The Angel And The Prince Page 25

  “She is only a woman,” the red-haired man said after a moment. “We can take her.”

  “She is the Angel of Death, McFinley,” the second hissed, already backing away, his hand protectively covering his heart.

  McFinley growled and stepped toward Ryen. Through the haze that had surrounded her, Ryen saw the respectful distance he gave the dagger as he circled to her left.

  “Come on, girl,” he goaded.

  The dizziness fell over her like a blanket and she stumbled, lowering the dagger.

  He came at her, and Ryen reacted by instinctively lifted the weapon.

  “Argh!”

  Ryen pulled back and shook her head to clear it. When the haze retreated, she gasped at the sight before her. McFinley was slumped over, clutching his arm. Her dagger was on the floor, its tip marked with his blood.

  Ryen inhaled sharply and stepped back. She turned to flee, only to run straight into Talbot! His fist came around fast. The impact numbed her cheek as the force of the blow spun her to the floor. Blackness invaded her vision, and Ryen clenched her fists, willing the darkness away.

  “My arm!”

  “How did she get out?” Talbot’s voice sounded in her head like a gunpowder blast. “Where did she get a dagger?”

  Ryen felt the cold stone beneath her fingertips as she clutched at them for an anchor. Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet by her hair and held dangling before Talbot. Ryen tried to stop the pain that shot from her scalp through her body by standing on her toes. She grabbed her hair where Talbot held it to prevent another sharp burst of agony.

  His voice rang in her ears. “Where did you get the dagger?”

  Ryen fought the pounding that rocked her head. But when Talbot shook her, yanking her hair until it felt like it was going to rip out of her skull, the throbbing exploded into a million stars of pain. Ryen wanted to scream from the agony that seared across her head with each tug, but she held it in with all her willpower. She vowed she would never show such weakness to these English.

  Talbot snarled. “Who gave you the dagger?”

  Even under his abuse, she did not open her mouth. Her pride kept her lips tightly shut. Suddenly, the violent shakes ceased.

  “Perhaps a flogging will loosen her tongue,” McFinley commented, eyeing her.

  Ryen had witnessed many floggings, and fear stiffened her innards.

  McFinley shoved his arm at Talbot. Blood dripped from the open wound and he snapped, “It is my right.”

  Ryen saw Talbot nod before McFinley seized her arm and pulled her down the hall and down a flight of stairs. She could barely keep up with the knight’s large steps. She stumbled, only to be hauled back to her feet by his hold on her arm.

  When they paused before the outer door of the castle, Ryen turned her head to see an immense group of people following. Some were knights, some servants. All looked angry. Some opened their mouths, but Ryen could barely make out what they were saying. Through her fear and sickness, her mind muffled and combined voices so that she could not understand the words.

  The door opened before her and a small body dashed out into the dim sunlight, running down the road. Directly before her in the dusty courtyard she saw a small platform on top of which were two wooden poles, each with a rope dangling from it.

  McFinley yanked her forward, drawing her toward the platform.

  Stormy gray clouds rolled in, blocking the sun from view. Ryen saw lightning flash in the sky. A roar began in her head, and at first, Ryen thought it was thunder from the storm, but then, after it continued relentlessly, she realized it was the crowd. She twisted her head around to see that the large crowd was following them, streaming from the castle like jelly oozing from a spilled jar.

  McFinley yanked her up the two stairs of the platform. Her nightgown entangled her legs and she would have fallen except for the knight’s viselike grip on her upper arm. As he pulled her between the two poles, the first drops of rain broke from the clouds, spattering the platform below her feet. The knight seized her arm and tied it tightly to the pole, wrapping the rope around and around her wrist, until the blood stopped flowing to her hand.

  Ryen stood still, her chin raised, gazing off down the road. Villagers were coming, running up the dirt road, a horde of incensed English.

  A pellet of rain struck Ryen’s cheek.

  As McFinley tied her other wrist, the first villager reached them.

  So did the first rock. The stone missed her by a foot, bouncing harmlessly on the wooden platform.

  McFinley whirled on the villagers, his lips curled in fury. He held up his arm to show his cut. “First blood. I claim it. There will be no stoning.”

