The Angel And The Prince Page 7

  But the whores had not been virgins when he had taken them. None of his women had ever been. If the Angel…

  No, he thought. Why would she choose me? Why not choose one of her men? Surely she could have found a Frenchman to satisfy her. Had she no suitors? Or was it the legend that surrounded him what intrigued her?

  Then the thought returned to him from the night before, nearly paralyzing him with apprehension. Have I planted English seed into the belly of a French woman? What have I done? He had been careful with all his women, careful to remove himself so as not to get them with child. But he had been angry with Angel. He had not been thinking. He only wanted to punish her, to show her the strength of England. This was one way to incapacitate the Angel of Death, he thought with sarcasm.

  The thought of a French bastard made him cringe. He had never shirked his duty; if she had a child, he would care for it properly. But how could he protect a French child from English ridicule?

  These questions were driving him mad! He had to have the answers. He had to see her.

  “Guard!” Bryce shouted.

  Ryen had gotten little sleep the night before, her dreams echoing Bryce’s condemnation. She sauntered distractedly through the camp as her mind replayed her actions of the night before. The way she had summoned him to her tent, the way she let him touch her. She had been no better than one of the camp whores. A slut.

  The word still stung. It was like putting salt in a wound every time she thought of it. And the wound was deep. He had not been gentle. How could she have mistaken his glances for caring when all they were were stares of hate? He was her enemy, and while she had forgotten, or chosen to overlook it, he had not.

  “You’re avoiding me.”

  Ryen looked up to see that Andre had joined her. His forehead and dark red tunic were wet with perspiration. His sword hung in its scabbard at his side. “No, I’m not. I’ve been very busy this morning.”

  “Preparing to meet Father?”

  “Yes,” she lied. Ryen had not considered her father once. All her thoughts had been of Bryce.

  Andre stared hard at her. The seconds grew to minutes and even though she did not meet his gaze, he still watched her.

  She bridled under the silent pressure. “Well, not exactly,” she finally admitted, her gaze wandering to the ground.

  “How did it go last night?” he wondered.

  “He came to my tent, as you know.”

  “And…did you take my advice?”

  “Yes.”

  A long moment of silence passed and Ryen raised her head to stare off at the horizon and the blue sky. She shifted her shoulders so the chain mail rested comfortably.

  “Have you gotten him out of your system?” Andrew asked softly.

  “Yes. Absolutely. I never want to see him again,” Ryen stated emphatically.

  Andre sighed with relief. “Then it worked,” he said. “Good. Because he’s asking to see you.”

  Ryen’s lips tightened into a grimace. What did Bryce want? To take her in his arms and gently kiss her? Ryen chuckled bitterly to herself. Not likely. She raised her chin, her eyes narrowing, and gave Andre her answer.

  Chapter Nine

  “What do you mean, she doesn’t want to see me?” Bryce demanded, outraged. He had been waiting hours for a response he was sure would be positive. He had half expected Ryen to come herself. “I must see her!”

  The guard stood mutely during Bryce’s outburst, his dirty chain mail reflecting the lackluster expression on his face. When he finished, the guard spoke evenly. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  Bryce seethed with anger and paced back and forth, his manacled feet allowing him only to shuffle along the ground. He turned back to the guard, repeating, “I must see her!”

  The guard remained silent, an amused grin on his face.

  “Wipe off that smirk, damn you!” Bryce growled.

  The guard smiled wider, showing his teeth.

  Heathen bastard!

  Bryce shot forward, diving, and rammed his head into the guard’s chest. The man’s chain mail bent beneath the impact as he doubled over. Bryce was dazed for a moment, but as the guard grunted heavily and went down, he hurriedly shuffled for the tent flap and lurched –

  -- into the arms of three guards standing outside. They slammed him to the ground, one of them pinning him firmly with a knee to his back.

  “Angel!” Bryce cried out, before a guard clubbed him into unconsciousness.

