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Falcon's Honor
“What will I do to protect myself?”
“You?” He looked at her in surprise. “You set out through a dark forest alone to escape me. A feat that could very well have earned you death, or worse.”
Rhian felt the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I fail to think when I am angry.”
“No. Truly?” He rubbed his forearm, bringing more heat to her face. “I find that hard to believe.”
“If your sarcasm were any thicker, you’d drown in it.”
“And if your nails were any longer, I’d have bled to death.”
“A strong warrior like you? I doubt that.”
He tapped a hand against his chest. “Ah, she thinks I am a strong warrior. My heart will burst at your kind words. I could take that as a compliment.”
“Take it as you wish.” Rhian sat up. “You will release me?”
“Not while I draw breath…!”
Praise for Denise Lynn’s debut
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.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.”
—Historical Romance Writers Review
“This medieval romance had 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 realize they are in love, it’s explosive.”
—The Best Reviews
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Falcon’s Honor
Denise Lynn
With many thanks and love to:
Doc Eva and her wonderful sense of humor, caring ear and love of romance novels,
The Harlequin Hussies, a fountain of information and a steady port in the storm,
Melissa, for making the second-book syndrome an easier hurdle,
My mom, for her ability to juggle schedules and always be there,
Tom, my best friend, my heart, the man who shares my dreams.
Bless you and love to you all—this one's for you. Huzzah!
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
Prologue
Spring, 1142
Northern England
Sir Edgar, the captain of Faucon’s guard, watched thin wisps of smoke from the crackling campfire curl upward to disappear into the darkness of the night.
The howl of a lone wolf, the soft snorts of nervous horses and the familiar scrape of sharpening stones plied against sword edges interrupted the silence of the surrounding forest.
Edgar and the other men circled around the fire for safety, warmth and companionship paid little heed to the night’s sounds. Their full attention remained riveted to the raised voices coming from their lord’s hastily erected tent.
While each of them had been scorched by the heat of Faucon’s tongue at one time or another, they had never heard him raise his voice to a female. Bets were placed between the men. Would their lord hold his temper on this occasion, or would his uncooperative charge push him too far? Edgar’s gold was on Faucon.
“My God, save me!”
The lady’s repeated cry for help went unanswered. While her shouts set their hearts to racing, Edgar knew that none of the men would assist the woman. Her steadfast determination to do her own will instead of King Stephen’s landed her in this current role of captive.
Had she come peacefully as ordered, she’d not find herself in such dire straits now. Instead, she’d fought this journey to her mother’s family every step of the way. For two solid days now she’d made their lives miserable.
Edgar couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied his lord’s patience. If she were his charge, she’d have felt the back of his hand by now. None would blame Faucon for doing just that.
“Unhand me!”
The sharp crack of a resounding slap caused more than one soldier to flinch as they envisioned the smack on their own face. Others peered intently into the bottom of their ale mugs. Edgar wondered how much of the brew would be required before this night ended.
“You filthy swine!”
“Enough of this madness.” With a heavy sigh, Edgar rose and headed toward his master’s tent.
Before he could cross the clearing, Lord Gareth of Faucon backed hastily out of the tent inspecting his arm in the light emanating from the tent. “You black-haired wench, never try something like that again.”
Edgar sucked in a breath at the menace evident in Faucon’s low, emotionless tone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others freeze. All knew that deadly tone meant Faucon had reached the limit of his patience. Edgar feared for his stash of gold; in his mind’s eye he saw it shrink considerably.
Gareth glanced at his stinging forearm where she’d raked her nails in an attempt to further prove her displeasure. “By God, I am bleeding!”
Enraged, he swung away from the tent to tend his arm and collided with his man, nearly knocking the two of them to the dirt.
“Milord.” Edgar caught his footing first and swiftly pulled Gareth upright. “Perhaps it would be best to explain the situation to her one more time?”
“One more time?” Gareth looked down at his man in surprise. “You think I have not tried?” His amazement was obviously not lost on his shamefaced captain. “Repeated discussion has brought me only an aching head, stinging cheek and bleeding arm.”
He stomped toward the fire and accepted a proffered wineskin. The overly fermented grape coursed a bitter trail across his tongue, then down his throat. He swallowed hard, seeking to hold back his grimace as he returned the container to its owner.
Ack. Sour wine and sour women had one thing in common—they both sought to ruin his good nature.
“Milord Faucon!”
Gareth instinctively turned toward the man’s shout, only to see his captive rush around the side of his tent and disappear into the blackness of the forest.
“By all the saints’ bones!” he cursed aloud. If that crafty little wench who barely came up to his chest thought for one heartbeat she would escape, she needed to think again.
