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

MILLS & BOON®

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.

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.”

Marianne stared at her wrists as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. She twisted her hands to no avail, succeeding only in chafing her flesh. Then she tried plucking at the bindings with her teeth. Again, her efforts were futile.

Finally, she hung her head and held out her arms. “Please, my lord, I will cease tormenting you, if you will but free my hands.”

He wanted to believe her, but Bryce had an inkling she was simply lying to get her own way. The sound of booted feet walking by the tent quickly made him choose. He took his dagger out of its sheath and slid the shiny blade through the cloth. “I cannot help but wonder what this stupidity will cost me.”

As soon as she was free, Marianne tried shoving him away. It was comforting to know his suspicions were still functioning well. She pushed at him again, catching his wound with the heel of her palm. He gasped at the sharp jab of pain.

She stepped back and stared at him for a heartbeat before nearly crying, “Oh, my lord, you are bleeding.”

“For the life of me I can hardly imagine why.” Sarcasm was not his usual way of dealing with inane comments of the obvious, but there was nothing usual about this day thus far.

“That is where I stabbed you.”

He quelled the urge to nod in agreement and at the same time swallowed his retort. Instead of making her appear the fool, he pointed at a jug by the cot. “What is in there?”

Marianne crossed the floor and retrieved the jug. “‘Tis the most bitter wine to ever exist, but it will serve the purpose.” On the way back, she picked up the eating knife from the floor. At his loud sigh, she quickly assured him, “To cut bindings from my gown.” Once she returned to his side, she pushed his cloak from his shoulders. “Undress.”

“Such an inviting offer, my lady.” Bryce took the knife and jug from her hands. “After you.”

Chapter Four

Marianne nearly choked on her sudden gasp for air. “After me?” Her rescuer was beginning to prove more dangerous than her captors.

Ashforde shook his head. “I apologize. That was unwarranted. ” He studied the tent flap. “As much as I truly appreciate your offer to bind the wound you made, we have not the leisure.”

Her own glance toward the flap assured her that no one was in the entryway. “There appears to be no lurking danger.” She hacked off a strip of her gown and held it out to him. “This will not take long.”

He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward the back of the tent. “They are pacing before the flap. Now that you have told them your brother will see them dead, they cannot risk letting you return to Faucon.” After slitting the tent wall, he held it open. “If you wish to leave here in one piece, head straight toward the forest. I will be right behind you.”

She hesitated, not certain whether to believe him or not. The shuffling sound of footsteps near the front flap hastened her decision. Marianne ducked out of the opening and as quickly as her tired body would move, dashed for the cover offered in the dense growth of the forest.

“Here, this way.” Ashforde strode past her, leading them off to the right and to a waiting horse.

He pushed her unceremoniously up onto the saddle and guided her hands to the beast’s mane. “Hang on.” Without sparing her little more than a glance, he took the reins and led them deeper into the woods.

Marianne gripped the coarse hair with all her might. Now that she was finally off her feet and not quite as worried about her immediate safety, she could feel the exhaustion of her body. The parts of her body that did not ache, burned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, drank or even slept for more than a few hours.

When he slowed down to assess his bearings, Marianne licked her dry lips. “Do you think I could have a drink?”

He looked up at her. “There’s a stream just a short way from here. We will be there shortly.”

Sunlight broke through the foliage. The shimmering brightness rippled across his ruggedly handsome face, creating an unworldly glow from his eyes.

She stared into the ice-blue depths and searched her suddenly empty head for an answer. The combination of anger and fear had partly clouded her vision in the tent. But now, without the blinding need for bravado, she could clearly see him. And what she saw took the breath from her body and all logical thought from her mind.

His blue eyes were the shade of a winter pond’s frozen surface—and just as transparent. Ashy-colored lashes created a frame that made the spellbinding gaze only more intense, more piercing.

He didn’t just look at her—he seemed to peer into her very heart and soul. In that instant, she felt as unkempt, vulnerable and exhausted as she must appear.

“I…um…very well.” In an attempt to coax her tongue to form coherent words, she dropped her gaze. “I can wait.” Never in her life had she felt so ill at ease and inept around a man. And with the number of men coming and going from Faucon, she had been around a great many. She wished for the earth below her to somehow open and swallow her whole.

“Are you all right?” Concern laced his words.

Good Lord above, the man would soon think she was addled. Not that she blamed him after her senseless response. But a little worry on his part might be just what he deserved for the way he’d handled her in the tent.

If she answered him, he would hear the amusement in her voice, so she merely nodded. When he turned and adjusted the reins in his hands, Marianne did her best to swallow the laughter bubbling in her throat, but some of it escaped.

He looked at her over his shoulder, his soul-searching eyes narrowed. “You are amused?”

“A little.” Marianne shrugged. So much for hiding her laughter.

