The Angel And The Prince Page 24

  “Where am I?” Ryen asked.

  “You are a prisoner.” The answer came from the darkness.

  Ryen tensed. Tingles of dread shot up the back of her neck. I know that voice, Ryen thought.

  Polly rose and turned. “Sir,” she said, “I believe she will live.”

  Silence.

  “My lord will be pleased,” she continued.

  Ryen watched as one of Polly’s hands wrung the other, again and again.

  “Yes,” the voice finally said tightly.

  Her heart stopped as she recalled the last thing she had seen before the darkness took her; dark eyes staring at her through a silver visor.

  Bryce!

  Ryen’s stomach tensed and she pushed herself up until she was in a sitting position. Pain flared through her head, and she put a hand to the origin, the base of her skull. She found a mended wound. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw the woman backing away from her, the fear in her wide eyes. She heard metal hiss and recognized the familiar sound – a weapon being drawn.

  The sword came toward her out of the darkness, pointing straight at her face. “Don’t think to try anything, Angel.”

  The room swam before her eyes and she willfully shook away the darkness that threatened to overcome her. He stepped forward and Ryen’s eyes widened with recognition. She knew him immediately. His hateful gaze locked on her now as it had in her chamber. His right arm was in a sling, but other than that, he looked unscathed! How could that be? They had fallen fifty feet! They should both be dead!

  “Bryce,” she gasped, the anguish of months of thinking him dead rising into her throat. “Where is he?” Her heart beat hopefully, fluttering at the mere thought of him.

  “You stupid bitch!” Talbot snarled. “He left you and still you cry out his name! He told me how you spread your legs for him, you ugly whore. You are nothing to him!”

  Her own doubts from the mouth of another hurt her worse than if he had run her heart through. She sat stunned, unable to look away from his vengeful gaze.

  “Don’t you think if he cared for you he would be here?” he mocked.

  The darkness crept forward from the edge of the room.

  “Instead, he is in the arms of another,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  The thought of Bryce’s loving face hovering above the dark-haired woman who had haunted her dreams, fluttering kisses over her naked body – kisses she had imagined Bryce giving to her – sent Ryen reeling back into the blackness that opened its arms to welcome her.

  The voice came to her through a haze.

  “Come on, now. Ya cannot sleep yer life away. I got orders ta get ya up. Ya should be eatin’.”

  Light assaulted Ryen’s closed eyes and she groaned, tentatively opening one eye to squint into the morning sun.

  Polly came into her view, her body blocking the light, her hands on her ample hips. “Now, ya can’t be abed forever. ‘Taint good for…” Her voice trailed off.

  Ryen raised her eyes to meet Polly’s and saw sympathy in the woman’s gaze before Polly turned away.

  Ryen raised a hand to block out the light, but her palm brushed against wetness. Startled, she ran her fingers over her cheek to find her face was wet. Dumbfounded, she gazed at her moist fingers. After a moment, she brought them to her lips. The salty taste of tears tingled the tip of her tongue. Surprised washed over her, followed immediately by humiliation. She wiped at her cheeks with her hands and then with the sleeve of her nightdress.

  Nightdress? She glanced at the silky garment. It was more beautiful than any she had ever seen. It laced up the front and was made of the softest, smoothest white cloth she had ever felt. Who had dressed her? Who had attended her while she was unconscious?

  “This will help.”

  Ryen looked up to find a towel dangling from Polly’s hands.

  Angry with herself for her weakness, Ryen turned away, burying her face deep in the pillow. She felt the bed bend beneath the maid’s weight as she sat beside her.

  “Ya needn’t fret over a few shed tears,” Polly said. “Many a maid would have lost their senses by now.”

  But I am not a maiden, Ryen thought, her fists clenching the pillow until her fingers ached.

  “Why, jus’ the other day I was sayin’ ta Melinda what a –”

  Ryen whirled on Polly, half sitting up. “Stop your prattling and get out!”

