Falcon's Heart

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.”