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Falcon's Heart
Praise for Denise Lynn:
FALCON’S LOVE
‘…high drama. This is a refreshing medieval…’ —RT Book Reviews
FALCON’S DESIRE
‘With revenge, romance, intrigue and passion at its hottest, Ms Lynn has truly penned a story that ranks high with the best romances I have ever read…A definite keeper.’—Romance Reviews Today
‘A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.’—Historical Romance Writers Review
‘This medieval romance has all the things that I enjoy reading in a book: a mystery to solve, and a hero and heroine who hate each other so much that when they finally realise they are in love it’s explosive!’—The Best Reviews
FALCON’S HONOUR
‘Non-stop action, a marvellous captive/captor plotline, a hint of fantasy and more than a touch of passion converge, making this book a memorable romance and a feast for fans of medieval romance.’—RT Book Reviews
Excerpt
She was his enemy’s sister.
But the things he’d learned set his heart racing and made him feel more alive than he had in ages.
Bold. Headstrong. Foolish. Curious. All the things that would chase away boredom and keep his long days filled with intrigue.
Wanton. Fearless. Willing. All the things that would make his dreams unbelievably lush and keep the short nights filled with passion.
A scuffing sound behind him should have been enough warning, but he’d tried to ignore her tossing and turning. So when she threw the tunic across him and curled up beneath it against his back, then slipped her arm over his waist, Bryce tensed in surprise.
‘There is no reason for either of us to freeze to death.’
Her whispered words against his neck assured him that this would be the longest night of his life.
Award-winning author Denise Lynn has been an avid reader of romance novels for many years. Between the pages of books she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and never-ending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance.
Denise lives with her real-life hero, Tom, and a slew of four-legged ‘kids’ in north western Ohio, USA. Their two-legged son Ken serves in the USN, and comes home on occasion to visit and fix the computers, VCRs, or any other electronic device Mom can confuse in his absence. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website, www.denise-lynn.com
Novels by the same author:
FALCON’S DESIRE
FALCON’S HONOUR
FALCON’S LOVE
Falcon’s Heart
Denise Lynn
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Prologue
Ashforde Keep, Devon, England
Early summer 1143
Bryce of Ashforde squinted through the billowing smoke at the charred remains of Ashforde Keep. Nothing had been safe from the fire set to lay waste to his newly granted land.
He’d been gone seven short days. Long enough to meet his intended betrothed and her family, and to begin the marriage arrangements with Empress Matilda and her husband Comte Geoffrey of Anjou. A sennight ago, when he’d first come to claim Ashforde Keep as the new lord, it had been sound. Now…now it lay in smoldering ruins.
Much would be required to rebuild; men, more gold than he possessed and a great deal of time. But half of his men were missing. The majority of his gold now filled Empress Matilda’s coffers. Time was sparse.
The final betrothal agreement was in his saddlebag, waiting only for his signature. Once it was signed, they would set a date to exchange their promises of the future. Then they would wed, a necessity for any lord of the realm. He needed a chatelaine for the keep and children—both requirements that could be filled by marriage. But he was to bring his new wife, Cecily of Glynnson, home to what?
He would have to hire someone to oversee the rebuilding of his keep. Because he would be gone, using those weeks…or months…hunting those responsible for this devastating act.
His nose burned. His chest tightened, protesting the dense, acrid smoke that made his eyes water and brought a harsh raspy cough tearing up his throat.
He’d counted seven bodies—apparently villagers by their obvious lack of weapons and chain mail. Why were his men not among the dead? It appeared they’d been removed from the keep. Or, that they’d run at the first sign of attack. He refused to believe they’d run. When Empress Matilda granted him the title and the land, she’d also granted him twenty men. Each one of them had willingly sworn their allegiance to him. He’d been assured they were faithful, honorable and brave men.
So, where were they?
The wind gathered speed, threatening to pull his hooded cloak from around his shoulders. It blew the smoke across the scorched field.
Bright summer sun sparkled off an object sticking out of the rubble. Bryce kicked the smoldering wooden beams away from what appeared to be a sword. After wrapping the edge of his thick woolen cloak around his hand, he pulled the weapon from the smoking pile.
Even though his heart felt as heavy as a boulder in his chest, and his throat ached from choking back a scream of rage, a bitter smile turned up the corners of his mouth.
A falcon was etched on the blade. The raptor’s wings were spread, as if hovering over an unsuspecting prey.
Only one man would mark his weapon in such a manner—Comte Rhys of Faucon. While he’d never crossed swords with Faucon, he’d spoken to men who had. Each of them mentioned the etched falcon.
One question was answered—he knew the party responsible. He stared out toward the forest, now to find his missing men.
