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Falcon's Desire
“Do nothing rash. I wish to be the one who takes your worthless life.”
She frowned at his laugh. Did he believe she was jesting?
Callused fingers brushed along her cheek and lifted her chin. When he knelt next to her, Lyonesse was surprised to find him so near. Amazed that he’d removed his battle glove so quickly and so quietly.
His breath warmed the flesh beneath her ear as he spoke. “Little Lioness, my worthless life will be yours to take.”
The loud, rapid beating of her heart drowned out the sounds of the coming battle. His lips touched hers lightly as if seeking permission.
Her thoughts tumbled against each other in their rush to her head.
She hated him.
Yet his mere presence disarmed her soul. Embers glowing red with warmth filled her senses with a new, unfamiliar confusion.
Lyonesse pressed her lips against his….
Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce debut author DENISE LYNN
#643 THE SCOT
Lyn Stone
#644 THE MIDWIFE’S SECRET
Kate Bridges
#646 THE LAW AND KATE MALONE
Charlene Sands
Falcon’s Desire
Denise Lynn
Available from Harlequin Historicals and DENISE LYNN
Falcon’s Desire #645
Thank you—
Kim and Tracy, for taking the chance.
Lori and Tony, for being the best fairy Godparents ever.
Tom, my hero, my knight in armor, for being the model I build heroes on, the shoulder I lean on and the foundation I build dreams on. I love you, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Prologue
Scarborough—Yorkshire
England—1142
Murder.
The accusation rippled through the crowded hall. Carried from one courtier to the next, the word found its way back to the man accused of the foul deed.
Murder.
“Rhys, Lord of Faucon, for the murder of Guillaume du Pree your lands and properties are forfeit to the crown.”
The black-robed holy man smiled with satanic glee as he finished his proclamation. “Your life will be forfeited to the devil you have served.”
From his chair on the raised dais King Stephen leaned forward. “Rhys?” He waited but a heartbeat before continuing. “Faucon, have you nothing to say?”
Rhys wanted to say much, but he bit back his sarcastic retort. The hard, cold floor beneath his knees helped keep his tongue in check. Chained like a dog, he was in no position to test King Stephen’s humor.
Instead, Rhys searched the crowded hall for one ally who would vouch for his honor. Those who would do so were oddly absent from this gathering.
He strained against the chains binding his arms behind him. His muscles burned with pain. Rhys glanced across the torch-lit hall, seeking the three men who’d roused him from his much-needed slumber. They glared back at him. Their odd array of blackening eyes, swollen lips and bloodied noses gave him a measure of satisfaction. He’d not made their task an easy one.
“Answer your king!” The cleric scurried toward Rhys. The man’s robe flapped about his stout legs.
Rhys looked up at King Stephen, ignoring what seemed to him nothing more than a short, cawing crow. He weighed his words carefully. His life and the continued welfare of his family rested on his ability to control his tongue. “Sire, I have killed many men while serving under your standard. Who is to say whether those who perished during the heat of battle were friend or foe?”
“No one asked you about an honorable battle. We are speaking of a coward’s ambush.” The squawking man positioned himself in front of Rhys. With fisted hands resting on his ample hips, the holy man glowered at him.
Even though Rhys knelt on the floor, the cleric’s hard stare was nearly at eye level. This man of God—if he truly was—had the power to take away all Rhys held dear. And it seemed at this moment a possibility.
The cleric shook his fist at Rhys. “You whoreson of the devil. What say you for killing the good master du Pree?”
Rhys burned the man’s features into his mind. He would not forget, nor forgive, the man’s actions this day.
He addressed the king. “Who accuses me of this foul deed?”
The cleric sputtered. “Who? What matter does that make? You are guilty and the Lord Almighty will see justice done.”
The noise in the hall grew louder as those gathered voiced their opinion of du Pree’s murder.
“Enough!” King Stephen’s shout brought a semblance of order to the hall. He instructed the guards to release the bonds, then motioned to Rhys and ordered, “Follow me.”
After struggling to his feet, Rhys waited impatiently as a guard freed him from the chains. While rubbing the circulation back into his burning arms, he followed the king. The hissing of disappointment shadowed his departure. Vultures behaved better than the scavengers gathered here.
Certain his executioner awaited him, Rhys paused in the doorway to the small chamber where King Stephen led him. He cautiously peered inside and almost cried aloud with relief. The room was empty save for the presence of William, the Earl of York.
His allies may have been absent from the hall, but here in this private chamber the only supporter Rhys needed raised a goblet to herald his arrival.
Once the three occupants were seated, Stephen addressed both men. His focus riveted on Rhys, the king began, “Faucon, by permitting the tales about you to grow unchecked, you have brought this upon yourself.”
