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Falcon's Honor
Denise Lynn
AGAINST HER WILL, SHE WOULD BE MARRIED TO THE DEVIL'S OWN SPAWNTruly, Rhian of Gervaise should despise the knight who would deliver her to a terrifying future. But the more perilous their journey became, the deeper grew her longing for Gareth of Faucon, honor bound to surrender her to fate, but soul-sworn to cherish her as the bride of his heart!Dark powers wanted the Lady of Gervaise dead. Indeed, the enigmatic beauty was possessed of secrets as mysterious as the jeweled pendant she warmed against her heart. But Gareth would do whatever he could to protect her. For destiny deemed he had no other choice!



“What will I do to protect myself?”
“You?” He looked at her in surprise. “You set out through a dark forest alone to escape me. A feat that could very well have earned you death, or worse.”
Rhian felt the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I fail to think when I am angry.”
“No. Truly?” He rubbed his forearm, bringing more heat to her face. “I find that hard to believe.”
“If your sarcasm were any thicker, you’d drown in it.”
“And if your nails were any longer, I’d have bled to death.”
“A strong warrior like you? I doubt that.”
He tapped a hand against his chest. “Ah, she thinks I am a strong warrior. My heart will burst at your kind words. I could take that as a compliment.”
“Take it as you wish.” Rhian sat up. “You will release me?”
“Not while I draw breath…!”

Praise for Denise Lynn’s debut
Falcon’s Desire
“With revenge, romance, intrigue and passion at its hottest, Ms. Lynn has truly penned a story that ranks high with the best romances I have ever read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.”
—Historical Romance Writers Review
“This medieval romance had all the things that I enjoy reading in a book, a mystery to solve and a hero and heroine who hate each other so much that when they finally realize they are in love, it’s explosive.”
—The Best Reviews

DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
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Falcon’s Honor
Denise Lynn

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With many thanks and love to:
Doc Eva and her wonderful sense of humor, caring ear and love of romance novels,
The Harlequin Hussies, a fountain of information and a steady port in the storm,
Melissa, for making the second-book syndrome an easier hurdle,
My mom, for her ability to juggle schedules and always be there,
Tom, my best friend, my heart, the man who shares my dreams.
Bless you and love to you all—this one's for you. Huzzah!

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen

Prologue
Spring, 1142
Northern England
Sir Edgar, the captain of Faucon’s guard, watched thin wisps of smoke from the crackling campfire curl upward to disappear into the darkness of the night.
The howl of a lone wolf, the soft snorts of nervous horses and the familiar scrape of sharpening stones plied against sword edges interrupted the silence of the surrounding forest.
Edgar and the other men circled around the fire for safety, warmth and companionship paid little heed to the night’s sounds. Their full attention remained riveted to the raised voices coming from their lord’s hastily erected tent.
While each of them had been scorched by the heat of Faucon’s tongue at one time or another, they had never heard him raise his voice to a female. Bets were placed between the men. Would their lord hold his temper on this occasion, or would his uncooperative charge push him too far? Edgar’s gold was on Faucon.
“My God, save me!”
The lady’s repeated cry for help went unanswered. While her shouts set their hearts to racing, Edgar knew that none of the men would assist the woman. Her steadfast determination to do her own will instead of King Stephen’s landed her in this current role of captive.
Had she come peacefully as ordered, she’d not find herself in such dire straits now. Instead, she’d fought this journey to her mother’s family every step of the way. For two solid days now she’d made their lives miserable.
Edgar couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied his lord’s patience. If she were his charge, she’d have felt the back of his hand by now. None would blame Faucon for doing just that.
“Unhand me!”
The sharp crack of a resounding slap caused more than one soldier to flinch as they envisioned the smack on their own face. Others peered intently into the bottom of their ale mugs. Edgar wondered how much of the brew would be required before this night ended.
“You filthy swine!”
“Enough of this madness.” With a heavy sigh, Edgar rose and headed toward his master’s tent.
Before he could cross the clearing, Lord Gareth of Faucon backed hastily out of the tent inspecting his arm in the light emanating from the tent. “You black-haired wench, never try something like that again.”
Edgar sucked in a breath at the menace evident in Faucon’s low, emotionless tone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others freeze. All knew that deadly tone meant Faucon had reached the limit of his patience. Edgar feared for his stash of gold; in his mind’s eye he saw it shrink considerably.
Gareth glanced at his stinging forearm where she’d raked her nails in an attempt to further prove her displeasure. “By God, I am bleeding!”
Enraged, he swung away from the tent to tend his arm and collided with his man, nearly knocking the two of them to the dirt.
“Milord.” Edgar caught his footing first and swiftly pulled Gareth upright. “Perhaps it would be best to explain the situation to her one more time?”
“One more time?” Gareth looked down at his man in surprise. “You think I have not tried?” His amazement was obviously not lost on his shamefaced captain. “Repeated discussion has brought me only an aching head, stinging cheek and bleeding arm.”
He stomped toward the fire and accepted a proffered wineskin. The overly fermented grape coursed a bitter trail across his tongue, then down his throat. He swallowed hard, seeking to hold back his grimace as he returned the container to its owner.
Ack. Sour wine and sour women had one thing in common—they both sought to ruin his good nature.
“Milord Faucon!”
Gareth instinctively turned toward the man’s shout, only to see his captive rush around the side of his tent and disappear into the blackness of the forest.
“By all the saints’ bones!” he cursed aloud. If that crafty little wench who barely came up to his chest thought for one heartbeat she would escape, she needed to think again.
Gareth and his men reached the edge of the clearing as one. Long association made spoken orders unnecessary. When Gareth motioned with a quick jerk of his hand, the men fell into a line on either side of him. They would comb the dark forest with little more than an arm’s length separating them.
Surely, ten and five men working as a single unit would be able to find one obstinate woman. Gareth cursed again.
He’d vowed to deliver this wench to her kinsmen and return to the king’s service within a month. What had seemed nothing more than a brief respite from war, suddenly appeared to be a quest to retain his honor and life.
Honor. Gareth swore at the memory of honor lost. He’d already besmirched his honor and his family name at Lincoln.
Even though he had only followed his overlord’s orders to retreat during the battle, Gareth’s guilt weighed heavily on his soul. They’d left the king unprotected, enabling the enemy to capture and imprison Stephen for months.
Aye, he’d find the woman all right. It was not as if he had a choice. If he failed his sire this time he’d find his head adorning the battlements at Windsor—compliments of King Stephen.

Another, smaller gathering of men watched in silence. When the woman escaped, all glanced toward their leader. He waved them back with one hand. Their time would come. She would be theirs eventually.
It was best for now to remain hidden—unseen. Let Faucon catch the wench. Much satisfaction would be gained in taking her from him.
Time and preordained fate was on their side.

