A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  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.

  Ryen opened her teary eyes and found him beside her, closing the wooden shutters, closing out the cold. But her shaking would not subside.

  When he turned his gaze back to her, his face was void of emotion. Dark eyes regarded her with a calculated coldness. Ryen’s knees trembled and she knew she could not hold up under his scrutiny much longer. She leaned heavily on the wall, silently begging him to leave.

  “Prepare to break your fast,” he commanded. “I will have Polly prepare a meal.” In two s
trides his powerful legs took him across the room until he stood at the door. “And do not open those windows again.” The door closed behind him and Ryen slid down the wall until she had buried her head in her arms, her hair covering them like a blanket.

  The vial she had tucked into her chemise dug into her skin, stabbing at her like a silent accusation. For her king…

  Bryce stared at the door to his room for a long moment without really seeing it. His eyes were focused on the scene he expected to find on the opposite side. A feast fit for a king, mountains of bread, meat pies, lampreys, meats of all sorts – venison, ox, chicken and goose, and puddings, pear tarts – the best Polly could make.

  Ryen would be eating until her stomach was full, stuffing the food into her small, delicate mouth with eager hands. He would join her for the meal, feasting on her with his eyes. He had already made up his mind. If she did indeed love this other man and she was not happy at Dark Castle, he would allow her to leave.

  Bryce shoved the open the door.

  The food was piled high, as he had imagined; its smell wafted to him on tendrils of steam. But Ryen was not there. His brows furrowed as his eyes scanned the room for her. When he spotted her sitting on the floor near the window, his scowl deepened. Her head was bent to her knees, her long, dark hair falling over them to the floor.

  He took a step toward her. Ryen lifted her head and Bryce saw the sadness lining her dull blue eyes. His heart twisted. Her eyes had been so vibrant, so full of life. But now she could not stand to be near him. His kiss had made her sob. She would rather be kissed by Dumas, he thought.

  Anger crashed over him at the thought of a young, tall, fair-haired man holding Ryen. Bryce turned his back on her, his fists clenching. He walked to the table of food and stared at it. He had no hunger left.

  “You should eat,” he commented.

  He heard nothing for a long moment. And then, just as he was preparing to turn and confront her, he heard the soft rustle of her dress, the quiet swoosh of her skirt and the delicate padding of her footsteps as she approached.

  “What shall I eat?” she asked. Her words were as listless as her lackluster eyes.

  Bryce glanced at her to see if she was being sarcastic, but she was not looking at him; her eyes were focused on the table. Bryce studied her profile, her soft hair highlighted by the cold morning’s filtered sun, her smooth, silken skin, her long, feathery lashes and full, pouty lips. “Perhaps some bread?” he reached out to pick up a small loaf and handed it to her.

  Ryen took it without looking at him. Bryce watched as she placed a piece into her mouth and chewed almost absently. He turned away from her, unable to watch her sadness or experience her coldness.

  “Will you not eat?” she wondered.

  Her words startled him and he turned to see those blue eyes penetrating his thoughts, searching his soul. He felt his chest ache and tighten. She uses that look as a child uses tears, he reminded himself.

  Ryen raised a loaf of bread to him.

  Bryce narrowed his eyes. “I think not, Angel,” he replied coldly.

  Slowly, her offered hand lowered and a crestfallen look descended over her face.

  Bryce steeled himself against her hurt look and gazed at her with angry eyes. She was nothing to him, he told himself, even as his body ached with wanting. His mind refused to acknowledge her shapely form, but the torn gown revealing more skin than was decent drew his gaze nonetheless.

  Ryen turned to the table, picking up a mug and filling it with ale. She heard his soft footsteps and knew he had moved away from her. Ryen felt for the vial in her waist cloth. The image of Bryce dead filled her mind, and her hand began to tremble. She glanced over her shoulder to see Bryce standing, his back to her, staring at the tapestry. She removed the vial and uncorked it.

  The liquid edged toward the lip of the vial as she held it poised over the ale.

  She stood that way for a long moment, staring into the mug. Before a drop could fall, Ryen withdrew her hand, corked the vial, and replaced it at her side.

  She could not do it. God help me, she thought. But I cannot hurt him. Not even for my country. Ryen sighed, thinking he probably wouldn’t have taken it anyway.

  Ryen picked up the mug and approached him.

  When he set those dark eyes upon her, she froze. They were accusing and distrustful.

  “Ale?” she asked.

  His eyes narrowed slightly and she felt his gaze rake over her body. Then he took the cup, never taking his eyes off her. He lifted the mug to his lips and paused once before draining it!