Stephen grew silent, giving Rhys time to realize the truth of his words. It was not a lie. He’d enjoyed the tales told of the evil Faucon—even if they were not true. His overblown reputation won more than half the battles he’d engaged in, saving him and his men from any defeat.
But defeat loomed before him now.
With a slight wave of his hand, the king motioned toward the door. “While some of the barons call for your life, it seems not all believe this cry of murder. Just as they didn’t believe the cry before. However, this time much more hangs in the balance. I can ill afford to lose any of the supporters I have over this accusation.”
Again, the king spoke the truth. This battle for the throne cost much. Every supporter who left Stephen’s side to fight with the Empress Matilda took along their men and gold. Regardless of any friendship, Stephen could not permit this matter to come between him and his quest to keep the throne.
Rhys leaned forward and swore, “Sire, upon my honor as a loyal knight and subject, I have killed no man in such a cowardly fashion.”
Stephen shook his head. “Your word held little weight when Alyce died, yet most looked the other way. We are not now speaking of a vile-tongued wench. Guillaume du Pree was well liked by some and mistrusted by others. I am afraid, Rhys, that outside of this chamber, your word means nothing.”
Rhys flinched under the reminder of his faithless wife. Over five years had gone by. When would the mere mention of her name not cause his heart to constrict? He pushed the memory down into the recesses of his mind. “I can prove my innocence with nothing but my word.”
“You need find another way—quickly. The men gathered here are bored, Rhys. A trial by combat would alleviate that condition.”
Had the king cleaved him with a battle-ax, Rhys would not have been more shocked. His mouth went dry at the thought of proving his innocence in a fight where fairness and honor would be missing. Neither battle, nor death frightened him. However, his accusers would arrange this event, going to great lengths to ensure his death and the loss of his family’s wealth and honor.
Rhys swallowed his uncertainty before admitting, “I can think of no other way.” Against unimaginable odds, he would simply have to win.
“Let us not be hasty.” William took a long draught of wine and then stared at Rhys over the rim of his goblet. “You are forgetting that someone did commit the murder.”
“True. And this someone does need to be found.” King Stephen agreed with William’s statement of the obvious before adding, “Within the next four weeks.”
Chapter One
Northern England—1142
A raspy grumble shattered the early morning quiet of the forest. “He is not coming.”
“Shh!” If Edmund hadn’t been her best archer, Lyonesse of Ryonne would have left the complainer at the keep.
She hoped the Lord of Faucon would pass this way before the sun fully rose. The lengthening rays already broke through the dense foliage, casting thick slivers of sparkling light on the dew-covered moss below. The full light of day would provide little concealment for the men hiding in the trees and bushes.
A rustling of branches preceded another grumble. “This is daft. By the time he arrives I will be too stiff to move.”
“Cease. He will be here soon.” If their prey didn’t arrive shortly, she feared the men would desert their posts.
Nay, that was a senseless worry. These were Guillaume’s men. They’d brought his body to her at Taniere and remained. Each swore their allegiance not to her father, the Lord of Ryonne, but to her, the rightful mistress of Taniere.
With her betrothal to Guillaume du Pree all was in place for her to retain her responsibilities as the Mistress of Taniere. Until Faucon had turned all her hopes and dreams to dust.
He would pay for all he took from her. Lyonesse scanned the men around her. They would help her exact revenge.
Their leader, John, had devised this plan to capture Faucon. By spreading word about Guillaume’s death and telling all who would listen of Faucon’s cowardice, John had been certain the murderer would seek him out. When the vile knave came looking for John, they would all be ready.
Lyonesse swallowed back the ever-threatening tears. While the act of capturing the Devil of Faucon would not lessen the tears, it would lighten her heart to know she’d avenged Guillaume.
If God smiled upon her quest for revenge, she’d have Faucon’s lifeless body at her feet this day. By the time she finished with him, everyone would know he was not the great bird of prey they’d dubbed him. She would relish proving the tales false. All would know he was nothing more than a man. A man who could die like any other.
The abrupt rustling of bushes and tree limbs from farther up the path signaled the approach of riders.
Lyonesse peered through the branches and smiled. Their wait was almost at an end.
Rhys tugged lightly at the reins. The stallion suddenly became skittish. Steps that had been sure and steady a moment ago, now faltered. The horse weaved back and forth across the road, snorting and tossing his head.
“Easy, boy.” He patted the thick, black neck in an attempt to calm the animal. The usually placid beast rolled his eyes to look up at the rider. Rhys agreed with the wild glance. He felt it, too—something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation. A flash of cold passed down his spine.
He raised his hand, bringing the five men following him to a halt.
Rhys slowly continued ahead. He stared into the woods, but could see nothing that should upset the horse, or himself, in this manner. Yet the forest was too silent. He reached down and touched the wooden scabbard encasing his sword.
A shrill whistle split the air. Rhys gripped his knees tighter into the rearing horse’s ribs. He grasped the hilt of his sword with one hand and yanked at the reins with his other.
