The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Bryce reached out and seized Grey’s shoulder. Grey turned to look at him and saw the desperation in his eyes. “You must find her.”

  “We will do all we can, brother,” Grey answered. “My honor is at stake as well.”

  Ryen shivered and hugged her arms. Lucien had driven the horses relentlessly for two days. Now, as she sat huddled beneath an elm tree near a slow-moving brook, Ryen watched her brother through worried eyes. He had refused to light a fire even though it was cold enough to see their breath.

  Lucien stood on a small hill, his dark shape outlined by twinkling stars. During the day, he had continued to mumble to himself, his eyes rolling into his head. They had stopped then, and rested only on Ryen’s insistence that she was tired.

  She shivered again as she watched him. He appeared normal now, but all her reasoning told her that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Ryen pulled her knees into her chest. They would freeze to death out in the open if they did not start a fire.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise. Her head shot up, her eyes piercing the darkness. Nothing. No movement. No sound. She turned to Lucien. He had not moved. Perhaps it is my nerves, she thought. She tried to relax, rolling her shoulders to loosen them.

  Lucien stood and turned to her. His gaze was hard, his lips set in a thin line. As he approached her, his footsteps came down hard on the earth.

  Ryen rose to her feet as he came to a halt before her.

  “There are some things that trouble me, Sister,” Lucien said.

  Ryen heard the curtness in his voice and did not answer.

  “I find it peculiar that you were not in the dungeon, as I was,” he continued, then paused for an answer.

  Ryen stared at his darkly ringed, red streaked eyes, his taut face, his clenched jaw. She was afraid to say anything for fear of enflaming his anger further.

  Suddenly, he reached out and seized a handful of the rich velvet material of her skirt. “No prisoner wears such clothing.”

  Instinctively Ryen jerked away, pulling her skirt from his hand.

  His teeth were clenched, snipping the end of each word. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

  His statement shocked her and she took a step away from him.

  “She told me you did, but I didn’t believe her. Not until now. It all makes sense. Why you’re dressed the way you are. Why you weren’t in the dungeon.” Lucien took a step closer. “Why you didn’t want to leave.”

  “I gave my word!” Ryen hollered.

  “She called you a French slut.”

  Ryen took another step away from Lucien and her back slammed into the tree. Her fears of what she had become rose in her mind again. Bryce’s slut. He had labeled her that on their first night together. And now his words rang true. “Who called me that?”

  “His dark haired whore,” Lucien replied bitterly. “Who better to see?”

  Days of agony rose inside of her, nights of loneliness. “Oh, Lucien,” Ryen whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I thought he loved me.”

  “Loved?” He spat the word as if it were poison. “And you embraced him willingly?”

  Guilt and remorse rose inside her. She turned away from her brother. “Yes,” she whimpered.

  “Then you are truly a traitor.”

  There was a calm in his voice that frightened Ryen, and as she turned to look at him, she heard the silent hiss of the sword being pulled from his belt. Ryen stared at him in disbelief, unable to move as he pointed the tip of the weapon at her throat.

  “You deserve death!” he sneered.

  One of the horses whinnied nervously, and all at once the forest seemed to come alive.

  Lucien pulled his arm back for the final thrust. She twisted and the sword whirled past her, slamming into the bark of the elm tree.

  Branches reached out to seize her arms and wrists. Shadows moved about her as if they, too, were alive. Lucien was lost from her view, swallowed by a sea of darkness.

  A hand covered her mouth, cutting off any sound.

  She felt a rush of power as she lashed out with her knee, catching her captor off guard. She heard a groan as the hand fell from her mouth and wrist. Ryen tore her other arm free and paused, searching the forest for Lucien. Dark shapes seemed to dance before the reflection of the stars in the water of the brook.

  A face rose before her and she gasped, stumbling back. Through the shadowy light, she saw a hairy face, teeth pointed to white fangs and eyes red like a demon’s. Ryen turned and fled.

