Will I sit with his men if it pleases him? she asked herself. As she stared at him, his powerful presence filled her. Yes. I will do anything he asks to please him, to have him smile at me. She imagined him approaching her, his strong legs eating up the distance between them, and taking her to the chair beside him. Displacing one of his whores – with another, a small voice inside her accused.
Then, he was coming and Ryen felt a shiver race along her spine. She was shuddering, not beneath his anger, but at the sight of his body. It seemed to flow across the room like a river, marvelous in its symmetry. Ryen felt her desire spark as her eyes scanned the current of his movement. Her lips parted slightly as she felt the warmth begin to spread over her body. He was so powerful, so handsome! He could sweep her away with a mere glance from those raging eyes.
He halted just before her. She gaped, not knowing what to do or what to say.
Suddenly, his intense gaze shifted to Polly. “You did an admirable job repairing the table,” he said.
“Thank you, m’lord,” Polly replied pensively.
The peasants began to eat again, studying him intently behind lowered gazes.
How he intimidates them! Ryen thought, and wondered if he realized just how frightening he could be. Something filled her as she stared at his rugged profile. A possessiveness seized her, tugging at the corners of her lips. When Bryce turned back to her, his gaze was softer, kinder somehow.
But suddenly his powerful glance slipped past her and his brow furrowed. “What are you staring at, woman?” he demanded gruffly.
Ryen turned to see Kit watching him with large, curious eyes. As Bryce’s dark look bore into her, Kit gasped, “Gaw!” and lowered her head, stuffing a piece of bread into her mouth.
Bryce’s back straightened. “What is it?” he repeated.
The timbre of his angry voice shook Ryen and she felt dread slither up her spine like a snake.
Bryce’s gaze swept the table, his mood darkening as he saw the peasants staring at him with the same expectant look. He turned back to Kit, pounding a clenched fist on the table. “Tell me!”
The peasants shot furtive glances at one another. Some of them looked as though they were about to flee.
“You don’t know?” Ryen wondered. “Talbot didn’t tell you?”
“He told me that McFinley destroyed your hard work and that there was a swordfight. Needed a little exercise, eh, Angel? I’m glad you didn’t kill him. I would hate to have to replace such a skilled knight.”
“She should have killed the cur,” Polly retorted.
Bryce’s cold glare froze her to the spot.
“He struck Lady Ryen,” Polly said.
Bryce’s eyes locked on Ryen for a moment and she saw the uncontrollable anger that swept him like a hot blaze.
Bryce whirled, his gaze searing across the expanse of the hall, pegging McFinley in his chair.
Ryen held out a restraining hand.
But in that second, Bryce had flown across the room faster than a wolf and lunged for McFinley’s throat. He had toppled McFinley to the floor, large hands locked around his neck, before Ryen could reach them.
“Bryce!” she screamed, pulling at his arms. “No!”
Bryce squeezed his hand tighter and McFinley fought, bucking and clawing at the grip around his throat.
“Bryce!” Ryen shouted, pulling at Bryce’s wrists. “Stop!” She bent her face into his view. “It is my right! He struck me!” Her heart racing, she pulled at his fingers and arms trying to free McFinley, but they were locked in a death grip. “Please.”
Bryce’s hands suddenly went slack. Ryen heard McFinley gasp for air as she raised her eyes to Bryce. He was staring at her, dark eyes peering into her soul. “It is your right,” he said, and stood rigidly.
She was on her knees before him, McFinley gasping beside her. Ryen could feel Bryce’s pent-up anger, as if he were going to erupt again at any moment. She looked at McFinley. Bryce would have killed him, might still kill him, because he had struck her. She felt responsible for his life. How many men had she watched die in battle? Why should she care if one more Englishman was killed or not? But she did care. She cared because something in her had changed. She cared for Bryce’s people as though they were her own, even the ones who despised her.
