Andre glanced back at her for a moment as she quickly regained her composure. They had to hurry, she thought, an urgency filling her. They had to get him back to the camp so she could bind his wounds. The tanned, slightly sun burnt, skin of his torso caught her attention again. It was my fault, she thought, a stab of guilt slicing at her heart. I should never have allowed him out of his tent. I should never have called for him.
Then, she straightened her shoulders. No. I refuse to take responsibility for this. It was Bryce who demanded to see me. I should hate him, she thought, her eyes narrowing.
Even as she told herself this, even as she forced her eyes to narrow, the memory of his searing gaze sent waves of heat splashing over her hate.
Finally, they emerged from the trees of the forest and entered into her camp. A breeze blew softly, stirring her hair around her shoulders. As they moved around the tents and smoldering campfires, Ryen’s eyes continued to study her prisoner. There were scrapes on his arms, and small red welts covered his stomach. But the bruise forming rapidly near his ribs was what concerned her the most.
As they neared her tent, she quickened her steps to hold aside the tent flap. She watched anxiously as they escorted him inside. As the four guards exited, Ryen saw Andre standing in the doorway, holding chains in his hands.
“At least let me chain him, Ryen,” he pleaded.
Ryen glanced at Bryce once before nodding, and Andre moved to Bryce. She watched him take his wrists, and saw Bryce’s arms tense before Andre slapped the manacles on. Then, he did the same for his ankles. Andre surveyed his work for a moment, his chain mail sparkling dully in the morning light, before turning to Ryen.
He moved closer to her and whispered, “You’re in danger here, Ryen.”
“Lucien asked for it,” she defended. “He has no right to tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“I’m talking about your feelings for him.” Andre jerked his head at Bryce. “I was wrong suggesting that you take him. It has only enhanced your attraction.”
“How can you say that?” Ryen demanded. “I despise the man.”
“It cannot be that you despise him when you gaze at him with such tenderness.”
Ryen glanced at Bryce, her feelings in battle inside her. She should hate this man, this enemy of France, for the way he treated her. She should have known that there is no kindness in England. Still, as she gazed at him, her heart warmed. He was so strong willed, unrelenting in his determination not to give up. Even in the face of immeasurable odds he would not surrender. She saw his resistance every time she looked into his black eyes.
A shower of sunlight splashed through the flap of the tent, bathing Bryce in a pool of light. It ran over his muscled arms like rain, reflecting off of the chains around his wrists. If only he had been born French, she thought. If only they could have been allies, instead of enemies.
“You have never fought openly with Lucien before,” Andre said. “You defended the prisoner over your own brother – in front of the men!”
“Lucien acted like a barbarian. Even the men acted like common animals. What happened to honor and pride? Bryce had put down his sword. He was defenseless!”
“They were protecting you, Ryen. Lucien and the men believed he would harm you.”
“I don’t need protection. Not from Bryce.”
“Are you so sure?”
Ryen’s gaze again found Bryce and her brow furrowed. What was he doing to her? To her life? Under her gaze, he stiffened. The metal manacles tinkled like a bell.
“You need more protection from him than even you realize,” Andre murmured before departing the tent.
Ryen walked over to Bryce’s side. A strand of black hair fell over his forehead, a rich black against his tanned skin. Her eyes dropped to his. She was surprised to find them pensive. Ryen’s gaze sank to his ribs, to the red welt. She reached out to touch it, but Bryce pulled away. Ryen glanced at him, startled. Then, resignation washed over her face and she looked quickly away.
He raised his wrists, displaying the manacles. “Is there a need for these?”
“Many think so,” she replied softly.
“Do you not command this army? Isn’t your word law?”
“They will not touch you again.”
“You can’t promise me I won’t be attacked.”
In her mind’s eye, Ryen saw the armored shoes kicking him, heard her ineffectual commands to stop.
“They want to kill me,” Bryce stated.
“You are the enemy,” Ryen replied stoically.