  Behind her she heard angry shouts. She dashed through the bushes, her heart pounding wildly, the wind roaring in her ears. Bare branches slapped at her face as she crashed through them. Unable to see for the darkness, Ryen pushed blindly on, her hands outstretched to try to feel what was in front of her only moments before her feet landed on the uneven ground beneath the bushes.

  It’s not real, she told herself, and slowed her steps. It could not be real. Then, over the mad beat of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears, a howl broke the silence of the night. Heavy running footsteps snapped branches and crushed leaves behind her. She broke into a run, turning her head to look over her shoulder, but could see only the darkness. When she spun to face forward, she saw the shadow of the tree too late. Her feet slid in the leaves and she caught herself on the cold bark of the tree. As she turned to head away from the barrier, her dress snagged on the branches of the bushes near her feet.

  He bore down upon her like a devil, seizing her wrist in a steely grip. Ryen fought blindly against his strength, but he proved too powerful, stilling her vain struggle by grabbing her other wrist. She looked up into his eyes, which were red like fire. With a gasp, she stumbled back into the trees. He threw back his head and a howl tore from his throat.

  The man who had captured her was no man at all, but an animal! It propelled her back toward her camp. She stumbled and fell, but he grabbed her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh, and yanked her to her feet.

  A campfire loomed just beyond the trees they were rapidly approaching. The flickering of the flames cast eerie shadows on the trees of the forest.

  Her captor yanked her through the foliage and Ryen felt a branch slice her skin. Her other cuts suddenly flared to life and her body ached from exhaustion.

  Ryen raised her eyes to the beast that held her wrist as he emerged from the forest and the firelight washed over him. His face was covered with fur, his nose shaped like the muzzle of a beast. It was a wolf, Ryen realized. A wolf that walked like a man! She had heard such fairy tales but had never believed them until now. She tried to pull her hand free, but her movement only succeeded in turning the man-wolf’s glare upon her.

  “Bring her,” a voice called from near the firelight.

  The man-wolf pulled her closer to the fire, where she found herself surrounded by seven similar creatures.

  One of them placed his hand on his muzzle and raised it up. The wolf-face slid away and Ryen gasped. It was Grey. He was all right Then, it dawned on her. The Wolf Pack!

  At the same time, the realization struck that they were returning her to Bryce.

  Ryen quickly backed away until she bumped into a wall of flesh. She couldn’t suppress a whimper as she was spun around to face the man.

  Bryce held her at arm’s length, the fire reflecting in his black eyes as he scowled at her. They went from her wild hair to her torn dress.

  She steeled herself against the sadness that reared its head inside her at his hateful stare.

  Then his gaze shifted to Grey. There was no sound as they contemplated each other. Bryce finally nodded and said, “Bring the man to my castle.”

  Grey dipped his head slightly.

  Ryen felt Bryce’s hand clamp over her arm, and he turned her away.

  His steps were large and surefooted, and Ryen had to struggle to keep up with him. His fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled her along.

  “What will you do to Lucien?” Ryen asked.

  “You should be more concerned about wh
at I will do to you,” Bryce answered sharply.

  “Me?” Ryen wondered aloud.

  Bryce stopped suddenly and Ryen slammed into his back. She stepped away as he whirled on her. “Yes, you. Did you think I would not find you? Did you think there was anywhere you could run that I would not come after you? Even to France and your lover Count Dumas.”

  “We are not lovers –” Ryen stated.

  “Enough!” Bryce shouted, glaring at her. “I will not hear any more of your lies.”

  “My lies?” Frustration and hurt overwhelmed Ryen. Her eyes burned as she scowled at Bryce. “And what of yours?”

  He straightened. “I have never lied to you or in any way led you to believe a falsehood!”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “What about under the ‘truth powder’?” He had lied to her, then. He called her beautiful…and it had been the foulest of lies, whispered from vengeful lips.

  Bryce gazed at her calmly, his expression like the quiet that settles the air before a storm.

