Falcon's Desire
Rhys stared through the arrow slit and watched the sun sink from view. His heart fell in unison with the light of this remarkably strange day.
He cursed his forced inactivity. The idle solitude permitted unbidden images to form in his mind. Memories that he had not previously allowed to disturb, or interrupt his life, now threatened to overwhelm him.
The rushing thoughts were so vivid he could hear and see them. Shapeless thoughts from years past transformed into actions of now. Rhys groaned at the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. His groans turned to a strangled gasp of horror when the screams of a dying infant and mother invaded his senses.
A sword cutting through his flesh would not be as painful as the piercing wails that rang relentlessly in his own mind. He could hear her accusations and her laughter.
She’d taken a naive, eager boy to husband and had effortlessly crushed his hopes and dreams with her vileness.
“By the Rood, cease.” His growl bounced off the bare walls of the empty cell.
He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of his tower jail. The act did little to comfort him. Nor did it provide the action his body desperately needed to quell the unwelcome memories.
The arrow slit silently beckoned to him. Drawn to teasing thoughts of freedom, Rhys paused before the narrow opening and gazed down at the baileys and walls below.
He watched two lone figures on the closer wall. Unable to hear their words, he could only assess their moods by the posturing of their bodies. The quick motions of his captor expressed her agitation and impatience. While the tense, stiff movements of the man conveyed tightly leashed anger.
They took turns glancing up at this tower while continuing their animated discussion. Obviously, he was the topic of their argument. With a dismissive shrug, Rhys let his attention wander. He looked beyond the outer wall.
A large expanse of cleared land lay between the keep and the woods. No force of men would be able to approach the keep unseen. Not even his own.
The outer bailey of the keep drew his attention. Fires burned inside the thatched huts. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d enjoyed the contentment of hearth and home.
The lingering warmth and joy shared at his parents’ hearth had once made him long for a wife and children of his own. A bitter marriage and too many deaths had driven that childish longing to an early grave.
He rested his forehead against the damp stone wall. What unholy saint drew those thoughts from the bowels of hell?
A key grated in the lock of the tower door, drawing him away from the arrow slit and away from his building gloom.
A young page carried a wooden tray laden with food and set the tray on the floor before turning to Rhys.
The boy looked up at him and asked, “You are the devil Faucon?”
Rhys smiled at the child’s boldness. Only by keeping his voice low was he able to contain his laughter. “Aye, ’tis what some call me.”
The lad squinted. “Why do you not look like a demon?”
Rhys crossed his arms against his chest, then looked down his nose at the imp. “What should a demon look like?”
An innocent knowledge of devils rushed from the child’s mouth. “You should have horns and a tail. How do you wear boots over hoofed feet?” He paused to point down at the tray. “A true demon would not eat this food. It is already dead.”
Rhys kicked his foot toward the tray, forced a growl to his voice and asked, “How do you know I will not eat you instead of this rubbish?” He took a step closer to the boy. “Should you not run for your life?”
The child drew his small shoulders back, held his ground and tilted his head up a little farther. He pointed at Rhys, insisting, “A true demon would not have been captured by—”
“Michael!”
The accusation was cut short by a shout from beyond the door. Michael instantly scampered out of the room.
Lyonesse stood in the doorway. “That child is innocent.” She glowered at him and ordered, “You will leave him be.”
Rhys’s mouth twitched with sorely suppressed humor. He lifted one shoulder briefly. “A child is a delicacy that I have not tasted in many weeks.”
Lyonesse paused. Not one muscle in her tense face moved. Then a look of uncertainty settled on her face.
Rhys provoked the confusion even further. He assumed an air of nonchalance, bargaining, “If you will turn a blind eye to my ungodly appetites I will promise to stifle the child’s screams.” He picked at an imaginary speck of dirt beneath a fingernail and waited for her.
“Have you not yet killed enough innocent people to satisfy your taste for flesh and blood?”
“By all the Saints’ bones!” Had the woman no sense of humor? “I was but jesting.”
She stepped into the chamber, the hem of her overlong mantle trailing across the floor behind her. “Your humor is ill-received here, Faucon. I found nothing humorous in committing Guillaume to his grave.”