He resumed their journey with a smothered curse. It was cruel to let him believe she was not whole and hearty. He had threatened to truss her like a gutted stag. It would serve him right to live with his worries and thoughts for a time. But she was unable to be that deceitful.

“I am not addled.”

“So you say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Without halting their progress, he said, “I find it interesting that someone in your position would consider this amusing.”

“You said you posed no threat.”

“And you believed a complete stranger? Do you not find that a mite foolish?”

She found it more than a mite foolish—and before he had the opportunity to realize what she was about to do, she unclamped her fingers from the horse’s mane, sent a quick silent prayer to God, then threw herself sideways from the saddle.

Marianne hit the ground with a thud, rolling immediately to her knees. Her heart racing, she scrambled blindly to her feet and ran into a solid wall of masculine flesh and muscle encased in chain mail.

Before she could back away, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “While I fully expected you to seek your freedom, I thought you would at least wait until we were gone from this area.”

Marianne said nothing. She only tugged sharply at his hold, trying to get him to release her.

He slid a knife from its sheath and held it between them. Her stomach flipped with dread. Her head spun wildly. She’d been right not to trust him. She would die here in the middle of nowhere and her family would never know.

Frantic, she kicked at him while trying to pull free from the hold he now had on her one wrist.

“Stop it.” He jerked hard, slamming her body against his. “Cease this stupidity.”

Before she could gasp for another breath, he pulled her wrist up, slapped the handle of the knife into her palm and forced her fingers to curl around it. He then stepped back and pointed toward the denseness of the forest. “You are free to go.”

No sooner had she spun in the direction he’d suggested, he added, “Be warned, the men who took you to begin with are right behind us.”

Marianne froze.

“You need make a choice right now. Either get moving into the forest, or get back on the horse and let us be gone from here.”

The distant sound of men’s voices ended her mental debate. She bid freedom farewell—for now—and turned back toward the horse. Without saying anything, he assisted her into the saddle, grabbed the reins and took off at a run, leading the horse behind him.

Marianne clung to the horse’s mane. “You cannot keep up this pace. I can ride pillion behind you.”

“I thank you, no. My camp is but a short ways from here.”

“Perhaps, but would it not be faster—” Shouts from the men chasing them cut her argument short.

Marianne turned in the saddle and saw four men racing toward them on foot. All of them were from the group who had kidnapped her at Faucon. And all of them held their swords before them, ready to do battle.

Her rescuer drew his weapon, while urging, “Go. My men are camped straight down this path at the first clearing.”

“I cannot leave you here alone.”

His eyebrows rose at her statement, but he only tossed her the reins and smacked the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, nearly throwing her from the saddle.

The effort to bring the beast under control nearly drained her of what life she had left. But she quickly dragged the horse’s head around, slowed its pace and headed back to where Ashforde fought the other men.

She had to give him credit—he fought well. He had already dispatched one man by the time she returned to the clearing. With a sudden burst of renewed energy, Marianne slid from the saddle and led the horse into the forest where she wrapped the reins around a small tree trunk. She then picked her way from tree to tree and retrieved the dead man’s weapon. Before anyone saw her, she raced back to the horse and mounted with the aid of a fallen log.

While being harbingers of death came easily to her brothers, she’d never killed a man. But there was a first time for everything and that time seemed to be now.

Two of the men attacked Ashforde. The third had spotted her and rushed in her direction. The expression of glee on his faced boded ill will. Marianne sent a quick, silent prayer for strength and kicked the horse into movement.

Her enemy did not appear to be afraid of her. In fact, he appeared to be laughing at her. She tested the balance of the sword in her hand. Poorly made, it did not swing evenly. She held the blade low, parallel to the ground, resting the flat of the blade against her leg and charged toward the man.

Caught off guard by the mere idea that a female would bring him injury, the man left his chest unprotected, making it a perfect target.

When she swung the blade straight ahead, the open target was one she did not miss.

The expression of complete surprise on his face just before he fell would have amused her, had she not been overwhelmed with the sudden urge to vomit. Marianne blinked away the tears threatening to blur her vision and urged the horse toward Ashforde.

With her borrowed sword still lodged in the chest of the man she’d just killed, the only thing she could think to do was to run one of the men over with the horse.

She chose the one farthest from the forest, leaned low over the beast and urged the horse toward the man. Flesh and bone were little protection beneath the heavy hooves of a full-grown warhorse.

Her tactic gave Ashforde the chance to dispatch the man still standing. He spun around, knocked the last man to the ground and then pressed the tip of his sword to the hollow at the base of the man’s neck.

Fear tightened the muscles in the kidnapper’s neck. He swallowed hard, unwittingly pushing his throat up against the tip of the blade.

As she dismounted, Marianne heard Ashforde ask, “Why would you think to go into battle against a knight without wearing your armor?”

She joined the men and realized he had asked a valid question, considering her kidnapper wore only a padded gambeson. The heavily quilted short tunic offered no safety against the thrust of a sword.

