Loe raamatut: «Falcon's Love»
Praise for Denise Lynn
FALCON’S DESIRE
‘With revenge, romance, intrigue and passion at its hottest, Ms Lynn has truly penned a story that ranks high with the best romances I have ever read…A definite keeper.’
—Romance Reviews Today
‘A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.’
—Historical Romance Writers Review
‘This medieval romance has all the things that I enjoy reading in a book: a mystery to solve, and a hero and heroine who hate each other so much that when they finally realise they are in love, it’s explosive!’
—The Best Reviews
FALCON’S HONOUR
‘Non-stop action, a marvellous captive/captor plotline, a hint of fantasy and more than a touch of passion converge, making this book a memorable romance and a feast for fans of medieval romance.’
—RT Book Reviews
“Was it easy to forget our marriage? Did you go as willingly to Thornson’s bed as you did mine?”
“Do not be crude. What choice did I have?”
“You could have said no. We’d exchanged vows.”
Marguerite had expected this. But the deadly tone of his voice brought a breathless gasp out of her lips. “I spoke but a promise to you. Not all promises can be kept.”
“It was much more than a simple promise.” Darius stepped towards her. “It was a vow made to me, before God, before witnesses. A vow to be my wife.”
She pushed him away. “Do not do this, Darius. We were impetuous children who acted on a whim. Nobody, not the King nor the Church, would hold us to those vows.”
“Children? Impetuous children?” He grasped her arms. “Did you love Thornson?”
She nodded, then thought to turn the tables. “What about you? Do you not care for your wife?”
“I cared a great deal for my wife. To my misfortune she cared not enough.”
Marguerite was stunned to realise he talked about her…
Award-winning author Denise Lynn has been an avid reader of romance novels for many years. Between the pages of books she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and neverending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance.
Denise lives with her real-life hero, Tom, and a slew of four-legged ‘kids’ in north western Ohio, USA. Their two-legged son, Ken, serves in the USN, and comes home on occasion to visit and fix the computers, VCRs or any other electronic device Mum can confuse in his absence. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website, www.denise-lynn.com
Falcon’s Love
Denise Lynn
MILLS & BOON®
MILLS & BOON
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For Mom, with love.
Prologue
Falcongate Normandy, Late Spring 1142
A small brazier provided light in the one-room hunter’s cottage. They would supply their own brand of heat to warm the tiny chamber.
He slid beneath the furs on the narrow cot, then gathered her close. She came to him willingly, pressing the length of her body against his.
Her head rested just below his shoulder, her shaking breath blew hot against his chest. Stray curls from hair as bright as the summer sun tickled at his neck.
Her skin was so soft and smooth, like the fluffy softness of a rabbit. He stroked her slender naked limbs, reveling in the knowledge that she was his. She trembled beneath his touch, her nervousness making him feel bold and protective at the same time.
The thought humbled him and he silently swore to protect her always. Had he not recently vowed to keep her safe, to honor her, to love her for all time?
This night they would learn of passion and desire together. They would bind the vows they’d shared with love.
“You would think a Faucon would know not to let down his guard.”
Darius of Faucon jolted out of his dream at the statement. He’d fallen asleep while fishing and had not heard the men approach. His first instinct was to grab the weapon lying at his side. But the tip of a sword steadily pressed to his neck kept him in place against the tree he’d leaned against earlier this day.
He squinted against the blazing sun and counted eight blades pointed at his chest. He glanced toward the next tree and saw Sir Osbert in the same predicament. Darius felt a measure of relief knowing that the aging captain of his guard had come to no harm.
From the tenseness of the man’s stout body and the bushing of his near-white eyebrows, Darius doubted if Sir Osbert shared that relief. One thing was certain, had these armed men wanted either of them dead, they’d already be conversing with those in the afterlife.
Darius stared at the man leaning closest to him and asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The man stood, sheathing his blade as he did so. “King Stephen and Queen Maud wish a favor.”
Though Darius was thankful to have been awoken from a dream that had haunted him nightly for nearly six years, he asked, “They could not simply send a missive?”