Chapter One
“Choose.”
Rhian jumped. The hissed order seemed to come from the very air itself. She nearly dropped the ewers of ale she carried to the great hall.
Choose what?
After rebalancing her load, she swallowed her dread before heading toward the boisterous gathering.
She had not the leisure to contemplate the uneasy feeling that started as little more than a prickle at the nape of her neck and now swept through her limbs like a cold winter wind. She’d not been at Browan Keep more than a few days and had no intention of staying long enough to discover what caused her unease.
This was naught but a temporary haven—one that grew more unpleasant by the day.
And now a formless voice urged her to choose.
Choose what?
“Wench!” The shout came from one of the men in the hall. “Be quicker with that ale.” An order that had been repeated many times this evening.
The act of serving those gathered in the great hall bothered her little, but the drunken louts yelling and pawing at her set her teeth on edge. There was no master at Browan. She’d heard that the lord here had died in a hunting accident and King Stephen had not yet replaced him.
The man who was temporarily in charge had no control over the others, so they ran wild. Their entertainment had risen to the level of a game this night. The more they drank, the more they sought to pull her down onto their laps or to fondle her as she walked by.
While some of the other girls welcomed these advances, she had no wish to be compromised in such a manner. She’d already compromised herself enough by coming here alone in the first place; she’d not make her lot worse.
After slamming one ewer down onto the table with a heavy thud she spun away, successfully avoiding a pair of reaching hands. Slurred curses met her maneuver.
No sooner had a smile of success twitched at her lips, when she plowed into a smelly, beefy wall of flesh. “Ah, my beauty, you show excellent taste.” The man wrapped his arms about her waist, securing her as neatly as herring caught in a net.
Rhian mumbled her own curse. She’d spun too far—right into the snare of yet another lout.
When he sought to lean in for a kiss, the stench of his breath gagged her and fueled her need to escape. She nearly growled before rapping a pitcher of ale against his head.
The earthen jug shattered, leaving her holding naught but the handle. Either his skull was made of rock, or he was too far in his cups to notice, because he did not fall, nor did he release her. At least not at first.
In expectation of the worst, her heartbeat slowed and breathing ceased. The man’s reaction appeared to happen in a manner slower than normal. He shook his head and smiled briefly before letting his arms drop to his sides as he sank like a leaf borne on a breeze to the floor.
Without pausing to see if he still breathed, Rhian ran from the hall into the smaller entry chamber. Boisterous hoots of laughter followed her hasty departure.
As more men entered through the great doors, she bolted past them with a prayer on her lips that the small footbridge connecting the keep to the partially finished inner wall would still be in place. Her prayer answered, she skirted quickly across the moveable planks to the wall.
A chilled wind buffeted her as she raced blindly along the torch-lit wallwalk seeking a way to reach the bailey below. Night had fallen and she was nothing more in this keep than a lowly serving wench who had no business on the wall. She wished to avoid being dragged back into the overcrowded hall. The men would only make sport of her and the other girls would torment her unceasingly.
The tromping of horses’ hooves stopped directly below her. “Hail!”
Rhian froze midstep. Her breath and heart skipped over each other. She clenched her fists at her sides and closed her eyes. She’d no wish to see the danger heading her way.
“You, girl!”
The approaching danger didn’t sound extremely threatening. She took a fortifying breath of air before peering over the walkway to look down at the man in the bailey.
Rhian shielded her eyes from the torch he held aloft. The light flickered across his face. His voice had belied his age. This man was little more than a boy. A squire perhaps? Since he was not demanding to know why she was on the wall, it was apparent he was not from Browan.
“Ah, she does hear.”
When the men around him snickered, Rhian backed away from the edge of the walk. By himself he didn’t appear threatening, but the men with him seemed a scurvy lot and they were many years beyond boyhood.
“I mean you no harm. Just a question if you please.”
The pleading in his voice beckoned her to answer. “I’ve no time for idle chatter, be quick.”
“Is your master in residence?”
“Now how would—” She caught herself. “Nay. There is no master of Browan.”
“Surely someone is in charge.”
“Sir Hector holds the keep until the new master arrives.” Why was he asking her this question in the first place? Had he not inquired at the gates?
“Excellent. My lord will be pleased to hear that.” He tugged on his horse’s reins as if to leave, then turned back to her. “Tell me, are Browan’s gates always unguarded?”
Rhian gasped softly. That explained why this lad questioned a serving wench. What type of imbecile was in charge of the haven she’d found? While it did explain why nobody had noticed her on the wall, it did not explain why during a time of unending battles a sane man left a keep open for conquest. She realized she was taking too long to answer and fumbled for a suitable response. “I…I know not. Perhaps the guards were occupied elsewhere.”
If she valued her safety, she knew that her time at Browan was at an end. She’d leave at first light. Surely there was another keep nearby. One where a residing lord valued his property and those inside the walls.
The young man nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I will bid you good evening then and thank-you for your kind assistance.”
Without waiting for him and his companions to leave, Rhian paced back and forth, resuming her search for a ladder down to the bailey.
The man cleared his throat. When she peered at him, he motioned toward her left with the torch. “If you are searching for a ladder, there is one a few feet that way.” Without another word he turned and left. The men with him followed, their renewed snickers echoing off into the night.
To her great relief, she managed to descend the ladder without breaking her neck. The relative quiet of the inner bailey provided her a small semblance of peace as she crossed the nearly dark yard. The two guards she encountered paid her little heed other than asking her business at Browan. It amazed her that once she admitted to being a serving wench, they waved her on her way. Aye, she’d have no regrets about leaving in the morning. She had no intentions of being in residence when this keep fell to the next enemy who approached.
Rhian leaned against the wall of a shed to rest awhile before heading back to the kitchens. Hopefully, Hawise would not notice her absence until she found a measure of ease for her weary body and mind. While the tenseness left her body, her mind ran in circles. How could she have come here like this? Had she lost her sense of reason? Why did she not just stay with—?
“You! Girl!”
Why did everyone call her girl? Did the clothes she’d filched fit that poorly? She quickly realized her mistake—being seen as nothing more than a girl was a blessing, not a curse.
After banishing her unwarranted ire, she looked up at the man on horseback. In the near pitch blackness of the night, she could see little more than his silhouette. Since he was mounted and accompanied by a host of others, she assumed he was of some consequence.
“Aye, milord?”
“Where are the stable boys? Why has no one come to greet us?”
Disoriented by the night, Rhian looked toward what she hoped was the stable before replying, “There is a great celebration this night. Perhaps all are making merry in the hall.”
“’Tis a poor excuse.”
While she could not discern his features, something in his voice rang familiar, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Nay, she’d been careful to hide her trail. He’d not have been able to find her so quickly.
Confident of the abilities learned at her father’s side, Rhian shook off her concern. All men of rank spoke with that same arrogant tone, making their names and faces blend into one indiscernible toad in her mind. Instead of replying with the barb that wanted to escape her lips, she said, “It is the only excuse I can offer, milord.”
“Why are you out here alone on such a dark, moonless night?”
A question she should have asked herself before seeking refuge in a dark, nearly deserted bailey. Still, her safety was none of his concern. “I just wished for a breath of air. The hall is overcrowded and airless.”
“And have you had your air?”
“Aye.”
“Then return to the keep where it’s safer.”
She jerked away from the shed at his order. Of all the arrogance she’d witnessed this night, he was by far the most…the worst…the—
He moved his horse closer until she could feel the beast’s hot breath on her cheek. She shrank away from what felt like the fires of hell. “Unless you seek to disobey an order, go. Now.”
The urge to argue with him was nigh on irresistible. His demeanor, his tone of voice, his haughty bearing all begged for a good tongue-lashing. Rhian knew that she was more than capable of performing the task. But it would raise suspicion if a serving wench addressed her betters in such a manner.
Suspicion she could not risk.
It took one deep breath to swallow her wayward urge. And another three to become as close to meek and subservient as she could.
“Oh, nay, milord, one such as I would never seek to disobey an order.” She winced at the tone of her own voice.
He ignored her tone. And ordered again, “Go.” In a voice so low, so sinister that it brooked no further argument.

“Choose.”
“Choose what?” Rhian knew her voice was tinged with anger, but cared not. She was tired of being told to choose, tired of being told to do anything. What was she to choose? She glanced around the smoke-filled kitchen in confusion. Outside of half a dozen serving girls, a cook and three helpers, she didn’t see anything that warranted choosing.
“Ack.” Hawise, an elderly servant, shook her head. “Girl, you could pick any man in the hall—”
Rhian’s harsh laugh stopped the older woman’s absurd comment. “And what, pray tell, would I do with him?” It was ludicrous to even consider choosing any of the louts gathered in this hall.
Hawise leaned closer, whispering, “Anything he wants. Anything you want. ’Twould do much to improve your lot in life.”
Nothing short of a miracle would improve her life at this point. And the Dear Lord did not deem it necessary to bestow any grace or miracle on her. Perhaps in truth He didn’t exist. Rhian silently prayed to be forgiven for her blasphemous thought. “My lot in life needs no improving, but I do thank you for your concern.”
“It was not a request, you nit.” One of the younger serving girls snarled as she huffed out of the kitchen.
Another one, a blonde, chimed in. “They are like dogs circling a bitch in heat.”
Rhian gasped. “What are you saying?”
“Since you are neither blind nor dull witted, ’tis a sly game you play at our expense.”
“I play no game.”
“Then what would you call it if not a game? You flaunt yourself in front of our men, yet do not avail yourself of their pallet. They ignore those of us who have always freely made our charms available to pant after the one who gives harder chase.”
Surely insanity had struck the entire keep. “I would never avail myself in such a manner.”
“Oh?” The blonde lifted one eyebrow. “You are too high and mighty for a little dalliance?”
“High and mighty has naught to do with it. I will not compromise myself in such a way.”
The girl motioned toward the others. “Did ye hear that? Milady here will not compromise herself with a man between her legs.” She tossed an errant braid over her shoulder before picking up an ewer and stalking past Rhian. She paused long enough to add in Rhian’s ear, “You know not what you are missing.”
By the time Rhian found her voice, there was no one left in the kitchen except the cook and Hawise, and the woman cackled so loud that Rhian forgot what she’d been about to say.
“What, what…” Hawise finally managed to stop cackling long enough to ask, “What be wrong, little lady? Swallow your tongue?”
Rhian tried to think of a way to make the older woman see the absurdity of the situation. But she could find no excuse that would keep her identity safe from discovery.
Hawise frowned at her in a way that made Rhian nervous. The woman seemed to look through the coarse gown and snarled hair, to Rhian’s soul. Finally, Hawise shook her head before handing Rhian a bowl of sweets. “Take these out to the hall, milady, and bring yourself right back here.”
Oh, heaven help her. Had the woman guessed so soon? “Hawise—” Rhian pleaded.
“Go. Do as I say.”
As Rhian turned to leave, Hawise added, “Right back here. No mincing in front of the men. Leave them for the others.”
Mincing in front of the men, indeed. Rhian looked over those gathered in the hall and curled her lip. There wasn’t a single man here who warranted any sort of attention from her. Mincing.
It would take more than a drunken sot to reduce her to that type of behavior. She approached the head table on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. Not even those seated in this place of honor captured her attention. Least of all the man in charge of the hall, who leaned so heavily on the table that his face was nearly in his food.
Certainly not the man situated to the right of the seat of honor. She wondered if he could see through eyes so red. Rhian gingerly stepped over the man she’d hit earlier and placed the bowl of sweets on the table.
Before she could beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchens, a hand grasped her wrist. “Ah, there you are, my lovely.”
She glared at the man holding her arm. “Let me go. I have work to attend to.”
He towered over her, easily pulling her closer. Close enough to feel the hardness between them. “Yes, my lovely, you do.” The man tightened his hold, grinding his growing manhood against her stomach.
“Sir, do nothing you might regret later.” Her legs shook, but she refused to let him see any fear.
“Regret?” He leaned down. His blue eyes were glazed by drink and a look she recognized as lust. Surely the drink he’d consumed blinded him.
“Oh, aye, regret and more.” Rhian blinked twice to make sure her sight did not deceive her.
Hawise nudged the young blond serving girl closer to the man. “Why would you want a scrawny girl like this?” The older woman nodded toward Rhian, before directing the drunken guest’s attention to the now flirting buxom blonde. “Not when this one here would be more than willing to serve your needs.”
Thankfully, the man’s gap-toothed smile was diverted to the other girl, giving Rhian a chance to pull free. She waited for no orders from Hawise before escaping back to the kitchens.
With Hawise fast on her trail. “I told you to return immediately. Can you not listen?” She dipped a ladle into the water bucket and handed it to Rhian.
“Thank you.” Rhian swallowed deeply, allowing the cool water to wash away the lump that had formed in her throat. “I tried to return. As you could see, I was detained.”
“And I saw that you did little to free yourself.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Kick him. Use your knee. How do you survive on your own?”
Rhian lifted her head. “I have survived quite well until now.”
“Aye. Under your father’s tender care.” Hawise leaned against a support beam before sinking down onto a low stool. “Do not speak lies, I am too old and tired for them. You are no more a servant than I am a lady.”
“You cannot be certain of that.” Rhian paused to weigh her words. She could not afford to give away too much. “It matters little. I will be gone soon.”
Hawise flapped a drying rag in the air and laughed. “Where will you go, child? A woman traveling alone is fair game for all manner of cutthroats and predators.”
“I will manage.” She’d managed so far these last few days. In a manner of speaking. To be honest, she’d happened on Browan Keep quite by accident. At the time it’d been a blessed sight. Now, Rhian wondered if it was more of a curse than blessing. “Perhaps one of the men out there needs another servant.”
Hawise laughed herself breathless. Finally, gasping for air and wiping the tears from her eyes, she asked, “Pray tell, how pleased do you think their womenfolk will be when the lord and master arrives home with a strange female in tow? Not just a female, but an unmarried one such as you?”
“Such as me?”
“Unmarried. Young. Unmarred by pockmarks or worry lines. Just the sight of your smooth face will send the women into fits.”
“What are you yammering about?” Rhian frowned. “I am filthy, ragged. I have nothing to call my own.” She tugged at the high neck of her faded yellow gown. The coarsely spun cotton had not seen a dye bath in more years than she could imagine. It hung on her like the sack it would soon become. “Even this is…borrowed. There is not a lady in the world who would envy me anything.”
Hawise rose and waved her hands in the air. “Girl, you are a fool, nothing but a young fool. I should wash my hands of you and be done with it.”
“Ale!” Shouts for drink echoed down the corridor connecting the kitchens and larder to the hall.
To escape Hawise’s senseless babbling, Rhian grabbed two ewers of ale in each hand, then again headed toward the great hall.
“We will finish this!” The older woman’s warning followed her down the corridor.
Finish it indeed. Rhian knew that Browan Keep would be far behind her by the full light of day. Hawise could finish her lecture alone.
Since many of the men had already fallen asleep in various spots along the floor, Rhian worried only a little about being pawed upon as she deposited the pitchers of ale on the tables. Quickly finishing her task, she turned back to the kitchens, then looked toward the entry chamber at the other end of the hall.
Here was a choice she could make. Return to Hawise’s infernal lecture. Or leave Browan now. The gates were unguarded, she’d not be stopped.
She wiped her suddenly damp palms on the skirt of her gown. She had little else but the clothes on her back. Rhian absently touched the ribbon about her neck. The only item of worth still in her possession hung from the makeshift chain.
The amethyst pendant had been sent to her upon her mother’s death a few short months past. An oddly shaped circle, with a crudely etched dragon in the center. Her breath hitched at the pain of a memory still too new, an ache still too raw and horror that still haunted her dreams.
It would be an easy task to leave the hall. None would notice her absence. Surely she could find the stables once outside. Perhaps if none of the stable lads were about, she could coax a horse to follow her out the gates.
Rhian tugged at her bottom lip. If the horse just followed her out of the stables and gates, would that be considered stealing? She knew the answer the instant the question formed. Yes. If caught, she could very well forfeit her life.
She took a deep breath and decided. A horse would require food she did not have. Instead of burdening herself with the added worry, she would walk. As long as she avoided the road and kept to the forest as she had before, it would be safer and quicker.
The decision made, she straightened her back and walked boldly between the tables toward the hall’s entrance—in her case, an exit.
As she drew closer, the sound of a commotion from beyond the great doors filtered through to the entryway. Rhian slowed her steps. If more men were coming in, she wished not to be caught up in the middle of their arrival. If she hurried, perhaps she could escape their notice.
Both doors swung open with such force that they slammed against the wall with a crash that reverberated throughout the entire keep. Herb-scented rushes that had been strewn on the floor whooshed past her feet.
Rhian silently cursed. She was too close now to avoid the arriving party. She stooped her shoulders and bowed her head—hopefully in a perfect servantlike manner. Perhaps if she just continued on as if she were about her lord’s orders, they would simply let her pass.
Certain the ruse would work, Rhian glanced over her shoulder one last time before ducking into the entryway, to see if anyone would notice. Undetected, she continued through the archway to the entrance and ran smack into a solid, motionless wall of flesh and muscle covered by hard chain mail.