Gareth and his men reached the edge of the clearing as one. Long association made spoken orders unnecessary. When Gareth motioned with a quick jerk of his hand, the men fell into a line on either side of him. They would comb the dark forest with little more than an arm’s length separating them.
Surely, ten and five men working as a single unit would be able to find one obstinate woman. Gareth cursed again.
He’d vowed to deliver this wench to her kinsmen and return to the king’s service within a month. What had seemed nothing more than a brief respite from war, suddenly appeared to be a quest to retain his honor and life.
Honor. Gareth swore at the memory of honor lost. He’d already besmirched his honor and his family name at Lincoln.
Even though he had only followed his overlord’s orders to retreat during the battle, Gareth’s guilt weighed heavily on his soul. They’d left the king unprotected, enabling the enemy to capture and imprison Stephen for months.
Aye, he’d find the woman all right. It was not as if he had a choice. If he failed his sire this time he’d find his head adorning the battlements at Windsor—compliments of King Stephen.
Another, smaller gathering of men watched in silence. When the woman escaped, all glanced toward their leader. He waved them back with one hand. Their time would come. She would be theirs eventually.
It was best for now to remain hidden—unseen. Let Faucon catch the wench. Much satisfaction would be gained in taking her from him.
Time and preordained fate was on their side.
Chapter One
“Choose.”
Rhian jumped. The hissed order seemed to come from the very air itself. She nearly dropped the ewers of ale she carried to the great hall.
Choose what?
After rebalancing her load, she swallowed her dread before heading toward the boisterous gathering.
She had not the leisure to contemplate the uneasy feeling that started as little more than a prickle at the nape of her neck and now swept through her limbs like a cold winter wind. She’d not been at Browan Keep more than a few days and had no intention of staying long enough to discover what caused her unease.
This was naught but a temporary haven—one that grew more unpleasant by the day.
And now a formless voice urged her to choose.
Choose what?
“Wench!” The shout came from one of the men in the hall. “Be quicker with that ale.” An order that had been repeated many times this evening.
The act of serving those gathered in the great hall bothered her little, but the drunken louts yelling and pawing at her set her teeth on edge. There was no master at Browan. She’d heard that the lord here had died in a hunting accident and King Stephen had not yet replaced him.
The man who was temporarily in charge had no control over the others, so they ran wild. Their entertainment had risen to the level of a game this night. The more they drank, the more they sought to pull her down onto their laps or to fondle her as she walked by.
While some of the other girls welcomed these advances, she had no wish to be compromised in such a manner. She’d already compromised herself enough by coming here alone in the first place; she’d not make her lot worse.
After slamming one ewer down onto the table with a heavy thud she spun away, successfully avoiding a pair of reaching hands. Slurred curses met her maneuver.
No sooner had a smile of success twitched at her lips, when she plowed into a smelly, beefy wall of flesh. “Ah, my beauty, you show excellent taste.” The man wrapped his arms about her waist, securing her as neatly as herring caught in a net.
Rhian mumbled her own curse. She’d spun too far—right into the snare of yet another lout.
When he sought to lean in for a kiss, the stench of his breath gagged her and fueled her need to escape. She nearly growled before rapping a pitcher of ale against his head.
The earthen jug shattered, leaving her holding naught but the handle. Either his skull was made of rock, or he was too far in his cups to notice, because he did not fall, nor did he release her. At least not at first.
In expectation of the worst, her heartbeat slowed and breathing ceased. The man’s reaction appeared to happen in a manner slower than normal. He shook his head and smiled briefly before letting his arms drop to his sides as he sank like a leaf borne on a breeze to the floor.
Without pausing to see if he still breathed, Rhian ran from the hall into the smaller entry chamber. Boisterous hoots of laughter followed her hasty departure.
As more men entered through the great doors, she bolted past them with a prayer on her lips that the small footbridge connecting the keep to the partially finished inner wall would still be in place. Her prayer answered, she skirted quickly across the moveable planks to the wall.
A chilled wind buffeted her as she raced blindly along the torch-lit wallwalk seeking a way to reach the bailey below. Night had fallen and she was nothing more in this keep than a lowly serving wench who had no business on the wall. She wished to avoid being dragged back into the overcrowded hall. The men would only make sport of her and the other girls would torment her unceasingly.
The tromping of horses’ hooves stopped directly below her. “Hail!”
Rhian froze midstep. Her breath and heart skipped over each other. She clenched her fists at her sides and closed her eyes. She’d no wish to see the danger heading her way.
“You, girl!”
The approaching danger didn’t sound extremely threatening. She took a fortifying breath of air before peering over the walkway to look down at the man in the bailey.