  Polly rose, her large brown eyes wide with surprise. Quickly, her look darkened. “Well, now. Ifn that’s how ya feel…” She turned on her heel.

  Ryen watched her storm across the room. Stupid woman, she thought. The Angel of Death fretting over a few tears? Why, she didn’t even know why she shed them! Just because she was a prisoner in a foreign land, kept by a man she’d once loved who’d used her, and who must now hate her.

  Ryen’s shoulders slumped. She raised her head to cry to Polly to wait, but the door slammed behind the maid. Ryen sighed quietly. A hundred questions raced through her mind. Why was she here? And why was she in this room as if she were a guest? She should be in the dungeon if this was Bryce’s castle.

  His image rose before her eyes. Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his mouth turned up in a devilish grin, the scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over his ankle.

  She had dreamt of him. The image was so familiar Ryen could have sworn it had been real. But she could not remember how the dream had ended. All she could recall was that he had stood like a dark god.

  Ryen swung her legs out of bed. She faltered as a wave of dizziness crashed over her, sending the room spinning around her. She closed her eyes, forcing the swirling to stop. It took a moment before the sickness dissolved.

  From her seated position on the bed, Ryen surveyed the room. It was sparsely decorated, with one chair near the window next to a small table by the four-poster bed. A dark woven tapestry on the far wall depicted a horned man rising from a cave opening. Around the cave were wolves, their mouths dripping with saliva, their eyes glowing red. Two wolves faced the man, subservient, their heads hanging down to their chests. The two others were turned away, growling at the people who cowered and crawled over one another to reach the man, their hands outstretched toward him, some empty, some with offerings. Behind him, the large moon shone as a silver sliver.

  Something was agonizingly familiar about the smug look on the horned man’s face, but Ryen couldn’t place it.

  Suddenly the door creaked and Ryen snapped her head around to see it pause halfway open.

  “C’mon. I paid ya a shillin’. Ya said I could see her,” a man’s voice echoed in the room.

  “But she might be awake. I – I don’t think –” Ryen recognized the voice as the girl she had seen with Polly. Kit. “I could get a beatin’, ya know.”

  “I won’t let that happin’ ta ya,” the man whispered.

  There was a moment of silence before the girl giggled. “Awright! Don’t do that. It tickles me ear.” The door swung open.

  Ryen knew she should be angry at being displayed like some animal, but somehow she admired the girl’s ingenuity. Her lips twitched with humor. As she straightened her back, ready for the confrontation, her feet swung and knocked into something.

  She quickly looked down to see a small stool near the side of the bed. Her eyes flashed to the open door where two shadows were entering. An idea popped into her head and a grin lit her face. Without taking her eyes from her victims, she positioned the stool beneath her feet.

  The girl entered first, her shoulders hunched. The man followed her. The girl lifted her head only steps into the room to lock gazes with Ryen. “Gaw!” she cried, and froze. “She’s awake!” She backed up as if to flee, but bumped into the man, stepping on his foot.

  “Ahhh!” he cried, and shoved the girl forward to the floor. “What ya tryin’ ta do, Kit?” He hobbled, ho
lding his wounded foot. Then, seeing the girl gesturing wildly at Ryen, the man shifted his stare to her.

  Ryen raised her eyebrows and pouted, hoping to look defenseless.

  It worked.

  The man put his foot down. “Is this the bloody Angel of Death? She looks scared!” He turned a dark look on Kit. “Is this a trick?” He raised a fist to strike her. “I ought ta –”

  Fear gripped Ryen’s heart as her eyes focused on his raised fist. “I am Ryen De Bouriez,” she said suddenly.

  He turned his full attention to her and stepped forward, lowering his hand.

  Ryen stared at him, carefully keeping her face blank.

  He moved forward, one tentative step at a time. “You’re the one whose looks can turn a man ta stone?”

  Closer.

  “You’re the one who can turn a man’s blood ta ice?”

  Closer.

  “You’re the Angel of Death who sacrifices our children to your dark lord?”