Suddenly, his fingers were on her chin, gently turning her face toward his. “Ryen.” Her name was a sigh against his lips. “Your men will try to hurt me again.”
Ryen felt the warmth of his hand seep into her chin. He was so close that his breath kissed her lips. For a moment she could barely move, barely breathe.
His fingers gently stroked the fine line of her jaw, sending the heat of his touch blazing throughout the rest of her body.
“Unchain me,” he whispered.
Ryen couldn’t help but watch his lips caress the words as he spoke. Bound by some irresistible force, she lifted her lips to his, parting them in anticipation of his kiss.
“Let me go.”
Her eyes shot open wide in shock and horror. She shook her head fiercely against the idea; her knees were shaking as she stepped back. “I can’t do that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly and he looked away, disappointment etched in the tight line of his lips.
“How can you ask me to betray my country?” she demanded. “To abandon my oath? For you.” He looked up at her sharply, anger in his eyes. “You would not do the same for me.”
“You are a woman,” he rationalized.
She straightened her shoulders. “Do you truly believe that a woman would give up everything she has worked so hard for…even for the love of a man?”
“Yes,” he replied.
Ryen sadly shook her head. “I would not do that. Not even for you, a man who has no love in him.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and strangely, Ryen felt a sense of regret and sadness fill her. His face was hard and cold, unbending beneath her emotions. She turned and retrieved the basin of water off her nightstand near her mattress. “I will tend your wounds.”
He turned his back on her as she approached. “No French man, or French woman, could inflict a wound upon me that I would not recover from.”
She paused in the middle of the floor, halfway between Bryce and the nightstand. How he must hate her, she thought…as much as I should hate him. She turned and replaced the basin of water. “At De Bouriez Castle you will be safe from harm. My father is waiting there to greet us.”
“Your father will be no different from your men,” Bryce sneered.
Ryen straightened. “He is my flesh and blood. There is a part of him in me. He will be different.”
“He’s a man. There will be no kindness, no show of mercy from a Frenchman.”
She whirled, angry. “You are so quick to judge us. Do you know us so well?” Ryen wondered, bitterness accompanying every word.
Bryce slowly raised his black eyes to her. Like fire, they burned through her until her heart melted. She felt his fire flaming through her until she could no longer look at him without wanting him to touch her. What was this control he had over her? Was he truly a devil? she wondered.
“I think I know you very well,” he whispered, his voice mocking and seductive in the same breath. “If you take me to your father, it is as good as sending me to my death.”
A sudden chill doused the flames his look had ignited. She could not shake the finality of his words. She stepped back from him before turning and leaving her tent. She ordered four of her soldiers to escort Bryce back to the prisoner tent.
Through the remainder of the day and well into the night, she could not forget Bryce’s words. ‘Sending me to my death…’ She fought the image of Bryce lying dead in a pool of blood and
would not believe that her father could do such a thing. All she wanted was for her father to see the Prince of Darkness and know that it was she who had captured him.
Ryen recalled the day she’d decided she would take the oath and become a knight. She was telling her father about her lessons. Ryen was so excited that day that she’d run all the way to the jousting field. Her father had nodded and grinned at her stories. But all the while his eyes had been locked on the jousting field where Andre was sharpening his skill. When she told her father that her teacher had said she was far ahead of many of his male pupils, her father had cheered and raised his hands to the air. A grin lit her face as she saw pride in his eyes. Pride and fondness…
Until she realized that he was staring out onto the field. Ryen’s eyes followed his gaze and her heart cracked. Andre’s opponent lay sprawled in the dirt. Her father’s delight had not been for her, but for Andre and the talent he’d displayed as a warrior.
Ever since that day, Ryen had wanted her father to look at her the way he had looked at Andre, the way she had seen him look at Lucien. Instead, when he looked at her, all she saw was patient amusement and tolerance.
She crossed her arms behind her head, staring at the top of the tent.
She imagined her father’s warm eyes gazing at her, his lips slightly turned up in a smile when he saw she had brought the Prince of Darkness to him. He would be so proud of her. He would say…
A loud cry shattered the night’s silence. “Fire!”