“We thought the odds were in our favor.”

Ashforde stepped back and ordered, “Get up.” After the man rose, he knocked the sword from the lout’s hand. “Tell your master this game is finished. Leave Marianne of Faucon alone.” He placed the edge of his weapon across the man’s throat for emphasis, adding, “You won’t be as fortunate the next time.”

When the sword lowered, the man took off at a dead run. But it wasn’t that man who captured her attention. It was the one who’d remained. Ashforde.

The sheen of sweat coated his face. His overlong hair, damp from his exertion, curled about his neck. Iceblue eyes glimmered with rage.

Warmth flowed through her veins. Her heart lurched before settling into an uneven rhythm. It made little logical sense. But she’d learned long ago that logic sometimes got in the way. She swallowed a gasp and bit back a smile.

His clothing, chain mail and weapons were of excellent quality, so apparently he had wealth enough. She’d just seen him in battle and knew without a doubt that he was strong and brave enough. While his rugged good looks made her heart beat faster, he seemed not to notice them, so he obviously was not vain. His speech was refined, so he would be considered intelligent enough.

There were many unanswered questions regarding Ashforde and she wasn’t at all certain she could completely trust him. But she could not deny the simple truth her entire being screamed—this was the man.

Rhys would not be able to find anything wrong with him. And if he did, well, she’d go over his head. It would be easy to throw herself on the mercy of her sisters by marriage.

The biggest obstacle would be Ashforde himself. How was she to convince him that a match between them would be well served? He seemed honorable, a man of his word…another smile twitched at her lips. Had he not himself threatened to kiss her into submission? What would it take for him to make good that threat?

He turned to look down the path and flinched. Worried about the wound she’d given him earlier, Marianne touched his arm. “Have you suffered further injury?”

Bryce couldn’t help himself. He laughed in disbelief. The woman had disobeyed a direct order. Yet she stood there inquiring about his welfare? She should be concerned with her own. Had the ordeal of killing a man left her in a state of shock?

“You were told to go join my men.”

“I know, but you were outnumbered.”

“Those men were inexperienced knaves. I was in little danger of losing life or limb.”

“How could you be certain of that? I only thought to help.”

Oh, aye, it was comforting to know that this woman, barely more than a girl, thought he needed her help in a fight. In truth, it was nearly more galling than he could bear. “While your brothers may require your assistance, I do not.”

When she finished laughing, a sound that set him more on edge than he already was, she said, “My brothers do not require assistance from anyone.”

Her laughing statement drew bile to his throat. To think, he’d once felt a moment’s guilt for using her as a pawn in his revenge.

He’d earned his title and lands by his prowess on the battlefield. He’d not become one of Matilda’s trusted men by any means other than the use of his sword arm. As much as he wanted to throw that fact in this woman’s face, he bit his tongue, adding the taste of his own blood to the bile.

By divulging that information he would only give away his plans. That was something he was not yet ready to do.

He could not prolong this discussion. If he did, he would end up losing what little control of his temper remained. “Get on the horse.”

“You are angry.”

If nothing else, she excelled at stating the obvious. “I would be concerned for any man who would not be angry.”

“I fail to understand. Why?”

Bryce felt that last thread holding his rage intact snap. He turned to face her. “Why?” To keep his hands from doing something he’d only regret, he tightened his grip on his sword until he thought his knuckles would break. “I do not require any more assistance from you than any of your brothers would. I have not lived this long by not knowing how to defend myself.”

“But—”

“Cease.” He lifted his free hand. Her shocked expression led him to realize that his fingers were curled into a fist. After unclenching his fingers, he said, “No. Do not say a word. I am a man, I know and understand my duties. And I perform them quite well. You, on the other hand, are a woman and it is obvious you do not know your duties. So, let me explain exactly what I wish you to do.”

She crossed her arms against her chest. “Oh, please, do.”

He ignored the sarcasm in her tone. “You will do as you are ordered, without question. When danger strikes you will take yourself to safety and stay there until I tell you otherwise.”

“You will, of course, let me know when to eat, drink, sleep and relieve myself?”

It wasn’t her question that added to his anger, it was her sickly oversweet tone and the brightly false smile she pasted on her face.

Bryce reached over and grabbed the reins of the horse. Before he was able to stop himself, he picked Marianne up and nearly threw her onto the saddle.

“We will be at my camp soon. Once there, you will keep your mouth shut.”

“If I choose not to?”

What was she looking for him to do? Did her brothers truly permit her this much free will? Did they never seek to restrain her mouth or manners?

It was no wonder that Marianne of Faucon was still unwed. What man in his right mind would wish for a wife so contrary and stubborn?

If anyone was foolish enough to marry her and later discovered her willfulness, what could he do? He would likely be risking his own life if he so much as raised a hand to her. If she did not kill the man in his sleep, her brothers would take care of the deed for her. And Bryce doubted if they would make it a quick or relatively painless death.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, silently praying for the strength to deal with this woman.