  “Yes. I lied to you then. But you were my enemy. I have not lied to you since.”

  She raised her quivering chin. “You told me Lucien was dead!”

  “The Lucien you knew is dead,” he answered.

  “And how do you know my brother so well?” she retorted sharply.

  “I’ve seen his look before. The madness in his eyes, in his words. I was afraid he would hurt even his sister.”

  His words startled her into silence. Bryce was right. Lucien had been about to kill her. She felt her body tremble.

  Bryce reached out to her. “Angel.”

  She pulled violently away. No. He wanted her to believe he was only trying to protect her. Another lie. He could have trusted her with the truth, even sought her help with Lucien. Instead, he had chosen to manipulate her. He had used her, twisted her feelings and emotions to suit him.

  Bryce had ripped out her heart and split it in half. Now, he wanted her to take it back so he could hurt her again. She didn’t want it. “Don’t touch me. We were enemies then and we are now,” she whispered.

  Bryce dropped his hand. “So be it.”

  Chapter Forty Three

  They moved through the night, Ryen in front of Bryce on his warhorse. As they rode, Bryce watched her head bob before him and knew she was asleep.

  They were enemies again. The thought drove a wedge into his heart. Somehow they had built a bridge over the abyss of their differences, of their loyalties. They had been happy. Bryce had seen how her eyes glowed when she looked upon him, how her lips curved up in happiness. But now their bridge built from joy and companionship was being demolished by pride and honor.

  For the first time in his life, the word was bitter to him. Honor. He had killed for less. Now, he wished he had never heard the word, had never taken his oath to become a knight…all for the sake of a woman.

  He clenched his teeth. Damn, he thought. How in heaven’s name had she found out? Had she been touring his castle and decided to take a stroll in the dungeon? Ridiculous. The dungeon would have been the last place she would go. So, someone must have told her. But who?

  The question plagued him for the duration of the journey. They stopped to rest once and Bryce watched Ryen clean her face by a stream. She winced as her fingers brushed over a small cut on her cheek. Bryce felt her pain throughout his body and stepped forward to help, but then stopped. She did not want his help. She did not want him. She wanted Dumas.

  They had arrived at Dark Castle at sunset without speaking a word to each other. The fading rays of red splashed their backs and painted the tall, square towers of Dark Castle in a bloody crimson.

  Bryce escorted Ryen to his room. He paused in the doorway and watched her walk to the center of the room, where she stopped. Her back straightened and he thought she would speak. But she did not, and Bryce was forced to shut the door on her.

  He stared at the dark wood for a long moment. He should take the ransom and send her back to her lover. He knew that was what she wanted. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t give her to another man. He would rather have her rot in his dungeons.

  Bryce locked the door and turned away.

  Ryen was awakened from a troubled sleep by a creak of floorboards. She shot up, her eyes wide, her hand searching for her sword that should have been within easy grasp.

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Quiet,” the voice murmured.

  Ryen’s eyes followed the arm up to the shoulder and then to his face. Vignon was seated on the bed, a tray of fruit in his lap.

  An irrational fear closed her throat. A thousand questions raced through her mind, but she could not seem to utter one of them.

  He dropped his hand, whispering, “You may not have a lot of time. There is a rumor he will return you to France.”

  Ryen was momentarily stunned. France, her mind kept repeating.

  Vignon pressed a small vial into her hand. “I cannot get close enough to Prince to do it. You must.”

  Ryen’s eyes dropped to the cold cylinder resting in her palm and the clear liquid inside. The cold from the vial seeped into her skin and made her shiver.

  “Pour it over his food, or in his ale. He will be dead after one taste.”

  A shiver shot up her spine. Ryen’s fist closed around the vial tightly, her hand suddenly trembling.

  Vignon rose, placing the tray on the table. “Do not delay. You may not be here long.”

  Ryen could not tear her eyes from the vial of death. She had never killed a man who was weaponless, with something he could not defend himself against. It seemed…wrong. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Vignon’s cold eyes turned to her, the shadow of a scowl creasing his brow.

