A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “I demand my right!” McFinley shouted.

  Bryce turned to him. “I am your lord. You serve me. Therefore, first blood is mine – and I have already collected.”

  Bryce gripped Ryen’s shoulder and turned her toward the stairs.

  Ryen pulled her shoulder free, flinging his hand from her.

  “Where is the blood, m’lord?” McFinley shouted.

  Without pausing, Bryce said, “I took her maidenhead.”

  Bryce strode into the room after Ryen. He immediately saw the stubborn set of her jaw, her squared shoulders as she whirled to face him. Her hair hung in wet curls over her shoulders. A surge of relief swept through him. Ryen had been grievously ill for two and a half weeks. He himself had forced soup down her throat three times a day so she would not starve.

  He had ridden north the last two days. The riding had done wonders for his tense body, helped his nerves, cleared his mind. And he was finally able to make a decision about what to do with Ryen. He knew he had promised King Henry that he would punish her, but he realized that he never had any intention of harming her. The only alternative now was to ransom her to her king with the intent of giving the gold to King Henry. Why did I bring her to England? he wondered. Because I want to feel her body tremble with desire. I want to touch her as no man has before. When I’ve tired of her, then I will return her to France. And I will tire of her…as I have every woman before her. But by then my people will say that I have tamed the Angel of Death.

  Again, Bryce thought of the ransom and grinned smugly. He had asked for such an outrageous amount of gold that he knew her king would never pay it, not even for the Angel of Death. But at least King Henry would have to acknowledge his efforts to enrich the royal treasury.

  Ryen would be his in time, to do with as he saw fit.

  Then, as he was wandering through the forest lost in thought, a rider had found him, delivering an urgent message. Ryen was recovering! The relief that had surged through his body almost made him groan out loud. He rode like a man possessed, curiously the happiest he had been in days, driving his horse to the brink of exhaustion only to find Ryen about to be flogged! And now, hearing she had attempted escape! Gads! He didn’t know whether to wring her neck or laugh. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Why didn’t you let me die?” she demanded.

  Her cold words evaporated his joy at seeing her well and put him on the defensive. “You are more valuable as a prisoner than as a corpse,” he remarked coolly.

  Ryen’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have sadly overestimated me. I am of no value to you.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Her rebellious locks hung damply over the blanket that concealed her wet nightdress. Bryce grinned. “Surely the Angel of Death, the infamous French commander, has some value to her king.” He watched the reply on her lips die. Bryce wondered if she would tell him of her disgrace. Then he knew her pride would not allow her to.

  Ryen turned away. “Perhaps not as much value as you seem to place on my life,” she snapped.

  “It sounds as thought you are in disfavor with your king, Angel,” Bryce prompted. “Did he clip your wings?”

  She raised her chin, glaring at him. “My king will pay whatever you ask.”

  She stood there, so haughty and mighty – in his castle. He wanted to take her in his arms and teach her the respect his knights and peasants gave him. Still, there was something challenging in her attitude that sparked his battle senses. The desire to touch her coursed through his body and he grabbed that raised chin, forcing it down so she was not looking down her nose at him. “You had better hope so. The longer you stay here, the more dangerous it will become.”

  Ryen yanked her chin free to glare at him. “I am not afraid of you. I will bring no ransom if I am dead.”

  “I was not speaking of myself, but them.” Bryce jerked his chin over his shoulder at Talbot and a dozen other soldiers standing in the doorway. “They do not have as soft a heart as I,” he said quietly, so that only she heard.

  She stared hard at the men looming in the doorway before sadness entered her sapphire eyes and she lowered them. Ryen sat on the bed, refusing to look at Bryce.

  Bryce wanted to take her into his arms, to assure her that no harm would ever befall her at Dark Castle, but hesitated. His men had just had her strung up to be flogged! How empty his reassurances would be. There would be a time, he told himself, when Ryen would be able to walk the hallways and be as safe as he was. But that time was not now.

