Falcon's Heart

She quickly assessed the others waiting their turn to purchase a share of the food, then stepped up to an unfamiliar child. The boy nearly drooled at the smells wafting across his nose. From the looks of his dirty and tattered clothing, Marianne doubted if he had enough coin to buy anything to eat. Then again, he could simply be a typical young boy—tattered and dirty clothing would not be out of the ordinary for him.

No matter. He was still a boy and from what she’d observed through the years, they had bottomless stomachs always begging to be filled. She pulled some money out of her pouch, then touched his shoulder. “Lad, would you be kind enough to do me a great favor? I will pay you well.”

His eyes lit when he glanced at the coins in her hand. She held out enough to purchase for her and at least ten others. “Oh, aye, milady.”

After dropping the money into his cupped hands, she nodded toward the spit. “All I desire is a portion of that pig. The rest is yours.” She resisted the urge to put a finger under his chin and close his open mouth. “I will await you here.”

Without a word, he scampered away to do her bidding. Marianne’s stomach growled in anticipation. She’d skipped the noon meal because she hadn’t been hungry. When the evening meal was served, she’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself to join the others. So, this guilty pleasure was as much a necessity as a desire.

The lad rushed toward her with his purchases hugged tightly in his arms. Halfway to her, he stopped. His eyes grew large and he opened his mouth. She saw his lips move, but with all the other noise, couldn’t hear his words.

Marianne took a step toward him. At the same instant she heard, “There she is.” Before she could react a hand clamped over her mouth, choking off her scream. Another laced around her neck, jerking her backward into the shadows.

Bryce of Ashforde watched in stunned silence as four strangers plucked Marianne of Faucon nearly from his own grasp.

For two days he and his men had prowled the faire waiting for the opportunity to snatch Faucon’s sister. And now someone had beaten him to his prey.

If not for the unwanted attention it would draw, Bryce would have shouted in rage. The same threat of unwanted attention kept him from attacking the men who unwittingly thought to best him at his own game.

“My lord?” Sir John’s tone echoed the same stunned surprise. “Shall I order the men to overtake the rogues?”

Rogues? Bryce nearly laughed at his captain’s description. If the poorly dressed louts were rogues, what was he? Had he not come here to Faucon seeking to do the very same thing?

Perhaps not exactly the same thing. His men were to kidnap Faucon’s sister, blindfold her and cart her toward Ashforde. There he, Comte Bryce of Ashforde, would bravely rescue the maiden, see to her comfort and safety, then return her unharmed to her brother’s care. Thus earning himself the undying gratitude of Comte Faucon.

Faucon’s gratitude was but the first step toward the revenge he sought. Revenge and the whereabouts of his still missing men.

Unfortunately, he was in enemy territory. Otherwise, he’d not have thought twice about rescuing the lady immediately. If he did so now, there would be too many questions he couldn’t answer. He could think of no good explanation for being at Faucon in the first place.

Granted, the festival drew many to Faucon, but it was highly doubtful if any of those in attendance were loyal supporters of Empress Matilda.

“No. Do nothing to give away our presence.” Bryce shook his head. “Follow them, closely. Intercede on the lady’s behalf only if circumstances seem dire. All may yet fall into place as planned.”

Chapter Two

Faucon Keep, Normandy

October 16, 1143

Lyonesse of Faucon absently ran a wide-toothed comb through her hair as she stared out the arched second-story window opening. Early morning sunlight streamed into the chamber she shared with her husband Rhys. Dust motes seemingly danced in the shimmering light.

Since it was still early, the baileys were quieter than they had been in days. Even the keep was reasonably quiet. A blessing to be sure. While the faire was a grandly looked forward to event, it was also more tiring than she could have imagined. Thankfully, it only lasted a fortnight.

The chamber door slammed against the wall, breaking the quiet she’d been enjoying. Only one person could force the door to swing so solidly on its hinges.

She turned away from the window, her welcoming smile fading as she stared at her husband.