Chapter Two
“My pardon, milord.” The man Rhian had run into did not move. Nor did he say a word. In fact, she suddenly realized that those gathered around him held their collective breath.
Dread curled up from her toes. She closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them and lifting her head until her neck stretched. Only one man could be that tall.
Her single-word curse was far from silent and far from servantlike.
“My, my, such a charming greeting. It matches your lovely attire.” His leaf-green eyes staring down at her narrowed. “Ah, now I realize my mistake. I have spent this last week searching for a lady.”
Rhian knew that his sarcasm was directed at her curse, the ragged dress she wore, her tousled and snarled hair, the streaks of dirt on her now flaming face. Nay, she neither sounded, nor looked anything like a lady.
She’d not fall prey to his snide remark. Instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and met his glare with one of her own.
He motioned to one of his men before he continued, “Milady Gervaise, David will see to your safety until I am able to relieve him.” As an afterthought, he added, “Keep her under close guard. Find a cell, or use your sword if you must, but do not let her escape.”
The young man she had spoken with earlier in the bailey unsheathed his sword with one hand, then held out his free arm. “Milady, if you please.”
She didn’t please, so Rhian ignored him. Instead, she held Gareth of Faucon’s stare. Torchlight danced a merry jig off the silver streaks of hair that framed his face. Those few strands stood out boldly from the rest of the inky blackness.
“Still you seek to order me about?” A smile flitted about her lips. “Your commands met with little success before.” A glance at her broken and unkempt fingernails told her that she’d be unable to claw into his flesh this time. A daunting discovery to be sure, but not one that spelled defeat. Not yet.
“We can draw blood later.” Faster than quicksilver, Faucon grasped her wrist. “It might prove an interesting sport. But for now, just do as you are told.”
Before she could tell him what to do with his orders, he added, “Lady Rhian, I will gladly spar with you soon. I may even provide you the means to slit my throat. But at the moment—” he paused and nodded toward the arched opening into the hall “—I have business to attend. Spare us both discovery and unwanted complications.”
It galled her to realize the truth in his words. She could not afford those in this keep discovering that they’d unwittingly aided a runaway from the king. Her inability to explain would indeed bring about many complications. Nor did she wish for those here to learn she was not what she pretended to be.
Rhian showered Faucon with what she hoped was a withering glare, before hastening back to the kitchens with David fast on her trail.

