Ryen arched toward him, sharp stabs of pleasure shooting down to her stomach, adding fuel to the already blazing fire. She felt sensations that she had never felt before, and she wanted to feel more. She wanted him to stop the aching she felt. She knew that he would gently whisper her name before the night was through. She wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him closer, burying her face into his dark hair. “Bryce,” she murmured.
Bryce let his one hand roam lower, cupping the cheek of her buttocks. She groaned and he dipped his fingers even lower and touched the folds of her womanhood. Gently, he bit down on her nipple as he thrust a finger inside her.
Spirals of ecstasy swirled through her mind and she moved her hips to the temp of his hand. Never had she dreamt of such pleasure!
Bryce grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her bare neck. How easy it would be to sink his teeth into the white, creamy flesh and shake her until she was still. He pressed his lips firmly onto her skin, nibbling at her throat.
Ryen was lost in a world that focused on Bryce. His fingers expertly sent waves of ecstasy crashing through her.
He eased her down to the carpeted ground and knelt between her legs.
Ryen couldn’t help thinking of him as a stalking wolf as he crawled over her. She felt something brush her thigh and looked down. The mere size of his manhood shocked her – surely he would split her in two! – and suddenly she felt her nerve failing her. She tried to back away from his advance.
“This will cure any of your ills, Angel,” Bryce said bitterly. He put his full weight on top of her, pinning her down. His manhood throbbed with an aching lust. He reached down to his groin and gripped his member, guiding it toward her.
Ryen squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the worst, and steeled her body against the blow.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
They remained closed.
“Look at me!”
Hesitant, Ryen opened her eyes and saw only the infinite blackness of his loathing.
He thrust his stiffness into her.
Only years of self-discipline prevented her from crying out in agony. She gripped his shoulders tightly, hoping that this was all there was to ‘taking’ someone, hoping he would not move.
Bryce began to thrust, his body rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
She held her body rigid against his assault. With each impalement, more of her fantasy crumbled to dust. The pain brought tears to her eyes, but she would never shed them. She put the knuckles of one hand into her mouth to keep from crying out. The other hand pushed weakly against his chest. It could not be like this.
Ryen felt his body stiffen and heard him groan. Finally, he lay still on top of her. She felt relief course through her body and relaxed for the first time since he’d entered her. She stroked his shoulder gently, kindly, wanting the same from him. It had been so brutal! If only he would whisper a tender word…if only he would say her name, then she could overlook his roughness.
He shrugged off her hand and put his face close to her ear.
She knew he would say it now, knew he would whisper her name softly to her.
“Slut,” he said scornfully.
The last remnant of her fantasy shattered into nothingness and she was left barren, shocked, and hurt. She turned to face him, totally vulnerable for the first time in her life. She looked into his eyes hoping to find some sympathy or explanation.
Disdain filled his expression as he saw her expectations so clearly written on her face. He pushed himself up, tying his hose as he rose.
She grabbed the fur from the bed to cover her nakedness and watched him leave. Quickly, so she would not see any more of him, she blew out the candle to hide alone in the darkness.
Chapter Eight
“Damn,” Bryce muttered as he shoved aside the tent flap with all the anger coursing through his body. I could not kill her! he thought. Even as she used me to service her lust like a common dog, I could not bring myself to strangle the life from her body!
The aroma of freshly roasting venison wafted to him on a soft breeze that stirred his hair. He lifted his head slightly and suddenly realized that he was outside – with no guards.
Escape!
The thought barely entered his mind when hands slammed down upon his shoulders and arms like heavy weights, dragging him to his knees. He struggled, but his arms were wrenched in front of him and chains slapped upon his wrists and ankles before he could even take another breath.
He silently cursed. The harlot had distracted him again, this time costing him an escape. He was pulled to his feet and shoved forward. Four men led him back to his tent, where he was chained to a stake and left alone.
Sitting on the hard ground, buried deep in the night’s blackness, Bryce closed his eyes and struggled to will his anger into submission. There would be a time for revenge, but this would not be it. He exhaled a slow, controlled breath as the thought of what had transpired a few minutes before came churning back to the surface of his mind. He had been nothing but a means with which to service the wench’s desire. Fierce anger burned in his chest, tightening his lips. God’s blood! he thought. How could she be so cold? He could have planted his seed within her! Did she not care about that?
Perhaps she does not know.
The thought was like a blow, stunning him. No, he thought. It could not be. She was a harlot; the seductive way she stood before the candle in that sheer nightdress was engraved upon his memory, scorched there like a brand. It could not be that she was inexperienced in such things. But as he thought this, his mind replayed the sequence of events that led to their lovemaking. She had seemed tentative about touching him. She had been shy about her nakedness. Bur perhaps this was just a game she played. The way she kissed him, the groans and arches of her soft body, the careless abandon, argued she was experienced at lovemaking.