“They did. No one responded.”
Obviously the request had been sent to Faucon Keep. He’d not been on his brother’s property for a fortnight now. Instead, he’d taken up residence at the smaller and more secluded holding of Falcongate. Situated along a lazy river, it suited his needs for the moment.
Darius informed the man, “Comte Faucon is recently married and has not yet arrived home. The king knows this.”
“Aye, and your other brother is encumbered elsewhere. That is why Queen Maud sent us directly to you. She thought you might be here instead of at the main keep.”
“Obviously, she was correct.” Darius rose, silently cursing the queen for remembering this holding. “What do they want?”
“An exchange.”
The humor evident in the man’s voice gave Darius pause. “Exchange of what?”
“A favor for your traitorous life.”
“Traitorous?”
The man shrugged. “It seems proof has been given to place you in league with Empress Matilda.”
The possible repercussions of that statement brought Darius’s heart to a near standstill. “Who makes this wild accusation?”
The man’s smirk widened. “Queen Maud.”
Darius gritted his teeth to capture a shout of frustration. This false accusation was nothing but a game. A game the king and queen would play to ensure his immediate cooperation. A game where his life would likely be the only prize.
A game he obviously had no choice but to play. “And what…favor causes King Stephen and Queen Maud to employ such extreme measures to gain my assistance?”
The man nodded. “Good. You seem to understand the importance of this request.” He waited until Darius was joined by his captain before continuing, “It is a simple task.”
Sir Osbert snorted in disbelief. Darius shared his man’s opinion. Simple would likely translate to a mission requiring much gold, men and risk. He motioned for the man to explain. “Define what this simple task entails.”
“Lord Thornson has died. He leaves behind a widow.”
Likely a widow requiring a new husband. Darius swallowed before asking, “And they wish me to do what?”
“You are to take and hold Thornson Keep until the king and queen can find a man suitable to be a husband for the lady and a master for the keep.”
Darius’s exhale of relief escaped in a rush at the knowledge that he was not this suitable man. Then he realized that Thornson Keep was near the border of Scotland. It would put him not only weeks away from Falcongate, but on the edge of the enemy’s territory. “A simple task to be sure.”
The man’s wicked chuckle preceded an ominous warning. “There is more.”
Of course there would be more. Darius closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I am not surprised.”
Chapter One
Thornson Keep, Northeast coast of England Early summer, 1142
He had never found much pleasure in killing another, but Darius of Faucon was certain that battle would provide more engaging action than tracking down smugglers for the king. If nothing else, at least he’d be on the back of a sturdy warhorse and not lying on his belly in the cold mud staring over the edge of a cliff.
To keep the hilt of his sword from digging any farther into his flesh, he shifted his position on the ground. After two nights of this, nothing he did helped much. With the coldness of the earth, the hardness of his chain mail and the cursed dampness of the night, he doubted he’d ever again find comfort, warmth or even a measure of dryness.
He peered over the edge of the cliff, down at the flickering torchlight below. The figures on the beach hustled to meet boats landing on the shore. They lifted trunks and bags out of the four small vessels, carried them across the beach and disappeared into the cliffs. Only six men guarded the operation on the beach. The guards appeared to stand close to each other, instead of spreading out to keep their cohorts safe. Judging by this lack of concern for safety, he doubted there were any others farther up the shoreline.
Darius glanced up at the position of the moon. Each night at the same time, men had lit torches on the beach to guide the boats to those standing at hand to unload the cargo. King Stephen’s fears were valid—a smuggling operation existed in Thornson.
And Darius had but a month to root them out.
No sense in waiting. They’d confront the smugglers this night. He scooted back from the edge of the cliff, rose and motioned to Sir Osbert. At least one of his “simple tasks” could be completed on schedule. First one mission and then the other.
Sir Osbert had the men ready for action when Darius met them a short distance from the cliff. Without a word, he led the men along the edge of the cliff as it sloped down to meet the beach.