  Guilt spilled over her and Ryen protested, “He will not see me, let alone eat with me.”

  Vignon shrugged. “Change his mind. You are a woman.”

  Ryen gaped at him, anger slowly seeping into her eyes. “I am a knight.”

  “Then find a sword and run him through. Either way will yield the desired result.” He moved silently to the door.

  Ryen glanced down at the vial she held cupped in her hand. There was only a small amount of the liquid in the tube. For it to be able to kill a man as strong as Bryce seemed inconceivable.

  She raised her eyes to the door. Vignon’s dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, seemed to flash white in the candlelight. “Remember your duty to your king and country. All else is meaningless in war,” he hissed, before exiting the room.

  Ryen’s gaze fell to her clenched fist. She was to kill Bryce. For her country, for her king, she was to poison him.

  The thought of Bryce’s strong, vibrant body broken and still on the cold stones of the floor haunted her thoughts. Suddenly, she felt so light-headed that she almost dropped the vial. With both hands she clasped the cylinder to her chest.

  Bryce used me, she told herself. Used me until I was blind to the truth. Lied to me. Protected me like I was a helpless woman unable to make my own decisions. I hate him.

  There was an empty ache in her chest where her heart had been.

  He should die for what he has done to me, she thought.

  She sat at the window, watching the sun peek over the horizon. She shivered in the gusty, chill wind, but somehow she could not turn away from the hope of a new day. The wind snuck into her muddied blue velvet dress through a tear in her gown and puffed the material from her body, caressing her naked skin until it slipped out through the bottom of her gown. Ryen trembled in the kiss of the icy breeze.

  “Stand away from the window.”

  His voice shocked her, but she did not budge. How long had he been standing in the doorway watching her? she wondered.

  “Where is my brother?” Ryen demanded, without shifting her gaze from the rising sun.

  “Where prisoners are kept.”

  “Why am I not there?’

  The silence rose between them like a stone wall, built on stubbornness and pride.

 
Another breeze swirled about Ryen, lifting the ends of her hair before settling them back around her shoulders.

  “I said to stand away from the window.”

  Ryen raised her chin, defiantly thrusting it toward the glowing orb of the sun. She wanted to look at him, to see his defeat at her small victory. But she did not trust her feelings. Not where Bryce was concerned. She was afraid her victory would turn into defeat when her body turned traitor and desired his touch.

  Suddenly, she was shoved back against the wall, Bryce’s large hand about her thin throat. Surprised eyes met angry ones. “Why do you defy me? You know I can snap your neck with one squeeze.”

  She recognized a way out of her inner agony, an avenue that she had not considered, did not have the courage to take herself. Ryen’s face softened, the angry, defiant lines melting into pools of tormented grief. “Why don’t you?”

  Ryen saw terror replace his anger as he stared into her eyes. His gaze took in every curve of her face, every pool of shadow that rested against her skin. She knew he needed to be goaded to kill her, but the words that had come to her lips so easily before could not be spoken from her dry mouth.

  Suddenly, his lips slanted over hers and Ryen had to part them under his brutal hunger. His tongue thrust into her mouth and Ryen felt the passion inside her drown under rising tears. I hate him, she thought. And her hands shoved at his chest. But as his hands touched her face, moving in sweet caresses over her cheeks and through her hair, she felt her resolve weaken. As she opened her lips to his kiss, she knew her defeat was complete. She did not hate him; she loved him. She loved him so much that she would rather die than be separated from him. The sob escaped her throat where words could not.

  She felt him pull slightly away but could not open her eyes for the tears. Ryen could feel his breath on her lips and her throat closed. He would use her again. Lie to her. Tell her she was beautiful. She knew it, yet she didn’t care. She wanted to feel his warm hands on her skin, his kisses. To pretend he thought she was beautiful…that he loved her.

  His hand dropped from her neck and she felt him withdraw. The cold breeze surrounded her trembling body again.