Rhys, the Comte of Faucon, her own devil comte looked the part. The scowl on his face boded the coming of a disastrous thunderstorm. She’d not seen his jaw so tight, or the tic pulsing in his cheek for many months.

She glanced quickly out the arrow slit, studying the landscape intently. Were they under siege? Did an army approach Faucon?

“Marianne is gone.”

Lyonesse swung around so fast at his stark pronouncement that her head spun. “What do you mean gone?” She tried to wipe the questioning frown from her face as she walked quickly toward her husband.

“Gone. Her bed was not slept in last night. She is not to be found in the keep, the baileys, or the village.”

“Oh, Rhys, nay.” Lyonesse placed her hand against his chest.

He pulled her into his embrace and buried his face in her hair. She rested her cheek against him. The need for action battled with the need to give her husband what little comfort she could.

Finally, he released her. The gold flecks in his eyes shimmered. His raven eyebrows met like wings over them. A slight smile crossed her mouth at the image before her. Ah, yes, this was her devil comte, ready to battle any who’d dare stand in his way.

He drew back his shoulders and fisted his hands. Movements that forced a laugh from her. A laugh that only intensified when he turned his fierce scowl toward her.

“Rhys, my love. Before you gather your army, should you not perhaps look for her again? Then wait a day or so before going to war against an unknown opponent?”

“Of course I will keep looking for her.”

She stroked his fist. “Without destroying every building in the village?”

While he unclenched his fingers, his expression did not change. “She cannot be far. She was just here yesterday…” He paused, his eyebrows winging up in question. “Wasn’t she?”

With so many strangers gathered at Faucon, Lyonesse knew that he’d been distracted from his family. His focus had been on the men taking part in the many games of war held in the open fields. The tourney drew nearly as many people as the faire itself, except those here for the tournaments were armed.

“Yes, fear not, she was here yesterday…” Now Lyonesse paused. When had she seen Marianne last? The girl hadn’t appeared at the evening meal. Nor had she gathered with the family in the solar afterward.

“What?” Rhys looked down at her, his scowl quickly turning to a frown of worry. “When did you see her last?”

Lyonesse turned yesterday’s events over in her mind. Had she seen Marianne after the morning meal? Not that she could remember. “Yesterday morning. But I saw her maid before retiring last night.”

His eyes widened. “Alone?”

“Yes. The maid had helped out in the keep yesterday. I assumed Marianne would know enough to remain close by.”

Rhys groaned. “What sort of mood was Marianne in last you saw her?”

Lyonesse glanced toward the ceiling. “The usual. Moody. Distracted. Frustrated.”

While he appeared to toss that information around, she asked, “Do you think she would have taken it into her head to run away?”

Rhys paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head. “Nay. She might be willful, and might on occasion slip away from her maid for a ride across the demesne lands, but no, she would not run away.”

“Then that can only mean—” Lyonesse gasped. “That someone took her.”

“Aye. ‘Tis what I fear.”

“Perhaps a ransom note will soon arrive?”

“If the people who took her wish to live, a demand for ransom better arrive quickly.”

“Have you told the others?”

Rhys shook his head. “No, I wanted to speak to you first.”

Lyonesse suggested, “Perhaps you’d better tell them now.”

“I will locate Gareth and Darius, while you find their wives.”

“Of course. Shall we meet in the solar? It would provide more privacy than the hall.”

After Rhys left she turned her full attention to the task at hand. Lyonesse prayed that those who’d taken Marianne knew who they had captured. The girl was ripe for a smooth-talking man to turn her thoughts from honor.

If her identity was known, it was highly doubtful any man would be stupid enough to dishonor the Faucons’ little sister.

While she worried for Marianne, she knew that Rhys and his brothers would do everything in their power to find their sister.

And once they did, she’d see to it that the girl found herself a husband posthaste.

Chapter Three

Hampshire, England

October 19, 1143

It took nearly four days before anything fell into place for Bryce of Ashforde. From the start, luck had seemingly gone against him. The men who’d kidnapped Faucon’s sister joined up with a caravan heading north. Then they’d crossed the channel, and traveled toward Hampshire.