Once on the pebbled shoreline, they kept their backs to the rocky wall as they moved closer to the smugglers. Just as Darius had surmised, the outlaws kept no guard on the outskirts of their operation, so certain were they of their safety. How long had they enjoyed free run of Thornson?
One of the many questions he’d have answered before his missions were completed…
When they neared the smugglers, Darius nodded to his men, drew his sword, stepped away from the rocks, then shouted, “For King Stephen!”
Men scattered. Those closest to the vessels jumped inside the boats and quickly rowed away, taking the remainder of their cargo along. Those on the beach who did not run into the mouth of the cave dropped their loads, grabbed their weapons and raced toward Darius and his men.
Three of the smugglers fell with the first clashing blows from Darius’s men; the criminals were no match for armed warriors. Those who’d been standing guard gave but a halfhearted effort to defend themselves. When it soon became obvious that Darius’s men had gained the upper hand, one of the outlaws shouted, “To the lady!”
At the man’s command, the remaining smugglers and their guards turned and raced into the cave. Certain the man who’d shouted must be in charge of the others, Darius pointed at him and ordered, “Take him alive.”
He wanted all the information he could gather to take back to King Stephen, along with the name of the person backing this operation.
Sir Osbert quickly nabbed the man and held him at sword point. “Milord, shall I make him talk?”
Darius took one look at the unholy gleam in Osbert’s eyes and shook his head. “Nay, it would be easier to discover what he knows while he can still breathe.”
At that moment, the captured smuggler yelled, “Never.” Then he threw himself at Osbert’s sword.
Caught off guard, the captain had no time to move his weapon before the man impaled himself on the blade. “Good Lord, man.” Osbert pulled his sword free and let the man fall to the ground.
Darius cursed, then knelt beside the dying man. “Give over. Tell me who you serve.”
The man’s laugh gurgled through his parted lips. He shook his head. “No.”
“Which lady do you seek to protect? The Empress Matilda? The Lady of Thornson?” Darius frowned. Determined to gain any scrap of information he could, he grasped the man’s shoulders and offered, “Go to your maker with a clean heart. Tell me and I will see you are buried with the blessing of the Church. Matilda or Thornson’s lady?”
“Aye.” The man’s whispered answer was barely audible.
“Who?” Darius leaned down to better hear the answer, but the only sound that met his ears was the lapping of water at the edge of the beach. The man heaved one last breath and died.
Darius released the body. What could have been the end of one task was now reduced to a gain of nothing.
“Milord, shall we follow the others into the cave?”
Darius glanced from Osbert to the approaching sea. The incoming tide would soon crash against the rocks. Any caught between the sea and the cliff would be crushed.
He glanced at the steep rock face. The darker waterline high above them was visible in the moon’s light. The height made following the smugglers into the cave dangerous: water would soon flood the unfamiliar escape route.
Since the possibility of a watery grave was not to his liking, he answered Osbert, “Nay. There is no more time this night.” Darius rose and waved toward the dead bodies of the smugglers. “Gather the dead.”
“Why not leave them here for the sea to bury?” Sir Osbert shrugged. “Let their death befit their deeds.”
“I will not have that on my soul.” Darius stared down at his captain. “Gather the dead. Take all but this one to the church in Thornson and let the villagers deal with them in whatever manner they desire.”
A solitary figure backed farther away from the mouth of the cave, into the safety provided by the network of tunnels. He clenched his jaw with helpless rage, then whispered, “Fools.”
These strangers knew not with whom they dealt. Swift and deadly justice would be their prize for interfering in things they did not understand.
He was sick unto death of serving another. It was time he answer only to the king. He deserved that privilege. Surely none would disagree. He would see to the strangers’ deaths himself. He had already risked much—even murder—to get this far. It would be only right that he be the one to hold the sword to their necks.
The sea pounded against the rock cliffs, echoing like thunder across the open grassy land between the forest and Thornson Keep. On such a clear, sunny morning the rumbling echoed ominously.
From the cover of the trees Darius stared up at the great stone keep. The sound of the crashing waves reverberated through him, providing the perfect setting for the coming attack.