As if through a thick fog he again heard her laughter. For some odd reason it brushed soft and warm against his ear.

“You did not answer me, Ashforde. What will you do if I refuse to follow your high-handed orders?”

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Marianne was leaning closer to him, smiling as if she had not a worry in the world. Perhaps it was time the woman learned that her brothers could not always protect her.

Before she could stop him, he pulled her off the horse and into his arms. Bryce fought to ignore the sudden heat rushing through his veins. He pretended he didn’t hear the loud, rapid tattoo of his heart in his ears.

With what he hoped was his most stern and commanding look, he glared down at her. The sparkle in her eyes and the half smile flitting at the corners of her parted lips was his first clue that he’d made a grave error in judgment.

Marianne reached up, ran her fingers through his hair and gently drew his head closer. “That took you long enough, my lord.” She brushed her lips against his, before pulling back to ask, “How much further do I need to go before you kiss me into submission?”

He closed his eyes and groaned. Dear Lord above, his enemy’s sister was out to seduce him.

And God help him, he rather enjoyed the thought.

Chapter Five

Marianne looked away from the shimmer of high emotions racing across his eyes. Had she made a grievous mistake with her boldness? The queasy churn of nervousness fought with the butterflies in her stomach.

Surely his ragged groan and stark expression spoke of his horror at her actions. But when she tried to pull free, he tightened his hold.

“Forgive my boldness, my lord. Let me go.” The bands of steel surrounding her only strengthened at her plea.

Ashforde dipped his head, brushing his lips across her cheek. “Let you go? I thought you wanted me to kiss you into submission?”

His raspy tone of voice bid her do what she must to gain her freedom. “Yes—I mean no.” At this moment she wanted to run. “Please, I rashly spoke out of turn. I did not mean to sound so wanton.”

A low, soft laugh was his response. Before she could say anything else, he cupped her face. Strong fingers held her still.

He did nothing more than stare down at her. A mind-robbing look that kept her rooted to the ground. His hand on her face seemed to burn her flesh. Far from hurting her, his touch made her want to lean into the warmth.

Some wild, uncontrollable part of her wondered what his lips would feel like against her own, but ingrained self-preservation warned this was not the time, nor the place to make that discovery. Long-suffered caution urged her to be rational. To think of her safety at this moment and not of her wants.

Before his soul-searching gaze could cast any more of a spell about her, Marianne pushed hard against his chest. “For the love of God, please, let me go.”

For a moment longer he held her, an odd half smile curving his lips. To her relief he relaxed his hold. “You need not fear me.”

“Fear you?” Without thought, she admitted, “I fear myself more.”

Ashforde stepped away and glanced at the dead men on the ground. “With good reason.” He’d spoken more to himself than to her, so she remained silent. The last thing she wished to do was repeat the argument that had led her to act so foolishly in the first place.

“Let us go.” He grabbed the reins to the horse and helped her mount. “My camp is nearby.”

True to his word, Ashforde’s men were camped a short distance down the path. Though Marianne wouldn’t quite call it a camp. It was nothing more than a clearing with half a dozen men gathered around a crackling fire. Their horses were tied to nearby bushes. Beyond that, she heard the rushing of a stream. A small, hastily erected tent leaned toward the trees at the right side of the clearing.

And at the moment, it was the most wondrous sight she could envision.

She slid from the saddle and could not decide what she wanted to do first—seek much-needed slumber in the tent, slake her thirst with water from the stream, or fill her belly with the unidentifiable meat roasting over the fire.

The wildest-looking man she had ever seen in her life rose from his seat by the fire and approached, ending any thought of sleep, water or food. Marianne instinctively stepped behind Ashforde.

An ill-healed scar twisted one side of the man’s face, giving him a permanent sneer. White and gray streaks in his untrimmed, brownish-hued hair lent him the appearance of a wild animal.

“Jared!” Ashforde quickly stepped forward, meeting the man halfway across the clearing and grasping his forearms in greeting. “When did you arrive?”

“While you were out gaming.” The man nodded toward Marianne. “I see you won.”

“That’s debatable,” Ashforde mumbled before waving her forward. “Marianne of Faucon, this unkempt dog is Jared of Warehaven.”

The Dragon? He looked more like a war-scarred wolf than a dragon. She looked from Warehaven to Ashforde uncertain what to think, or what to say. As far as she knew, Warehaven was her brothers’ enemy. So, what did that make Ashforde?

Yet, Jared bowed slightly before fixing his off-colored green gaze on her and said, “Your brother Darius is well-known to me. He is an interesting man.”

The raspy timbre of his deep voice was intriguing. Pleasing to the ear, it invited one to listen, just to hear him talk. Marianne blinked. Obviously, too tired for clear thinking, she simply agreed, “Yes. That he is.” She then touched Ashforde’s arm. “Will we remain in camp for the night?”