Chapter Eleven
“Fire!”
The urgent cry of alarm roused Bryce from his slumber and he hurried to his feet, his battle-honed senses instantly alert. He had heard the cry a few times at the castle while growing up and he had been trained to respond quickly. His fellow knights fought off the threat of flames with as much energy as they put forth to dispel any human attacker.
Fire was an enemy hated by all men.
The back wall of Bryce’s prison tent glowed faintly with the orange-red light of flames. The fire was so close! Smoke curled in through a gap between the tent wall and the ground and slowly drifted upward.
Outside the tent he could hear men screaming for more water. A horse whinnied in fear, then galloped off into the distance.
Suddenly, a hot burst of light bloomed on the tent wall in a fiery red glow as the blaze moved closer. Bryce felt the temperature in his prison rise dramatically. Droplets of sweat rose on his forehead and then dripped to the dirt, while a sheen of moisture appeared on his arms and legs. The manacle on his left foot slipped lower over his ankle. Bryce dropped back to the ground and started working on the manacle, turning, pulling, pushing.
Behind him the wall crackled. He stopped what he was doing only long enough to see a tendril of fire snake into the tent through the gap and start to crawl up the wall.
He turned his attention back to his ankle. When the guards had failed to chain him to the post in the ground, he knew this was his best chance. He had managed to remove one of his boots and had made some progress with his shackles earlier. Now, with his sweat lubricating the manacle, he was certain he could remove it. He had to; it didn’t appear as if anyone was in a hurry to get him out of there.
Outside, the cries grew louder as they competed with the roar of the blaze. More shouts for water. More horses making sounds of terror. Men running in all directions.
Bryce worked intently at the manacle on is ankle, talking to himself under his breath. I’m going to escape. All I need is to get this off and I can escape. The night will be my ally, my cloak. She will hide me well, as she has so many times in the past.
The tent grew hotter. The sweat flowed more freely from his body. The manacle moved even lower. The metal cut into his skin as he forced it lower and the salty sweat stung the tear in his heel. Blood seeped out of the wound. Bryce pulled on his shackles, ignoring the pain his effort was causing. This is nothing compared to what those searing flames will do to me, he told himself.
Then, to his amazement, his foot came free. He jumped to his feet and limped for the tent flap, the chains still attached to his right foot clanking as he ran.
Behind him, the tent wall disappeared into the belly of the inferno, eaten by the ravenous fire that was quickly surrounding him. The sound of the blaze swelled to a deafening roar as he raced outside.
His guards were gone from their posts, obviously busy fighting the fire. He saw at least fifteen tents burning, and several others were already piles of smoldering black ashes. He ran to a nearby tent and cautiously peered around the corner. He looked left and saw a clear path to the woods in the distance. He started to move toward the trees, but a small shadow at the corner of his eye caused him to turn and look back in the direction of his former prison.
The haze of smoke partially hid the figure of the small boy as he hurried inside the burning tent. No! It can’t be! Bryce dashed toward the burning tent.
He reared back as he entered. Fire was everywhere, the heat almost unbearable. Bryce squinted as the dark smoke bit at his eyes. His keen ears heard a snap in the roaring flames and he instinctively dived to his left as a burning tent support suddenly crashed to the ground! He felt the searing flames whip around his legs and he pushed himself to his feet, driving forward to escape the heat.
He saw the boy lying on his side in a corner of the tent with his legs pulled tightly to his chest, his face buried in his arms. “Here!” Bryce shouted, but the fire howled around him, drowning out his voice, demanding human flesh to feed its insatiable appetite.
The boy lay unmoving behind the shroud of flames.
Bryce felt his insides tighten with fear and, shielding his face with his manacled hands, he jumped through the curtain of fire. Pain seared his back, but he willed it away. He bent and scooped the boy into his arms, pressing him against his chest, trying to protect him from the heat of the fire.
