Читать книгу Falcon's Heart - Denise Lynn - Страница 11

Hampshire, England

October 19, 1143

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your toss, milord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ashforde…Ashforde…I know that name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. In a game of dice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not as a prisoner needing rescue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marianne gasped and strengthened her struggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or you’ll do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is where I stabbed you.”

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

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

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