”
Ryen parted her lips slightly at his touch, his words drifting somewhere at the front of her mind unheard. The gentleness of his caress startled her into silence as she gazed at his perfect grin, the glimpse of teeth as he spoke. Then he was turning away, heading for the door.
Ryen knew a disappointment she had never felt before. Her lips tingled where he had touched them and her skin felt cold. Suddenly and quickly, shame wrapped itself around her in a blanket of guilt. She hugged her elbows.
He paused at the door and turned to look at her.
Ryen felt his heated gaze rake over her body, smoldering like a burning ember.
“Be ready for the morn. The savages await your company,” he said and quit the room.
Outside the room, Bryce paused, his hand on the latch. The burning in his body flamed outward, searing his very skin. He wanted her. The ache in his loins was hard proof of that. For a moment, he stood, battling himself. Her curves hidden beneath her dress ta
unted him. The dark riotous curls of her hair dared him to return. He knew it would not be honorable to take her, not matter how much he wanted her. He had to wait until the ransom was denied. Then, instead of being the infamous French commander, she would be merely a woman disavowed by her country, a woman in danger of being locked away in the dungeon for the rest of her life. Not that Bryce would ever lock away his attraction to her that easily. When the ransom was denied, he would arouse that fire in her again. The fire that closed her eyelids dreamily, the fire that parted those luscious lips in want. He would hear her call out his name in passion. He would make her his woman in body as well as in soul.
He pulled his hand from the door. But for now, he would wait. He hoped the messenger would arrive soon. He didn’t know how much more waiting he could possibly endure. Already his blood boiled at the mere mention of her name.
“Prince!”
Bryce lifted his eyes to find Talbot approaching. “There is someone I think you should see.”
Bryce’s dark brows drew together and he pushed himself from the door to follow Talbot.
“Please, m’lord,” the man whimpered, as his round eyes locked on Bryce.
The rising moon’s rays streamed in through the windows and the Great Hall was flooded with illumination from the roaring hearth, but the light just barely hit the three men where they stood at the far end beneath the stained glass windows.
Bryce stood with his arms akimbo, his confused gaze sweeping the man before him. The way he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head made him look like an abused dog cowering before its master.
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