McFinley turned his gaze to Ryen. She could see the fear in his eyes. She had bested him and she had spared his life. Now, he found his life in her hands once again.
Ryen stood looking down at McFinley. “Rise.”
He averted his eyes, rubbing his neck for a long moment. Finally, he climbed to his feet.
Ryen watched as his shoulders passed her head. She had not remembered him being so tall. “You will serve the peasants at the noon meal.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “You cannot give me an order. If you choose to strike me, that is your right.”
“Your judgment is my right,” Ryen replied confidently. “Now, kneel.”
McFinley glanced at Bryce. “I will not take orders from her!”
“Kneel,” Ryen commanded.
“You will do as she says,” Bryce answered tightly. “Or face my judgment.”
McFinley tightened his jaw and went down on one knee before Ryen.
“Now,” she proclaimed. “Pledge your loyalty –”
McFinley glanced sharply up at her, his eyes glaring defiance.
“—to your lord, Bryce Princeton,” Ryen finished.
McFinley locked gazes with Bryce in surprise before lowering his eyes. “M’lord,” he said solemnly, “I do pledge my loyalty, devotion, and admiration to you, on my honor as a knight. If in any way you are hurt, be it of the spirit or of the flesh, I will be wounded also.”
The quiet spread thin throughout the room until finally McFinley glanced up.
Bryce reached out his hand and clasped McFinley’s. “Rise, McFinley,” he commanded.
Ryen felt the tension in her shoulders lessen and she let out an inaudible sigh at the sight of the two men hand in hand. A grin spread over her lips.
McFinley mirrored her smile of relief as he stood.
Bryce’s closed fist connected with McFinley’s chin and the man spun once before plummeting to the floor.
Ryen gasped, putting her hands to her mouth.
“Never insult me again,” Bryce growled. “And be thankful that Angel is more forgiving than I.” Bryce turned his back and strode from the room.
Ryen stood gaping at McFinley. Then she raced after Bryce. Her slippered feet skidded in the doorway as she searched first left and then right. She spotted him down the hall.
“Bryce!” she called, and ran after him.
He slowed and finally stopped, his spine straightening.
As Ryen ran to him, she heard his words. They were wrenched from his body by a forge of remorse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ryen blinked, stunned that she had caused him agony. “It was over. I saw no reason…”
There was a long moment of silence before Bryce said, “I cannot take you riding, Ryen.” The words were as cold as the floor upon which she stood.
A great weight crushed her heart. His rigid shoulders were like a wall against her. The silence stretched between them, an impassable abyss.
“I will not allow them to harm you,” he said, before storming off down the hall.
Ryen watched until he had vanished around the corner. She stood for a long moment staring after him. The hallway stretched out before her, the ceiling high, making her feel tiny.
Ryen lowered her head. It took her a moment to realize that she was alone. For the first time since she’d been at Dark Castle, she was free. A weight lifted from her shoulders. At least he trusted her enough to wander without guards. She glanced up at the hallway before her at the sunlight that danced on the walls. She wanted to be outside so badly that she almost ran to the door.
She paused in the archway, staring out at the opening before her. The stone walls that surrounded the inner ward of Dark Cast
le rose stories above her head. Guards paced the battlements and walkways that ran along the walls.
Ryen stepped outside into the sun. Warmth washed over her entire body and she turned her face up toward the origin of the heat. She inhaled the fresh air, then stepped forward. As she did, she slipped in the mud and almost fell, but regained her balance. She carefully picked up her skirts to avoid the puddles. She walked around the inner ward, past the kitchens. As she approached what looked like a small alleyway between the kitchen and a building that she guessed was the barracks, a voice from the shadows called to her.
“M’lady?”
Ryen paused, shivers of alarm creeping up her spine. She peered into the shadows, trying to discern the man’s outline. Vignon stepped into the light.
She felt every nerve in her body tense. What did he want?