Still, he had seen fear cross her face at the moment of their coupling. The memory of her body pressed against his caused a stirring in his loins. I could not kill her, he thought again. Not with those brilliant blue eyes staring into my very soul, wearing the look of hot need so naturally. Perhaps I should not have been so rough…
She is French! She used me and I am feeling sorry for her. His lip curled in a grimace and he shifted his position. Slowly, his brow furrowed as he thought of the moment he had taken her. His brows met as he concentrated – had there been a barrier?
He put his hand inside his leggings, feeling the wetness there, the only physical evidence that they had actually been together. He removed his hand and raised it up before his face, studying the stain on his fingertips. His scowl deepened as he wondered what kind of wanton devil his captor was. Why would she have done such a thing? He could think of nothing of value she could have gained from their encounter. Unless this was not the proof he was looking for, but her monthly flux.
The doubt festered in his mind like an annoying gnat. He replayed their encounter in is mind again, as he knew he would do a hundred times in the future. He had to know. Had she been a virgin?
The next day went slowly, and no matter how hard he tried, there simply was not enough to occupy his mind. Images and sensations that he wanted to forget kept returning. The rebellious chestnut curls that hid the soft, delicate curve of her neck. Her moist, parted lips that hinted of honey, a sweetness that he now wished he had tasted further.
Bryce pounded the ground for the fifth time, deepening the indentation that was already there.
He had to know if she was a virgin. If she was…he had acted like a rutting dog. Had he known, he would never have taken her. No, he thought fiercely. She must be accustomed to taking men. She had many prisoners. Surely, he was not her first. He could not be her first! Why would she have picked her enemy to take her maidenhead?
He had many women, that went without saying. Some married to great lords, some common harlots. But never had he taken a virgin. They were trouble. He had learned that from a friend a long time
ago. Years ago, when he had been a squire about to be knighted, his friend Charles Burke had slept with a farmer’s virgin daughter. Later, she accused Burke of raping her. Burke had to pay a rich sum…even though the wench had lied.
Bryce avoided virgins like the plague. Even at Dark Castle, where it would have been customary for the lord to sleep with peasant women on their wedding night, he had never exercised his right.
If a married noblewoman stopped at Dark Castle and was interested, he would take her without guilt. Many of the noblewomen wore a night with the Prince of Darkness like a valued jewel for their peers to envy. He gave them what they wanted and then dismissed them from his thoughts.
But he could not do this with his enemy. She had seduced him. She had invited him to her quarters, not knowing whether he would strangle her or not. She stood before him like some daring temptress. She could not be a virgin!
No decent woman had ever matched his lovemaking. Not even Angel. You did not give her the chance, a voice inside him chastised. He pushed the thought aside. They all lay beneath him, pretending to be fearful of the great Prince of Darkness, acting the defenseless maiden. He despised them when he was finished, as he despised his French captor.
Whores sometimes matched his wild lovemaking. He kept two of the best at his castle near Sussex. There was Elli, the blond. He had made her cut her hair short to remind him of the women of the Wolf Pack. She loved to please him. And she did. She also pleased most of his men. But it did not bother him.
And there was Lotte. He loved to wrap his hands in her long black hair and yank on it when he took her from behind like a dog. She had big breasts, the biggest he had ever seen. But she had to eat like a cow to keep them that way. Bryce knew that she never slept with the other men. She thought of herself as his, and when he took Elli, it enraged her. He lost track of how many fights he had witnessed between the two whores.
But the whores had not been virgins when he had taken them. None of his women had ever been. If the Angel…
No, he thought. Why would she choose me? Why not choose one of her men? Surely she could have found a Frenchman to satisfy her. Had she no suitors? Or was it the legend that surrounded him what intrigued her?
Then the thought returned to him from the night before, nearly paralyzing him with apprehension. Have I planted English seed into the belly of a French woman? What have I done? He had been careful with all his women, careful to remove himself so as not to get them with child. But he had been angry with Angel. He had not been thinking. He only wanted to punish her, to show her the strength of England. This was one way to incapacitate the Angel of Death, he thought with sarcasm.
The thought of a French bastard made him cringe. He had never shirked his duty; if she had a child, he would care for it properly. But how could he protect a French child from English ridicule?
These questions were driving him mad! He had to have the answers. He had to see her.
“Guard!” Bryce shouted.
Ryen had gotten little sleep the night before, her dreams echoing Bryce’s condemnation. She sauntered distractedly through the camp as her mind replayed her actions of the night before. The way she had summoned him to her tent, the way she let him touch her. She had been no better than one of the camp whores. A slut.
The word still stung. It was like putting salt in a wound every time she thought of it. And the wound was deep. He had not been gentle. How could she have mistaken his glances for caring when all they were were stares of hate? He was her enemy, and while she had forgotten, or chosen to overlook it, he had not.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Ryen looked up to see that Andre had joined her. His forehead and dark red tunic were wet with perspiration. His sword hung in its scabbard at his side. “No, I’m not. I’ve been very busy this morning.”
“Preparing to meet Father?”
“Yes,” she lied. Ryen had not considered her father once. All her thoughts had been of Bryce.
Andre stared hard at her. The seconds grew to minutes and even though she did not meet his gaze, he still watched her.