Bryce exploded through the side wall of the tent, bursting past the charred canvas, moving out onto open ground. He hurried farther away from the flames, away from the intense heat, and then dropped to his knees, cradling the boy to his chest. He could not let him go. He was afraid, afraid of what he might find if he looked into the boy’s face. Runt was so still in his arms, so limp. Tears rose in Bryce’s eyes as he squeezed the boy close, willing his life into the child, wishing it were him instead of Runt. Slowly, he moved the boy away from his chest, feeling as if he were tearing a piece of skin from his body. I told him to go, he thought desperately. Why is he still here?
Finally, Bryce laid the boy gently on the ground and looked down into his wide eyes. There was no life there, only the reflection of the full moon. He reached toward the boy’s shoulder, but stopped as he saw his own hand was shaking.
He clenched his fist for a moment afraid that when he touched him, Runt would not move. “Get up, Runt,” he called hoarsely.
Nothing.
He cautiously prodded Runt’s shoulder. When the child didn’t stir, Bryce felt a desperation surge inside of him. He seized the boy’s shoulder and shook it, almost savagely. No, he thought, tears threatening to choke him. “Come on, boy,” Bryce commanded. “On your feet.”
But the child didn’t move; his eyes didn’t blink.
“I said on your feet!” he shouted. A moment passed, then another. When Runt did not move, Bryce sat on his heels, staring dumbly at the child. It can’t be, he thought. I won’t believe it. This cannot be Runt. I told him to leave. I commanded him. He would not disobey me.
Then, he saw it. That lock of dark hair that was forever in the boy’s eyes was lying limply at the side of his head, brushed aside for all eternity.
Bryce began to shake. He scooped Runt up into his arms, holding him tightly against his heart, and buried his face into the child’s neck. “Oh, God, Runt,” he whispered barely able to get the words past his clothing throat. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you go…”
He stroked Runt’s dark head, his chest constricting tightly, tears blurring hi
s vision. Finally, his sorrow and agony and pain overwhelmed him. He threw back his head. “Noooooo!” he roared, and his anguish echoed through the night.
In the nearby woods, wolves began to howl.
Chapter Twelve
As Ryen approached, Bryce whirled on her, crouching wolf-like, his upper lip curling, almost snarling. Ryen stopped cold, her gaze captured by the still figure Bryce held close to his chest. Her brow furrowed as she saw the ashen complexion of the small face through the soot that fell on them like black rain, then her eyes moved from the boy up to Bryce’s bleak face. The orange light of the fires burning around them caused long shadows to pool beneath Bryce’s eyes. He looked so lost. Ryen instinctively stepped toward him, meaning to comfort him.
Bryce pulled back from her approach, and again, a long, anguish-filled groan surged from deep within his throat. Startled, Ryen retreated. Who was this boy that he could evoke such feelings from the Prince of Darkness? And what was he doing here in her camp?
Three of her men rushed up beside Ryen and stopped in their tracks as they saw the Prince of Darkness. One of the knights glanced at her, then at Bryce, and stepped cautiously forward.
Bryce shifted the boy to his left arm, his face contorting with hate. “Don’t touch him,” he growled, clutching the boy to his chest.
The knight glanced helplessly at Ryen. She stepped forward tentatively, holding her hands out placatingly. “Bryce,” she said softly, trying to soothe him.
His dark, loathful eyes turned on her. “Stay away from me,” he snarled.
Ryen’s arm dropped. “The fire was an accident,” she told him, trying to keep patience in her voice as she looked up at him once again. “No one meant to harm the boy.”
His eyes narrowed with disbelief. “Harm? You and your bloody French killed him!” Bryce shouted, his voice full of pain and rancor.
Ryen’s men had spread out around him, surrounding him. She began to shake her head to stop their maneuver but her command came too late.
Bryce saw one man coming and flattened him with a fist to his jaw. The other two jumped Bryce from behind, knocking him to the ground, pinning the boy beneath him. Ryen watched in awe of his strength as he held the two men on top of him off the boy with the power of his muscular arms.
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