Falcon's Heart

Marianne gripped the coarse hair with all her might. Now that she was finally off her feet and not quite as worried about her immediate safety, she could feel the exhaustion of her body. The parts of her body that did not ache, burned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, drank or even slept for more than a few hours.

When he slowed down to assess his bearings, Marianne licked her dry lips. “Do you think I could have a drink?”

He looked up at her. “There’s a stream just a short way from here. We will be there shortly.”

Sunlight broke through the foliage. The shimmering brightness rippled across his ruggedly handsome face, creating an unworldly glow from his eyes.

She stared into the ice-blue depths and searched her suddenly empty head for an answer. The combination of anger and fear had partly clouded her vision in the tent. But now, without the blinding need for bravado, she could clearly see him. And what she saw took the breath from her body and all logical thought from her mind.

His blue eyes were the shade of a winter pond’s frozen surface—and just as transparent. Ashy-colored lashes created a frame that made the spellbinding gaze only more intense, more piercing.

He didn’t just look at her—he seemed to peer into her very heart and soul. In that instant, she felt as unkempt, vulnerable and exhausted as she must appear.

“I…um…very well.” In an attempt to coax her tongue to form coherent words, she dropped her gaze. “I can wait.” Never in her life had she felt so ill at ease and inept around a man. And with the number of men coming and going from Faucon, she had been around a great many. She wished for the earth below her to somehow open and swallow her whole.

“Are you all right?” Concern laced his words.

Good Lord above, the man would soon think she was addled. Not that she blamed him after her senseless response. But a little worry on his part might be just what he deserved for the way he’d handled her in the tent.

If she answered him, he would hear the amusement in her voice, so she merely nodded. When he turned and adjusted the reins in his hands, Marianne did her best to swallow the laughter bubbling in her throat, but some of it escaped.

He looked at her over his shoulder, his soul-searching eyes narrowed. “You are amused?”

“A little.” Marianne shrugged. So much for hiding her laughter.

He resumed their journey with a smothered curse. It was cruel to let him believe she was not whole and hearty. He had threatened to truss her like a gutted stag. It would serve him right to live with his worries and thoughts for a time. But she was unable to be that deceitful.

“I am not addled.”

“So you say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Without halting their progress, he said, “I find it interesting that someone in your position would consider this amusing.”

“You said you posed no threat.”

“And you believed a complete stranger? Do you not find that a mite foolish?”

She found it more than a mite foolish—and before he had the opportunity to realize what she was about to do, she unclamped her fingers from the horse’s mane, sent a quick silent prayer to God, then threw herself sideways from the saddle.

Marianne hit the ground with a thud, rolling immediately to her knees. Her heart racing, she scrambled blindly to her feet and ran into a solid wall of masculine flesh and muscle encased in chain mail.

Before she could back away, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “While I fully expected you to seek your freedom, I thought you would at least wait until we were gone from this area.”

Marianne said nothing. She only tugged sharply at his hold, trying to get him to release her.

He slid a knife from its sheath and held it between them. Her stomach flipped with dread. Her head spun wildly. She’d been right not to trust him. She would die here in the middle of nowhere and her family would never know.

Frantic, she kicked at him while trying to pull free from the hold he now had on her one wrist.

“Stop it.” He jerked hard, slamming her body against his. “Cease this stupidity.”

Before she could gasp for another breath, he pulled her wrist up, slapped the handle of the knife into her palm and forced her fingers to curl around it. He then stepped back and pointed toward the denseness of the forest. “You are free to go.”

No sooner had she spun in the direction he’d suggested, he added, “Be warned, the men who took you to begin with are right behind us.”

Marianne froze.

“You need make a choice right now. Either get moving into the forest, or get back on the horse and let us be gone from here.”

The distant sound of men’s voices ended her mental debate. She bid freedom farewell—for now—and turned back toward the horse. Without saying anything, he assisted her into the saddle, grabbed the reins and took off at a run, leading the horse behind him.

Marianne clung to the horse’s mane. “You cannot keep up this pace. I can ride pillion behind you.”

“I thank you, no. My camp is but a short ways from here.”

“Perhaps, but would it not be faster—” Shouts from the men chasing them cut her argument short.

Marianne turned in the saddle and saw four men racing toward them on foot. All of them were from the group who had kidnapped her at Faucon. And all of them held their swords before them, ready to do battle.

Her rescuer drew his weapon, while urging, “Go. My men are camped straight down this path at the first clearing.”

“I cannot leave you here alone.”

His eyebrows rose at her statement, but he only tossed her the reins and smacked the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, nearly throwing her from the saddle.

The effort to bring the beast under control nearly drained her of what life she had left. But she quickly dragged the horse’s head around, slowed its pace and headed back to where Ashforde fought the other men.

She had to give him credit—he fought well. He had already dispatched one man by the time she returned to the clearing. With a sudden burst of renewed energy, Marianne slid from the saddle and led the horse into the forest where she wrapped the reins around a small tree trunk. She then picked her way from tree to tree and retrieved the dead man’s weapon. Before anyone saw her, she raced back to the horse and mounted with the aid of a fallen log.

While being harbingers of death came easily to her brothers, she’d never killed a man. But there was a first time for everything and that time seemed to be now.

Two of the men attacked Ashforde. The third had spotted her and rushed in her direction. The expression of glee on his faced boded ill will. Marianne sent a quick, silent prayer for strength and kicked the horse into movement.

Her enemy did not appear to be afraid of her. In fact, he appeared to be laughing at her. She tested the balance of the sword in her hand. Poorly made, it did not swing evenly. She held the blade low, parallel to the ground, resting the flat of the blade against her leg and charged toward the man.

Caught off guard by the mere idea that a female would bring him injury, the man left his chest unprotected, making it a perfect target.

When she swung the blade straight ahead, the open target was one she did not miss.

The expression of complete surprise on his face just before he fell would have amused her, had she not been overwhelmed with the sudden urge to vomit. Marianne blinked away the tears threatening to blur her vision and urged the horse toward Ashforde.

With her borrowed sword still lodged in the chest of the man she’d just killed, the only thing she could think to do was to run one of the men over with the horse.

She chose the one farthest from the forest, leaned low over the beast and urged the horse toward the man. Flesh and bone were little protection beneath the heavy hooves of a full-grown warhorse.

Her tactic gave Ashforde the chance to dispatch the man still standing. He spun around, knocked the last man to the ground and then pressed the tip of his sword to the hollow at the base of the man’s neck.