Any warrior worth his salt knew the advantage of surprise. Gareth of Faucon was no different. He’d learned many lessons from his older brother Rhys—among them the usefulness of surprise in making an entrance.
His advantage would have been lost at another keep where he and his men would have met armed resistance had they ridden through the gates without announcing their presence. However, Browan’s gates were unguarded. A mistake bordering on treason.
Gareth stepped through the archway and looked out across the great hall. He doubted if those men facedown in the rushes on the floor would notice his arrival for days to come. Apparently not all fell to the floor in a drunken stupor.
One man had found his unnatural sleep with the aid of an earthen jug. It didn’t require much thought to guess who had put him in that position. Obviously, Lady Rhian had been displeased with the man.
Most of those still coherent sought a willing body to share their pallet with this night. From the seductive laughter of the servants, Gareth wagered that not many pallets would contain a single occupant.
Since he and his men had not rushed the hall brandishing their weapons, they’d not drawn any attention to themselves. His exchange with the Lady of Gervaise had been brief and unnoticed. Nay, the usefulness of surprise had not been lost in Browan Keep.
An occurrence that would never happen again.
Gareth nodded, silently beckoning his men to follow him, then strode toward the center of the room. “Where is Sir Hector?” His shout captured the attention of all gathered.
Which surprised him, since he’d thought they appeared to be exceedingly drunk. To a man, they turned toward the head table where a poorly dressed figure staggered slowly to his feet. “I am here. Who asks?”
It was all Gareth could do not to supply the answer immediately. But he’d no wish to give any information away until he was close enough to see it clearly register on Hector’s face. He continued across the floor, pausing only when he reached the foot of the dais.
“Gareth of Faucon.” He handed the man a missive from King Stephen. “Your new overlord.” The man did not need to know that the boon granting him control of Browan Keep would not be legitimate until after he delivered Rhian to her kin. A minor annoyance that would be accomplished soon.
His foresight did not go without reward. After glancing at the wax seal, Hector’s mouth dropped open, then closed, then opened again reminding Gareth of a beached fish.
Sir Hector scurried around the high table as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him and held out a hand, motioning toward the chair at the center of the long table. “Milord, please, join us.” He waved toward a servant. “Bring some food and drink.”
“Nay. Belay that order.” Gareth flicked a pointed glance toward his captain, then he slowly walked to the other side of the table. Before he reached Browan’s seat of honor, his men had positioned themselves strategically throughout the hall. Not one door, corridor or stairwell was left unguarded. He knew without turning around, that his own back was also well protected.
Gareth sat down in the high-backed chair and turned his attention back to Sir Hector. “Do you find your service here unacceptable?”
The man appeared genuinely confused. “Nay, milord. Not at all.”
“Then perhaps you could explain a few things to me.”
Hector moved closer to the table. “Would you care for a private conversation?”
“Nay.” Gareth nodded toward the others. “Since my questions also involve the other men, this will suit.”
Those who were not overcome with drink moved closer to the dais. Gareth studied each man, wondering if any would ever be worthy of serving him at Browan Keep. The men who were able to stand steady on their feet peered at their more drunken comrades. They mistakenly thought the sodden members of this crowd would be the ones in greater disfavor.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
Gareth leaned forward on the table. “Pray tell, Sir Hector, how many men guard these walls?”
A frown marred Hector’s forehead. It was hard to determine whether the expression held from confusion or thought. “There are two on each gate, main and postern and six scattered along the walkways, milord.”
Quickly schooling his own confusion to remain hidden, Gareth asked, “And these men are loyal?”
“Aye, sir. Without a doubt.” The man’s chins jiggled with each nod of his head. “Every one of them would give their life for this keep.”
A loud expletive escaped Gareth’s mouth as he rose in such haste that he knocked the high-backed chair to the floor. He pointed at his captain of the guard, Edgar. “Secure this keep. Now. Permit no one else in or out.”
After his captain and half of the men promptly left to do his bidding, he turned back toward Sir Hector. “It seems there is a problem.”
The man’s eyes grew large as he wrung his hands together. “M-milord?”
Sword clanging at his side, Gareth headed toward the exit. “Since the walls and gates are unguarded, there are ten missing men.” Hector gasped, then followed as fast as his obviously now sobering frame would allow. He was nearly trampled by Faucon’s remaining men rushing to catch up with their lord.
Gareth paused at the entryway and yelled, “David!” Regardless of what he found outside, he wanted the lad and that black-haired she-devil secured in a chamber above.
It took several breaths before David arrived in the hall holding a rag to his bleeding head with one hand and pulling a woman along with the other. Unfortunately, the woman was not the Lady Rhian.
The pain started in Gareth’s temples and quickly rushed to settle directly above his nose. He squeezed his eyes closed and wondered if this was what the moment before death would feel like. A sudden pain and visions of his life running through his mind.
He opened his eyes and waited for David to explain, praying silently that the explanation would not be what he feared.
“Milord Faucon.” The squire stopped just out of arm’s reach. “She hit me.” His high-pitched voice gave hint to his lingering surprise. “With a kettle pot. She hit me.” He pulled the woman before him. “And this…this one here tripped me so I couldn’t catch the lady.”
“Lady?” The older woman shook her wrist out of David’s grasp. “Why, she be no lady. Just another kitchen wench.” Her laughter sounded more like a cackling hen. The sound grated on Gareth’s already throbbing head.
She finally ceased the irritating noise and looked at him. “Your boy here will make a fine soldier.” The woman’s sarcastic tone was lost on no one. “He was so busy eyeing the other girls that he failed to see the pot coming.”
David sought to hide his flaming face by staring at his toes. However, tipping his head down did nothing to hide his reddening ears.
Gareth spared David a well-deserved tongue-lashing. In truth, the fault was his own. He should not have sent a lad to do a man’s job. What made him think that David would actually use his sword on Lady Rhian? While the lad was tried in battle, he had not the experience to handle a headstrong woman. A lesson his squire was learning the hard way.
For now, he glared first at David, then at the older woman. “That kitchen maid is Lady Rhian of Gervaise.” When the woman’s expression didn’t register surprise, Gareth narrowed his eyes further. “As well you were aware…ah, forgive me, but your name seems to have escaped me.”
“Hawise.” Sir Hector provided the answer. “She is in charge of the kitchen help.”
“I didn’t know for certain she were a lady.” Hawise’s whine intensified as she twisted the skirt of her gown between her fingers. “I only guessed.”
Gareth pointed at Hawise. “If you would like to retain your position in this keep, you will take David here and the two of you will find Lady Rhian and escort her to my chamber.”
“Chamber, milord?” Hector croaked.
Gareth spared only a brief glance for the man. “Aye. You heard me correctly. A chamber. One with a door that can be barred.”
David shuffled his feet. “Milord Faucon, how…”
Gareth raised his hand, cutting off the squire’s question. “Two of the other men will assist you.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. The idea that it would take four people to retrieve one woman was unthinkable—unless of course that woman was the Lady Rhian.
A maid cleaning up broken earthenware from the floor caught his attention. Against all common sense he revised his order. “Four of the other men will assist you.”
He turned and left his men to argue over the honor of helping David and Hawise. He was certain the losers would demand their weight in drink or gold by the morrow.
A matter he’d concern himself with later. At this moment there were other matters to attend—like discovering how ten men disappeared.
The crisp night wind buffeted him as he crossed the foot planks and stepped onto the wallwalk. Colder than normal, it sent a foreboding shiver down his spine.
Gareth shook off the unfamiliar feeling and surveyed the yard below. Torchlight glinted off the forms of those already searching for the missing guards. Not a single nook or corner would be left undisturbed.
A figure too small to pass for one of the men darted across the yard. When the semiconcealed form disappeared into the shadow of the stable, Gareth took chase. She’d not escape that easily.

Rhian pulled the hood of her mantle more tightly around her face and ducked into a narrow crevice between the stable and the wall. She knew from the shouts of the men that they were on a mission to find something. She just hadn’t determined what that something was as yet. Nor did she truly care. She had her own mission—to escape Faucon.
Not only Faucon, but the King and any who would seek to deliver her into the hands of her kinsmen. For ten and nine years her mother’s beloved family had not so much as acknowledged her existence.
Rhian knew little about them. Only what had been whispered behind her back. It was rumored that they were spawned from the devil. Now, after her father’s death, they sought her return to their fold. They sought to marry her to one of their kind.
She’d sooner die.
Her father had raised her alone and they’d managed quite well without her mother’s family all these years. Somehow, Rhian knew she’d find a way to manage without them now.
After taking a deep breath she hazarded a quick glance around the corner of the stable. Rhian swallowed her curse. Of all the bad luck.
She ducked back into the crevice. Pressing her back against the wall she prayed that Faucon had not seen her. With the direction her luck had taken of late, she’d sooner count on cunning.
If she could not cross in front of the stable to reach the gate, she’d slip behind the building. She inched along the stable, away from the bailey, farther into the darkness. Her foot hit something solid, stopping her escape.
Rhian pushed against the object to no avail. Unwilling to give up the building’s protection, she reached down to shove the blockage out of the way. Her fingertips met stiffening flesh.
She squatted. Gingerly patting the object, she identified the form as a body—a lifeless body. Her father’s love of battle had made her well familiar with dead bodies. Continued exploration revealed chain mail covered in a sticky substance she guessed would prove to be blood.
She scraped her hand across the dirt, seeking to remove the blood before wiping her palm and fingers with the edge of her mantle.
Short of saying a quick prayer, there was nothing she could do for the man. So she rose and stepped over him. Only to trod on what she knew would prove to be another body.
Fear slithered through her limbs. Not of the dead, for they could bring her no harm, but of the killer. What if he, or they, was still about? Rhian’s stomach twisted. Suddenly, the idea of slipping into the total darkness behind the stable held little appeal.
“Nay,” she whispered to calm her racing imagination. The corpses were cold and nearly stiff, surely they were murdered some time ago. Perhaps while everyone else drank and made merry in the hall.
She shook her head in disgust. Had Sir Hector placed guards about, maybe this would not have happened.
Guards.
She frowned. These men were in armor, could they be the absent guards?
She paused, listening to the shouts of Faucon’s men in the bailey. Their brusque cries of “Nothing here,” and “Nay, nothing,” made it obvious that they searched for something. She took another step and nudged yet a third body. Could this be what they searched for so carefully?
Rhian fisted her hands at her side and inched back toward the bailey—away from the dead men. “Holy Mother of God, what do I do now?” If she left without telling anyone of her discovery, she’d not be able to sleep nights. Yet, she’d have to give herself up along with the bodies. Nay. She stopped her retreat. There had to be a way around this dilemma.
While she was seeking to formulate a plan, a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Before she could force a scream past her suddenly constricted throat, a man asked, “Out for another breath of fresh air?”
She didn’t need to turn around to know whose fingers bit into her flesh. “I was seeking a way to avoid you, when I tripped over a few dead bodies.” She saw no reason to lie.
Faucon released his hold on her shoulder, bringing her a brief measure of relief before he grasped her wrist. After shouting for his men, he ordered, “Show me.”
“They are no more than two steps straight ahead, milord.”
Gareth took the torch from the first man who arrived and went to inspect Rhian’s claim, tugging her along.
Rhian was unable to stifle her gasp at the sight of the men. She’d been right—the stickiness she’d felt had been blood. The bodies were covered in it, just like the two men who’d been killed at Gervaise Keep after bringing her the amethyst pendant.
Her head spun. There couldn’t be a connection. Her stomach rolled. The only thing linking Gervaise and Browan was her. She fought to hold her fear at bay.
Faucon turned to his captain. “Edgar, see Lady Gervaise safely to her chamber.”
When his captain offered his arm as an escort, Gareth laughed before securing Edgar’s hand around her wrist. “Under any other circumstance I would not need to say this, but since she has already escaped twice now, let me make myself clear. On no condition are you to release your hold on her until she’s ensconced behind a locked chamber door that you will then guard until I relieve you.”
Edgar bobbed his head. “Aye, sir. You can count on me.”
Rhian wanted to rail against this ill treatment, but as the torchlight danced off the bodies, her throat constricted, effectively choking off her words. Perhaps there’d be a sense of security behind a guarded and locked door.
Gareth waited until Edgar led an oddly silent Rhian away before kneeling over the bodies. At first glance he’d assumed their throats had been slit. But their chain-mail coif protected them from head to shoulder.
While he tried to ascertain how they died, Hector arrived. “Milord, I heard that you—” The man’s sentence ended abruptly on a strangled gasp.
“Aye,” Gareth agreed with the man’s response. “Are these Browan’s men?”
“Yes.” While Sir Hector had regained control over his initial shock, the remnants of a tremor still shook his voice. “Who could have done this?”
“Have any strangers been permitted into the keep of late?”
“No.” The man seemed to reconsider his answer. “The only stranger recently has been the woman you called Lady Gervaise.”
Gareth didn’t doubt for one heartbeat that Lady Rhian would cherish slitting his throat, but neither did he believe she would do so to another.
“There is so much blood.” Hector studied the bodies, then asked, “How did this happen?”
“I’m not certain.” Gareth stood. “Perhaps a thorough examination will shed some light.”
Sir Hector turned toward Browan’s guards and ordered, “Take the bodies to the hall.” He then turned back to Gareth. “Have any more been discovered?”
“Nay. The others—”
Their discussion was interrupted by a hue and cry from the bailey. Both Gareth and Hector rushed toward the commotion.
Gareth drew his sword before pushing through the gathered crowd. “Hold! What goes here?”
The din subsided and one of Browan’s men limped forward. His torn and dirty garments hung from his frame. He glanced from Gareth to Hector and back, then explained, “We were attacked from behind before we could give warning.”
“By how many?” Gareth asked.
The man looked to his companions before shrugging. “I would guess eight or so.” The others nodded in agreement.
Sir Hector asked, “How many of you survived?”
The man’s eyes widened. “We are six here.” The others stepped forward. Each looked as beaten as the next, but at least they were alive.
Gareth answered their unspoken question. “Three were killed. One is still missing.”
Then he scowled in thought. Eight men had slipped into Browan undetected. The same eight men had done this much harm to Browan’s guard. Either the eight were highly skilled, or someone had helped to arrange this ambush. If so, for what purpose?
He turned his attention back to the guards, asking, “Did your attackers say anything?”
One offered a hesitant reply, “Aye, sir. They asked where the princess slept.”
“Princess?” Gareth and Sir Hector asked in unison.
The guard shrugged. “I told them there weren’t no princess here, but they just laughed and hit my head.”
Hector surveyed the bailey and turned to look at the tower. “What would a princess be doing here?”
Gareth followed the other man’s gaze. A multitude of torches lit the bailey and more blazed from the walls.
Far from a rich keep to begin with, the sparse light accented the poorly constructed outbuildings, weak sections in the curtain wall and the downtrodden appearance of the keep in general.
The daunting prospect of reconstruction was overwhelmed by one question. What princess?
A flicker of light from an upper arrow slit in the tower caught Gareth’s attention. Without turning, he issued an order to Sir Hector, “See that the bodies are taken to the hall and see that these men are cared for, too.”
“Milord?”
He heard the question in Hector’s tone. Instead of answering, Gareth only waved one hand in dismissal before leaving to seek answers to his own growing questions.