The king had given him the men, arms and gold needed to complete this part of his task—to take and hold Thornson Keep. After studying the keep’s layout, he had assumed his force would be more than enough—he couldn’t have been more wrong.
They’d rushed the keep repeatedly yesterday to no avail. As far as he could tell, Thornson’s force had been decreased by four men. But Darius had lost one of Faucon’s men when the scaling ladder was pushed away from the wall and the man hit the hard earth, snapping his neck. Hopefully, his brother the Comte would take the situation into consideration when he learned the news.
Darius took another look at the parchment with the building plans before crumpling them and tossing the useless information to the ground. He stared back up at Thornson. It was more fortress than keep.
Continued battling would be a waste of time and lives. He and his pitiful band of men could batter at the gates until the world ended and it would make no difference to those inside.
The thought of laying siege crossed his mind—briefly. Darius’s instincts warned him that he and those with him would die of old age before Thornson’s stores dwindled.
How was he to hold the keep if he could not find a way to gain control?
And why did the king seem not to know of this situation? Perhaps he did know and simply did not care, or think it worth mentioning.
Sir Osbert joined him at the edge of the clearing. “Milord, have you done something to anger King Stephen or Queen Maud?” Osbert’s stare remained on Thornson.
“Besides the false accusations they lay at my feet, nothing I am aware of comes to mind.”
“How do they expect you to take and hold this keep?” Osbert swung around and looked at Darius. “We would need more than twice the manpower we have.”
“I know.” His captain was correct. Thirty men would not be able to breach Thornson’s thick, stone walls. “I thought we would try the direct approach next.”
“The direct approach?”
“Aye.” Darius stared at his captain, waiting for the objections sure to come.
Osbert widened his eyes. “You think to just ride up to the gate, accuse them of being traitors and demand they hand over the keep?”
“It is worth a try.” In truth, Darius held little hope that the tactic would work. While it would be an easy thing to lay the smuggling operation at Thornson’s feet, it might not prove as easy to place that burden on the traitor’s widow.
However, he had a gut feeling that someone at Thornson might want the dead body currently draped across the back of one of Darius’s horses.
“But, Milord…”
“Even if we do not accuse them outright, Thornson died months ago.” Darius cut off his man’s further objections. “His widow holds the keep. Do you think she enjoys the work and responsibility something that size requires?” When Osbert said nothing, Darius continued. “If that isn’t enough incentive, surely someone wishes to lay claim to the body we possess.”
Osbert sat back in his saddle, contemplating Darius’s explanation. Finally, the man nodded. “Aye, it is worth a try.”
“I am glad you agree.” His sarcasm was clearly lost on the captain. Darius pulled a rolled parchment from a strap on his saddle. “And if either of those ideas fails, perhaps the king’s written orders will help convince Thornson’s lady to see reason.”
Sir Osbert nodded, then turned his horse around. “I will gather a few men to join us.”
“Four archers will be enough.” While Darius held little hope that this would work, he was not foolish enough to think it held no risk. The archers could provide the cover needed if they had to beat a hasty retreat. “And we’ll take the body with us to the gates.”
Osbert and the archers joined Darius in a few minutes. Darius led them out of the woods wondering if it would be a bad day to die. He squinted against the bright sunlight and hoped the Saints would be for him and not against him this day.
He, the four archers, Osbert and the horse with the body slung over its back crossed the expanse of open land toward Thornson.
The wind howled, buffeting them with a force that threatened to knock them from their mounts.
Darius kept his gaze trained on the wall. Though Thornson’s men peered between the crenellations, none had aimed arrows at Darius or his companions. Still, he did not relax his focus. They were only halfway to the keep and anything could happen. In less than a heartbeat circumstances could reverse. A single, well-placed arrow could change everything.
Not that any would mourn his death. His father had disowned him years ago when Darius had foolishly taken his future into his own hands.
He blinked. What had brought that thought to his waking mind? Until this moment, the memories of his young wife and the wrath of both fathers had plagued him only in his dreams.