“No, you probably did not.”
“’Tis all you have to say?” She closed the door behind her, shutting out the guards. “No apology for the havoc you have brought to my life? No regret for killing an innocent man?”
Every fiber of his being warned him of danger. “I have never taken an innocent life.”
She smiled. “You lie so well.”
The warning grew stronger. Rhys narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
She unclasped the brooch of her hooded mantle, letting it fall to the floor. Rhys’s mouth went dry. Her hair, worn loose, cascaded over her shoulders and down her bare arms. Pale, silken flesh mounded gently above the deep-cut neck of her sleeveless overgown. The bliaut hugged her body like a second skin. She wore no chainse beneath—nothing but flesh showed through the tightly laced openings on either side.
The soft, thin fabric of her gown clung to her legs as she approached. Long, shapely legs carried her almost silently across the floor.
He did his best to breathe. Rhys willed his riotous heart to cease its wild thudding inside his chest. The erratic rhythm made it nearly impossible to think.
“Why, Faucon.” Her whispered words floated like a spring breeze. “I want the same thing that I have always wanted.”
The sweet scent of roses and spice acted like strong ale to his senses. He looked down at her. When had she moved so close? He resisted the strong urge to reach out and draw her against his chest. “And what might that be?”
Lyonesse looked up at him. Light from the wall torches twinkled like stars in her eyes. She smiled and he felt his heart turn over itself.
He focused on her mouth. So near. So ready to be kissed. She trailed the tip of her tongue across her lips and he leaned forward, willing to do the task for her.
“All I want, Faucon, is you.” The sharp, cold point of a dagger pressed against his chest accentuated her words.
Chapter Three
Lyonesse would always treasure the look of surprise and anger that crossed Faucon’s face the moments before his death. It would sustain her in the long, lonely years ahead.
When he reached up to grab her wrist, she sank the blade through the top layer of his skin. He stopped instantly and lowered his arm.
“Faucon, how could you think I wanted anything but your life?”
His dark gaze bore into hers. “Considering what a base clod I have obviously become, I bid you hurry.”
She was surprised by how calm his words sounded. Would he really accept death so easily? “It has taken me months to achieve this moment. Let me savor it a little longer.”
“Oh, by all means, please do enjoy yourself.”
“Always the sarcastic retort? Tell me, Faucon, do you take anything seriously?”
His eyes burned. Golden specks flickered into being. “I take living and dying very seriously.”
Suddenly her mouth went dry. “You may take your own living and dying seriously. What about others?”
“It depends.”
His voice, deep and gravelly, whispered across her ears. She found it difficult to concentrate in the warm chamber. She needed to end this quickly. Now. Before losing her will to see it through.
No longer was waiting for his time to run out an option. She’d come this far—debased herself to catch him off guard. To her amazement and satisfaction it had worked.
Keeping her gaze locked on his, she took a deep breath and in the split second before completing her deed, she wondered if there would be much blood. With all the force she could muster, Lyonesse gripped the dagger, prepared to ram the lethal blade into his heart.
Like a hawk snatching its prey in midair, Faucon caught her wrist in a viselike grasp. “You have two choices, Lyonesse. Either end this now, or submit.”
She stared at the hand gripping hers. The muscles and veins in his hands strained against confining flesh. Blood ran down the front of his tunic. She saw her entire life, her future ebb away as easily as his blood. Swallowing the bile caught in her throat, she looked back up at him. “You have to die. If I don’t do it, Sir John will and he’ll kill all who stand in his way.”
“Fine.” His grip tightened over hers as he forced the point of the dagger deeper into his chest.
Dear Lord, she couldn’t do this. She’d tried. Twice now. And failed. In a whisper, she pleaded, “Guillaume, forgive me.”
Faucon whispered back. “You will never let him forgive you.” Pushing the lethal weapon another hair closer to his heart, he beckoned, “Come, Lyonesse, this is what you want. I am helping you all I can.”
“Stop!” She pushed frantically against his chest with her free hand. “Oh, stop, please. I cannot.”
Entwining his fingers through her hair, he grabbed the back of her neck, stopping her attempt at escape. “I thought this is what you wanted.”