“You what?” The leader of this small band of men slammed an underling against a tree. He held his forearm across the trembling man’s throat.
“Milord, by the time we made certain the guards were well cared for, Faucon had arrived and we were unable to capture the woman.”
With nothing but a quick flick of the wrist, a razor-sharp weapon slit the underling’s throat.
The leader faced the others. “This will not happen again.”

Chapter Three
Rhian paced the floor of what could only be considered a makeshift cell. With a guard at the door, and the inability to come and go at will, what else could she call this chamber?
She surveyed the small room. Chamber? In truth it was little more than an alcove with a door. She’d seen larger storage huts.
But the size of her makeshift prison was the least of her concerns.
In the last sennight she’d gone from the Lady of Gervaise, to Faucon’s charge, to runaway, to servant and now to prisoner. Those would have been a great many changes over the course of a lifetime, let alone seven days.
What would she become next? An unwilling bride to some heathen devil worshiper?
Not if she could help it.
The question was how to prevent it from happening?
She paced back across the room. Each footstep she took across the cold, bare wood floor increased her sense of defeat.
Nay. She could not give up so easily, not yet. Not while she breathed. She would do whatever became necessary to regain her freedom and her peace-filled life. She would make any sacrifice, any compromise that would provide her a way out of the life King Stephen had arranged for her.
There’d been so much blood.
The unwelcome memory of the two messengers from her mother’s family stabbed at her mind and knotted her stomach. They’d given her the package containing the pendant and spoken privately to her father at length before taking their leave.
The next day, their blood-covered bodies had been found just outside the walls.
Rhian shivered.
Perhaps being in a guarded cell might be a good thing. Even though she chafed at the forced confinement, she knew a measure of safety. Although, that was not Faucon’s intent.
Then again, she could also understand Faucon wanting to make certain she did not escape him again. After all, he was only following King Stephen’s orders.
She paused by the lit brazier seeking warmth. Nothing stopped the spring’s night breeze from turning the chamber to ice. The small brazier would have to be kept burning many hours before its heat would fill the room.
Hours that Rhian did not intend to spend in this cell, or this keep. She clenched her teeth to hold back a scream of frustration.
The thought of being confined was nigh on unbearable. Yet, the thought of escaping into the forest held much less appeal than it had just a short time ago.
Even without these strange murders, she felt buffeted from all sides—King Stephen, her mother’s family and Faucon. Why could they all not just leave her alone? Or at the very least why could they not treat her in a manner befitting her father’s daughter?
Rhian stomped over to the pallet in the corner, plunked down on the lumpy mattress and sighed heavily.
Why? Because now she was nobody. Nothing.
With her father’s death she had ceased to exist. King Stephen had already given her home to another. Her possessions had been carted away with a promise to have them returned to her upon her arrival at her new home.
She’d been left with only what King Stephen had decided she required for her journey and little else.
Rhian absently touched her pendant. What would her future hold? She knew not her mother’s family. Were they truly disciples of the devil, as she’d heard whispered?
She closed her thoughts against the possibility. It mattered little. She’d find a way to escape the future.
The door to her cell banging open with a thud against the wall startled her out of her contemplation. Now that Faucon had arrived, she wondered what his mood would be.
Would he seek to make her pay for running away and thwarting his mission? Would he be angry that she’d hit his squire with the kettle?
He was a huge man compared to her father, or to any other man she’d ever known. She knew full well the distance her father’s wrath could travel. What about Faucon’s?
In all truth, he’d held his anger well so far. A shiver of dread snaked down her spine. With the unknown danger already stalking her, she wished not to deal with any more.
Faucon stared at the door, now half hanging from a broken leather hinge. With a curse he ordered his captain to find someone to fix it.
All of her emotions raced to the fore: dread, fear, guilt, and at his curse, they tripped out of her mouth as a nervous laugh. Rhian slapped a hand over her mouth hoping to stifle the sound.
Faucon spun around and glared at her. “I am happy I could amuse you.”
She arched one eyebrow, then returned his glare.
He inspected the small chamber, then walked across the room and held his hands over the brazier. “You will need more coals. And a bed instead of that pallet.”
Relieved that he was not roaring at her, Rhian patted the straw-and herb-filled mattress on the floor beneath her. “This will do fine for the short time I will remain at Browan.”
“Oh?” Faucon did not move from his position by the heat. Instead, he only shot her a look she couldn’t decipher. “And when do you plan on departing?”
“As soon as possible.”
“And where will you go?”
Rhian shrugged. “It matters little as long it is away from where you think to deliver me.”
Faucon crossed his arms against his chest. “Where I think to deliver you?” He shook his head. “Nay, milady. ’Tis where I will deliver you. What makes you think you have a choice in this matter?”
“It is my life you play with, Faucon. Not yours. Not King Stephen’s. My life.”
“Spoken like a spoiled child who knows not their place in the world.”
“Ah, that is where you are mistaken. I know full well my place in the world. It is nowhere.”
Faucon rubbed the bridge of his nose while he walked over to the narrow window opening. “If a king goes to such lengths to ensure your future is secured, I would say you have a place in the scheme of things.” He turned back to look at her. “Why do you not agree?”
Rhian scooted back on the pallet and leaned against the wall. “He sends me to a family who has not noted my existence since the day I was born. A family I know nothing about except what I’ve heard whispered in corners when they thought I couldn’t hear.”
“I do not believe you would permit rumors and innuendo to overrule common sense.”
“What if those rumors hinted at devil worship and Satan’s trickery? Would that not make a sane person take pause?”
Faucon’s shoulders rose and fell. “Perhaps it might be better to see for yourself. To determine firsthand if the stories be rumors or truth.”
Rhian laughed softly. “Oh, aye. A fine thing for a man to say. If the rumors turned out to be truth you could draw your sword and fight your way out if need be. What will I do to protect myself?”
“You?” He looked at her in surprise. “You set out through a dark forest alone to escape me. A feat that could very well have earned you death, or worse.”
Rhian felt the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I fail to think when I am angry.”
“Truly?” He rubbed his forearm, bringing more heat to her face. “I find that hard to believe.”
“If your sarcasm were any thicker, you’d drown in it.”
“And if your nails were any longer, I’d have bled to death.”
“A strong warrior like you? I doubt that.”
He stepped away from the wall and tapped a hand against his chest. “Ah, she thinks I am a strong warrior. My heart will burst at your kind words. I could take that as a compliment.”
“Take it as you wish.”
After shaking his head, Faucon sighed, then asked, “Where will you go, Lady Rhian? What will you do? How will you live?”
Rhian sat up. “You will release me?”
“Not while I draw breath.”
“Why not, Faucon? I am nothing to you.”
This time, he laughed softly before answering. “Nothing? Milady, you are the task that will secure my own future.”
“How so? What can I possibly have to do with your future?”
A dark look crossed his face. For a moment Rhian thought she caught a glimpse of pain, or regret. It flashed through his eyes so quickly she wasn’t certain if she had imagined the display of emotion or not.
“Let us just say that completing this task for the King will go a long way toward bringing me back in his good graces.”
She frowned. What could Faucon have done to lose the good graces of his king in the first place? “What—”
“I am certain we both have past experiences we would prefer to forget.” He spoke before she could finish asking her question. “Even you.”
“Me?” Rhian shook her head. “No. Nothing I can think of at the moment.”
“No? Tell me something, Princess, why are there men looking for you?”
Her heart jumped. Her father had always called her his princess as an endearment. It sounded strange coming from another. “Princess? I am not certain who you are speaking to, but since only the two of us are in this chamber, I can only assume you are confused.”
“Some of Browan’s guards were only beaten, not killed. The men who murdered the others asked the whereabouts of the Princess.”
Rhian’s mouth went dry. “Have you discovered how the others died?”
“At first glance it appeared their throats were slit. But the chain mail would have made that difficult.” Faucon’s eyebrows met as if he was considering the method of death even now. “I am certain once the bodies are cleaned up that we’ll be better able to discover how they died.”
She rubbed her throbbing temples. “What does that have to do with me?” She needed to think this through before telling him what she knew. Would it help or hinder her cause? She couldn’t decide right at this moment and the men were already dead, so speaking out would do nothing for them.
“Little things. The fact that the murderers are seeking someone. Or that Browan Keep is so poor that nobody of any consequence would come here knowingly, unless of course they were hiding. And the fact that you are the only stranger to have happened upon Browan mere days before this attack on the men.”
“From that you have determined that I am the woman they seek?” It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. She would have come to same conclusion if she’d been in Faucon’s place, but she’d not tell him that.
He said nothing. Just stared at her.
“Faucon, it is nothing more than a coincidence. I only happened upon Browan while walking through the forest. If anyone had been following me, I would think they’d have captured me before I entered these gates.” When his expression didn’t change, she asked, “Have your men found the murderers? Are they still within the gates?”
“Nay. They have searched every corner here and found nothing.”
“Then whoever it was, obviously isn’t looking for me, else they’d still be within the walls.”
“Perhaps.”
A small little voice inside her heart urged her to tell Faucon all. Her mind bade her wait a little while longer. Confused, Rhian sighed. To tell or not? She stared up at him. “Faucon…” No. Wait.
“What?”
“Nothing, Faucon. Never mind.”
He crossed the floor and stood over her. “Nothing? It sounded like more than nothing.”
Leaning back on the pallet, Rhian craned her neck back to look up at him. A position that simply would not do. “Either go stand across the room—” she extended her arm “—or help me up.”