  Bryce’s head pounded. He wished he could rub it, but the manacles that bound his wrists to a stake in the ground would not allow him to reach his head. Did they think he would chew through the metal links? He wanted to laugh, but his head hurt too badly.

  She doesn’t want to see me, he thought. His lips twisted in a grimace. She was no virgin. How could she be, with an army of men following her? The sight of her smooth buttocks and those spread thighs as she rode her horse would drive any man mad with lust. At least half a dozen men had probably had her by now.

  He shook his head in disgust. I should have killed her, he thought.

  He sighed, lying down in the dirt. The tent flap was closed, but through the slit of the opening Bryce could see the glimmer of a small campfire from somewhere outside in the dark.

  When he had regained consciousness, he’d discovered a tray of bread and cold duck beside him. Even though he had no hunger, he had eaten it to keep up his strength. He had to stay strong for his escape.

  Suddenly, his senses came alert. There was movement outside the tent and the soft crunching of footsteps on the dirt…someone who was not armored; the footsteps were too light. Through the slit between the flaps, a shadow moved to block the campfire. The person was short, too short to be a guard, too small to be a knight.

  Bryce boosted himself up on his elbow, his brows furrowing. The flap opened and the figure entered the tent, clothed in a ragged brown cotton tunic and black hose ripped at the knee.

  Anger and fear fought for control of him, tightening his stomach, thinning his lips. “Runt,” he gasped.

  The smile slid over the boy’s face easily. “I’m here to free you,” Runt said, brushing a lock of black hair from his eyes. “I haven’t figured out how, but I will.”

  Bryce reached out to him, but his manacles jangled and yanked his arms short of grabbing the boy. “I want you out of here. Now.”

  Runt’s lips turned down and his small head tilted slightly to the side. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “I told you to go to the rear of the army. Weren’t you listening?” Bryce demanded, his anger rising to drown out his fear.

  “I did. And then they ran,” Runt replied in disgust. There was stubbornness in his large eyes, a determined set to his small jaw.

  He won’t run. I taught him that, a voice inside Bryce reminded. But he was becoming panicked at the thought of this small boy in the enemy’s camp, risking his life to try to free him. “You must leave now,” he commanded, angry with himself for not being able to throw him out of the camp.

  Runt scowled at Bryce. “I won’t leave without you.”

  Orders never worked with me, Bryce knew, and it would never work with the child. Bryce fought to bring his emotions under control. “Listen to me, Runt,” he stated, his jaw tense, “you are just a boy. You cannot battle an entire French army alone.”

  “I have you be my side,” Runt said simply.

  Bryce raised his hands and the manacles clanked and sparkled in the light from the campfire outside. “I am bound. I am of no help to you.”

  “I’ll free you,” Runt insisted.

  “Runt!” The anger surged inside Bryce again; he could feel his hands clenching into fists. The boy stepped back fearfully. Bryce forced his rage down, his teeth clenching, and sat back on his heels. “It is dangerous, Runt. Everywhere you turn there will be enemies. And I will be heavily guarded. You cannot free me. You must escape.”

  “I am not a prisoner,” Runt said. “They think I am one of the
town boys coming to aid in the battle. The guards let me in here so I can get your tray.” He grinned, proud of his accomplishment.

  But all Bryce saw was the danger the boy was in. What if the Angel of Death discovered him? What if she used the boy to get more information from him? Could he endure Runt’s cries from torture, or would he turn traitor to his country to save the child? If she knew his one weakness was standing defenseless in her camp… He looked at Runt, a scowl creasing his brow. “Runt, you don’t know what could happen here. You must trust me when I say you cannot stay.”

  Runt frowned. “I am not in any danger.”

  “You are. Far more than you realize. And by your being here, you put me in more danger than I have ever been in before.”

  Runt’s brow furrowed, an imitation of Bryce, and he looked at the ground. “I just didn’t want them to hurt you.”