“Aye.” He motioned two of his men forward before continuing, “The tent is for your use, and there is a stream a short distance down the footpath. Sir John and Eustace will guard you.”

She hesitated. While his men did not appear intent on harming her, they were strangers. The older white-haired man looked as unyielding as a giant oak tree, while the younger red-cheeked one appeared to be overly fond of his drink.

All of these men were strangers. And she wasn’t at all certain whether they were friend or foe. The rapid pounding of her heart made breathing difficult. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

Marianne glanced at the horses. None of them were saddled. Even Ashforde’s was being groomed by one of his men. She could ride a palfrey bareback, but wasn’t certain she could control one of the larger destriers without the proper equipment.

“Chase those thoughts from your mind, my lady.” Ashforde stared hard at her.

How did he know what was on her mind? After closing her eyes and taking a long, deep breath, she looked up at him. “I was thinking nothing. I just…”

When her words trailed off, he provided, “You wondered what would be your best method of escape.”

“I am your prisoner then?”

“You are my prize—won by a lucky toss of the dice.” His softly spoken admission sent another sliver of fear rippling down her spine. “You are in my care. Until I reunite you with your brothers, I will see to your safety whether you like the idea or not.”

“I can see to my own safety.”

“Without coin or weapon at hand, how safe will you be?” He stepped closer, tipping his head and lowering his voice. “Your clothing is torn. You are disheveled. What will other travelers see when they look at you?” His eyebrows shot up in question. “A lady from Faucon?”

To her chagrin, she realized the truth in his words. “So I am forced to remain under your protection? A prisoner by necessity if not by deed.”

“You choose to look at it that way because you are tired. A decent meal and a good night’s sleep will put a different light on the situation.”

His presumption to know what she thought or how she viewed anything rankled. Did he think her stupid? He’d called her his prize more than once now. He ordered men to guard her—not to protect, but to guard her. As angry as she was becoming, she knew enough to keep her opinions to herself. Instead of arguing, she nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”

He stepped away with a laugh. “My men will take you to the stream, then bring you back to the tent.”

Marianne crossed her arms against her chest and nodded.

Ashforde sighed and shook his head. “I need to speak to Jared. When I am finished, I will bring you something to eat.”

He watched her walk with his men to the stream’s path and wondered momentarily if he had indeed made a mistake in not warning his men to be careful. But she was unarmed, and her steps were slow, her movements stiff and sluggish. If she did take it into her head to attempt an escape, it was doubtful she’d succeed.

Marianne wearily trudged down the path to the stream. The guard in front of her was young—close to her in age. His ruddy complexion and unsteady footsteps confirmed her first impression of his fondness for drink.

The older man behind her remained silent. His silence was not an oddity, but something about him spoke of danger. It could have been the deadly glare in his eyes when he waved her and the younger man forward. Or maybe it was the way he held his sword at the ready for no apparent reason—unless he considered her dangerous.

The only thing she knew for certain was that his steady, overly heavy steps behind her did not suggest a man who might be easily misled.

Once they reached the stream, they gave her a few moments of privacy before the younger one called out, “My lady, we need return to camp.”

She had no wish to return. But Marianne realized she didn’t have an option. At least not a reasonable option. She stared down the stream. Even if she could elude her guards where would she go? It would soon be dark and she feared the men who’d diced her away would not give up their quest to steal her back.

And Ashforde was correct—she did not have the appearance of a lady. Unkempt was a kind description of how she must look. She raised a hand to her hair. The braids had come undone days ago and she’d given up trying to untangle the snarled knots. She’d simply torn another strip from the skirt of her gown and tied the ebony mess behind her head.

Both her gown and undergown were filthy and torn. Each step she took exposed her legs clear up to her thighs. The sleeves of the gown weren’t any better. They hung like tattered ribbons about her arms.

If she somehow escaped, the first man she’d come across would think he’d found himself a well-used harlot. It would be impossible to make her way to Faucon without coming upon any men.

For now, she’d have to remain Ashforde’s prize.

She shuddered at the thought. While this situation was entirely her own fault, every fiber of her being rebelled at being considered someone’s prize.

Not more than a few hours ago she’d considered Ashforde a man Rhys would permit her to marry. Bah, she’d not plight her troth with a man who humiliated her so.

She understood none of it—he’d claimed to have rescued her and said he’d deliver her safely to her brothers. So, why was she now nothing more than winnings from a game of chance? And why was she under guard?

Dead leaves crunching underfoot let her know Ashforde’s men were coming to escort her back to camp. Marianne knelt by the stream. She splashed the icy water on her face. It would do little for her appearance, but perhaps the chill would help chase away the heat of useless anger.

“Come. It is time to return.”

She didn’t move. It was one thing to be ordered about by Ashforde. But he and his men needed to learn she’d not be ordered about by everyone at whim. The least thing the guards could do was to wait until she was ready to return.