  He was directly in front of Ryen when he looked back at Kit. “There must be another one.”

  But when he returned his gaze to Ryen, she towered above him, arms outstretched, fingers clawing the air inches before his face. Her eyes were wild, her teeth bared.

  “Give me your heart! I must feast!” she growled in an inhuman voice.

  He screamed and clutched his heart as he raced for the door.

  Kit’s scream joined his as she bounded after him. But she was too late; the door slammed in her face. Her fingers were clawing desperately at the wood when the sound reached her. She stopped, listening.

  Laughter!

  Slowly, Kit turned, wide eyes gazing over her shoulder to see Ryen rolling on the bed, her arms wrapped around her stomach, gales of laughter issuing from her lips.

  Kit turned, pressing her back to the door. She was frozen with fear.

  When Ryen saw her, she wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and sat up. She pitied the girl for listening so trustfully to the legends. “It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? It was what he paid for.”

  Kit gaped speechless as she stared at Ryen with terror.

  Ryen grinned mischievously. “And you got your shilling.”

  Kit did not move from the door.

  “Kit, is it?” Ryen asked, rising from the bed. She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Ryen De Bouriez. I am the knight people call the Angel of Death.” When Kit didn’t move forward or take her hand, Ryen lowered it. “I’m the person you see before you now, Kit. Just a woman like you who has feelings and fears. I do not worship Satan, I am not an ice maiden, and I have never, in all my life, hurt a child.”

  Kit swallowed. “Ya mean, yer not gonna eat me heart?”

  Ryen chuckled, but quickly stopped as she saw the horror and belief etched in the girl’s face and recoiling body. “No,” Ryen stated simply, curbing the impulse to add, I only do that when the moon is full.

  Kit frowned. Hesitantly, she edged a step closer.

  “I suppose I should be furious with you,” Ryen stated. “After all, you did sell me for a shilling.”

  A different kind of concern filled Kit and worry washed over her face. “You’re not gonna tell his lordship, are ya?” Ryen opened her mouth to reply, but Kit continued, “I didna see any harm in it. ‘E just wanted ta get a look at ya, is all.”

  Ryen smiled brightly. “No…I won’t tell.”

  Kit sighed, but then, just as quickly, doubt furrowed her eyebrows. “I ain’t signin’ me soul away now.”

  The door opened quite suddenly, causing Kit to whirl around.

  Ryen saw Polly waddle into the room with a tray in her chubby hands. The old maid cast a sour look at Ryen, her fat cheeks puckered, her eyes narrow. Then, she turned her anger on Kit. “An’ what are ya doin’ here?”

  “I – I –” Kit stammered under Polly’s berating tone.

  “Out. Now!” Polly ordered, slamming the tray down on the night table.

  Kit scampered to the door. Ryen saw Kit pause in the doorway long enough to cast her a thoughtful gaze. Then, she turned and was gone.

  Polly whirled and with a ‘harrumph’ was off toward the door.

  Ryen opened her mouth to object, but the door was already slamming shut, leaving her alone in the room. With a sigh, Ryen lay back on the bed.

  Her eyes were again drawn by the tapestry. The horned man’s eyes seemed to be focused on her. They were dark, like a midnight sky, reflecting the moon in their obsidian depths. They were so familiar…like…

  Venison. The smell wafted to her senses and she sat up. Following the smell with her nose, she inched toward the tray.

  It was not until she saw the bowl of soup and the hard, crusty bread on the tray that she realized her stomach was rumbling. It had been days since she had last eaten.

  The day before the battle.

  She descended on the food like a starved child, shoving things into her mouth, slurping the tasty soup. When she had eaten almost half, she found she could not eat another bite nor take another sip or her stomach would explode. Ryen slowly sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her stomach, letting the wonderful taste of the food wash through her body, filling it. She lifted the towel and wiped her mouth, running her tongue over her lips to get the last taste.

  Ryen groaned with pleasure and looked gratefully at the half-empty bowl. That’s when she saw it; it had been hidden beneath the towel.

