The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Chapter Thirty Two

  The hurt that swirled inside Ryen left her listless. She had dressed in the samite blue dress and velvet blue surcoat she had picked and prepared to break her fast, absently combing the soft waves of hair that hung like a trellis around her face.

  Ryen rose and moved to the window. The sky was blue; the sun warmed her cheeks. People were moving about, entering and leaving the castle. Ryen leaned forward, resting her palms on the ledge, and leaned over to look straight down. A group of children ran past the window far below; a man herded a flock of sheep toward the gates. Then all was still for a moment. Ryen was about to pull back into the room when a movement caught her eye. Something in the shadows of the wall around the castle. Ryen frowned, staring hard. But the seconds ticked by and there was no sign of anyone.

  Ryen straightened, about to turn back, when a man stepped from the exact spot she was staring at, moving into the bright light of morning. Startled, she jerked back into the safety of the room. The alabaster skin was unmistakable. It was Jacques Vignon! Her advance scout, the man who had recaptured Bryce after the fire had broken out in her camp. What was he doing here?

  Ryen leaned against the wall, placing a hand on her pounding heart. Vignon! After a moment, doubt pressed in on her mind and she dropped her hand. Maybe it wasn’t him. After all, what would he be doing in England? Had he come to rescue her? Ryen peered out the window once again. But the man was gone, the courtyard empty. She pressed her palms against the stones to support her weight as she leaned out the window.

  The door to her room opened.

  Ryen whirled, her eyes large with expectation. She half expected Vignon to walk in and greet her.

  Bryce stepped into the room, and met her gaze with a frown.

  Her pounding heart was replaced by a different rush as her body heated. She hated him. He was an English dog with no warmth in his entire body, she had repeated to herself, over and over, preparing herself for just this moment. But now, faced with his scorching gaze, her blood did indeed boil, but it was not with anger…

  He wore, in total disregard to conventional fashion, a roomy white cotton tunic, open at the throat to reveal just a trace of his broad, tanned chest. It was enough to ignite Ryen’s imagination. Her gaze traveled over the rest of his body. The muscles of his strong legs were clearly visible beneath the hose he wore. They clung to his legs, leaving nothing to the imagination. On his feet he wore calf-length black leather boots.

  Ryen felt her knees trembling. She tried to recall the rage she had felt yesterday, tried to remember the sting of his words as he told her of her brothers’ deaths. But he was staring at her with those black eyes, enflaming every nerve of her body.

  Bryce lifted a hand to her, palm up. It was an open invitation to take what he was offering. Including his apologies.

  For a moment, she stared at his hand. She began to reach out. What am I doing? she thought, and brought her hand down so hard that it slapped against her thigh. She raised her chin in defiance, eyes flashing like brilliant sapphire gems, and straightened her shoulders.

  He crossed the room in three strides, until he stood before her, his stare piercingly hot.

  Ryen had to tilt her head up slightly to meet his gaze. She could feel the heat from his body as they stood, barely touching. She watched his dark, angry eyes melt into pools of hot oil.

  Then, his hand lifted. Ryen could sense the movement of his corded muscles. He was going to touch her, to put his warm hand on her body. She waited, never taking her eyes from his deep gaze, anticipating the gentle feel of his caress.

  And waited.

  Finally, she tore her stare from his and glanced at his hand. It was near her shoulder, palm up, patiently awaiting her hand.

  Ryen stepped away from him, unable to bear his arrogance. No sooner had she turned her back on him, than his amused voice came to her. “Ryen.”

  She refused to acknowledge him, instead embracing her elbows.

  Silence engulfed her for long seconds. When next his voice came to her, it was whispered on a bed of clouds. “Angel.”

  She turned hesitantly, the soft timbre of his voice casting a spell over her body that she was unable to break. She expected to see victory and laughter in his eyes. But his expression startled her. It was warm and soft and caring. Everything she had ever wanted of him. Everything she had ever needed from him…except, of course, love. Confused, Ryen moved toward what she wanted to see, needed to see, in those inky depths. She placed her hand in his.

  The jolt that rocked her body as she felt the heat of his flesh against hers made her dizzy.