“Nay.” He made a big show of crossing his arms against his chest and shaking his head. “I rather like our positions.”
But when she waved her hand at him, he relented and pulled her to her feet. His palm was warm against hers, chasing away the chill. Rhian stared at their entwined fingers.
Faucon brushed his thumb across the back of her hand. The small movement chased the breath from her. Good heavens, what was this? And why did his hand engulfing hers feel so right?
Rhian backed a step away and looked up at him. Even though she now stood, she still had to tip her head back to look at his face. Far too tall. She really did not like men who were so much taller than she. It put her at a disadvantage.
Firelight danced off the silver strands of his otherwise black hair. Far too wolflike. She’d never been fond of wild animals. They were too unpredictable.
His jewel-toned eyes glimmered like emeralds against his sun-darkened skin. Far too searching, too knowing. How would anyone keep secrets from eyes that seeking? He’d eventually be able to discern her thoughts without any words being spoken. Did he already know that she hid secrets from him?
His square-shaped jaw clenched and unclenched. Far too strong. Stubborn men irritated her beyond belief. They were no fun to argue with because they either lost their temper too quickly, or they sulked in silence.
Without releasing her hand, he tugged her against his chest. Far too muscular. She rested her forehead against his chest, fighting to clear her suddenly foggy mind.
Faucon lifted her chin with one finger, then stroked her neck. To retain a semblance of balance she closed her eyes and placed her other hand on his shoulder. Far too broad. Men with broad shoulders assumed the world and all its troubles could rest upon them. For an instant she wished he could carry her troubles.
“Rhian.”
His deep voice whispered across her ear like a warm caress. Far too inviting. A voice like that could convince her to… Why he could…and she would…and they—
He lightly brushed his lips against hers.
She leaned closer. Her heart jumped to her throat. Her pulse raced in expectation.
He slid his arm across her back, holding her to him. This time his kiss was far more than a feathery brush. Insistent. Searching. Exploring.
When he ran the tip of his tongue across her lower lip, Rhian gasped at the bolt of fire and ice that rushed clear to her toes. He was everything she disliked in a man, yet she would willingly—
Dear Lord, what was she thinking?
Rhian shook her head and pushed against his shoulder. “Release me.”
Faucon instantly unlaced his hand from hers and stepped back, shooting her a rueful look. “I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”
To her amazement, a flush of red crept up his neck. Since he didn’t spin any excuses, oddly enough she believed him. And that belief made not telling him what she knew even more of a crime.
Still, Rhian kept her distance. “There is no need to apologize.” When he didn’t protest the apology he hadn’t given, she walked toward the window and stared out at the twinkling stars. “I was obviously thinking the same thing.”
She heard him approach. Just his nearness put her senses on alert. He caused her heart to race, her breath to catch, her throat to close and her skin to tingle. Rhian knew with a certainty that this sudden unnaturalness, this inability to think clearly, was not a good thing. Thankfully, when she lifted a hand as if to ward him off, he stopped.
Faucon cleared his throat. “Honesty. What a unique attitude.”
“It would be rather hard to lie would it not?” Then why was her conscience snickering?
“Perhaps. But would it not be expected?”
She turned and looked at him. “How so?”
“A man alone with you in an empty chamber. Would it not make more sense for you to feign the injured virgin?”
And far too arrogant for his own good. “And why would I do that?”
He shrugged. “Had someone walked in, would it not have been the best way to avoid unwanted gossip?”
“Even had someone seen us, I need feign nothing. For one thing I care not what others may or may not think. For another, I am a virgin and the only person that will concern is my husband the day we marry.”
Rhian paused and bit her lower lip with indecision. When her conscience threatened to choke her, she finally said, “Faucon, we have another concern at the moment. Something of more importance than unwarranted gossip.”
The tone of her voice, the squaring of her shoulders and the serious, unemotional look on her face, drew Gareth forward. He leaned against the wall on the other side of the window, hoping it was far enough away to make her feel at ease and to calm his still-racing heart.
This woman with her midnight-black hair and shimmering blue eyes could yet prove to be his downfall if he did not watch himself.
Something about her, from her lips that silently begged to be kissed, to the way she fit so perfectly in his arms, screamed a warning. Rhian of Gervaise would prove to be heaven or hell, and nothing between.
A risk Gareth did not want to take, yet could not seem to avoid. If he were a praying man, he would be on his knees now.
Instead, he softly prompted, “And what concern might that be, Lady Rhian?”
He watched her take a deep shuddering breath and for a moment wondered if he truly wanted to know.
“The bodies in the bailey.” She rushed into her explanation. “The blood—so much of it. I’ve seen that before at Gervaise. Two messengers from my mother’s family were killed the same way outside of our gates. The killers were never found.”
She wrapped her arms across her stomach, but never paused. “At first it was thought their throats had been slit, but after a closer inspection it was discovered that someone had pierced the vein in their neck with something sharp, like a nail. Which would explain the vast amount of blood, since it would have spurted out and—”
Gareth raised his hand. “Enough.” He quickly digested all she’d just told him, then asked, “There were no clues, no witnesses? Nothing to give any hint who they were or where they were from?”
“No.” She shook her head. “My father’s men searched for weeks to no avail. Everyone was questioned, but nobody had seen or heard anything.”
Gareth rubbed the space between his eyes. “And now the only additional thing we know is that they seek a woman.” He lowered his hand, glanced at her, and then turned his attention out the window. “A princess, to be precise.”
“I can assure you I am no princess.”
Many a comment rushed to his mind at her declaration, but he kept them to himself. Instead, he asked, “You mentioned two messengers. What did they want? What message did they bring?”
Rhian slipped her hand down the edge of her high-neck gown and pulled out a pendant. “They brought this to me, along with the notice of my mother’s death.”
He reached out to touch the amethyst, pausing to ask, “May I?” When she nodded, he held the stone, looked at the dragon etching, then he turned it over in his hand. He was certain it was only his imagination that made it feel alive, pulsing under his touch. He wondered aloud, “Why is it so warm? As if it’s been held over a fire?”
She snatched it from him and tucked the pendant back inside her gown. “It is only warm from being against my skin.”
Gareth watched the pendant slide into place between her breasts and wondered if her flesh could be that warm without causing her pain. He stepped back, grasping for a different subject. “You said they brought word of your mother’s death?”
“Aye.” Rhian’s voice was a near whisper. “I did not even know she’d been alive all those years.”
“She did not live with you and your father?” Yet another mystery.
“No. I never knew her.”
“You did not find that odd?”
Rhian shrugged. “Odd? I had been told as a small child that she had died. Why would it appear odd?”
“So your father lied to you.”
Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Obviously.” The choked word seemed torn from her lips. She walked away from the window to stand before the brazier.
“Did the messengers tell you anything about her?”
“No. I did not speak with them.”
“Did you ask your father for an explanation after the messengers left?”
Rhian looked at him, her eyebrows raised. “Would you not do so? Of course I did.”
He ignored the tartness of her tone. “And?”
She turned back to the brazier, seemingly intent on chasing the night’s chill from her hands. “I was told that it no longer mattered. That they’d made the best decision for me and for them. I had little choice but to assume the subject was closed.”
This was becoming more of a quest than he’d first thought. Why could it not have simply been as King Stephen said? He was just to deliver an heiress to her mother’s family for her marriage. That was all. No words about mysteries, secrets or murders. Hardly a simple task.
“Your father died shortly after that, did he not?”
Rhian only nodded.
“Would I be too bold if I asked how?”
“Nothing as dramatic as a murder. He was thrown from his horse and died instantly.”
Maybe not dramatic, but he could hear the pain and grief in her voice. “I am sorry for your loss, Lady Rhian.”
She met his gaze and held it for a brief heartbeat. “Thank you.”
“And now I am to take you to your mother’s family and your new life in Caernarvon.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean by that? I cannot let you escape again.”
Her bitter laugh grated on his ears. “With these latest murders, I have no intention of escaping. I meant that my mother’s family is not in Caernarvon. That is only where you will leave me.”
“Leave you?” Her statement confused him. “I will not leave you until I see you safely ensconced with your family.”
“Then, Milord Faucon, if the whispering servants are to be believed, you will be traveling to Ynys Môn, Anglesey and not Caernarvon.”
Gareth’s breath caught in his chest. “Druid’s Isle?” He silently chided himself. Rumors and only rumors. There would be nothing satanic on the isle. Even if there were a few outcast druids residing there, they would have nothing to do with Rhian.
“Now do you understand why I have no wish to join my beloved family? Why I fought you so hard?” Her voice shook. “Why I would rather risk my safety running away than let you lead me to their tender embrace?”
He caught a flash of fear in her eyes and fought the urge to offer comfort. A fight he quickly lost as he crossed to stand behind her.
Gareth rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do not fear rumors, milady.”
Rhian leaned back against his chest as if seeking the comfort he offered. “I cannot help myself.” She turned and rested her cheek against his chest. “I would rather stay here and fight the devil I know, than the one I have never met.”
“Devil? Rest assured, I am no devil.”
She snaked her arms about him. He closed his around her. “I did not mean you. I meant this desire I feel when you are within my reach.”
Gareth stared down at the top of her head. Amazing. A woman who did not faint at the sight of dead bodies. One who would run away and perform manual labor as a servant rather than permit him to escort her to her family. A woman who physically fought him—a seasoned warrior with more than twice her strength. A woman who met and returned his desire with enough honesty to admit it.
A woman who would be worth calling wife.
He swallowed. Where had that ungodly thought come from?