  Bryce’s heart softened immediately. He wanted to help the boy, to tell him that what he was doing would have been right had he been a man. He wanted to tell him that he would make a fine knight someday and that he was proud that he had attempted to rescue him. But he knew if he did that, Runt would see it as a signal to stay and try to impress him further by freeing him. He had to be stern. “Come here, boy,” Bryce commanded.

  Runt walked up to him, his eyes full of disappointment.

  Bryce gently placed his hands upon the boy’s shoulders and looked into his blue eyes. “I can take care of myself. I need you to leave this camp and find King Henry. You must not stay here.”

  “But I know I can rescue you. I can free you, Prince,” Runt said sincerely.

  Bryce’s frown deepened. Persistent. He was so damned persistent. Why wouldn’t he listen? “No. You can’t stay. You won’t be able to free me. I want you out of this camp. Now.” He had never raised his voice to the boy before, but he had to make him leave. “Go on. Leave me here. I will see you at King Henry’s camp.” He released Runt and watched him back up to the tent flap, where he paused. “Go on,” Bryce insisted.

  Runt swiped at the lock of hair that fell before his eyes and Bryce saw the sparkle of tears before the boy ducked beneath the tent flap and was gone.

  “Afraid of the Prince of Darkness?”

  Bryce sat up straight in the tent, listening to the ridicule in the voices.

  “Hey, you didn’t get the tray!”

  The guards. A protective anger surged inside Bryce. He wanted to rip out their throats for talking to Runt with disrespect.

  “Coward!” They broke into laughter and Bryce exploded, lunging forward. The boy had more courage than the guards could ever dream of having. His bonds caught him and pulled his arms back. Still, he fought to move forward, out of the tent. The guffaws continued to echo in the night air, enraging him. The chains dug into his flesh, pulled at his arms. He fought against the manacles’ biting hold, pulling with every last ounce of strength. The chains held fast. Slowly the sounds of the French mockery faded. Bryce tried one last time to lunge forward, pulling with his chest and digging his feet into the ground. The manacles refused to move, holding strong against his every effort. Finally he gave up his fight, letting his arms drop. I am chained and useless, he thought. I cannot even defend Runt. He would never forget this feeling of helplessness. Nor forgive those who had caused it.

  The next morning, one of Ryen’s men came for him, ordering him to his feet and out of the tent. The sun was low in the sky, and Bryce knew it was very early. The camp was quiet and still; only an occasional man strolled between the tents.

  The guard led him past the camp borders and through a thick row of shrubbery, deep into the forest. Large trees shot up all around him. The early morning sun peeked through the leaves far above their heads, and bushes and weeds peppered their path. Escape raced through Bryce’s mind, but the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, and the sword the man held to his back, prevented any action. The guard urged him through a small line of bushes and they emerged in a large clearing. Bryce stopped.

  She was there.

  Ryen’s forehead was dotted with perspiration, a broadsword not far from her driven into the ground. She wore an oversized green tunic, cuffed at the sleeves and bound around the waist with a large leather belt. White leggings conformed to her shapely legs, and her black leather boots accented her curvy calves. Desire coursed through Bryce and he silently cursed himself for his lack of control. The sunlight glinted off the helmet on the ground near her feet. Her hair was loose and hung wildly over her shoulders.

  “Were you a virgin?” he blurted as he drew closer, the question spilling forth from his lips as if his obsessive attention to it had given it a life of its own. He half expected a slap for his blunt question, especially in front of her man, but when none was forthcoming, he presumed that the guard didn’t understand English.

  But Ryen did. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t care when you took me.”

  “I want to know,” he said, as calmly as possible.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She turned away from him, looking toward the trees at the other end of the clearing. “I am not one now.”

  “Angel,” he said softly, an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms sweeping over him as he heard the anguish in her voice. “You brought me to your tent in the middle of the night half clothed. What did you want me to do?”