  Bryce watched her lower her eyes to their clasped hands. The gesture was simple, demure, and innocent, and he found himself aroused beyond reason. He felt his hand, the hand that held her fragile one so carefully, begin to tremble. Ah, God. How he wanted her. His grip tightened around her small fingers as he willed the shaking to cease.

  Alarmed, Ryen glanced up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

  Bryce turned toward the door, quickly tucking her wrist under his arm.

  As they moved, her hand resting on the inside of his arm, Ryen could feel the subtle tightening of his muscles as he reached to open the door. His chest brushed her knuckles and she took in a sharp breath.

  Bryce paused slightly, to glance at her. But when she did not meet his gaze, he continued on.

  The door opened and a draft of cool air engulfed Ryen. It was fresh and smelled vaguely of flowers. She paused in the doorway, inhaling the invigorating scent.

  Bryce glanced back at her. He misread the look on her face as trepidation and reassured her, “You needn’t worry. No one will touch you as long as you’re at my side…”

  Ryen frowned at him. Worry? She had not thought of that. Not since Bryce had entered her room. But now that he’d brought it up, she knew she should be concerned. Last time she had entered his hall, she had been assaulted and ridiculed.

  Suddenly, Ryen had no desire to leave the safety her room offered.

  “They won’t harm you, Ryen. You have my word,” Bryce told her softly.

  At his tender earnestness, Ryen felt some of her doubt fade away, and she let him lead her down the hallway.

  The doors to the Great Hall gaped wide, and a loud clamor spilled out from within.

  Ryen glanced sideways at Bryce and he squeezed her fingers in encouragement.

  Together they entered the room, England and France, the Prince of Darkness and the Angel of Death. Immediately, talking ceased and all eyes focused on them. Bryce led Ryen down the center of the room to the seat she had occupied before, amidst his men.

  When Ryen glanced up, she saw that Talbot was in the seat across from her, his intense gaze upon her. She knew he saw not her, but the enemy. She looked away from him and noticed that McFinley’s seat was occupied by…

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared into the black eyes of Jacques Vignon! She fell into her seat, quickly closing her mouth, and looked away, unable to stare her countryman in the eye.

  She hadn’t been imagining! Why was he here? Was he a spy? Or an Englishman?

  As Bryce left her side, she followed his movement to his table at the front of the room. Ryen spotted his chair, and to either side sat the same two women who had been there before. Her heart sank. His whores still had the place of honor. Suddenly, unreasonably, she felt miserable. She looked away and her eyes locked with Talbot’s. For a moment, her hurt showed clearly on her face before she could mask it with indifference.

  Talbot frowned as Ryen met his gaze, chin slightly uplifted, shoulders thrown back with pride.

  Ryen could feel the eyes upon her, watching expectantly. She felt the pressure of the silence, the weight of their hate. Ryen’s gaze moved past Talbot to eye the people about her. Although she purposely ignored Vignon, her mind could not. What was he doing here? Was he a traitor? Had she placed her trust in a spy?

  Then, near the door at the rear of the hall, she spotted Polly among a
group of servants carrying trays and pitchers of ale. When she noticed Ryen’s gaze, Polly’s lips turned up and she smiled encouragement before disappearing out the double doors.

  Ryen’s heart sang with joy. She had made a friend among these people who hated and loathed her. Then, like a stone crashing heavily to the earth, guilt fell over her shoulders and she swiveled her eyes to Vignon, who was sipping ale from a mug. He was her reminder of France. Of her men, of her duty. Of honor. She should try harder to escape.

  Suddenly, a tingling along her spine made her swivel her head to the front of the room.

  Bryce’s gaze was locked on her. He was watching her. Had he somehow seen her reaction to Vignon? Was Vignon indeed English? Had he been a spy in her own camp? Was this some sort of test of her loyalty? And if so, who was testing her – Bryce or France? She knew that last question would go unanswered for now and turned her attention back to the scene before her.

  Ryen scanned the table to find it strangely empty of trenchers. She lifted her eyes again to Bryce. He was still staring at her, but an amused look had settled over his features. She noticed movement at the rear of the hall and turned her head. The servants were beginning to come forward, carrying large platters of bread.