Chapter Four
Gareth stretched his suddenly tight neck. King Stephen had given him a task to complete in a short period of time. He needed to keep his mind on his responsibility and not senseless thoughts that would only get him into more trouble.
And dallying with ladies brought nothing but trouble. His brother, Darius, was proof of that. It was best to dally with whores—at least their fathers would not bring the wrath of God upon you, or your family.
Rhian looked up at him. “Now I have shocked you with plain speaking. Should I care what others think?” She waited for a response. Her piercing blue gaze steadily, silently demanding an answer and sending his thoughts into a worse muddle.
Finally, he answered, “It would take much more than words to shock me.” Gareth diverted his attention to the brazier. But the small fire pot only reminded him of how heated his blood raced while he held her.
He looked out the arrow slit at the stars. The twinkling lights made him wistful, longing for the days when his actions were not watched and analyzed, when his words were not scrutinized by those seeking to besmirch him or his family.
“Nay, Rhian, your words do not shock me. However, this lack of concern for your reputation does.”
Her brittle laughter was muffled against his chest. “I find your concern…touching. And unwarranted.”
“As long as you are under my charge, my concern is warranted.”
“Then release me from your charge.” When he didn’t respond immediately, she stared up at him again.
Gareth sighed before leaving his stargazing behind and returned her stare. “Nay, milady, that I cannot do.”
She stepped away from him and faced out the window. He came behind her and rested his hands on either side of the narrow opening, effectively trapping her with his body.
They were so close, the heat of her anger threatened to burn through his armor to his chest. When she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, he fought the urge to back away from what would surely be an argument she would not win.
“Faucon, if you possess a drop of mercy, let me go. Do not do this.”
“Nay. I fear we are fated to spend a few more days in each other’s company.”
She tipped her head to one side. Her half-braided hair gently swung in the same direction. The pale, smooth skin of her neck provided a stark contrast to the blackness of her hair.
It also provided a welcome distraction from this conversation. Gareth lightly stroked the curve of her neck with his thumb before resting his hand on her shoulder. The tightening of her muscles did not make the flesh beneath his thumb any less smooth, any less inviting to his touch.
A shiver visibly rippled down her neck before she jerked away from his touch. “Stop that.”
Fascinated by her skin’s response, Gareth ignored her order and stroked her neck again. His effort was rewarded when again a tiny tremor vibrated beneath his touch.
“Are you certain I should stop?”
Rhian shook her head before clearing her throat and answering, “No.”
He dipped his head and brushed her neck with his mouth. She trembled against his lips.
Rhian closed her eyes. This was insane. They were arguing about his mission, about releasing her. Yet when he stroked her neck with his tongue the arguing fell to the wayside. She tilted her head to the side, offering him more of what he sought.
The notion that a simple touch of his lips to her neck could cause this flare of desire to rush through her body was unthinkable. It was unimaginable. It was… She leaned against his chest… It was as real as the stars in the sky.
He held her close, his fingers splayed across her stomach, the tip of his thumb resting beneath her breast. When the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet, she reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair.
The bulge against the small of her back let her know that desire coursed through his blood, too. He trailed his lips up her neck, pausing only to whisper in her ear, “Kiss me, Rhian.”
His last kiss had left her confused and breathless. Would it be as heady this time? She turned in his arms and stared into his shimmering, half-closed eyes for a few heartbeats, before pulling his head down.
He held her tightly, her breasts nearly crushed against the hardness of the armor protecting his chest. The uncomfortable embrace was soon forgotten as his coaxing mouth captured her full attention.
His lips sought a response from hers and she answered willingly. A flash of realization captured her mind and her heart as his tongue slid against her own.
His arms around her, the feel of his lips on hers, was right. Almost as if it was meant to be this way. Soon she would be delivered to a family who’d ignored her existence for a lifetime, then to a man she did not know. A stranger the family who’d abandoned her had chosen.
Her heart ached for a return to the life she’d shared with her father. Years filled with someone who loved and accepted her as she was. Years when she did not have to make decisions that went against everything she’d been taught, everything she believed.
As if sensing her mind’s distance, Gareth growled softly, bringing her thoughts back to him, to them. To what she might be able to have for the few days remaining to her.
His gentle touch let her know that he would not harm her. He would do nothing that she did not want. Rhian clung tighter to him. What did she want him to do?
She wanted him to cherish her, to hold her, to take her to heights she’d only heard about from gossiping servants. She wanted him to ruin her for any other. She wanted him to release her. She moved against the bulge in his groin and swallowed his moan.
Gareth broke their kiss, pulling her head against his chest with a shaking hand. “Rhian, we must stop this.”
She took hope in the fact that he did not release her. She could feel the rapid, strong beating of his heart beneath the armor digging into her cheek.
Rhian knew that her success or failure would be determined by her next few sentences. After summoning all of her courage, she leaned her head back and captured his overbright gaze. “Faucon, let me escape. None need know.”
He closed his eyes tightly as if in pain and shook his head. “I cannot. I must fulfill my orders.” When he opened his eyes, he looked down at her with a small smile curving his lips. “My future depends on this mission.”
It was now or never. She had to decide her course of action in a heartbeat.
Rhian slid a hand up his chest, reached up and traced his half smile with a fingertip. “I will make you a deal, Faucon.”
He grasped her finger gently between his teeth and teased it with his tongue before stating, “I am near afraid to ask what this deal might be.”
She swallowed, seeking the courage to continue with her lie, before finally finding the words. “I will not try to run away again if you will…” She sucked in a quick breath. “If you will take me.”
A frown marred his forehead. “Take you?” Realization widened his eyes. “You cannot mean—”
“Yes, I do. Take me with your body, Faucon.” She glanced away, then back before continuing, “Teach me the ways of lovers.”
His heavy groan gave her hope. “Do you know what you ask?”
“I would not ask if I did not know.”
“But you are to be—”
She cut off his words by placing her finger over his lips. “Married. Yes, I know that. I will be married to a man I do not know. A man whose kiss I may not like. A man my unknown family has chosen.” She traced his suddenly tight lips with her fingertip. “Do I not deserve to enjoy being kissed? Do I not deserve a few nights of shared passion?”
Rhian knew she was rambling, but she hoped her lengthy plea would keep him from detecting her true motivation—escape from her fate. “Do I not deserve to hold a memory to my heart? Something to remember when the nights get cold and the days are too long?”
She was unable to read his stare. He did not appear shocked. But neither did he appear to be thrilled with her offer.
Rhian stepped away from him and looked at the floor. “I am—”
The sound of men coming down the hall leading to her chamber cut off her apology.
Gareth gritted his teeth at their approach. With an effort he didn’t realize he possessed, he brought his wildly thudding heart under control before his captain entered the room with two other men.
“Milord, we will have this door fixed in but a few moments.” At Gareth’s silence, Edgar prompted, “Milord? You do want us to fix the door, yes?”
Gareth waved for the men to continue. “Yes.”
He wondered if his voice sounded as hoarse to his captain as it did to him.
While the men worked on the door, Edgar offered, “I will relieve you, so you can go below and eat.”
Gareth cleared his throat. “Perhaps later.”
He wanted to kick himself. He knew his clipped responses would make his man aware something was not quite right.
Rhian turned back to the window, leaning her forehead against the wall.
Finally in control of his racing desire, Gareth faced his captain and motioned the man to join him outside of the chamber.
“Have all of Browan’s men been accounted for?”
“Aye, milord. Three dead, six with minor injuries and one who was worse off. They found him crawling out of one of the storage sheds. He is hurt, but will recover.”
“Good. Were they able to provide any further information?”
Edgar shook his head. “No. But nobody has truly questioned them in detail. Would you like me to bring them to you for interrogating?”
“No.” That was the last thing Gareth wanted at the moment. “Let them rest and I will talk to them on the morrow.”
“Aye, sir.” Edgar peered around Gareth. “They are almost done with the door. Are you certain you do not wish me to relieve you?”
It was all Gareth could do to hold back his laugh. “I am fine, Edgar. See that the others get some food and a place to sleep for the night.”
Edgar frowned before saying, “You need sleep more than the rest of us. I can—”
“No.”
The captain stepped back from Gareth’s near shout. “No need to tear my head off, milord.” He peered at his lord from beneath bushy eyebrows for a moment before a smile crossed his face. “Oh, I see. You have plans for the evening.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I plan to spend the night guarding my charge.”
Edgar’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. After blinking a few times, he frowned, then asked, “Alone? In her chamber? Milord, do you think—”
Gareth cut his man off with a raised hand. “I try not to think of anything other than the successful completion of my mission for the King.” To reassure Edgar, he added, “I will sleep on the floor, by the door, not in her bed.”
Edgar waggled his eyebrows. “Excellent idea, milord. I will see to the men. Then I will return to guard the door from any who would seek to disturb you…or the lady.”
Gareth bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding to his captain’s obvious opinion. The less said, the better. “That is fine, Edgar. I will see you on the morn.”
After Edgar went below stairs, Gareth waited until the men were done with the door before reentering the chamber. He closed the door behind him and dropped the locking bar into place.
Rhian hadn’t moved. Her slumped shoulders spoke volumes to him. He imagined that she was embarrassed, perhaps now even regretted her boldness.
What fanciful ideas had she been concocting with her brazen offer? There was little doubt that the lady was up to something. Most likely she was seeking yet another way to escape her fate.
She’d admitted to being a virgin, but she seemed more seductress than virgin. So her outrageous offer seemed even more absurd. Was she truly that desperate to ruin her future? Or had she lied?
Did it matter to him? Shamefully, he had to admit that no, at this moment it did not matter in the least. Her offer appealed to him more than he could explain.
On one hand the mere idea felt right. As if it was meant to be. On the other hand, he was intrigued by her attempted manipulation and wanted to see how far she’d go. Would she complete the act? Would he? This was not a way to regain honor. It was more like another test to see if he truly had any honor left.
He leaned against the door. “Rhian.”
She turned around, but kept her face averted.
“Rhian, I would like nothing more than to give you a night of passion. But not if you have changed your mind.”
She took a step toward him, stopped and looked at him. “This will remain between us? You will tell no one?”
He started across the floor toward her. His steps slow and steady, unlike his racing heart. “I do not run to all with tales.”
“You will not think less of me?”
“I thought that others’ opinions did not matter.”
She frowned. “In this, yours does matter.”
He stopped an arm’s length in front of her, praying his tongue would find the right words. “You offer me what no other woman has ever even hinted at. How could I think less of you?”
“Will you think less of me in the day’s light?”
Gareth shrugged. “I do not think so, but I do not know for certain.”
Rhian rolled her eyes. “Well, do you think any less of any woman you have…that you’ve…” She stopped, obviously unable to find a word for the act.
While it would be amusing to see what word she eventually conjured, Gareth saved her the search. He reached out and ran a finger down her arm before lacing his fingers through hers. “I would not know, Rhian. Whores are not generally still around by the day’s light.”
With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer until she rested against his chest. “If you have changed your mind, I will go now.”
She shook her head. “Nay. You touch me and I want more. I do not wish for you to leave.”
“And when you speak so, I have no wish to leave.” He tipped her chin up with the side of his thumb. He searched her eyes, looking for any sign of wavering, any uncertainty and found none in her seemingly guileless stare.
She was willing to risk much in this bid for a night of passion. He still did not believe for one heartbeat that she would carry this through to the end.
Gareth briefly touched his lips to hers, before releasing her. “Since neither of us wish for any others to know what we are about,” he said while pulling his tunic off over his head, then unbuckling his sword belt. “You will have to help me out of this armor.”
Rhian laughed softly before stepping back to tug at the laces holding the mail sleeves and his hauberk together. “I have played squire before.”
Her fingers shook as she worked the bindings. It was all she could do to not tear at them, to quickly divest him of his clothing and fall together to the mattress.
Anything to get this over with before she lost all nerve. What had she been thinking?
A few hours ago, the mere suggestion of lying with a man seemed insulting and degrading. Only a cheap whore would permit herself to be used so.
What was she? By offering herself, hopefully in exchange for her freedom, was she any better than those who offered their bodies in exchange for coin?
Since she was the one who would do the using, Rhian felt lower than a whore. What was the penance for such wanton, deceitful behavior? At the moment, she didn’t know. But she doubted if it’d be anything pleasant. In the recesses of her mind, she wondered how long she’d burn in hell.
Finally, the bindings came loose and she slid the long sleeves off his arms. “Bend over.” When he followed her bidding, she tugged at the armor until it finally slid over his shoulders and head. Too heavy and cumbersome for her to handle, she let it fall to the floor with a thud.
He quickly released the bindings of the mailed chausses protecting his legs and tossed them atop the growing pile of armor.
While he stood upright, Faucon peeled his quilted hacketon and sweaty woolen shirt off with one fluid swipe and tossed both on the growing pile. Relieved of the added weight of armor, he stretched and rolled his shoulders.
Clad only in braies and boots, he worked his muscles. Rhian sucked in a sharp breath. Muscles rippled across his chest, bulged and relaxed in his arms and corded in his neck. She had assumed the armor and the clothing added bulk to his size. She’d assumed wrong.
By the heavens he was larger than she thought. How in the name of God had he gotten that big? Surely he’d not been born twice the size of a normal babe. His mother would have died in childbirth.
Rhian’s mouth went dry as she knelt to unlace his boots. He ran his fingers through her hair. She jumped at his touch and came eye level with… By all the saints she could not do this.
But she had no choice. Her numb mind could think of no other way to defy the fate planned for her. She bit her lower lip before returning to the task at hand, but her hands fumbled with the laces. The sudden ineptitude brought tears of frustration to her eyes. Fine whore she would make.
Faucon bent over and stayed her useless fingers. “Rhian, let me.” He released her, sat down on a bench and removed his boots.
She stood, frozen in place, unable to think, or to move. Rhian felt his attention sweep over her before she hesitantly met his gaze.
He briefly closed his eyes and shook his head before beckoning her with his forefinger. “Come here.”
Somehow, as if in a strange dream, she found her feet taking her toward him. Slowly, like a condemned person walking toward her own death.
Faucon pulled her down on his lap, held her against his chest and stroked her back.
Several moments of silence passed before Rhian released a huge breath and relaxed against him.
He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “We do not have to continue. If you want to cry hold, we can stop now.”
Cry hold? Rhian frowned. Did she want to stop? Would that not be admitting fear? Admitting defeat? Since when did she let fear of a thing stop her? But would it not be a wiser move?
This indecision would drive her mad.
She turned to look up at him. “Just tell me if I need be afraid.”
“I thought I was a devil you did not fear.”
Rhian groaned. She had declared that, hadn’t she? “Perhaps I was a little hasty. Should I fear the devil I know?”
“I cannot force myself to believe you would have ever considered so bold a move if you truly feared me.”
Heat filled her cheeks. Rhian admitted, “’Tis not exactly you that I fear.”
Faucon’s soft chuckle raced warm across her heart. “Your imagination is far-reaching. It is not as if I will impale and kill you.”
At the absurd vision his words created in her mind Rhian had no choice but to laugh.
Faucon tipped his head to one side, shot her a boyish-looking half smile before asking, “Would it upset you to know that I have not the vast experience you seem to believe I possess?”
Rhian sighed. Then pulled up the skirts of her gown and turned around on his lap. With her legs astride his, she placed her hands against his chest.
“Disappointed?” His deep voice rumbled up from his chest.
Rhian smiled up at him. “Disappointed?” She shook her head. “Nay, Milord Faucon. I am relieved.”