“I do.”
“Look at my chest, Lyonesse. Can you not see my blood run? Does it not give you a taste for more? You are almost there. Why stop now when you are so close?”
She glanced past the blood and stared at him. “I am not like you. I could never kill in cold blood.”
He laughed. “You are more like me than you will ever know.”
“No.” Lyonesse shook her head. “I could never do the devil’s work.”
“Then why do you come to this chamber dressed like a temptress and close out the guards? Who gave you the idea of distracting me with your body, so that you could plant a dagger in my heart? If you think those thoughts came from God you need to think again, Lyonesse.”
She would burn in hell for her actions this day. “You do not understand. If you do not die, Sir John has vowed to see it through. Howard will seek to stop him and when he does…” She couldn’t complete the horrifying truth.
“Do you place such little trust in your captain?”
Lyonesse shook her head. “I would trust him with my life.”
“But not his own.”
She gasped. “I could not bear him to die for my mistake.”
“Then correct your mistake now. Kill me. See it through.”
Her knees buckled. Faucon winced, but pulled her upright. “Damn you, Lyonesse. Get it over with.”
Her breath caught on a choked cry. “I cannot.”
“Then I will end this myself.”
Jerking the tip of the dagger out of his chest, he shook her wrist and the weapon clattered to the floor. Faucon pulled her to him. “I gave you two choices, Lyonesse. The first was to kill me.”
His lips grazed hers. “The second was to submit.”
The warmth of his blood seeped through her thin gown. The heat of his lips tore through her veins. This was insane. Yet that knowledge did nothing to prevent her from leaning even closer against him.
Coaxing her lips to part, he swept his tongue across hers and the fire shot all the way to her toes. Heat and ice both rushed through her at the same time. It left her dizzy, breathless and wanting more.
Faucon released her wrist and wrapped his arm around her. “You were a fool to come here alone.” His hot breath grazed her ear. “What made you think you would succeed?”
Before she could answer, his lips closed over hers. The half-formed response fled her mind.
He stroked her side, his fingertips barely brushing her flesh. Lyonesse shivered from the unexpected contact.
No man had ever touched her like this—igniting fires with a gentle stroke. Not even Guillaume had kissed her in this manner—turning her legs to water and causing her heart to beat so rapidly. Never had she imagined the feelings running through her now. Faucon was just a man and she’d been certain of his reaction upon seeing her indecent clothing. Yet she had not expected him to touch her—or to kiss her.
She’d not expected to become the prey.
He traced across her chin and up to her ear with his lips and tongue. She could no more stop the tremors rushing down her spine than she could stop the moon from rising at night.
Faucon cupped her breast and ran his thumb across her already swollen nipple. “Ah, Lyonesse.” His whispered words against her ear drew a moan from her. His lips against her neck caused her to gasp for breath. He chuckled softly against her skin. “The next time you seek to kill me, do not get within my arm’s reach.”
Threading his fingers tighter in her hair, he pulled her head back.
Lyonesse stared into his eyes. The golden flecks shimmered with life. The fire in her veins cooled instantly. What had she done?
His brows rose and a smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Next time, Lyonesse, I will do much more than just kiss you. I will make you mine.”
She bit her lip as the heat of embarrassment rushed up her face. Pushing against his chest, she swore, “Next time, Faucon, perhaps I will see you dead.”
He laughed at her idle threat. “There won’t be a next time, my love.”
“Do not call me that!” Her gown stuck to the already drying blood on his chest as she pulled away.
Faucon looked down and pried at the cloth, freeing them from each other. “I would appreciate it, if you would summon Howard.”
She backed away and turned to retrieve her mantle from the floor, just as the door to the chamber banged against the wall.
“Again you could not honor Milord Guillaume’s wishes.” Sir John stood in the doorway. His sword already drawn, he started for Faucon. “I told you I would see to it myself.”
Lyonesse grabbed at his arm, but he jerked away from her. “Nay. Do not.”
Sir John paused and looked at her. “Do not?” Narrowing his eyes, he let his gaze travel slowly down her body. His rage, when he returned his stare to her face, was almost tangible. “I see that even you have fallen under this blackguard’s spell.”