Footsteps drew closer. “Did you hear me, my lady?”

She momentarily ignored the younger man and splashed some more water on her face before answering, “Yes.”

He poked her shoulder. “Then do as I ask.”

He’d not asked anything of her and if he so much as touched her again, he’d soon regret doing so. “In a few moments.”

“Now would be better.”

Marianne smiled to herself. Without moving, she lazily stirred the water with her fingertips. “Do you have a name?”

“I am called John—Sir John.”

She blinked. Never would she have picked him as the knight of the pair. “Sir John, I will be ready soon.”

A twig snapped beneath the feet of the older man as he moved closer, too. He cleared his throat before asking, “What is taking so long?”

Marianne shrugged. “I lost a bauble in the water.” Realizing her tone of voice needed a little more urgency to sound convincing, she swished the water again and quickly added, “It was given to me by my brother. I must find it.”

The older man sighed heavily. “Oh, for the love of—let us be gone from here.”

“It is very special to me.” She glanced between the two men and added, “I think he said it was an heirloom.”

“It will not hurt to help her.” Sir John’s tone was sharp. He knelt beside her and peered into the stream. “I see nothing.”

Marianne pointed to a spot just beyond her reach. “I think it is right there. See? Something is dangling between those two larger rocks.”

The instant Sir John reached out, she pretended to lose her balance and bumped into him, knocking the man into the ice-cold stream.

She jumped up in a rush. “Oh, forgive me. I am sorry.” Marianne looked to the older guard. The scowl on his face deepened. But he moved forward to help his partner out of the water.

When he leaned forward to grasp John’s outstretched hand, Marianne placed the bottom of her booted foot against his arse and put all of her weight into the shove.

She stooped to grasp a large rock and hid it in the folds of her gown. Without waiting for the unsuspecting guards to come after her, she took off for the camp at a run.

After Marianne and his men left the camp, Bryce took a seat on a fallen log.

Jared joined him, asking, “Was it wise to send her off with only two men?”

Bryce shrugged. “If she tries anything foolish it will be two men against one tired woman.”

Instead of responding, Jared grunted. A noise that from the time they fostered at Redvers had made Bryce want to gnash his teeth together.

“I hope your hunt for me was not too strenuous.”

Jared admitted, “One of Redvers’s men pointed me toward Hampshire. Once there, it took nothing more than the promise of coin to discover the direction you took upon leaving there this morning. I simply followed the road until I found the men.”

“Then I assume you came here for some reason other than to grunt at me.”

“Curiosity drew me here. I wanted to see if you won the prize you sought.”

“And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, you will be departing on the morn?”

“Not alone. I’m to escort you and your…charge…to Baldwin.”

Bryce’s breath left him in a rush. The Earl of Devon, Baldwin de Redvers had taught him much. Even though Baldwin had had to give Carisbrooke over to Stephen, or lose his head, he still respected the man. But he also knew that when a notion struck Baldwin, there was no swaying him.

Bryce should have known the earl was up to something when he was sent the information on Marianne’s whereabouts. Because of Carisbrooke, Baldwin wanted revenge against King Stephen, or one of Stephen’s men. Taking possession of Faucon’s sister would serve the earl’s thirst for vengeance.

An event he should have foreseen. But he’d been too intent on righting his own thwarted plans to give the earl’s fortuitous help any thought. “I am to take refuge with the earl?”

“Nay. You, my friend, are to give custody of Faucon’s sister over to Redvers’ wife. And since I knew you would not be agreeable to that plan, I volunteered to bring you the news.”

“The earl will not take custody himself?”

“No. He has joined up with Gloucester and Anjou in Normandy.”

“And after I hand over Faucon’s sister?” Bryce assumed they would also join the battle for Anjou’s conquest of Normandy.

“We are to head toward Cambridge.” Jared attempted a halfhearted laugh before adding, “Just to see if we can convince the Earl of Essex not to destroy all of England.”

“And who issued those orders?”

“It was not precisely an order.” Jared shrugged. “It came as a request from the empress.”

Both men were intelligent enough to know a request from Empress Matilda was a rare, albeit nicely worded order. Bryce shuddered. “Has Mandeville run out of new methods of torture, or has he just run out of victims?”

“I am of the opinion he has only begun. True or not, I do know we will be unable to locate him.”

“Agreed.” The last thing Bryce wanted to do before he died was to get anywhere close to where Geoffrey de Mandeville might be. No one had ever called Bryce a coward, but Mandeville had become inhuman.

The man had lost all reason when King Stephen forced him to surrender the Tower of London along with two of his other castles. Since then, the earl had taken to burning, pillaging, raping and torturing not only those men who opposed him, but women and children. Not even men of God were safe from Mandeville’s wrath.

“I thought perhaps you would like to make use of my lair until you are able to rebuild your keep.”