  One girl bent over Ryen to place the plate in the center of the table. Ryen’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the small bread loaves piled high on the tray. As soon as the girl moved back, Ryen reached her hand out for a piece of bread. She had not made it halfway when a low growl startled her. She looked toward the noise to see the wild-looking man sitting on her right leap toward the platter.

  Ryen pulled her hand back quickly, seconds before the other men dived for the food. Chairs scraped and tumbled, wild cries filling the room as she pulled herself as far away from the food as her chair would allow. Then the men sat back, each with a portion of bread. Ryen’s stomach grumbled and she reached for the platter.

  It was empty!

  She sat back, stunned. Just moments before, the tray had been full. If it weren’t for the crumbs on the platter, Ryen would have sworn her eyes were playing tricks on her. Barbarians, she thought. She pulled her hand to her chest, massaging her fingers as if in preparation for the next round. She lifted her eyes to Bryce. He was still watching her, casually bringing a piece of bread to his lips. Ryen frowned at him. Her hungry stomach grumbled as her eyes watched pieces of bread fall from his lips onto the table and roll to the floor, where two hounds lapped up the crumbs.

  Her eyes shifted to Vignon. He was clutching a piece of bread in each hand, eating them with a tenacity that surprised her. Obviously he was not new to this.

  Her head jerked to the side as a grunt sounded. Like a starved wild dog just thrown a bone, the soldier on her left gobbled the bread that was smashed in his clenched fists, his eyes darting savagely from side to side. Ryen could swear that he held two loaves in his large hands. Her eyes scanned the faces of the men around her, noticing that each had the same savage-eyed look, and each had at least two, if not three, loaves.

  Her eyes shifted to Talbot. He had only one loaf, and his body curled protectively around it, his wounded arm shielding the bread as best it could.

  Ryen’s lips drew down in an alarmed pout. Were these people starving?

  Her head swiveled around the room, watching with disgust the manners of these barbarians, or the lack of them. Until her gaze came to the back of the room. In the shadows she saw men and women milling, pacing. One small girl was sitting dejectedly, her thin legs crossed, her large eyes staring straight ahead. Ryen frowned in confusion. What was going on here?

  She shifted her gaze to Talbot. He was just finishing up his bread. He might hate me, she thought, but he has never lied to me. “Why don’t the peasants eat?” she wondered.

  “They eat when we are done,” Talbot answered, wiping a sleeve across his mouth.

  Ryen’s eyes shifted to the empty platter. Her stomach rumbled and she rubbed it absently. “There’s no food left.”

  “They eat the kill,” he replied.

  A small girl reached over Ryen’s shoulder to fill her cup. As she straightened, her stomach bumped Ryen’s arm. Ryen glanced up and noticed her protruding abdomen. Good Lord, Ryen thought, the poor girl is with child! And from the looks of her size, ready to deliver now! She could barely stretch across the table for the mound of belly that jutted before her. As the girl went to replace Ryen’s cup, Ryen took it from her hand so that she wouldn’t have to reach across the table.

  The girl froze, staring at Ryen. In her brown eyes, Ryen could see fear. Ryen set her cup back on the table and reached for the next cup. No sooner had her fingers encircled the goblet than a large hairy hand slammed down around her wrist.

  Ryen’s startled eyes quickly followed the hairy arm up to a snarling face. The man to her left still held bread in one hand as he glared at her. His eyes narrowed hotly and his grip tightened. For a moment no one moved.

  Anger slammed through Ryen’s body. He thought she was stealing his property! What in heaven’s name would she want with a goblet? Other than to club him in the head with. Ryen tore her wrist away from him and turned to the girl, extending the goblet to her.

  Shuddering, the girl lifted the pitcher and poured. As the beer ale filled the cup, Ryen could feel the man’s form rising behind her. When the girl finished, Ryen turned and sloshed the cup into the man’s hands, returning his accursed goblet. The man’s furrowed eyebrows shot up in surprise and confusion as he stared at the goblet.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ryen saw that Bryce was also standing. She ignored both of them and reached for the next cup. The knight did not protest, and Ryen had the cup back to him in a second. She stood, moving down the row, filling each of their cups. She felt a gentle hand on her arm and looked up to see Polly at her side. The large woman reached out and took the cup from her hands, saying, “Ya return ta your seat. This is no job for a lady.”