She bridled under the silent pressure. “Well, not exactly,” she finally admitted, her gaze wandering to the ground.
“How did it go last night?” he wondered.
“He came to my tent, as you know.”
“And…did you take my advice?”
“Yes.”
A long moment of silence passed and Ryen raised her head to stare off at the horizon and the blue sky. She shifted her shoulders so the chain mail rested comfortably.
“Have you gotten him out of your system?” Andrew asked softly.
“Yes. Absolutely. I never want to see him again,” Ryen stated emphatically.
Andre sighed with relief. “Then it worked,” he said. “Good. Because he’s asking to see you.”
Ryen’s lips tightened into a grimace. What did Bryce want? To take her in his arms and gently kiss her? Ryen chuckled bitterly to herself. Not likely. She raised her chin, her eyes narrowing, and gave Andre her answer.
Chapter Nine
“What do you mean, she doesn’t want to see me?” Bryce demanded, outraged. He had been waiting hours for a response he was sure would be positive. He had half expected Ryen to come herself. “I must see her!”
The guard stood mutely during Bryce’s outburst, his dirty chain mail reflecting the lackluster expression on his face. When he finished, the guard spoke evenly. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
Bryce seethed with anger and paced back and forth, his manacled feet allowing him only to shuffle along the ground. He turned back to the guard, repeating, “I must see her!”
The guard remained silent, an amused grin on his face.
“Wipe off that smirk, damn you!” Bryce growled.
The guard smiled wider, showing his teeth.
Heathen bastard!
Bryce shot forward, diving, and rammed his head into the guard’s chest. The man’s chain mail bent beneath the impact as he doubled over. Bryce was dazed for a moment, but as the guard grunted heavily and went down, he hurriedly shuffled for the tent flap and lurched –
-- into the arms of three guards standing outside. They slammed him to the ground, one of them pinning him firmly with a knee to his back.
“Angel!” Bryce cried out, before a guard clubbed him into unconsciousness.
Bryce’s head pounded. He wished he could rub it, but the manacles that bound his wrists to a stake in the ground would not allow him to reach his head. Did they think he would chew through the metal links? He wanted to laugh, but his head hurt too badly.
She doesn’t want to see me, he thought. His lips twisted in a grimace. She was no virgin. How could she be, with an army of men following her? The sight of her smooth buttocks and those spread thighs as she rode her horse would drive any man mad with lust. At least half a dozen men had probably had her by now.
He shook his head in disgust. I should have killed her, he thought.
He sighed, lying down in the dirt. The tent flap was closed, but through the slit of the opening Bryce could see the glimmer of a small campfire from somewhere outside in the dark.
When he had regained consciousness, he’d discovered a tray of bread and cold duck beside him. Even though he had no hunger, he had eaten it to keep up his strength. He had to stay strong for his escape.
Suddenly, his senses came alert. There was movement outside the tent and the soft crunching of footsteps on the dirt…someone who was not armored; the footsteps were too light. Through the slit between the flaps, a shadow moved to block the campfire. The person was short, too short to be a guard, too small to be a knight.
Bryce boosted himself up on his elbow, his brows furrowing. The flap opened and the figure entered the tent, clothed in a ragged brown cotton tunic and black hose ripped at the knee.
Anger and fear fought for control of him, tightening his stomach, thinning his lips. “Runt,” he gasped.
The smile slid over the boy’s
face easily. “I’m here to free you,” Runt said, brushing a lock of black hair from his eyes. “I haven’t figured out how, but I will.”
Bryce reached out to him, but his manacles jangled and yanked his arms short of grabbing the boy. “I want you out of here. Now.”
Runt’s lips turned down and his small head tilted slightly to the side. “I can’t leave you here.”
“I told you to go to the rear of the army. Weren’t you listening?” Bryce demanded, his anger rising to drown out his fear.
“I did. And then they ran,” Runt replied in disgust. There was stubbornness in his large eyes, a determined set to his small jaw.
He won’t run. I taught him that, a voice inside Bryce reminded. But he was becoming panicked at the thought of this small boy in the enemy’s camp, risking his life to try to free him. “You must leave now,” he commanded, angry with himself for not being able to throw him out of the camp.
Runt scowled at Bryce. “I won’t leave without you.”
Orders never worked with me, Bryce knew, and it would never work with the child. Bryce fought to bring his emotions under control. “Listen to me, Runt,” he stated, his jaw tense, “you are just a boy. You cannot battle an entire French army alone.”
“I have you be my side,” Runt said simply.
Bryce raised his hands and the manacles clanked and sparkled in the light from the campfire outside. “I am bound. I am of no help to you.”
“I’ll free you,” Runt insisted.
“Runt!” The anger surged inside Bryce again; he could feel his hands clenching into fists. The boy stepped back fearfully. Bryce forced his rage down, his teeth clenching, and sat back on his heels. “It is dangerous, Runt. Everywhere you turn there will be enemies. And I will be heavily guarded. You cannot free me. You must escape.”
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