Falcon's Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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