His men charged forward. In the same instant another force dropped from the trees and sprang from behind bushes, effectively cutting Rhys off from his men.
Before he could pull his sword free, a thick fisherman’s net dropped over him and his horse. He clawed and tore at the confining snare, cursing his inability to free himself.
“Nay. Hold.” In the din of swords crossing and men cursing, his shout went unheeded.
Gloved hands reached out and jerked at his steed’s bridle. When the animal was brought to an unwilling stop, Rhys felt the sharp tip of metal press into his side.
Unable to swing his sword, he kicked out and knocked the threatening blade away. Three more blades quickly replaced the one. After forcing his fingers to relax, he dropped his own sword and shouted for his men to hold their weapons.
They immediately followed his order and offered no resistance as the enemy escorted them back down the road.
One of the men holding a sword to Rhys’s side asked, “Are you prepared to die, Faucon?”
Rhys gritted his teeth against the sharp pain of a blade twisting through the links of his chain mail and into his flesh.
A small figure dropped from a tree limb. “Nay! Hold your sword, Sir John. I want him taken alive. For now.”
Rhys sucked in a quick breath when his assailant pushed and twisted the blade a little more before pulling the tip free. The jagged cut would not heal as quickly as a clean slice. He had an insane urge to bellow in rage when his blood ran hot down his side. He would rather die from a well-aimed blade than from an infection.
Aiming his attention down at the newcomer, Rhys sought to ignore the fire burning from his wound. Surely this wasn’t their leader? Huge, green eyes stared out of a small, pale face. This was nothing more than a child.
Rhys lifted one eyebrow. A child playing knight in his grandsire’s old, hardened-leather armor. How long was the lad going to just stand there and say nothing? Rhys had not the leisure to partake in any childish pranks.
A leather glove too large for the hand it covered quickly swiped through the air. Rhys growled as the men around his horse reached up and pulled him from the animal.
The confining net prevented him from landing on his feet. He gasped at the pain jolting through his side, yet Rhys rolled to his knees the instant he hit the ground.
He swung his tightly balled hand at the closest face. The pleasure he felt as his fist made contact with flesh was short-lived. He immediately quit struggling when the cold bite of a sword slipped easily between the links of his hauberk and coif to press briefly against his neck.
While three men kept their swords trained on his chest, two others tore away the net. Thoughts of escape flooded his mind, but the idea vanished as the man called John leveled the side of his blade against Rhys’s neck. No one moved. Instead, they looked to the boy for guidance.
Rhys glared at the lad. His heart lurched to his throat at what he perceived.
Unblemished, pale flesh was broken by full, rose-hued lips. A courtesan would kill for lashes as long as the red-tinged ones framing the overlarge eyes. It would take more than ill-fitting armor to hide the female beneath men’s clothing.
Certain the shimmering glare would lacerate him as surely as any uncut emerald, Rhys returned the glowering stare and asked, “What do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you, Faucon.” She laughed at him. “Nothing, except your worthless soul.”
He already knew the answer, still he asked, “Why? Why do you seek my soul?”
“Why?” She ripped off one of her metal-studded leather gloves and slapped his face.
A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “If I am to die, I would at the very least like to know the reason.”
She lifted her glove, as if to strike him again and paused. With one hand raised in the air and one red-tinged eyebrow higher than the other, she stared at him for a moment. “No.” She shook her head and lowered her hand. “No. You do not play with a simple girl, Faucon. You will not force me to forget my motives in a fit of rage.”
“Then answer my question.”
Calmly slipping the overlarge glove back onto her hand, she said nothing.
It mattered not. Rhys did not need to hear the words from her lips. Guillaume du Pree had no sisters, but he had been betrothed. The hatred written plainly on the face before him held the answer to his unasked question. Lyonesse of Ryonne had captured him.
The lady’s well-planned actions would likely end in his death. King Stephen and The Earl of York had been wrong in their assumption that none from Ryonne or du Pree’s holding would seek retribution for du Pree’s murder until the month was up.
Her continued silence filled him with sudden rage. Rhys sought words to reason with her.
“I did not murder your betrothed.”
“You lie, Faucon.”
“Waste no more time talking.” Sir John interrupted the debate. His menacing tone fit the evil scowl covering his face. “I will kill him now.”
Rhys’s attention shifted to John. Whatever held the knight in check thus far was quickly losing its tenuous hold. Every muscle in the man’s body was poised for battle. The air around him was thick with the scent of blood-lust.
“Nay, be patient a few moments longer.” Lyonesse placed a restraining hand on John’s wrist. “I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life.”
Thankfully, the man retained enough sense to listen. Rhys returned his focus to his captor. “I tell you for the last time, I did not kill du Pree.”
“Silence, Faucon. Save your lies for your maker. I’m certain in hell they are worth something.”
