Champion of the Heart (49 page)

With a cry, Mary raced away into the forest on the opposite side of the road and quickly disappeared into the blackness of the thick trees, swallowed up by the woods. The soldier gave chase.

Bria shrank back into the cover of the bushes. Kenric still held his bloodied sword, looking in her direction. He took a step toward her.

He’s coming. He’s going to find me.

Then another step.

Bria shot to her feet and whirled, dashing from the bushes, away from Kenric. She sprinted back through the tall grass, across the field, racing back the way she and Mary had come. Her heart pounded in her chest and in her ears. Bria clutched the skirt of her dress, holding it high so she could run as fast as her legs would take her.

Behind her, Bria heard the crash of someone moving through the brush. Once again she was a child of eight, running from Kenric. She couldn’t let him get to her. Sharp branches tore at her clothing, scratched at her flesh as she ran through the forest. She fought her way through the night, running for her life.

He’ll kill me, she thought again and again. He’ll kill me this time if he catches me. Just like he killed Widow Anderson.

Instinct brought her to her horse, which remained tethered to the branch of the tree. She pulled herself up onto the horse’s back and immediately turned the animal toward the safety of her father’s lands. All she needed to do was get to Delaney lands and she would be safe. Kenric was chasing her on foot. And now she was on horseback. She’d make it.

But the horse whinnied angrily as its head jerked forward.

The reins were still wrapped around the branch! Bria grabbed hold of the leather straps and pulled frantically, trying to free them, but they became more entangled around the branch. With a howl of fear and frustration, she tore the straps free, yanking the small branch from the tree. She spurred the horse away as a threatening shadow crashed through the wall of bushes beside her.

The steed reared and Bria almost fell, but she clung tightly to the horse’s mane, keeping herself in the saddle. The horse raced away over the land, knowing the way back to Castle Delaney by heart -- a lucky thing, because Bria’s hands were trembling so badly she couldn’t have steered the animal if she wanted to. She urged her horse on, spurring it hard until she broke free of the forest. They raced over a small hill, galloping at a breakneck pace toward the castle.

Soon Castle Delaney loomed before her, but Bria didn’t feel relieved. Fear held her in a tight embrace, erasing all other thoughts. She spurred her horse below the portcullis, ignoring the guard’s call. As soon as they reached the inner ward she dismounted, practically throwing herself from the saddle. Her feet hit the ground first. Then she fell forward, landing on her hands and knees. For a long moment, she stayed that way, trembling fiercely, struggling to catch a breath, willing her pounding heart to slow down.

Kenric will kill me if he finds me.

He killed Widow Anderson. He murdered her in cold blood!

Mary! Bria quickly stood and took a step toward her horse, lifting her foot into the stirrups. But then she froze. Kenric would be waiting for her at the edge of the east woods. He’d know she would come back.

How can I not go back for Mary? He might hurt her. He might kill her!

Guilt and terror at what she had done, at what she was doing, weighed heavily on her shoulders.

She’d left Mary alone in the woods.

Suddenly, Bria bolted into the keep. She raced up a set of spiral stairs and down the hall. Garret would help her, she was sure of it. He’d return to the woods and search for Mary with her. She ran as fast as she could, finally skidding to a halt before his door.

Bria lifted her hand to knock, but suddenly froze, her hand raised in the air. He’d tried to protect her against Kenric a long time ago, but he hadn’t been strong enough.

And now Kenric was even more evil.

What if Garret were hurt, or even killed, because of her?

Bria lowered her hand. She couldn’t risk his life. She turned and raced down the stairs. She would get Jason of Victors, the captain of the guard, and bring a dozen men with her.

She could only pray Mary would remain safe until then.

Midnight Shadow

Available Now!

In this exciting medieval romance, the French lady knight known as the Angel of Death wages a battle of wills and desires against her dreaded enemy -- the English warrior known as the Prince of Darkness.

Ryen De Bouriez is a French warrior, dedicated to protecting her country against the hated English. In place of glittering ball gowns, she wears shining armor. Instead of practicing the gentler arts, she wields a sword. Those who whisper her name in fear and awe call her the Angel of Death.

Bryce Princeton is the Prince of Darkness, an English knight sent by his king to find and destroy their most hated adversary -- the Angel of Death. Little does he know that his enemy is no man at all, but a beautiful woman who will challenge his heart and honor at every turn.

Forced to choose between love and honor, the Angel and the Prince wage a battle of wills that challenges everything they have ever believed in.

The Angel and the Prince - Prologue

France, 1410

The choir of voices ascended to the far corners of the cathedral, where sculptured angels listened with somber faces to the Latin words. Shining white marble pillars spiraled down to the steps of the great altar. At the top stair stood King Charles VI. Behind him stood eight small boys dressed in immaculate white robes, each holding a red velvet pillow with golden tassels at each corner. Upon every silky velvet pillow there rested a resplendent sword. Above and behind the boys, golden statues of saints stretched out their cold arms in welcome and forgiveness with unseeing eyes.

The king shifted his regal stance, his gaze locked on the tall wooden doors at the back of the church. He knew eight young men waited anxiously outside, their breath tight in their chests, their palms slick with nervous sweat. Each one would enter as a squire filled with a boy’s apprehension, and each one would leave as a knight of the realm filled with a warrior’s pride.