Rhian shielded her eyes from the torch he held aloft. The light flickered across his face. His voice had belied his age. This man was little more than a boy. A squire perhaps? Since he was not demanding to know why she was on the wall, it was apparent he was not from Browan.
“Ah, she does hear.”
When the men around him snickered, Rhian backed away from the edge of the walk. By himself he didn’t appear threatening, but the men with him seemed a scurvy lot and they were many years beyond boyhood.
“I mean you no harm. Just a question if you please.”
The pleading in his voice beckoned her to answer. “I’ve no time for idle chatter, be quick.”
“Is your master in residence?”
“Now how would—” She caught herself. “Nay. There is no master of Browan.”
“Surely someone is in charge.”
“Sir Hector holds the keep until the new master arrives.” Why was he asking her this question in the first place? Had he not inquired at the gates?
“Excellent. My lord will be pleased to hear that.” He tugged on his horse’s reins as if to leave, then turned back to her. “Tell me, are Browan’s gates always unguarded?”
Rhian gasped softly. That explained why this lad questioned a serving wench. What type of imbecile was in charge of the haven she’d found? While it did explain why nobody had noticed her on the wall, it did not explain why during a time of unending battles a sane man left a keep open for conquest. She realized she was taking too long to answer and fumbled for a suitable response. “I…I know not. Perhaps the guards were occupied elsewhere.”
If she valued her safety, she knew that her time at Browan was at an end. She’d leave at first light. Surely there was another keep nearby. One where a residing lord valued his property and those inside the walls.
The young man nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I will bid you good evening then and thank-you for your kind assistance.”
Without waiting for him and his companions to leave, Rhian paced back and forth, resuming her search for a ladder down to the bailey.
The man cleared his throat. When she peered at him, he motioned toward her left with the torch. “If you are searching for a ladder, there is one a few feet that way.” Without another word he turned and left. The men with him followed, their renewed snickers echoing off into the night.
To her great relief, she managed to descend the ladder without breaking her neck. The relative quiet of the inner bailey provided her a small semblance of peace as she crossed the nearly dark yard. The two guards she encountered paid her little heed other than asking her business at Browan. It amazed her that once she admitted to being a serving wench, they waved her on her way. Aye, she’d have no regrets about leaving in the morning. She had no intentions of being in residence when this keep fell to the next enemy who approached.
Rhian leaned against the wall of a shed to rest awhile before heading back to the kitchens. Hopefully, Hawise would not notice her absence until she found a measure of ease for her weary body and mind. While the tenseness left her body, her mind ran in circles. How could she have come here like this? Had she lost her sense of reason? Why did she not just stay with—?
“You! Girl!”
Why did everyone call her girl? Did the clothes she’d filched fit that poorly? She quickly realized her mistake—being seen as nothing more than a girl was a blessing, not a curse.
After banishing her unwarranted ire, she looked up at the man on horseback. In the near pitch blackness of the night, she could see little more than his silhouette. Since he was mounted and accompanied by a host of others, she assumed he was of some consequence.
“Aye, milord?”
“Where are the stable boys? Why has no one come to greet us?”
Disoriented by the night, Rhian looked toward what she hoped was the stable before replying, “There is a great celebration this night. Perhaps all are making merry in the hall.”
“’Tis a poor excuse.”
While she could not discern his features, something in his voice rang familiar, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Nay, she’d been careful to hide her trail. He’d not have been able to find her so quickly.
Confident of the abilities learned at her father’s side, Rhian shook off her concern. All men of rank spoke with that same arrogant tone, making their names and faces blend into one indiscernible toad in her mind. Instead of replying with the barb that wanted to escape her lips, she said, “It is the only excuse I can offer, milord.”
“Why are you out here alone on such a dark, moonless night?”
A question she should have asked herself before seeking refuge in a dark, nearly deserted bailey. Still, her safety was none of his concern. “I just wished for a breath of air. The hall is overcrowded and airless.”
“And have you had your air?”
“Aye.”
“Then return to the keep where it’s safer.”
She jerked away from the shed at his order. Of all the arrogance she’d witnessed this night, he was by far the most…the worst…the—
He moved his horse closer until she could feel the beast’s hot breath on her cheek. She shrank away from what felt like the fires of hell. “Unless you seek to disobey an order, go. Now.”
The urge to argue with him was nigh on irresistible. His demeanor, his tone of voice, his haughty bearing all begged for a good tongue-lashing. Rhian knew that she was more than capable of performing the task. But it would raise suspicion if a serving wench addressed her betters in such a manner.
Suspicion she could not risk.
It took one deep breath to swallow her wayward urge. And another three to become as close to meek and subservient as she could.
“Oh, nay, milord, one such as I would never seek to disobey an order.” She winced at the tone of her own voice.