Bryce had sent two of his men ahead, to ferret out what they could. The kidnapping of Faucon’s sister was a daring act. One that would set the tongues of rumor and gossipmongers wagging at a furious pace. He wanted to know what word was being bandied about.

Then, with little more than the blink of one eye, the Good Lord saw fit to be kind—an occurrence that did not happen much of late. Bryce wiped the smile from his face before rejoining the circle of men.

For the first time in months he felt that luck was on his side—he could feel it pulse through his veins like warm honey, and could taste its sweetness.

The men gathered in a circle diced for a rare prize—one that would be his. A prize that would gain him the opportunity to make Comte Rhys of Faucon experience just a measure of the revenge due him.

Faucon thought he could destroy Ashforde Keep without suffering the consequences. The coward and his men had attacked while Bryce was attending Empress Matilda. He’d returned to his demesne lands to find his keep in ruins, his crops destroyed, seven villagers dead and his men gone.

War was war, and while Faucon may have been the victor on that particular day, he would soon taste defeat. In the end, Ashforde would prove victorious.

Just this morning his men had brought word of a rumor from Baldwin de Redvers the Earl of Devon. The band of thieves who had kidnapped Faucon’s sister held her outside of Hampshire.

After lightening his purse of coin to grease a few palms, Bryce discovered the merit behind Baldwin’s tip. He’d learned the kidnappers were horrified to discover who they’d taken. Too afraid to demand ransom, they’d left Normandy and crossed the channel into England. Perhaps they weren’t complete idiots—they’d immediately realized that Faucon would kill them in lieu of paying ransom.

To relieve themselves of what they now deemed an unprofitable burden, the thieves were going to offer her as a prize in a game of chance. A prize Bryce would gladly accept.

The game was to take place this day. He’d made certain to be at the prearranged site behind the smithy’s early. Bryce would not chance missing this blessed opportunity.

“Your toss, milord.”

He took the pair of dice and warmed them in his hand. It all came down to this final toss. Silence fell heavy upon the circle. He could nearly hear the thrumming of pounding hearts as the others watched…and waited.

He shook the dice, willing the smooth carved bones to do his bidding one more time, then released them into the circle.

A lifetime passed before his mind’s eye as the dice tumbled and rolled across the crude circle etched into uneven dirt, before coming to a rocking stop.

All of the other men shouted—some in despair for their own loss, others in congratulations for Ashforde.

He rose, accepting the hearty congratulations in silence. But inwardly his shouts of victory bounced against his chest. A toss of the dice not only won him the prize he sought, it saved him from ordering his men to take Faucon’s sister by force.

The man in charge of the game waved morosely toward a multicolored tent. “Your prize is in there, milord.”

Before the man finished speaking, Bryce had crossed half the distance to the tent pitched at the edge of the clearing. He paused for a moment, savoring his win and the taste of long-awaited revenge, before stepping through the flap.

A small metal brazier dimly lit the inside of the tent, chasing away the shadowed darkness and illuminating his winnings in the far corner of the tent.

Even bedraggled and dirt-streaked, Faucon’s sister made him wish circumstances were different. As dark-haired as her brothers, she was taller than most women, but taking the height of her siblings into consideration, her family most likely found her stature unremarkable.

The sudden desire to see those long limbs stripped bare for his perusal made his heart pound erratically in his chest. A happening he was certain his intended would not find acceptable in the least.

He’d only been in Cecily’s company a few short days, but he’d seen her temper flare often enough to know she’d not take kindly to the thoughts running through his mind over another woman. To calm his racing pulse, Bryce lifted his gaze to her face.

But staring into her brilliant green eyes did little to ease his growing discomfort. By the saints above, what was wrong with him? Not only was he sworn to another, this beguiling woman was his enemy’s sister.

Yet, she was guiltless. His revenge was not directed toward her, nor should it be. She was simply a means to an end, an unwitting pawn in a game not of her choosing.

He approached her slowly, wishing not to cause her more fright than what she surely must already have suffered.