Jared’s lair, as he called it since his dubbing of The Dragon, was a fortified stone keep on the Isle of Wight. It would be near Carisbrooke, but not close enough that any of Stephen’s men would happen upon them unseen. So far, as long as Jared did nothing to boldly provoke those currently holding Carisbrooke, he’d been left alone.

“Nay, thank you, but we are only a day’s ride from Ashforde. I would like to see how much progress has been completed on the building and I need to ensure there are supplies enough to last through the winter. Then I will escort Marianne to her brothers.”

“I understand, but Isabella and Beatrice were looking forward to enjoying your company.”

Bryce groaned. Jared’s sisters dabbled in herbal remedies. Their disagreeable-tasting concoctions were supposed to help them find husbands—providing their brews didn’t kill the men first. Thankfully, even though he had been on the receiving end of their potions more than once, he still breathed.

“So.” Jared stretched out his legs and nudged Bryce. “Tell me about your lady.”

Bryce wondered where to start. Marianne of Faucon was like no other woman he’d ever met. In the short span of time he’d been in her company, he’d come to realize that she could cause him more trouble than imaginable. And it would be trouble of the worst sort—the kind that would involve not only his heart and mind, but also his soul.

“Other than the fact she can use a blade, there isn’t much to tell.” Feeling Jared’s questioning stare, he grasped for an explanation at first. “She stabbed me, but ‘tis nothing more than a flesh wound.”

When his friend remained silent, Bryce continued, his thoughts easily flowing into words. “She’s too old to be unwed. But too young, too inexperienced to know much about men outside of her family.” He shrugged. “A instructional task that might prove interesting for the right man, if they could get by her brothers. Of course, then the greater problem would be Marianne herself.”

His friend stared at him with such an odd expression that prompted Bryce to add, “She is willful, outspoken, daring and curious. A combination as intriguing as it is irritating.”

After a moment’s pause, Jared sputtered. “Good Lord, man.” His bark of laughter seemed to bounce off the surrounding trees. When he finally spent his mirth, he said, “While your explanation is enlightening, I was asking about Cecily of Glynnson—your intended wife.”

Bryce silently cursed his own rampant stupidity. With any luck, the flesh wound on his side would fester until it eventually killed him. That would be the only relief he’d ever have against what would surely become Jared’s constant reminders about this conversation.

Even though it was far too late to save his dignity, Bryce ground out, “Lady Cecily is well.”

“But obviously not as memorable as Marianne of Faucon.”

No one would be as memorable as Faucon’s sister. He didn’t voice that opinion. Instead, Bryce offered, “Cecily is a lady in every sense of the word.” That much was true. She’d been raised to fill her position in life as some man’s wife. There was no doubt that she could easily oversee any domestic aspect of a keep, or castle. For the most part, not counting her bouts of whining, complaining, or her short temper, she knew her place.

“I am not at all certain I would want that type of lady for my wife.” Jared slid him a look that Bryce recognized as a coming challenge. “Would not someone bold and curious be of more…comfort…than someone who always knew their place?”

“Comfort?” Sometimes acting dull-witted could prove useful. Bryce was certain this was one of those times. “I would think that having a wife capable of overseeing the day-to-day running of my keep would be quite a comfort.”

“If you had a keep to oversee.” Jared snorted at his unnecessary reminder of the total destruction at Ashforde. “Perhaps comfort was the wrong word, but you know full well I was not referring to domestic duties.”

“Aye.” It wasn’t as if Bryce hadn’t wondered the same thing—would Lady Cecily’s strict upbringing allow her to experience passion or desire?

An unfair question to be sure, one he hadn’t given a thought until this day. They’d not been permitted so much as a heartbeat alone. Although, some of the blame for that lack lay at his feet. After he’d witnessed her screaming at a servant for spilling a drop of wine on the linen table cover, he’d not pursued any time alone with Cecily. For all he knew, she could be the most passionate woman alive. But he doubted if that’d prove true.

As far as he could tell, when servants weren’t involved, Cecily was well-mannered and controlled to the point of boredom. The only time he saw any passion flicker behind her eyes was when they’d discussed his holdings. Never once did she turn a look of desire, or even simple interest toward him.

At least not in the way Marianne of Faucon looked at him. Bryce’s pulse quickened. While he hadn’t bedded countless women, he had enough experience to recognize what he saw in Marianne’s eyes. He’d seen the interest, the curiosity and the thoughtful measuring of his worth.

He’d also witnessed the change from initial attraction to a nearly spellbinding desire. And that is where the danger lay—in acknowledging that unbidden desire. It would be an easy thing to use her inexperience and desire against her. It would also be less than honorable. But had Faucon thought of honor when he’d set fires to Ashforde?

Jared shook his head. “‘Tis obvious this Faucon woman has already cast her wiles about you. Perhaps you should consider delivering her to Carisbrooke before it’s too late.”