Fear was nothing new to any sane fighting man. Sometimes a healthy respect for fear could save your life. This would not be one of those times. Tendrils of both, fear and regret snaked through his veins.
Anger at the unjust accusation and rage at the coward’s death he now faced, gave him the strength to fight off the creeping tendrils. Certain that his own death was imminent, he asked, “What about my men?”
“They will not be harmed. They have been taken to safety.”
“Safety?”
“Aye, Lord Faucon, they are safe. However, it may take them a while to find their way free.”
The men surrounding them laughed.
He ignored their oddly placed humor and took a deep breath before asking, “And how do you plan to kill me?”
“You ran a sword through Guillaume’s back.” Sparks of fire shot from her eyes. “You will die the same way.”
She removed her gloves and ordered, “Get him up.”
John lifted his blade against Rhys’s chin, forcing his head up. He had no option but to follow the upward motion of the weapon. He silently cursed as two soldiers began to secure his arms behind his back with leather straps.
He would rather die fighting than be slaughtered like a trussed boar. “No!”
Mindless of the weapons aimed at his body, he violently jerked around, shoved past John and sprinted toward the safety of the forest.
“Stop him!”
His escape was short-lived. Five men flew at him, knocking him from his feet. Fists pummeled him about the head and body. The gash on his side tore even more from the blows. They shoved his face into the dirt, quickly securing his arms and legs. Then they hauled him to his feet and led him back to Lyonesse.
His heart pounded loud in his ears. Rhys shook with a helplessness he’d never before felt. He riveted his attention on the woman before him and shouted, “Get this over with.”
“In all due time, Faucon.”
Lyonesse savored the deliciously sweet taste of her victory. Certain the restraints would hold, she allowed her gaze to slowly roam up her captive’s massive form.
The stories had not been completely accurate. This man was not simply big. Like the fabled warriors of old, he was a huge dangerous giant. Gaps in the laced seams of the chain mail protecting his legs gave evidence to tightly corded muscles bulging toward freedom.
She admired the richness of his plain, black surcoat. Even hanging in torn disarray, the fabric bespoke of quality. Lyonesse knew that while the material would be as strong as the muscles it covered, beneath her fingers it would feel as soft and silky as a kitten’s fur.
Her attention trailed up the long, wooden scabbard hanging at his side. Soaring falcons were artfully carved into the sword’s case. The wide belt at his waist served not only to anchor the scabbard; it also did much to accentuate the outward flare of his chest.
Muscles strained violently below flesh in his silent struggle to break the bonds holding him. Lyonesse could see the fierce expansion of his chest and arms with each effort.
She glanced up and shuddered. If his strength were as great as the determination etched on his face, he would soon gain his freedom. His full lips narrowed into a grim line. A rapid pulse beat against one cheek. His swarthy complexion was broken by the cuts her glove had made on one side of his face. On the other side a thin white scar trickled like a tear from the corner of one eye to his mouth.
He leaned forward. For a brief moment unruly hair hid his face. Sunlight glistened off the shoulder-length mane. When he straightened, one raven lock fell across his face. Lyonesse’s fingers itched to smooth the wayward strands back into place.
She peered into his eyes and was horrified to find Faucon watching her perusal. Flecks of gold sparkled against his light brown orbs. The shimmering brightness flared and paled with a life of their own.
“Look your fill, milady,” he taunted. “For I will be the one who haunts your nightmares. You will wish you’d never beheld me.”
She quickly turned away to hide the rush of embarrassment that heated her face. Lyonesse gritted her teeth. What evilness possessed her to so intently study this vile beast? After collecting her wits, she turned back to him. “Those are bold words for one trussed like a gutted stag.”
The black brows of the captive winged higher over his amazing eyes. It would be far too easy for a person to fall helpless under that striking glare.
To her amazement, he only laughed at her. The desperate tone of his laughter sent a ripple of guilt down her spine. She studied her captive and frowned. Behind the fierce anger that brightened his eyes lay something akin to…pain.
She’d seen that expression staring back at her from the polished surface of her mirror. Pain. Loss. They already haunted her nightmares.
What did Faucon know of pain? Or of loss? This man doled out death and destruction as a pastime. He gave no thought to the lives his actions touched, or ruined in the process. Nay, even though she could not name the emotion, she knew it was not pain flickering in his gaze.
Even if the demon did possess a tiny bit of remorse in his black-hearted soul, what did it matter to her? Nothing would change. Guillaume would still lie dead. How would she find a husband within the time left to her? For without a husband, King Stephen would take Taniere.
The sound of wooden wagon wheels clattering over the hard, rutted path interrupted her disturbing thoughts. A few more of the men arrived to dispose of Faucon’s body, but John’s loud curse unsettled her even more.
Suddenly losing control, Guillaume’s man lunged toward her captive, intent on running his sword through the man.