Bryce returned to his tethered horse and secured his own sword in a leather loop dangling from the saddle. With great care, he wiped the ashes from the sword he’d found, then held the weapon up toward the blazing sun and vowed, “I promise you, Faucon, I will return your sword and repay you in kind.”
Chapter One
Faucon Keep, Normandy
October 15, 1143
Every autumn, for as long as Marianne of Faucon could remember, the Comte of Faucon hosted a grand tournament and faire. First her father’s father had hosted the event, then her own father. The task now fell to the current Comte of Faucon, her brother Rhys. It had been taking place for so long, that it was an expected celebration.
The only difference this year was in the number of attendees. A devastating famine swept England, bringing more and more people to Normandy, France and other far-flung locations.
An imposing assembly of troubadours, jugglers, dancers and musicians came to entertain the masses gathered while lining their purses with coin. Knights and warriors, tired of earnest battle and seeking to fill their empty coffers with gold or the spoils of those less fortunate at combat, came to test their prowess on the tourney field. Merchants, desperate to profit from the throng and lighten their load of goods before winter set in, flocked to the keep.
It was a festival of merriment and necessity attended by many—evident by the multitude of gaily colored tents dotting the open area between the forest and the keep. Brilliant multihued pennants fluttered in the warm autumn breeze.
Surrounded by more people than she could count, Marianne could not dispel the restlessness coiling tight in her belly. It rested there all day, growing stronger with the setting sun.
Neither the clang of sword meeting sword, nor the excited shouts and laughter of spectators in the stands broke the unsettling gloom cloaking her like a dark, suffocating shroud.
An unhurried stroll amongst the vendors produced nothing to lighten her mood. No bright hair ribbons, exotic scents from the East, nor carefully crafted jewelry caught her eye. It was truly a sad day when she could find nothing new to purchase that would lift her spirits.
Marianne sighed before moving away from the crowd attending this day’s events. The annual festivities used to send a thrill through her body. She’d looked forward to the excitement for months in advance. Over the last two years, the thrill had steadily begun to pall.
“Surely you are not leaving so soon?”
An arm draped across her shoulders slowed her departure. She knew by his simple act of lightly caressing her shoulder, which of her three brothers sought to prevent her leaving.
Her eldest brother Rhys would not have taken the time to approach her. With so many armed men about, he was far too busy keeping them in check.
Darius, the youngest brother, would never think to be so familiar with her. He’d not lived at Faucon while she was growing from child to young woman. Their relationship was more formal than the one she shared with her middle brother Gareth.
Marianne lowered her shoulder and sidestepped Gareth’s touch. “Yes. I am. The day has been long. My head aches and the noise worsens the pain. Perhaps a few quiet moments in my chamber will help lessen the throbbing.” The lie was a small one, surely not of a size worth an eternity in hell.
He grasped her wrist and tugged her back to his side, bringing her escape to a halt. “It is heartening to discover you have not lost the ability to fabricate tales with a straight face.”
Marianne smiled up at him. “I learned from the best, did I not?”
His eyes widened briefly before his lips turned up into a crooked, answering smile. “I suppose you did.” He released her wrist and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “But maybe it is time to refrain from following in your brothers’ footsteps. After all, you are a girl.”
“Girl?” Oddly enough, Marianne’s temper sprang to life at his innocent statement. Her blood ran hot and her heart quickened its pace in her chest. She had not been a girl for many years. It was doubtful if anyone outside of her family would mistake the roundness of her hips, or the fullness of her breasts for a girl.
Gareth raked her from head to toe with a slow, piercing stare. The sort of studied perusal a man used when uncertain of what he saw before him. A frown creased his forehead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, before shaking his head. “Nay. You are a girl no longer, are you?” He sounded surprised. “When did this happen?”
His sudden realization of the obvious banished her ire. “Oh, I am fairly certain it occurred just last week.” She could no more refrain from teasing Gareth than she could cease breathing.
He ignored her banter and glanced briefly toward the lists, obviously eager to return to the last of the day’s action provided in the tourney ring. With a resigned sigh, he brought his attention back to her. “Why is it that you are unwed?”
Unrestrained laughter burst from her lips and worked its way through her whole body. She wiped the tears from her eyes, shook her head, then gesturing toward the men waiting their turn to joust, she asked, “And who among those gathered would Comte Faucon find suitable? Which man would be worthy of my hand in marriage?”
“What are you saying?”
“Simple, my dear brother, of late I have encouraged more than one eager man to seek Rhys’s approval, to no avail.”
“Were his reasons not sound?”
“To him, perhaps. But to me they seemed minor.” Marianne recited them. “Too old, or not old enough. Not wealthy enough, or strong enough. Too arrogant, or not arrogant enough. One was even deemed not intelligent enough to become related by marriage to the great Faucon family.”
Gareth stared at her. “Why did you never complain until now?”