  Ryen’s face paled and she staggered away. She could have killed him! The thought made her stomach churn, and for a moment she had trouble catching her breath.

  Bryce drew himself up to his full height. “I have something to tell you that I think will make you very happy,” he said, in a strangely restrained voice.

  Ryen hated to hope, but she felt her heart begin to soar.

  “I am taking you back to France,” Bryce said.

  Ryen’s jaw dropped, her surprise written in her wide eyes and slackened shoulders.

  “Back to your fiancé,” Bryce finished.

  His voice was cold and without feeling. It carved out Ryen’s heart and hopes as swiftly as if it were a knife. As she stared into his dark eyes she wondered how she could have been so fooled by him. Unable to bear his anger and disdain, Ryen dropped her gaze. She watched his feet as he turned and moved to the door.

  Ryen glanced up one final time to see his stiff back and broad shoulders as he closed the door. She stood frozen, staring blankly. He was bringing her back. Bryce did not want her. No more than her father did. He never loved me. Only desired…

  The bile rose in her throat. Never loved. Her chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked from her.

  The nights they had spent together had been wonderful. She had been so happy in the warmth of his arms. But their memory was tainted. It had all been a lie. He had used her. Humiliated her. And the worst thing was that as much as she wanted to hurt him, to give him some of the agony he was inflicting upon her, she knew she would not kill him.

  Ryen removed the vial and stared at it for a long time. Then she threw it out the window.

  Chapter Forty Four

  It was agony, knowing she was in his castle. Once he’d seen she was safe, the rage he had experienced when he had first found her missing evaporated, leaving him with a relief so great that he had almost trembled. But now, as he sat alone behind a large table, in the room where he usually kept track of the harvest, his mood darkened. He was staring at a painted picture of a wolf that hung over the door. If he’d truly been as wild as the Wolf Pack, he’d have taken her and then slit her throat. It would have been easier.

  But now…the thought of that flawless white neck, that stubborn jaw, plagued him. He could never hurt her. Yet he had. He had kept her from the man she loved.

  His head drooped. He only wanted her to be happy. But he could not even accomplish that. He had to let her go.

  Bryce raised his weary eyes and saw Grey strolling toward him. His usual furs had been shed in favor of one of Bryce’s cotton white tunics and a pair of black leggings. Bryce looked away from his friend, ignoring his change of clothing.

  “Have you heard anything from Count Dumas since we sent his messenger back?” Bryce asked.

  Grey’s eyes narrowed as he sat on a corner of the table. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Bryce sat back in his chair.

  “Bryce,” Grey said quietly, “I have known you for many years. And in all this time you have never kept anything from me. So I ask you now, brother to brother, what does this woman, this Angel of Death, mean to you?”

  Bryce stared hard at Grey. He wondered why he was asking this pointed question, why he was getting involved in his private affairs. Usually, the Wolf Pack asked little, but knew everything. Finally, his thoughts turned to Grey’s question. He saw Ryen in his mind’s eye, saw her stubborn jaw clen
ched with rage, imagined her bright eyes filled with hot anger. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, the image vivid and agonizing.

  “Doesn’t matter?’ Grey repeated. Then a slow smile slid over his lips. “If you truly believe that, then you are more blind than that beggar who stands outside the gatehouse.”

  “Honor dictates I return her to France.”

  “Honor,” Grey snorted, waving a dismissing hand. “Your grand solution to everything. Let me tell you something. Honor has no place in the matters of the heart.”

  “This is not a matter of the heart,” Bryce retorted.

  “Still denying it? Then forget her,” Grey dared. “Throw her in the dungeons and don’t think on it.”

  Bryce grunted. If only it were that easy. If he could only wipe away the haunting image of those large sapphire eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft touch of her hands.

  “Bryce, you cannot send her back to France. She has no place there,” Grey said.

  “It seems preferable to what she has here,” Bryce grunted.

  “Then death would be preferable.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, Grey.”

  “Her brother was trying to run her through when we came upon them.”

  Outrage roared through Bryce’s body, bringing him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

  Grey nodded once. “His sword was at her throat,” Grey stated. “I am sure.”

  Bryce came around the table so fast that the breeze sent papers fluttering to the floor. “I’ll kill him,” Bryce promised.

  Grey’s hand slammed on his shoulder and Bryce halted, whipping around to pin Grey to the spot with his fevered gaze. “And killing him would settle your problems?”

  Bryce angrily shrugged Grey’s hand from his shoulder. He glanced longingly at the door, his look so hot that it threatened to melt the iron handle. Finally, he turned and paced to one side of the room, his fists clenched with anger.