Marianne kept her unwavering attention on this new stranger as she took a long, steady breath, then turned sideways, making her body a smaller target by putting her left shoulder toward the man.

With a great deal of anger toward herself and the men who’d taken her from Faucon, she’d already accepted the fact that she might not survive this twist of fate. But she’d not breathe her last without putting her brothers’ lessons to good use. If this man moving steadily toward her thought to attack her and come away unscathed, he was in for quite a surprise.

She tightened her grasp on the knife she kept hidden in the folds of her torn and dirty gown. While the small blade might not kill him, Marianne hoped he’d be taken aback by her action long enough to give her time to escape.

Her kidnappers had been careful so far. They’d disarmed her the first day. But this morning, when one of them had brought food to break her fast, their carefulness had gone astray. A small eating knife had been left behind.

The man took another step closer. By shifting her weight back to her right foot, she’d be in the correct stance for a quick lunge. Marianne extended her left hand, palm out as if to ward him off. “Stop. Come no closer.”

His flaxen eyebrows rose, nearly disappearing beneath unruly waves of wheat-colored hair. But he stopped and stared at her a moment before saying, “Fear not Marianne of Faucon, I seek only to make certain you have suffered no harm before returning you to your brother.”

Such concern from a stranger surprised her. His deep voice floated across her ears as smooth and steady as a calm summer breeze. She tightened her suddenly lax grip on the knife. “We are not acquainted, who are you?”

She stole another glance at her rescuer—if that’s what he truly was. The stomach-clenching fear she’d experienced over and over the last few days returned full force. He’d said that he posed no threat. Could she believe him? While he didn’t appear as ruthless as the men who’d originally captured her, he was still a stranger. A stranger whose unwarranted familiarity sent a sharp stab of warning to her very bones.

With a brief half bow, accompanied by a devastating smile, he introduced himself. “Bryce of Ashforde at your service, my lady.”

His name made something in the back of her mind twitch. Thankfully, that odd twitch prevented his flashing smile from taking her breath away.

“Ashforde…Ashforde…I know that name.”

A dark frown replaced his smile. Instead of explaining why she might have heard his name before, he stepped within reach. “We must leave here quickly.”

Something was dreadfully wrong. She tensed her muscles in preparation to defend herself if need be. While he’d done nothing so far to cause her harm, Marianne had no reason to trust him any more than she did those who’d taken her in the first place.

She nodded down toward her tattered dress. “I, too, would like to leave this place—for good reason. Pray tell, what is your haste, my lord?”

“I would hate to lose my winnings so soon.” Ashforde glanced over his shoulder toward the tent flap before adding, “Unless of course you would prefer their company to mine.”

Marianne did her best not to gape. “Winnings?” She quickly surveyed the tent before narrowing her eyes at him. “I see no bags of gold or other riches.”

Without a trace of humor on his face or in his voice, Ashforde cleared her confusion. “You were the prize.”

She blinked, certain she’d not heard him correctly. “I am the prize? You won me?”

“Yes. In a game of dice.”

“A game of dice?” She couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or cry. She’d been offered up like a cache of gold, or a piece of horseflesh.

Obviously hoping to catch her off guard, Ashforde moved a hair’s breadth closer. Marianne shook her head. “No. Stay where you are.” He only shrugged before moving back.

“So, instead of seeking ransom, these imbeciles took it into their lack-witted minds to offer me up in a game of chance?”

“‘Tis likely they wanted someone of less importance than Comte Faucon’s sister and feared demanding ransom from him.”

She chewed on her lower lip. And who was the bigger imbecile? “They learned that bit of information from me.”

Ashforde laughed, then said, “Perhaps your most unwise move.”

“Debatable.” A flush of embarrassment at the lack of decorum responsible for her being in this position in the first place heated her cheeks. She admitted, “I am fairly certain that cavorting about the village, at night, without an escort could be considered my most unwise move.”

His soft whistle surprised her. She thought for certain he would laugh, belittle, or lecture her.

Instead, he asked, “Have your brothers lost their senses?”