  The blade glinted in the morning light, and as if in a dream, Ryen reached out. Her long, slim fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of the dagger. She picked it up, holding it before her eyes, trying to convince herself it was real.

  A dagger! She quickly looked to the wooden door. It somehow did not seem so large or impeding as it had before.

  Ryen pushed herself to her feet, only to find that the room tilted suddenly and she had to clutch the edge of the small table to steady herself. I should rest, she thought. But the lure of escape was much too strong.

  As soon as the dizziness faded, Ryen crossed the room on shaky legs, her bare feet treading lightly on the cold stones. When she reached the door, Ryen lifted the blade, easily sliding it between door and stonewall. She paused for a moment, wishing she had seen the lock, hoping it was similar to the bolt on the door of her room, the one Lucien had locked her in with.

  Lucien. She froze, all of her nerves becoming numb. Where were her brothers? If they were alive, they never would have let her be captured. The thought flitted through her mind before she could stop it. Waves of cold terror crashed over her body and she had to slide the blade out of the door frame, afraid her trembling hands would drop it.

  No, she told herself firmly. I mustn’t think of this now. I have to escape. I have to get away before Bryce…before I see him. Before he sees me and those deep eyes of his turn my senses into a confused muddle, before he touches me and brands me with his raw heat, before those lips touch mine and wipe out any rational defenses I have left.

  She forced calm through her body. Again she slid the blade into the small opening. She moved the blade up until it hit the bar preventing her escape on the outside of the door. Then she worked it back and forth, searching for the knob. The blade caught on nothing.

  Frustrated, she stopped, switching hands. Back and forth. Again, nothing.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, flinging the blade up. It hit the bar with a thud – and the bar swung free! It twirled in a half circle and swayed uselessly. The door creaked open.

  Ryen stared, shocked at the simplicity of the lock. Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek out.

  The long cold hall was dim except for muted rays of clouded sunlight from the windows high above that speckled the bricks with spots of brightness. There was not a soul in sight as Ryen stepped from her prison.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Ryen hunched her shoulders, her bare feet treading delicately with each step as she moved down the murky hallway. She clutched the dagger in her hand, ready to do battle to escape. An
ything to get away from Bryce. Her escape would humiliate him, as he had humiliated her.

  She turned the corner, her white nightdress swirling about her ankles. The halls were strangely quiet. At her father’s castle, the sound of children’s laughter, the whispering of two maidens, or her father’s bellow could be heard at any given time. But here there was nothing except a strange silence, as if she were in the bowels of an abandoned hell.

  Suddenly, her senses magnified. The hairs on the nape of her neck straightened and she froze, listening. No sound, no movement. Was it a trap? Every fiber in her body tingled with warning. Something was not right. Slowly, cautiously, she resumed her walk.

  A grumble in her stomach, followed by a sudden onslaught of nausea, caused her to stumble. She grabbed the wall with her hand and bent over. The soup that had tasted so good rose violently in her throat and she vomited until dry heaves shook her body. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes as she wiped a hand across her mouth. Gasping, she leaned her back against the cool stones of the wall.

  She heard a noise from behind her and slowly turned her head. A girl no more than twelve stood staring at her.

  Ryen watched recognition wash over her young face. The girl gasped and ran away. Ryen knew she should move, that an alarm would be sounded soon, but her body suddenly felt heavy, like the floor was pulling her down. As she pushed herself from the wall, her muscles ached with protest. Every bone in her body objected as she continued down the hall and her mind reeled, causing her to stagger more than once. Finally, she paused and shook her head, trying to clear it.

  “It’s the Angel of Death!”

  Ryen looked up to see two knights. The shorter knight wore a full suit of chain mail, where the taller knight with the bright red hair and thick crimson beard wore only a tunic and leggings. They both stared at her in fear and awe.

  Ryen’s senses cleared enough to recognize their hesitancy. She raised the dagger before her. “Back away or I will cut out your hearts.”