Pulling her mantle around her, Lyonesse returned his stare. “Nay. But I will not have him killed. We will let the king deal with Faucon.”
Rhys looked from one to the other. Who was his biggest enemy? Sir John with a heart of hate and a ready sword? Or Lyonesse with a heart of deceit and tongue filled with lies? He’d rather face the sword. At least with Sir John he knew when and where the attack would come. But his unexplained lust for Lyonesse would cloud her approach.
He studied the opponents as they confronted each other. No, his lust was not unexplained. Here was a woman who would fight for what she wanted. A woman who would follow her own form of honor—even if it was a bit misguided. A woman who could contain her fear.
This was a woman who could touch his soul. The thought excited him and terrified him at the same time.
Her last words registered in his mind. “You will permit the king to deal with me?”
Without shifting her gaze from Sir John, Lyonesse replied, “’Tis what I said.”
And he’d just thought her honorable. “Are there any other games you wish to play with my life?”
“What is wrong, Faucon? Do you not like a taste of your own treatment?”
With a curse, Sir John shoved Lyonesse toward the door. Then he turned and brandished his sword toward Rhys’s chest. “Sparring with words is not the way to deal with this murdering scum.”
Quickly glancing about the cell, Rhys spied the dagger. Before he could get his hands on the weapon, Howard and five of Taniere’s men rushed the chamber.
“Hold!” Howard’s shout caught Sir John unaware. After disarming the man, Howard handed him over to the guards. “Sir John and his men will leave this keep tonight. From this moment forward they are to be considered enemies of Taniere and Ryonne.”
He paused a moment and when Lyonesse offered no argument, he continued, “If you naysay me on this, milady, I will lock you in your chamber and summon your father from Ryonne.”
Lyonesse bowed her head and sought to pull her mantle more tightly around her, but Howard saw the bloodstains on the front of her gown before she could hide them. Grasping her arm, the captain exclaimed, “You are injured. What has happened here?”
Pulling away, she reassured him, “I am fine.”
Howard glanced at Rhys, back to Lyonesse and finally chose Rhys. “What have you done?”
Rhys shook his head. “Me? Nothing.”
“Milady Lyonesse?”
“I said I am fine, Howard. Leave it be.”
“Then how did you come to be covered with blood? If you are uninjured, then I assume it is Faucon’s.”
“An accident.”
Rhys wanted to laugh at the pair. Where had Taniere’s vicious kitten gone?
“Lady Lyonesse, I told you to stay away from this cell. Why did you come here alone? Who dismissed the guards?”
Straightening her spine, Lyonesse glared at the captain. “I dismissed the guards. They are, after all, my guards.”
Much better. Rhys was pleased to see her return to normal. Since the two of them were obviously distracted, he took the opportunity to snatch the dagger from the floor.
Howard did not seem the least impressed with Lyonesse’s demeanor. “Did Faucon’s blood just suddenly run from his chest unaided?”
She lifted her chin a notch and lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Perhaps.”
Rhys took a step forward. If he could get his hands on Lyonesse, maybe he could use her and the dagger to escape. “No, my blood was quite content in my body before she entered this cell.”
She pointed at Rhys. “But he—”
“Cease!” Howard cut off her reply. “I have heard enough. I still insist that you do not have enough proof to know if Faucon murdered Guillaume or not. Call an end to this, Lyonesse. Send out a ransom note and be done with it.”
Even though a ransom would be an accepted action, Rhys would not stand for that plan. It was unacceptable to him. “It would be better if you would just let her kill me now than wait for ransom.”
Howard scratched his chin in confusion. “And why is that? It makes little sense.”
Rhys pointed at Lyonesse. “Ask her.”
She leaned against the rough-hewn door frame and smiled.
Howard rolled his eyes to the ceiling before focusing his attention on her. “What have you done now, milady?”
“Did you know that if Faucon cannot locate someone to take the blame for killing Guillaume that he will be forced to prove his innocence in a trial by combat?”
The captain looked to Rhys for confirmation. “Yes, she is correct, but she left out one important detail.”
Her smile grew. “Oh, silly me. Yes. He only had a month to accomplish his task.” She paused and shrugged one shoulder. “I will not release him in time.”