Darius rolled his shoulders, seeking any action that would take his mind off the insanity of the past. There was plenty to concern him right now. Smugglers to rout, a keep to hold, and now, less than a full month to complete his missions.
And his mind wished to dwell on things long dead?
He never should have returned to Faucon. He should have stayed away and let the rumors of his demise flourish and grow unchallenged. That would have been the easier thing to do.
But when had he ever chosen the easier way?
Darius silently cursed his womanly concerns into nothingness.
They drew nearer the walls of Thornson. He motioned to Sir Osbert to lift his banner. It was time to see if his direct approach would succeed or fail.
The brilliant green silk unfurled and whipped in the strong winds. Would those on the wall recognize the black falcon? And would they realize the folded wings and closed talons were a position of peace, not war?
Lady Marguerite of Thornson leaned against the saw-toothed wall surrounding the keep, fighting to keep her wits about her. Whenever she thought it was not possible for life to get worse, it somehow did.
Two nights ago they’d lost Matthew on the beach, along with at least three of the villagers. Yesterday, four of Thornson’s guards had died while fighting off this force attacking her keep.
All knew the day would come when King Stephen’s men approached their gates. In truth, she was surprised it had taken this many months.
Thornson Keep was too strong, too rich and far too strategically located for King Stephen to ignore for long. The keep was a veritable fortress near the border of Scotland. He needed the men and the gold this property could supply. Little did he know that these men were loyal to Thornson alone. And Thornson’s loyalties had been bought by Empress Matilda.
If Stephen would investigate the rights he’d issued, he’d soon realize that Thornson far exceeded what had been granted. This adulterine holding was no tower keep constructed of timber, with useless wooden palisades to protect those inside.
By the good graces of Empress Matilda and her uncle, King David of Scotland, just a short two days’ ride to the north, Thornson had quickly grown and prospered.
And while they had not denounced King Stephen outright, they openly remained loyal to those who had helped them. It was a game Thornson played. A dangerous game to be sure, but one he’d seemed to enjoy. It had kept him out of Stephen’s useless battles until the end.
She wrapped her arms about her waist. She’d not thought of his death for many weeks now and had no wish to revive that nightmare. It was better to remember her husband alive.
The Lord of Thornson had been old, so nobody had deemed him worth notice. A foolish mistake. She shifted her gaze toward the pounding sea. It thundered with an intensity that had fired her elderly husband’s blood. His passion had been poured into completing this keep before he left this world…for her.
She’d arrived at Thornson with naught but the naivete of a girl ten and five. The keep had seemed more of a guardhouse for the men and stables for the horses, than a keep. Now, a little over six years later, Thornson had become a fortress built to keep her safe.
She turned and surveyed the work Henry had seen completed. Two thick stone walls surrounded Thornson. An enemy could batter away at them for a lifetime and not gain entrance.
The inner courtyard housed the men, their horses and practice grounds. The grounds had seen much use since their completion.
The outer courtyard served as a gathering place and a market of sorts. Here, the villagers came to buy and sell wares, and to share the local gossip and news.
At the northeast corner rose the keep itself. Steep, jagged cliffs served as the back wall to the keep. With the constant surging of the sea, nature had created a safer, more secure wall than man. None could scale the slippery, sheer rock face.
“Milady.”
Jerked out of her thoughts, she looked at Sir Everett, Thornson’s captain of the guard. “Yes?”
He nodded toward the field. “They approach.”
She gasped and turned. She’d expected them to once again charge full strength toward their certain death. Instead, only six men rode forward. Six men and one riderless horse.
She swallowed an unladylike curse. Matthew. There was little doubt in her mind that the body draped across the back of the horse was he. When the others had returned the night before last they’d recounted the battle on the beach and how Matthew had foolishly called out for them to return to her.
How many times had she begged them to cease their nighttime activities? She’d warned them that eventually this would happen. Now it had.
When she’d received word from the villagers about the bodies left at the church, Matthew hadn’t been among them. She’d hoped he’d somehow escaped.
Sir Everett asked, “What do you think they are about?”