He immediately stepped back into the darkness and she followed him into the alleyway. “What are you doing here, Vignon?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Call me Jonathan Wells,” he murmured. “I am here on the command of King Charles.”
Ryen was speechless. His words held no trace of a French accent. He even had an English inflection. Tingles shot up her spine. He spoke the language flawlessly…as if he’d been born here. She thought back to her first meal, when she had sat opposite him. He had fought for his food with a vengeance. He fit in perfectly. Almost too perfectly. She did not trust him.
“We cannot be seen together.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
His gaze darted about the walls. “We cannot speak here. I will contact you,” he said. “But remember, I am Jonathan Wells.” Suddenly, his head tilted and he stood absolutely still.
Then Ryen heard it. Whistling. She turned to gaze in the direction the sound had come from. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she turned back to him, Vignon was gone.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Birds sang happily, their cheerful song filling the morning sky as they flew from tree to tree in their constant search for food. In the distance, the low rumble of surging water echoed through the forest. The air was heavy with dampness. Bryce noticed none of it as he stared straight ahead into the greenery before him. He was sitting with his back to a large tree that rose majestically to the sky. His knees were bent and his wrists rested on them, hands drooping over his legs like the tree’s large branches.
Again and again his mind returned to Ryen and her large, trusting eyes, her soft, pliable lips, her womanly body. It was hard as well as painful to imagine her as a warrior, because that was where his trouble lay. He had seen the death and destruction she could cause…had caused. Had she changed? Did he really want her to?
He recalled their lovemaking of the night before. He had never experienced such exquisite passion. She had matched him thrust for thrust, never tiring. Just the thought of it was enough to send a surge of lust pounding through his veins that was so powerful it threatened to overcome his sensibilities.
And yet his knights treated her roughly, badly. The thought of McFinley striking her, causing a flaw to her skin, causing her pain, brought a sudden and swift anger that had not faded during all these hours. He wanted Ryen with him at Dark Castle. But was that asking too much of her? Would he be willing to give up his home, his lands, his country and king to be at Ryen’s side, as he was asking her to do?
He bowed his head, raking his hand through his ebony hair. Yes, he thought. I would be willing to go to France to be with her. God help me, but I would give up everything for her. Will she do the same for me?
She already has. She has been labeled “traitor” by her people because of me. What does she have in France to go back to?
A fiancé. The thought of another man kissing her lips, touching her face, enraged him. I have nothing to fear, he told himself. For whatever reasons, she has chosen my bed rather than return to France and her fiancé’s arms.
And now, she was not the problem; it was his soldiers, who looked at her and saw the Angel of Death when there was a passionate woman capable of showing them kindness and tolerance. Could he subject her to their brutality and their anger? Was there no place for them to live in peace?
Bryce tensed at the crunch of footsteps trampling the fallen leaves behind him. Slowly his hand reached for his sword, which lay at his side.
“I thought I might find you here,” a voice called out.
Bryce released his sword handle. “I usually come here to be alone.”
Grey sat down heavily beside him, chuckling. “Should I take that as a hint, brother?”
“I need to think,” he replied.
Grey lifted his nose to the air, inhaling its scent. When he lowered his head, he said cheerfully, “I am willing to guess that your problems center around a very headstrong French woman.”
Bryce snorted. “It must have taken you all day to figure that out.”
“At least your humor does not wane.”
“My men do not approve of her,” Bryce said.
“And?”
“And I plan to keep her at Dark Castle.”
Grey picked up a branch from the forest floor and began stripping the smaller twigs to make a single stick. “Then I believe you have a battle on your hands.”
Bryce’s fists clenched. “I will destroy any man who stands against me.”
Grey chortled. “Most of your men will not stand against you. You are respected and admired. After all, she is a very comely wench. Any man could easily fall under her spell.”
Bryce’s eyes flashed. “The Prince of Darkness does not fall under spells.”
“And what of Bryce Princeton?”