Gripping the dagger he still held behind his back, Rhys quelled his temper. “I know you hate me. I seek not to change that. But what has my family done to make you hate them so?”
She frowned. “Nothing.”
“If you follow through with this plan, you will be taking everything away from them.”
“I thought you did not fear death, Faucon? I thought none could beat you in battle? What trick do you now play?”
Rhys laughed bitterly and then looked at Howard. “I play no trick. This trial by combat will be a farce. Guillaume du Pree’s holy man will arrange the combat, ensuring that success will be his.”
“Surely you see the folly in this course of action?” Howard pleaded with Lyonesse. “Milady, please, you cannot permit this to happen.”
Rage contorted her face. She stepped away from the door. “Permit it to happen? What do I care if his family loses everything? What about me? What about all I have lost already and stand to lose in a few short weeks myself? Where has your loyalty gone, Sir Howard?” Her voice rose with each question. “What do you care that we will be forced to leave Taniere? You will simply assume your duty under my father’s command. I will be left with nothing and Taniere will no longer be in my family’s possession.”
Racing by a stunned Howard, she yelled, “I will not permit that to happen.”
Rhys was ready for the woman who literally flew at him. Catching her unaware, he wrapped his arms around her to stop her renewed assault on his already injured chest. When he did so, Howard saw the dagger and paled.
Rhys looked toward the door. Freedom beckoned. Tightening his grip on the dagger he drew his gaze back down to Lyonesse. He saw not the defeat of a vanquished foe, but the bitter agony of a young woman.
Rhys held Ryonne’s daughter in his grasp. Ryonne was a trusted ally. Surely the man’s daughter possessed a small measure of his honor. He’d already seen a glimmer of her loyalty and honor. Had grief caused her to become irrational? Could he take advantage of her and still live with himself?
So much had already been taken from her. Her betrothed. And soon her keep. No wonder she was at her wits’ end. Rhys could not take her pride. ’Twas all she had left. He would find another way out of this predicament.
A sliver of light flashed across his face. The gleaming tip of Howard’s sword pointed at his face with unwavering accuracy. Rhys relinquished the weapon he held to Howard’s outstretched hand.
Ignoring her halfhearted attempts to free herself, Rhys drew Lyonesse closer and held her face against his chest. “Hush.”
Whispering meaningless words of comfort, his thoughts raced to his sister’s inconsolable grief at their parents’ graves. Compassion flooded his heart. He was stunned by the urgent need to comfort the woman in his arms.
“Count Faucon. Nay, you must not. You cannot. ’Tis not seemly.”
Without looking at the man, Rhys shook his head at Howard’s half-completed sentences. He also paid scant attention to the meager struggles of the woman he held against his chest.
“Aye, you are correct, Howard. I should not.” His accusing gaze met the captain’s look of concern and illconcealed fear. “But do you not think someone’s lack of heart brought us all to this point? Why did nobody realize how du Pree’s death distressed your lady?”
For an answer Howard stared at the floor.
“Good lord, man, is there no one here who cares for your lady?”
While the captain walked out the door and issued quiet orders to the guards, Rhys stroked Lyonesse’s back.
Trembling fingers gripped his tunic. Her startling reaction surprised him. The warmth of tears seeped through the fabric of his clothing. Her choked sobs tore at his heart.
After lifting her in his arms, Rhys crossed the room and sat down on the floor. Resting his back against the wall, he settled her on his lap.
Gently, he pulled her tear-streaked face to his shoulder, coaxing, “’Tis all right, milady, I will not harm you.”
He fought the warring of his head and heart. He needed to find du Pree’s murderer. His own carelessness had allowed this woman to capture him. He was probably foolish to relinquish his chance at escape.
He should be angry. He should hate Lyonesse of Ryonne. But as illogical as it was, he didn’t. Against his better judgment, against all the memories his mind conjured, he felt something for this she-devil that he’d never felt before. Something in her pain and rage called out to his own.
Her sobs lessened, but her tears still warmed his chest.
He could not leave Lyonesse to live with her mistaken notion about him. Why it mattered, he did not know. Nor did he care to delve into any of his irrational reasoning this day.