“She has cast nothing about me and I’ll not give her over to Baldwin’s care.”

“So that’s the way of it? Have you signed the betrothal document yet?”

“No. I will. Soon.”

Jared rolled his eyes. “You best make a decision before permanently tying yourself to Glynnson.”

“The two are not related. Faucon’s sister is nothing more than a means for revenge. She has no influence on my coming betrothal to Cecily.” Bryce shrugged. “Even if she did, Empress Matilda will never permit me to back out of this marriage.”

Jared rose, then looked down at him. “Enough gold will send Empress Matilda hunting another husband for Lady Cecily before your unpledged betrothal is forgotten.”

“And what of the lady herself? Does she not deserve a measure of honor from her intended?”

“What do you deserve?” Jared nodded toward the path leading to the stream. “What better revenge than to steal this woman’s heart and loyalty away from her brother?”

“She is little more than an untried girl.”

“Girl?” Another irritating grunt punctuated Jared’s question. “Have you gone blind as well as daft? She is certainly no slip of a girl. Untried perhaps, but she is a woman full-grown. Unless she plans to take the Church’s vow, the day will soon come when she leaves her family for a husband. Why not be that man?”

“I…” There were countless reasons why he could not be that man. The most obvious one rose to the fore in his mind. “When she discovers who I am and what I plan, she will kill me herself.”

“Not if her heart is securely tied to yours.”

The more thought he gave this idea the more sense it made. The desire for revenge bade him to follow through with what would be the most complete method possible. But honor warned of the danger involved.

“There is no need to make a decision this instant.” Jared lowered his voice. “Just think about it, Bryce. Think about that woman sharing your life and your bed. And think about how angry it would make the man who destroyed your keep and lands.”

A commotion from the forest snared both men’s attention. Bryce rose, drawing his sword, instantly on the alert. Then he spotted Marianne racing out of the forest before she ducked inside the tent.

Jared laughed. “I see she’s still well guarded.” He walked away adding, “I’ll join the others around the fire and leave you to your prize.”

What did she do with his men? Bryce started toward the tent when Sir John burst out of the forest.

“My Lord Ashforde!” John raced toward him, shouting. Eustace followed a little slower. Sir John had the wild-eyed look of surprise on his face. Eustace appeared more embarrassed than surprised. Both men were dripping with water.

Bryce groaned. He knew what the news was going to be before either man said another word. Somehow she’d managed to toss both men into the ice-cold water. This was his fault. He should have seen to her himself. At least she’d not taken it into her head to escape.

“My Lord, I—”

Bryce cut off Sir John’s explanation. “I will deal with this. Both of you go dry off by the fire.”

Chapter Six

Marianne awoke with a start. Something had pulled her from her dreams. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep, not when she’d been waiting for Ashforde to appear. When she’d run into the tent earlier, she’d expected Ashforde to charge in after her demanding to know what had happened at the stream.

He’d come as far as the flap. She heard his steps falter, then he turned and walked away. Immediately after that she heard more steps approach the tent. Nobody entered, but the men had taken up positions surrounding the tent.

After that, the last thing she remembered was stretching out on the pallet to await Ashforde and his rage.

Now, making as little sound as possible, she inched her hand along the hard pallet made of covers folded on the ground and wrapped her fingers around a rock she’d found at the stream. Not much of a weapon, but the smooth round rock fit her palm and would stun a man if she hit him hard enough.

She could see nothing in the blackness of the night, but she listened carefully for anything out of the ordinary. The sounds were familiar; murmurs of the men around the crackling fire—meaning they no longer guarded the tent—the evening breeze shaking the leaves on the trees, the stream in the distance, the sound of her own breath…and someone else’s.

She listened closer. Soft clinks of the small metal links that made up chain mail fell against each other, confirming her fear—she was not alone. Marianne tightened her grip on the rock.

“Perhaps I should have checked for weapons.” Ashforde’s voice curiously calmed the fearful stuttering of her pulse. “What are you reaching for?”

How did he know? The tent was cloaked in darkness. She no longer believed in things unworldly. Had she made some small sound that had alerted him to her movements? Or was he instinctively that perceptive?

“Nothing.” She relaxed her fingers, but left the rock hidden beneath her side. “I was just stretching. This pallet is not the most comfortable I have slept upon.”

“I tried not to wake you.” He laughed lightly and she heard him move closer along the ground.

“I thought you would be in here earlier to discuss your men. Did they make it back to camp?”

He ignored her question and said, “I was. But you wouldn’t have heard me over the rumbling of your stomach. You are hungry.”

Yes, she was hungry. But again, his assumption of her state of being rankled. No matter how much she wanted to rail against his unusually well-honed intuition, she was truly famished. So much so that the mere thought of food took her mind off the questions and complaints bouncing around in her head. He could shout and rage all he wanted, if only he gave her food to eat first.

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