Marguerite shrugged. “You would know the minds of men better than I.” After Thornson’s death, she’d received no word from King Stephen. She’d assumed that he’d send someone to become the new Lord of Thornson when he saw fit.
Which warmonger had the king sent?
Even though it was his right, she bristled at the thought of a king’s man taking possession of her husband’s keep.
She could not stop him from taking the keep any more than she could stop what the future would hold for her. Nor could she prevent this man from doling out his form of justice to those he found to be outlaws.
Still, she chafed at the ever-present certainty that King Stephen could and would control her destiny.
Oh, would that her husband had been an earl, or that she’d been rich or powerful in her own right. Then none would determine her future. She’d determine her own. She’d also be able to protect those in Thornson who thought they were doing the right thing.
Marguerite slapped the skirt of her billowing gown in frustration. What good was if only? Wishing for what could not be only served to pass the time, nothing more.
She focused on the men approaching. Would one of them become the new master of Thornson? Or would they only hold the keep in Stephen’s name until a more suitable man could be found?
She studied the men closely. It was not hard to determine who led whom. Obviously, the tall man riding in the center of the group would be the leader. His outward appearance of calm belied everything she’d learned about warriors.
Contrary to what her father and his men had taught her as a child, she’d found that the calmest was always the most alert, the most attentive to detail, the most dangerous.
It would be best for all if this was the king’s chosen man. It would be easier to learn the ways of one man and be done with it, than to learn his ways only to have yet another man to deal with later.
Marguerite narrowed her eyes. Dangerous or not, she’d soon learn his weaknesses. Everyone had at least one, and she’d discover his quickly enough.
A movement from one of the other approaching men caught her attention. Curious, she stared as he lifted and unfurled a brilliant green banner.
Her heart lodged in her throat. Curiosity quickly became horror. She had wondered if life could get worse? Here was her answer.
Yes. It could, and had.
Of all the men serving King Stephen, why did the king have to send him to Thornson?
The man seated in the center of the approaching group could be none other than Darius of Faucon. The green banner, bearing the black falcon at rest, whipped in the stiff breeze above his head. If it did not scream his identity to anyone else, it did to her.
Against all common courtesy, Rhys, the Comte of Faucon, would display a royal golden eagle on his banner. Gareth, the second brother, would fly his deceased father’s falcon with talons extended in a posture of war. But she knew Darius’s standard well—the falcon at rest had a double meaning to her, one she’d not forgotten.
She no longer had the option to defend her keep. Marguerite could not, would not be responsible for this man’s injury or death.
Marguerite raised her voice so the men gathered on her walls could hear her order. “Hold your weapons.”
“My lady?” Sir Everett made no effort to conceal his disappointment.
She pinned him with a stare, silently daring him to disobey. He motioned the others to hold.
Certain they would follow her orders, she gestured to the men at the gate tower. She lifted her fist in the air, with her thumb pointed down. All at Thornson knew the signal to surrender.
Whispers raced from man to man along the walls. The murmurs of disbelief and disgust reached her ears. She wanted to apologize to each and every man who’d pledged to protect her from harm. But she could not.
She held firm to her orders, but even she cringed as the plain white flag rose slowly above Thornson keep.
Marguerite wrapped her arms about her stomach, in an attempt to quell the sudden spasms. If any discovered the secret she and Thornson had so carefully hidden, her whole world would shatter. Her future would be lost before it began.
This could not be happening. Not Faucon. Not now.
“My lady?” Sir Everett stepped closer to her. “Shall we raise the gate?”
“No!” She nearly choked on her shout.
The men on the walls turned to stare at her sudden contradictory order. She wanted to slap herself for her sudden outburst. Instead, Marguerite slapped at the skirt of her gown again. She needed to be more careful. It could do much harm to let all know how nervous she felt.
“No, not yet.” She took her time and kept her voice steady. “Let us see what they want first.”
She already knew what they wanted; her men probably did, too. But she needed a way to gain time to think, and this was the only tactic she could devise at the moment.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
