The distant clang of metal against metal caught Ryen’s attention. She threw the comb down on the bed and raced to the window. Was the castle under attack? She strained and tilted her head to find out which way the familiar noise was coming from. Then she spotted it. To the left, over the castle wall, she could see a clearing where men clothed only in breeches were practicing their knightly skills. Warm memories flooded over her. She could have been in France, watching her own soldiers.
Except for Bryce. When he strode onto the field, she noticed him immediately. His presence filled the clearing like the dark lord he was named for. She watched him bend down and pick up his sword. Then, unmercifully, he attacked the man closest to him. His movements were swift and deathlike, each thrust a precise jab. Not once did he relent until his opponent lay defeated beneath him. Ryen’s face brightened as she leaned farther out the window in an attempt to watch him better. He was magnificent, there was no denying that. His tunic lay discarded in the grass; his shoulder muscles rippled like waves beneath a fine layer of perspiration. His dark hair reflected the sunlight in its obsidian depths, casting the fiery orange light back in defiance.
Ryen felt a stirring inside her. She wanted to touch him, to caress that skin and feel the softness of his hair, but there was something else, too. There was delight at watching him best the other knights in swordplay, thrill at seeing him overpower all who challenged him.
Then, Ryen saw Talbot walk over to Bryce, his arm out of the sling and hanging at an awkward angle at his side. They spoke together for a moment and Ryen watched Bryce’s shoulders set and straighten. Then, together, the two men turned and looked right at her!
Ryen yanked her head back into the room, smacking it on the bricks. She rubbed her injured skull and quickly withdrew into the room. She sat on the bed for a long moment, rubbing her throbbing head. She half expected Bryce to come up to her room and demand to know what she had been looking at. But as the minutes stretched on and the door did not bang open, Ryen knew he would not come.
I’m glad, she told herself, knowing as she thought it that it was not the truth. She turned her thoughts back to the men and how they were training. How she longed to swing a sword again, to feel the weight of a weapon in her hands! Her body felt stiff and useless. She stood and imagined an opponent’s swing, and dodged to the side, ducking under the imaginary blade. But her gown tangled around her feet and she tripped, stumbling to the ground.
For a long moment, she lay there on her back, dazed. She looked around the room from the floor. Have I lost all my senses? she wondered. I can’t practice in a dress! Ryen sat up and removed the dress. Then she stared down at her chemise. It would still get caught between her legs. If only she could hitch it up somehow. Then her gaze came to a towel lying beside the basin on the table next to the bed.
Ryen carefully rolled the towel into a tight belt and pulled the skirt of her chemise up so it hung to her mid-thigh. She tied the towel around the skirt, about her waist. When she was done, she looked down at her makeshift belt. Her long legs were exposed from the knee down. Finally, she could move freely!
Ryen ducked and sidestepped imaginary blows. Again and again. Her body, not used to the labor, ached. But it felt good doing the movements she had been used to. Still, even thought the dodges and parries were helpful in getting her body warmed up, Ryen knew she needed a weapon.
Slowly, Ryen scanned the room…until she saw the tapestry. She moved to the elaborate hanging and stared at the devil’s face. His dark eyes seemed to be staring at her, his dark hair waving in the mysterious night breeze.
Bryce. His smug smirk. The muscles that gleamed under the moonlight. She followed the picture up to the sliver of a moon and then to the rod that held the tapestry.
A rod of gold!
A sword!
She stretched onto her toes and removed the rod from the thin strings holding it. Sitting on the floor, Ryen yanked the rod onto her lap and pulled it free of the tapestry. It was a bit long, but it would have to do. She got to her bare feet, throwing the rod from one hand to the other, weighing it. She tested it by arcing it over her head, then by thrusting. Ryen took tentative thrusts and parries until she became used to the weight and awkward height of the rod. Then, she gave it her all. Thrusts, dodges, parries, arcs. Everything.
Bryce stood in the open doorway.
Ryen froze, staring into his dark look. Her hair was wild about her shoulders, the skirt of her chemise hanging down on one side, having fallen loose from the towel. She held the rod out at him. The thought made her grin. It was ludicrous that a small, thin rod would stop him. She watched his dark eyes slowly lower, taking in every curve. Heat rose into her face and Ryen lowered the rod and snatched a blanket off the bed to cover herself with.
Bryce stepped into the room. His eyes shifted to the rod she held in her hand. Then, his gaze whipped to her right.
Ryen watched outrage filter across his face, saw the clenching of his hands. She turned to look at the object of his sudden rage. Only when her eyes found the crumpled tapestry did she recall it. Her head snapped back to Bryce, who was approaching her, his brows narrowed accusingly over his turbulent eyes, a muscle clenched in his jaw. Instinctively, she brought the rod up, halting him three feet from her.
Bryce stared hard at the rod, as if he couldn’t understand its purpose. Then he raised his eyes to Ryen. The storm of anger threatened to sweep her into its whipping winds and furious lashing waves. Bryce swatted aside the rod so hard that the vibration shook her arm. He seized her shoulders in an iron grip. “Angel,” he said, from between clenched teeth.
The shock of his naked touch against her skin sent tremors up her arms to her shoulders. Ryen clutched the blanket tightly to her chest, her tiny fist knotted into the folds of the cloth.
His lips were drawn down into a frown of displeasure. Then, his rage exploded and he shook her. “Damn it, Ryen. Why do you have to be --?”
Suddenly she was against his body, his lips searing agonizingly across hers. Hungrily his tongue forced her lips open, and when she parted them, he thrust deep inside, tasting her sweetness. He crushed her to his body, his large hands pressing her back closer against him, drawing her nearer.
“Bryce,” Ryen gasped, tilting her head back to receive more of his kisses.
He pulled back to gaze into her eyes and frowned down at her. He stepped quickly back, away from her.
Ryen furrowed her brow in confusion, then raised her chin and swallowed the sudden pain of rejection that rose inside her.
“Ryen –” Bryce murmured.
She stared at him, large eyes sparkling like sapphires. Hope ignited in her heart. He was going to apologize, to tell her that she was beautiful.
“You may use the kitchens,” he said.
Ryen’s jaw slackened as disappointment stabbed her. Was that all? she wondered.
Bryce turned and headed for the door.
“Bryce!” Ryen called desperately.
He paused not two feet from the door, his shoulders rigid.
Ryen stared hard at his back, a thousand questions racing through her mind. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked softly.
He did not move for a long moment. “Talbot will escort you to and from the kitchens. He will oversee everything you do.”
The kiss was a punishment for the tapestry, Ryen thought, her heart aching. No, not the kiss, but the feelings that flooded her senses when he deprived her of another touch of those sensuous lips. That was the true punishment. She watched as he pulled the door closed behind him. Slowly her shoulder sagged and she sat on the bed.
That night, Ryen ate alone in her room.