  “You did everything I expected you would,” she said bitterly.

  “Then you were not a virgin.”

  “Why is it so important that you know?”

  Bryce watched her closely, listened for the change in her voice. “You could tell me this, at least. After all, I did service you quite adequately.”

  She whirled, fury burning in those sapphire eyes. “Quite adequately? I bled that night! I owe you nothing!”

  “All virgins bleed.”

  Ryen averted her gaze, a slight blush spreading over her cheeks. Bryce had his answer. “God’s blood! Why would you pick your enemy to teach you the ways of love? Why not a Frenchman? Why not one of your own?”

  She clenched her fists into tiny balls, her jaw tightening. “Unshackle him,” she snapped at the guard in French.

  The guard took Bryce’s arms and slid the chains off his wrists. As he bent to remove the shackles around Bryce’s ankles, Bryce rubbed his chafed wrists, trying to force circulation back into them. His dark gaze never wavered from Ryen’s. What is she up to? he wondered.

  Again, Ryen spoke to the guard. “Give him your sword.”

  “My lady?” the guard replied, straightening and turning to Ryen.

  “Give him your sword!” Ryen shouted.

  The guard hesitated only a second before pulling the sword from his sheath and extending it hilt first to Bryce. Bryce glanced down at the sword in the guard’s hands, then up at Ryen. He saw that her breath was coming hard.

  She yanked her broadsword out of the ground and stepped closer to him.

  Bryce’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. She wanted to fight him! “I did nothing you didn’t want me to.” Bryce’s gaze swiveled to the guard. He was older and probably experienced in battle, but shorter and heavier than Bryce. He could defeat the guard. And Angel was no challenge.

  Ryen’s words were sweet. “This is lesson number two.”

  Bryce ached to feel the hilt of the sword in his palm. He knew he could defeat both of them, but he needed to get Angel alone if he hoped to escape. “I’m no fool. Your man would cut me down in an instant if he saw your life was threatened, despite any orders you gave him.”

  Ryen again spoke to the guard. “Get Andre.”

  “And leave you alone?” he answered.

  A grin twitched the corners of Bryce’s lips.

  “I gave you an order!”

  The guard stiffened and turned to leave, the sword in his hand, the shackles slung over his shoulder.

  Bryce’s hopes faded. His chance was gone. She had already changed her mind about fighting him. Then what did she want with him alone in the forest? To kill him?

>   “Leave the weapon,” Ryen ordered.

  The guard turned back to her. He paused to glance down at his sword, then threw it to the ground before running into the forest, disappearing through trees and shrubbery.

  Ryen grinned at Bryce, her eyes flashing with challenge. “You have only minutes to overcome me before my army descends on you. Think you can do it?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Now was his chance. This Angel was very foolish. But Bryce had to admire her courage. He bent and picked up the sword, a smile on his face. If she chooses to fight me, then so be it. He stared at the blade for a moment, deep in thought about –

  --striking at her, which he did without warning, driving his sword forward!

  She easily knocked it aside. “If that is the best you can do, this will be a sadly easy defeat.”

  “I’ve already put my sword into you once; don’t make me do it again.”

  Ryen’s face softened with hurt and Bryce took advantage of her vulnerable moment to attack, bringing his sword in low and up in a dip, the point heading straight toward her stomach.

  Suddenly, Ryen’s sword came to life and caught his swing. With a twist of her wrist, Bryce’s sword spun into the air and then landed on the ground two feet from him. She stood for a moment with her sword tip to his neck.

  Shock paralyzed Bryce before he masked it with a forced grin. No one had ever done that before! I have been toying with her, he reassured himself. But he had not anticipated such a lightning-fast defense. She was good. For a woman.

  She smirked. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “You should be thankful your swordplay is better than your seduction,” he retorted.

  “Pick it up,” she said.

  It is time to teach her her place, he thought, and moved for his sword. He picked up the blade and turned to face her again.