“It is not a spell,” Bryce insisted. “She enflames my very soul when I am with her. Haunts my thoughts and my dreams with her eyes and –”
“It sounds like a spell to me.”
Bryce shrugged and grumbled, “So be it. But the people will say that the Prince of Darkness tamed the Angel of Death.”
“Maybe. And maybe it will be the other way around.”
Bryce shifted his suddenly rigid back. “You are trying my patience, Grey.”
Grey waved a hand. “Regardless, that is not the battle I was speaking of. What do you think Count Dumas will do when he believes you are holding her against her will?”
Bryce frowned, anger tightening his jaw. God’s blood, he thought, she is causing me another problem. “She will not be held against her will.”
Grey tapped the stick against his thigh. “Let’s assume she wants to stay.”
“There is no assumption about it.”
“Still…put yourself in her place. To stay willingly in England would be to prove to all of France that she is indeed a traitor.”
Bryce stiffened.
“That is a lot to ask of anyone…even if it is for love,” Grey murmured.
Bryce glanced at him, frowning deeply. Doubts descended in his mind, plaguing him like a festering wound.
A soft snicker sounded in Ryen’s ears. Instantly she woke, reaching for her sword. Highwaymen! she thought. Or worse. But her sword was not there. Then she remembered where she was. Bryce had not returned the whole day and she had continued her tour of his castle. It was late when she had wandered into the stables to look at the horses and sat down in one of the stalls with a large warhorse, thinking of her beautiful white steed. She must have fallen asleep.
She stood and reached out in the darkness, blindly feeling for the wall. Her hands brushed the wood of the stall, then she felt her way around the horse to the door. Her fingers skimmed the wooden frame until she found the bolt. She drew it back, opened the door, and stepped out.
When she was out of the stables, she cut across the inner ward quickly, moving past the kitchens and, pausing at the entrance to the castle, saw that the portcullis was lowered. She yawned and stretched her arms far above her head, looking up into the sky. The stars were twinkling high overhead and the moon stared down at her like a slitted eye. It was so dark! She wondered how long
she had slept. Had she truly been that tired? Well, Bryce hadn’t allowed her much time to rest last night.
Grinning at the memory, she continued on. The hallways were dim except for an occasional torch. She began to ascend the stairs to her room.
Mumbling reached her ears as she approached the second floor. Polly and Kit were standing in the doorway to her room, wringing their hands and looking fearful. Bryce was in there; she knew by the tension that straightened the servants’ shoulders. Then, she heard his voice. He sounded angry and something else. Afraid?
Her brow furrowed as she hurried forward, past Kit and then Polly, who gasped at seeing her.
“Find her,” Bryce commanded, “and bring her back. I don’t care what it takes.” He was leaning out the window, his hands grasping the ledge.
Talbot stood two steps behind Bryce, his back to Ryen. “But Prince, we’ve been searching all night. It’s too dark to see.”
Ryen stopped just inside the room to gaze in confusion at the two men.
“I don’t care,” Bryce snapped, pounding the ledge with his fist. “She’s out there somewhere, and I want her back.”
“What’s wrong? Who are you searching for?” Ryen wondered.
Bryce turned. “Ryen!” he gasped as if he could not believe his own eyes.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Are you – hurt?” Bryce demanded, a strange huskiness in his tone.
“Me? No,” she replied, frowning. She watched as the relief on his face was replaced by furrowing brows and wary eyes.
“Out,” he commanded.
Polly and Kit disappeared into the hallway, followed by Talbot. Ryen straightened indignantly. She had offered help and he chose to ignore her. She moved in Talbot’s footsteps.
“Not you, Angel,” he whispered, his voice caressing her ears.
Ryen stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him, her hair brushing her cheek.
The door closed. His black hose was like a second skin, accenting his powerful strides as he approached her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way they were set stiffly. His fists were clenched. “Where have you been?” he asked. His words were strangely clipped.
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