  A moan of disappointment rippled the crowd. Ryen saw some of the villagers open their hands. Rocks fell out.

  Suddenly, her hair was yanked back and she cringed as McFinley stuck his face into hers. “Fifty lashes, love,” he whispered before his snakelike tongue flicked out and ran along the length of her cheek. He released her and disappeared somewhere behind her.

  She felt the neck of her gown being seized, and with a savage yank the back of the nightdress tore free from the front.

  The downpour began, heavy and punishing. What was left of Ryen’s dress clung to her body, the material hugging her tighter with each drop.

  The crowd became strangely quiet and Ryen saw the men’s eyes rake her. No one moved for cover from the rain. They wanted her hurt. They wanted blood. What kind of people were these? Ryen hated them. She had never hated the English as much as she did now. Her mind cleared, all sickness washed away by the cleansing rain.

  She felt someone press against her back, heard a voice. “No, m’lord! She is ill! She will na last under fifty lashes!”

  “Out of the way, Polly,” McFinley answered. “There is a traitor in our midst, and I am to find out who gave her the dagger.”

  “But she is sick!” the woman protested. “M’lord Princeton will be furious.”

  “Stand aside, old woman,” the knight’s voice was stern. “Or you will be next.”

  Slowly, Polly backed away, wringing her hands.

  Ryen heard the crack of the whip behind her. Instinctively, she stiffened, preparing herself for the pain.

  The crowd swayed with anxiety.

  “Whip her!” a faceless voice screamed.

  Another crack of the whip sounded behind her. Someone laughed. The rain trickled down her forehead, over her eyes and cheeks and into her mouth. Ryen blinked it away.

  The crowd gasped and she prepared to feel the bite of the whip, waited for the stinging lash to strike her, steeled her body for the pain…

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  The pain of the biting whip never came.

  Instead, the rope that held Ryen was unbound from first one wrist, then the other. She stood shuddering, her fists clenched against the sudden chill that engulfed her body. A blanket was hung over her shoulders, and heavy hands kept it in place. She felt herself being turned around. Ryen raised her eyes to the giant who stood before her. She blinked the downpour of rain from her eyes to see –

  Bryce!

  A sudden surge of happiness swept her entire body. He was not dead! She had wanted to believe it, wanted so desperately to let herself believe it, but until now there had still been doubt. She wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and cry with relief, but she could not move or breathe. At his touch, warmth seeped from his fingertips through the length of her body. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the rain.

  He guided her back toward the castle, but McFinley stood to block their path. He presented Bryce with the damage done to his arm. The rain smeared the blood, making the cut look ugly and gaping. “It is my right,” he charged.

  “Inside,” Bryce commanded.

  His voice, carefully controlled, sent stirrings of anxiety racing like goose bumps along Ryen’s skin.

  McFinley whirled, storming into the castle.

  Bryce pushed her inside and the great crowd th
at had gathered to see her punished followed, surging through the doors. Bryce’s grip was much gentler than the knight’s. He curbed his long strides so she could keep up with him. Then he took his hand off her, leaving her to walk under her own power, and Ryen found herself missing the warmth his touch had offered her.

  Once inside, Bryce halted. His dark gaze sought out the knight. “What is your grief with my prisoner?”

  At his cold words, her heart froze. Prisoner? But I thought… her mind screamed. Fool! You thought what? That your enemy, the man who lied to you, who thought you were worth no more than just to use you, would steal you away from your people, your country to – to love you?! Fool!

  “She has taken first blood,” McFinley stated, again showing Bryce his wound. This time the blood flowed freely from the sore. “It is my right to do the same to her.”

  “Talbot!” The word ripped angrily from Bryce’s throat.

  Talbot pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Bryce.

  “How did this happen?” Bryce demanded.

  “She escaped. A traitor gave her a dagger,” Talbot answered.

  Bryce swung his gaze back to Ryen. Hard black eyes stared at her, but Ryen stood her ground. “Who gave you the dagger?”

  Ryen raised her chin. “It was mine.”

  “It is English-made, Bryce,” Talbot supplied, staring at her with hostile, slitted eyes.

  Bryce’s gaze did not waver from Ryen. She would have withered under the penetrating intensity of that stare had she not been so enraged.

  “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 o
ver 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 even 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.