He ignored her tone. And ordered again, “Go.” In a voice so low, so sinister that it brooked no further argument.
“Choose.”
“Choose what?” Rhian knew her voice was tinged with anger, but cared not. She was tired of being told to choose, tired of being told to do anything. What was she to choose? She glanced around the smoke-filled kitchen in confusion. Outside of half a dozen serving girls, a cook and three helpers, she didn’t see anything that warranted choosing.
“Ack.” Hawise, an elderly servant, shook her head. “Girl, you could pick any man in the hall—”
Rhian’s harsh laugh stopped the older woman’s absurd comment. “And what, pray tell, would I do with him?” It was ludicrous to even consider choosing any of the louts gathered in this hall.
Hawise leaned closer, whispering, “Anything he wants. Anything you want. ’Twould do much to improve your lot in life.”
Nothing short of a miracle would improve her life at this point. And the Dear Lord did not deem it necessary to bestow any grace or miracle on her. Perhaps in truth He didn’t exist. Rhian silently prayed to be forgiven for her blasphemous thought. “My lot in life needs no improving, but I do thank you for your concern.”
“It was not a request, you nit.” One of the younger serving girls snarled as she huffed out of the kitchen.
Another one, a blonde, chimed in. “They are like dogs circling a bitch in heat.”
Rhian gasped. “What are you saying?”
“Since you are neither blind nor dull witted, ’tis a sly game you play at our expense.”
“I play no game.”
“Then what would you call it if not a game? You flaunt yourself in front of our men, yet do not avail yourself of their pallet. They ignore those of us who have always freely made our charms available to pant after the one who gives harder chase.”
Surely insanity had struck the entire keep. “I would never avail myself in such a manner.”
“Oh?” The blonde lifted one eyebrow. “You are too high and mighty for a little dalliance?”
“High and mighty has naught to do with it. I will not compromise myself in such a way.”
The girl motioned toward the others. “Did ye hear that? Milady here will not compromise herself with a man between her legs.” She tossed an errant braid over her shoulder before picking up an ewer and stalking past Rhian. She paused long enough to add in Rhian’s ear, “You know not what you are missing.”
By the time Rhian found her voice, there was no one left in the kitchen except the cook and Hawise, and the woman cackled so loud that Rhian forgot what she’d been about to say.
“What, what…” Hawise finally managed to stop cackling long enough to ask, “What be wrong, little lady? Swallow your tongue?”
Rhian tried to think of a way to make the older woman see the absurdity of the situation. But she could find no excuse that would keep her identity safe from discovery.
Hawise frowned at her in a way that made Rhian nervous. The woman seemed to look through the coarse gown and snarled hair, to Rhian’s soul. Finally, Hawise shook her head before handing Rhian a bowl of sweets. “Take these out to the hall, milady, and bring yourself right back here.”
Oh, heaven help her. Had the woman guessed so soon? “Hawise—” Rhian pleaded.
“Go. Do as I say.”
As Rhian turned to leave, Hawise added, “Right back here. No mincing in front of the men. Leave them for the others.”
Mincing in front of the men, indeed. Rhian looked over those gathered in the hall and curled her lip. There wasn’t a single man here who warranted any sort of attention from her. Mincing.
It would take more than a drunken sot to reduce her to that type of behavior. She approached the head table on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. Not even those seated in this place of honor captured her attention. Least of all the man in charge of the hall, who leaned so heavily on the table that his face was nearly in his food.
Certainly not the man situated to the right of the seat of honor. She wondered if he could see through eyes so red. Rhian gingerly stepped over the man she’d hit earlier and placed the bowl of sweets on the table.
Before she could beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchens, a hand grasped her wrist. “Ah, there you are, my lovely.”
She glared at the man holding her arm. “Let me go. I have work to attend to.”
He towered over her, easily pulling her closer. Close enough to feel the hardness between them. “Yes, my lovely, you do.” The man tightened his hold, grinding his growing manhood against her stomach.
“Sir, do nothing you might regret later.” Her legs shook, but she refused to let him see any fear.
“Regret?” He leaned down. His blue eyes were glazed by drink and a look she recognized as lust. Surely the drink he’d consumed blinded him.
“Oh, aye, regret and more.” Rhian blinked twice to make sure her sight did not deceive her.
Hawise nudged the young blond serving girl closer to the man. “Why would you want a scrawny girl like this?” The older woman nodded toward Rhian, before directing the drunken guest’s attention to the now flirting buxom blonde. “Not when this one here would be more than willing to serve your needs.”
Thankfully, the man’s gap-toothed smile was diverted to the other girl, giving Rhian a chance to pull free. She waited for no orders from Hawise before escaping back to the kitchens.