  Ryen stared hard at her for a moment until Polly smiled and urged, “Go on, now.” Ryen hesitantly returned to her seat. She felt every eye on her, suspicion and confusion in every look. Anger burned through her veins. These barbarians! Didn’t they know how honored a pregnant woman should be? She had to be careful lest she lose the life inside her. But these pigs made her lean over them, stretching and bending. They refused even to lift a finger!

  Ryen turned her gaze to Bryce. He was taking his seat, but she saw a glimmer in his eyes…was it pride? Or worry and doubt? She could not be sure, so she raised her chin and turned back to the soldiers. Most had finished eating and were watching her.

  They didn’t know what to make of her. She could see it in their eyes! They were surprised she had helped the servant. The woman was English, after all. But she was a commoner, treated no better than the dogs beneath Bryce’s feet. Ryen shook her head sadly.

  Suddenly, the swarm of servants surged forward again. They were carrying trays of fruit. Again a platter was placed before Ryen, in the center of the table. She didn’t even reach for the luscious-looking apples. Not after last time. If starvation was Bryce’s punishment, then so be it.

  She cringed as the men descended over the mound of fruit, pushing and shoving each other in their desperation to reach the food.

  Suddenly there was a growl. At first, Ryen thought it was the hounds, but as she turned her head she saw two men rising, one’s hands outstretched toward the second man’s throat. The table cleared instantly and the wild-looking man on her right pulled Ryen out of her chair as a fist barely missed her chin. It was appalling. She sucked in her breath as a fist connected with a jaw. The grunting and growling should have come from two animals, not two men.

  Ryen glanced at Bryce. He was sitting in his chair, his gaze upon her as his soldiers fought each other for food. Why did he do nothing?

  Ryen watched Elli bend to him, lay a hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear. Together they turned to her again. Bryce nodded. Ryen wanted to rip out the woman’s throat as well as cut off her h
and for laying it on Bryce. She stared hard at the woman, at her fingers caressing his arm, until she removed her hand. When Ryen turned her gaze back to the fighting men, she saw they were rolling across the floor, through the rushes, away from the table. One by one, the soldiers who had been sitting around her began to take their seats, ignoring the struggle.

  She turned her gaze again to Bryce. He was still watching her, taking a large bite from an apple. But he wore an amused look. He casually tossed a slice of fruit over the side of the table, where the hounds sat at attention, staring at him. The youngest and most agile of the dogs leapt up and caught the slice in his mouth, swallowing it whole.

  Ryen became distinctly aware that she was the only one standing. Slowly she made her way to her seat. When she was seated, a large roasted pig was carried in, supported by a spit. Ryen watched as Bryce stood and moved around the table toward it. She watched his body as he walked, the slight swing of his muscular arms, the confident gait of his legs, the tightness of his leggings over the bulge –

  She felt heat rise inside her and looked down, hoping to hide her discomfort, but found that she could not keep her eyes from him, and they lifted, centering on his wavy hair and then slowly perusing his body.

  He turned his back to her and her eyes were drawn to his firm buttocks. He was the most attractive man she had ever known. She felt her insides warming; the anger dissipated, replaced by a dreamy sensation as her eyes lazily examined his strong body.

  An impish grin tugged the corners of her lips. He was so handsome and she knew she could watch him all day…as long as he didn’t know.

  Then he turned and stared directly into her eyes.

  Ryen’s eyes widened with guilt, and her face paled. She watched the knowing grin spread across his smug face. She wished she were dead. She wished she could disappear. She wished she could run a hand over those rounded muscles. She blanched. Where had that thought come from? She quickly dropped her gaze to the table.

  When she cautiously raised her eyes again, Bryce was walking toward his chair. He was carrying a plate, on which was a slab of the swine. Ryen saw Lotte’s back straighten with vanity as Bryce stopped before her and lobbed a hunk of meat into her dish. Ryen’s shoulders slumped slightly, her lips drooping. Lotte’s face glowed as she cast Ryen an arrogant look.