Chapter Five
“Relieved?” Gareth wondered how any feeling of relief fit into their current situation. His heart pounded like a hare caught in a hunter’s snare. If relief truly coursed through her veins then he was obviously doing something dreadfully wrong.
Rhian answered, “Aye. Relief. You will not be disappointed by comparing my fumbling against countless other women.”
Gareth nearly choked on her skewed logic. But with her fingertips tracing a path across his chest and her legs straddling his, any logic was fast slipping away.
She rubbed her cheek against the hair on his chest before scooting closer. “What do we do now?”
He knew what he should do. Leave. Stop. Do nothing to dishonor her, or himself any further. But a driving need to know how far she’d take this game urged him on.
He could take her like a whore now. No niceties. No kissing or stroking. But regardless of how she was acting at this moment, Rhian was not a whore and did not deserve so little regard.
Gareth slid his hands around her back and worked the laces holding her gown in place.
Hands that could deftly wield a sword with deadly accuracy, shook. Would he manage to undress her before she cried hold? Gareth gritted his teeth in an attempt to refrain from simply tearing the thin fabric of the gown from her body.
Rhian sat patiently, but he saw the corners of her mouth twitch in what he knew would have been laughter at his fumbling had she not bit her lip.
“Laughing at me?”
She shook her head. “No. Never.” He heard the amusement in her unsteady voice.
Finally, the knot came free and he slid the laces from her gown. Rhian slipped her arms easily out of the overlarge dress, letting the fabric pool at her waist.
Gareth traced a fingertip down her neck and across one shoulder. Her flushed skin was soft beneath his touch. As he stroked along the edge of her chemise, his fingers itched to caress her breast. He yearned for more. But when he caught her gaze, she closed her eyes and turned her head away.

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