“I never felt that anything was missing in my life until now.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
Marianne shrugged. “Perhaps you could talk to our brother, the Comte, and convince him that my heart, too, is deserving of love.”
“It may not help, but I promise to try.”
Certain Gareth would indeed talk to Rhys, she resumed her escape of the crowd. The short jaunt to the keep was uneventful in an annoying sort of way. She would give anything if some brutish lout would think enough of her to take advantage of the fact she walked alone.
No maid accompanied her. When she’d left the keep earlier, they’d been too busy attending to the numerous honored guests. A blessing as far as she was concerned. It was rather enjoyable to have the freedom of movement without her every step being watched.
Although, if Rhys or his wife Lyonesse discovered her outside the keep without a maid or guard in attendance, Marianne’s ears would burn from their words of censure.
Both of them acted as if she was some great prize who needed to be protected at all costs. It might make sense to her if she was of royal blood, but she wasn’t. The only thing of value, besides the land from her mother’s family, was her virginity. And at the moment she’d give that useless treasure away to anyone bold enough to ask for the honor.
Marianne’s face heated at her wicked thought. Her family would be horrified, worse, they’d be ashamed to know what vileness ran rampant in her mind of late. Was it normal to have these unexplained urges, these frustrating feelings of need that kept her awake at night and surly most of the day?
Or, was this unquenchable yearning the Lord’s retribution for carrying the name Marianne? Nay. Surely, she could not be held responsible for her sire’s anger at the Church. An anger so great that he burdened his only daughter with a bastardized version of the Blessed Virgin’s name. It was no wonder the Church had excommunicated him.
Thankfully, that dire decree had not been extended to the entire family. While her sire might reside in the devil’s realm for an eternity, at least she and her brothers still had a chance for salvation.
That is, if she could find a way to rid herself of the uneasiness threatening to rule her.
Is this why most girls were married at a young age? So that by the time they started having this odd, irritating bodily awareness, they’d already be safely ensconced in their husband’s bed?
Now her head truly did pound. All of this thinking, wondering and longing for something she’d yet to experience would soon make her senses take leave. As she drew closer to the keep, she mingled with a group of people. If anyone from her family saw her entering Faucon, she could then say she’d not been out alone.
Before heading to her pallet for an early night, Marianne detoured toward the family’s private sitting area. Maybe a brief visit with her nephews would take her worries off things she could not change.
“Who do you think Marianne should be given to?” Lyonesse’s voice drifted out of the chamber.
Marianne came to a rocking halt just outside the archway. She ducked out of sight and pressed tightly against the wall, listening to her sisters-by-marriage discuss her future.
“I thought Lord Markam’s son looked promising,” Rhian, Gareth’s wife offered.
Marianne bit the inside of her mouth to keep from snorting aloud. Markam’s son? Only over her dead body would they convince her to wed that pompous ass.
“Markam?” Rhys’s wife laughed before thankfully dousing any continued discussion of that suggestion. “Lord Markam’s son has not enough gold, strength or wit to protect his own pretty face let alone Marianne’s.”
“It is well past time for her to marry. Soon, she will be too old for any to consider. Marianne has seventeen years on her and is not getting any younger. She must wed with haste.”
Oh, bless you for that observation. Marianne wanted nothing more than to wrap her hands around Marguerite’s neck and squeeze tightly. How Darius could have married this woman was completely beyond her comprehension.
“Rhys is well aware of his sister’s age.” Marianne cringed at Lyonesse’s sharp tone. When the Lady of Faucon spoke in that manner, most people gave her a wide berth. “He is doing his best to find someone suitable.”
“Yes, well, Rhys needs to quicken his search before some knave recognizes the unquenched lust sparking from those eyes of hers.” Marguerite’s observation brought the heat of embarrassment back to Marianne’s cheeks.
“Ah, you’ve noticed that, too? Then perhaps to hasten the matter along, maybe the three of us should offer to assist him.” Rhian’s calming tone eased some of the tension from Marianne’s neck and shoulders. “After all, we are more able to know what would make another woman content.”
Content? Marianne shook her head as the tension returned. She wished not to be content. Not wanting to be seen, or heard, she backed silently away from the chamber. Not one of them would have settled for being content, why did they assume she would?
She was no different, she wanted the same things they had. There was little privacy in a keep, even one as large as Faucon. Marianne knew what these women shared with their husbands. She’d heard the throaty laughter of the chase, the breathless sighs of pleasure and the lingering moans of fulfillment.
She needed that, too. She craved desire, a fierce all-consuming passion that would drive her mad, while at the same time leave her completely fulfilled.
But never content.
Dear Lord, please, never let her live in so boring a manner as content. She’d sooner die.
Marianne physically shook the thought from her mind and body with a heartfelt shrug before heading below stairs. But the overheard conversation had left her more restless than before. A restlessness now laced with urgency. Perhaps, instead of seeking her bed she could find some type of entertainment in the great hall.