  He strolled to the door and closed it before the prying eyes. Then he moved to the bed and sat beside her. “Ryen, who gave you the dagger?” he queried gently.

  Ryen looked away. “It was mine,” she murmured stubbornly.

  Bryce sighed. “If you do not tell me, I will have to find some appropriate punishment.”

  Ryen whipped her gaze around to him, her eyes wide.

  “You have never been punished before, have you?”

  “On the contrary! My worst punishment has been living these past months!”

  Bryce grinned. He lifted a hand to touch her soft cheek. “You missed me so?” he taunted, expecting a barbed reply. But when she did not answer, he couldn’t help trailing his fingers across her cheekbone. The softness of her skin sent a smoldering warmth sweeping through him.

  She pulled away and stood. “If you think I will remain in this castle as your whore, you are sadly mistaken.”

  In her tower room in her father’s castle she seemed so filled with desire for me, he thought. She was actually worried for my life. Now, I see the coldness of ice in her frozen sapphire eyes.

  Bryce closed on her. “I already have two whores and I have no intention of keeping another.” He continued to approach and she backed into the wall. “And for your own protection, you will never again harm one of my men.” He towered over her, his dark eyes glaring down. Her large deep blue eyes gazed up at him with fierce defiance. “Who gave you the dagger?” he repeated, leaning down so his lips were only inches from hers.

  Ryen’s response was a lifted chin, challenging him. It only succeeded in bringing their lips closer.

  “Do not underestimate me. This is my castle, and I am lord here,” he whispered huskily. “My whim is law, Angel.” He was so close that their noses brushed lightly. He felt a sharp stab of desire course through every fiber in his body.

  Ryen opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her gaze brushed over his lips, setting them afire.

  As he leaned closer, he felt her body soften against him, mold to his body. All thoughts of interrogation vanished beneath the passion that pounded through his veins. He could smell the clean rain on her wet skin, feel the moisture of her nightdress as she let the blanket slide from her shoulders. He clasped her shoulders and saw the blue of her eyes deepen as her lids half closed. He leaned forward to kiss her…every dream he had of her was loving her, kissing her deeply, giving her pleasures she had never known.

  He wanted to take her right then, but his honor rose like a shield. He could not touch her until the ransom was denied. And even the Prince of Darkness was subject to the Code of Chivalry. Bryce stiffened suddenly, drawing away from her with a deep groan of anger and regret. He turned his back on her. The lust that had ignited at the sight of her burned more painfully than any cut he had ever received.

  He stormed to the door with every intention of leaving but paused when his hand closed around the handle. “Be dressed and ready for dinner. I will come for you.” He closed the door, leaving her alone.

  Ryen stood stunned. It was just a game. He was trying to get information from her, and when she would not yield, he had stormed from the room like a spoiled child.

  Then Talbot had told the truth, Ryen thought. Bryce had only pretended an attraction to her to manipulate her. He had been with his lover while she’d recovered. He hadn’t even cared that she was ill.

  She paced angrily through the room. I never loved him, she told herself. But ev
en as she did, she knew it was a lie. An old wound that ran so deep it ripped at her heart, constricting her chest painfully. Frustrated, she threw herself on the bed. She could not endure being so close to him. She must escape. But first, she vowed, I will get my strength back.

  Ryen was indignant when a servant brought in a velvet blue dress for her to wear to dinner. She donned it in protest, mumbling and cursing the man who kept her prisoner. She was running a comb through her hair when three burly guards showed up to escort her to the Great Hall. He hadn’t even come himself, she thought bitterly. The guards were all armed with sheathed swords, and were dressed in jerkins and hose. They led her through high-ceilinged halls of stone blocks and massive arched doorways that made her feel as insignificant as a fly. When they came to the Great Hall, the scene that assaulted Ryen made her pause. Her lips parted in disbelief.

  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.