One of the banners caught his eye. It was for Ryen De Bouriez, the third son of Baron Jean Claude De Bouriez. King Charles scanned the mass of people before him until they came to rest on two men – the elder De Bouriez brothers. They were tall, even by knightly standards. Lucien was fair; his honeyed hair, blue eyes, and boyish looks were rumored to have cost more than one maiden her virtue. Andre was dark, with chestnut eyes and a heart of gold. Both were skilled warriors, and this pleased the king, for he knew Ryen would make an excellent addition to his troops. He studied the brothers closely. They shifted from foot to foot nervously; even Andre, who was usually so calm, seemed unsettled. The king frowned. Perhaps the two giants were uncomfortable with the civil surroundings and were eager to be out of the church. King Charles sympathized. The De Bouriezes were, after all, known for their prowess in battle, not their sociability.

The king glanced over row upon row of nobles in their elegant satins and velvets. The Countess of Burgundy was there. Not far from her, the flamboyant golden caul headdress of the Duchess of Orleans caught his eye. Slowly, his brow creased into a frown as he finished surveying the attending nobility. Where was Ryen’s father?

The choir of voices that had filled the chamber suddenly ended, their last echoes resonating throughout the cathedral until they slipped away into nothingness.

Glancing toward the trumpeters awaiting his signal in the balcony, King Charles nodded. When they put the long golden horns to their lips, the triumphant music began. All eyes turned to the heavy oak doors at the back of the church as they slowly creaked open.

Eight squires advanced down the long carpeted aisle, one behind the other.

Sunlight streamed in from the stained glass windows, reflecting brilliantly off the shining silver-and-gold plate mail of the approaching men. King Charles squinted as a ray of light shone in his eyes. He tried to be a fair man, judging all men equally, but he found himself anxious to see Ryen De Bouriez, around whom so much controversy swirled. The first time his name had reached the king’s ears, it was with the capture of Castle Picardy, the feat that had earned him his knighthood. King Charles had heard the same story three times, and with each telling Ryen’s achievements had seemed to grow until they were of Herculean proportions. Since then, the name Ryen De Bouriez had arisen time and time again in casual conversation. The man’s strategic maneuvers were ingenious.

The initiates climbed the stairs to the great altar and bowed before the king, then stepped aside to form a row before their lord. As the squire preceding De Bouriez bowed, King Charles tried not to seem obvious as he peered over the top of the man’s head to get a glimpse of Ryen. Finally, like a curtain being drawn, the squire stepped aside and Ryen De Bouriez was revealed to King Charles. The initiate still wore his helmet. All traces of astonishment disappeared as anger descended over the king. It was disrespectful for anyone to wear a helmet in the house of God. The young man’s headgear covered most of his face except for his eyes. King Charles could see the striking blueness of them; they shimmered in the shadows of his helmet like a great cloudless sky. His gaze raked the young man again. He is very small indeed, the king thought. I cannot believe the great Baron De Bouriez squired this runt. Perhaps De Bouriez is absent because he is embarrassed by his son’s size.

Under his scrutiny, the king saw Ryen’s deep blue eyes fill with pride, and something else. Before he could discern what that strange spark was, Ryen fell to one knee, bowing his head in reverence.

Somewhat pacified, King Charles commanded quietly, “Remove your helmet, Ryen,” and turned to retrieve a ceremonial sword cushioned upon a pillow of velvet. As he reverently removed the sword, the king heard rustling and the clang of armor behind him and knew Ryen was removing his helmet.

Suddenly, a collective gasp spread through the crowd like the wind whistling through a field of wheat.

King Charles whirled at the sound. His eyes grew wide and he gaped as the reason for the young man’s diminutive stature became quite apparent. The “man” was not a man at all!

He was a she!

Why, she could be no more than fifteen! Amazement rocked him like a blow to his stomach, leaving him breathless and stunned. The girl’s soft dark hair cascaded in waves over the metal shoulder plates. Her nose was a delicate sculpture of perfection, her lips full. Her chin was strong, with a slight cleft etched into it. Beauty shimmered beneath her childlike features. She had the innocent face of a cherub…an angel. King Charles stared for a long moment.

The king knew now what that look in her sapphire eyes had been: defiance. It accented her features with determination.

The king turned to glance at her brothers. Andre had suddenly found interest in a piece of imaginary lint on his spotless white velvet tunic, and Lucien was studying the painted angels on the stained glass windows. King Charles’s lips thinned and his gaze returned to Ryen.

A girl! How had she been able to keep this secret? he wondered.

King Charles stared in shock. No wonder Baron De Bouriez is not here, he thought. He gripped the sword tightly until his knuckles hurt with the effort. He knew he should not knight her, that she should be punished for her audacity, but her deeds surpassed the defiance that her stubborn raised little chin represented. He wanted her in his army, needed her strategic skills. These were desperate times.

He lifted the sword in a sweeping gesture and saw her body stiffen, as if expecting a blow. He brought the sword down, lightly touching the tip of the blade to each of her shoulders in the customary colee, finishing with, “Rise, Sir Ryen De Bouriez.”