“They are not to blame. I took advantage of an overcrowded keep to slip away unseen.”

At that, he did laugh. “Quite the handful to control, are you?”

His question, asked in a tone one would use with someone much younger than she, nicked at her pride. She lifted her chin a notch before seeking to set him right. “I am not a child to be controlled by my family.”

Ashforde met her stare for a moment before letting it trail pointedly down the length of her body. His eyes shimmered and a soft half smile played at his lips as he drew his gaze ever so slowly back up to hers. “No, Marianne of Faucon, you are no child.”

The growing hunger in his eyes sent her heart stuttering madly in her chest. Good Lord above, what had she done?

Silence fell heavily inside the tent. The walls seemed to inch closer, suffocating her. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Ashforde’s sharp intake of air echoed in the confined space.

To her amazement and dismay her body reacted not with fear, but with anticipation. It was apparent, to her body at least, that this man, this tall blond stranger could fulfill the longing that’d battered at her day and night for countless months.

When she’d gone looking for excitement to quench her frustration, this is what she’d been seeking—but not in this manner.

Not as a prisoner needing rescue.

And most certainly not as a prize offered in a game of dice.

She wanted to step back, to move away from the desire wafting from him, beckoning her to surrender to her own hunger. She needed to run before she did something extremely unwise—like bolt right into his arms.

Voices from outside the tent distracted her. Ashforde lunged and she instinctively threw her weight forward, while at the same time swinging her right hand, blade extended.

Bryce saw the knife coming and twisted his body just enough to catch the blade on his side, not directly into his stomach.

After knocking the knife from her grip, he jerked her against his chest with one hand, threaded the fingers of his other hand through the snarls at the back of her head and ordered against her lax lips, “Fight me, you little fool.”

When she did nothing except stare blankly at him in shock, he slid his hand down her back, cupped the soft roundness below and brought her roughly against his groin. “If you wish to leave here in one piece, fight me, Marianne.”

Once she started struggling in his arms, Bryce swung her around so he could face the intruder who’d entered the tent. Just before lifting his mouth from hers, he whispered, “Scream.”

He glared over her shoulder at the man standing before the tent flap. “Something you want?” He curled his lips, hoping the man took it as a feral snarl and not a grimace of pain.

“Let me go,” Marianne shouted. “Release me.”

The man laughed. “Nothing, my lord. I only wished to make certain you were enjoying your prize.”

Marianne gasped and strengthened her struggles.

Bryce hung on to her, laughing harshly. “I was, until you interrupted me.”

The man tipped his head and before leaving said, “Forgive me, my lord. I leave you to your sport.”

“Sport?” Marianne’s voice rose. “Rhys will see you all dead!”

Once Bryce was certain the man was truly gone, he released Marianne.

“You pig!” She swung an open palm at his face striking him against the cheek.

He ignored his stinging face and grabbed her wrist. “Try anything that stupid again and you will regret it.”

“Me?” Anger suffused her face with a deep blush. She bent over and picked up the small eating knife, then pointed it at him. “If you touch me again, I will kill you.”

When he’d mulled over all the difficulties that could occur with this plan, he’d not expected her to pose a problem. As brash and bold as her brothers, Marianne of Faucon could end up being his biggest difficulty—unless he could quickly gain the upper hand.

Bryce grasped her wrist and shook it until she dropped the knife. The small but lethal weapon thudded onto the dirt floor of the tent. He tried to intimidate her with a glare and suddenly wished she were a bit shorter. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his side, then said, “The next time you seek to kill me, I suggest you complete the task.”

“Or you’ll do what?”

By the saints above, what would he do? He furrowed his brows as he tugged her closer. “I could kiss you into submission.” He paused, giving the light in her eyes time to go from shock to outrage before adding, “Perhaps it would be safer for both of us if I were to simply truss you like a stag.”

“You would not dare.” She tried backing away.

A sleeve of her gown hung in tatters. While securing her with one hand, he tore a strip of fabric free, wrapped it around her wrists, then tied it off and smiled. “I would dare much more, but this will suffice—for now.”