She paused at the bottom of the narrow stairs, sweeping her attention across the hall. In preparation for the festival the walls had been recently white-washed. Lyonesse and Marguerite had painted wildflowers and herbs on them. When Gareth and his wife had arrived, Rhian had added trailing vines to the colorful foliage.
The floor had been cleared of the old rushes and new ones had been spread. Sweet woodruff had been scattered liberally to aid in keeping the smells as pleasant as possible.
Since the great hall was used mostly for eating right now, the trestle tables were left in place most of the day, instead of being taken down after the meals. Extra benches had been brought in and lined the walls.
The far end of the hall was left open, giving the entertainers a place to perform. It also provided room for those guests wanting to take part in dancing.
To the right side of the hall, shallow alcoves had been cut into stone walls. These tiny, cavelike rooms were used for private conversations…or stolen moments alone.
The one alcove at the farthest end was curtained and used only by her brothers. Two guards stood just outside that alcove, letting her and everyone else know that two of her brothers were inside the private room and wished not to be disturbed.
Marianne drew her attention back to the overcrowded hall. Very few of the men still gathered had not succumbed to the heady intoxication of Faucon’s wine. Those who still possessed their wits were either very old, or very young. Neither group attracted her interest.
She headed toward the large double doors leading out of the keep. If she couldn’t count on her family to find her a man worth having, perhaps it was time to count on herself. With the number of men gathered for the tourney, there had to be at least one who would quicken her pulse and make her knees weak with longing.
After dismissing the guards at the door with a nod, she stepped outside the keep. Thankfully, none of her brothers’ captains were present. They never would have let her pass so easily.
The wind lifted her ebony hair and sent a chill down her spine. A slight nip in the evening’s breeze bore promise of the coming winter. She pulled the hood of her woolen mantle over her head.
The sound of people enjoying themselves drifted on the wind. Hoots of laughter, voices raised in song and good-natured shouts of dare sailed over the keep’s walls.
Marianne glanced briefly over her shoulder. If none of the family saw her leave, they couldn’t stop her. She would pay dearly when they discovered her missing, but right now, she needed this freedom.
Never in all her life had she been permitted outside the walls at night without one of her brothers in attendance. But since their marriages, they’d seldom seen fit to escort her into the village to attend any of the celebrations. She’d spent many a night sitting beneath the narrow slit of a window in her chamber listening to others’ merriment and growing more frustrated with each beat of her heart.
She was tired of being obedient, sick unto death of being the good Faucon sister. If she was well beyond her prime age for marriage, then surely she was of an age to take care of herself while seeking just a measure of entertainment.
With a quick check of the small sheath hanging from her belted waist, she made certain her dagger was at hand before passing through a postern gate at the rear of the keep.
She soon caught up with a group of tradesmen and their families who were headed toward the faire grounds set up off to the side of the clearing. If there was truly safety in numbers, then she’d be more than happy to follow right behind them on the short walk.
The moon shone brightly in the cloudless, star-studded sky. A fine night for a faire. Perhaps a night so fine she might forget the nagging unease clawing at her belly.
The succulent aroma of pig roasting on an open spit set her mouth to water. If Faucon’s cook had anything to do with this feast, the meat would be basted and served in a rich raisin and wine sauce. A pinch of cumin would be added to lend just the right bite to the flavor. If done correctly, the diner’s stomach would trip with joyous anticipation before the first mouthful even reached his waiting lips.
Marianne followed her nose. With winter fast approaching it was her duty to pad her flesh with a little extra fat for warmth. She chuckled at her reasoning—extra padding was something she didn’t need, but she was out here this night to make merry. And if making merry couldn’t include a man, then food would have to suffice.
“Are ye all alone?” A man grabbed her arm, stopping her abruptly. “No lass should be by herself on a night such as this. Let me and my friends keep you company. ”
Even though being detained by a man was something she’d recently wished for, this one was not what she had in mind. He reeked. Neither he, nor his clothing had been washed in many moons. She glanced at his friends. They, too, appeared to be just as unkempt. Not quite what she sought.
“Thank you, nay.” She tried to shake him off to no avail. To keep from pulling out her dagger and causing a scene that would bring unwanted attention her way, she grasped for a lie he might believe. “My husband awaits my return.”
To her amazement the fabrication worked. The man released his hold. “I beg your pardon, milady. I meant no harm.”
She wanted to assure him that no harm had been done, but feared any further conversation would only encourage him. So, she simply nodded and continued through the crowd, toward the food.
Close enough to see the cooks around the spit, Marianne stopped. To her dismay, her nose had been right—Faucon’s cooks were in charge. She had been the chatelaine at Faucon until Rhys married Lyonesse. The cooks would recognize her instantly.
