“What will I do to protect myself?”
“You?” He looked at her in surprise. “You set out through a dark forest alone to escape me. A feat that could very well have earned you death, or worse.”
Rhian felt the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I fail to think when I am angry.”
“No. Truly?” He rubbed his forearm, bringing more heat to her face. “I find that hard to believe.”
“If your sarcasm were any thicker, you’d drown in it.”
“And if your nails were any longer, I’d have bled to death.”
“A strong warrior like you? I doubt that.”
He tapped a hand against his chest. “Ah, she thinks I am a strong warrior. My heart will burst at your kind words. I could take that as a compliment.”
“Take it as you wish.” Rhian sat up. “You will release me?”
“Not while I draw breath…!”
Praise for Denise Lynn’s debut
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.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.”
—Historical Romance Writers Review
“This medieval romance had 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 realize they are in love, it’s explosive.”
—The Best Reviews
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
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Falcon’s Honor
Denise Lynn
MILLS & BOON
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With many thanks and love to:
Doc Eva and her wonderful sense of humor, caring ear and love of romance novels,
The Harlequin Hussies, a fountain of information and a steady port in the storm,
Melissa, for making the second-book syndrome an easier hurdle,
My mom, for her ability to juggle schedules and always be there,
Tom, my best friend, my heart, the man who shares my dreams.
Bless you and love to you all—this one's for you. Huzzah!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Prologue
Spring, 1142
Northern England
Sir Edgar, the captain of Faucon’s guard, watched thin wisps of smoke from the crackling campfire curl upward to disappear into the darkness of the night.
The howl of a lone wolf, the soft snorts of nervous horses and the familiar scrape of sharpening stones plied against sword edges interrupted the silence of the surrounding forest.
Edgar and the other men circled around the fire for safety, warmth and companionship paid little heed to the night’s sounds. Their full attention remained riveted to the raised voices coming from their lord’s hastily erected tent.
While each of them had been scorched by the heat of Faucon’s tongue at one time or another, they had never heard him raise his voice to a female. Bets were placed between the men. Would their lord hold his temper on this occasion, or would his uncooperative charge push him too far? Edgar’s gold was on Faucon.
“My God, save me!”
The lady’s repeated cry for help went unanswered. While her shouts set their hearts to racing, Edgar knew that none of the men would assist the woman. Her steadfast determination to do her own will instead of King Stephen’s landed her in this current role of captive.
Had she come peacefully as ordered, she’d not find herself in such dire straits now. Instead, she’d fought this journey to her mother’s family every step of the way. For two solid days now she’d made their lives miserable.
Edgar couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied his lord’s patience. If she were his charge, she’d have felt the back of his hand by now. None would blame Faucon for doing just that.
“Unhand me!”
The sharp crack of a resounding slap caused more than one soldier to flinch as they envisioned the smack on their own face. Others peered intently into the bottom of their ale mugs. Edgar wondered how much of the brew would be required before this night ended.
“You filthy swine!”
“Enough of this madness.” With a heavy sigh, Edgar rose and headed toward his master’s tent.
Before he could cross the clearing, Lord Gareth of Faucon backed hastily out of the tent inspecting his arm in the light emanating from the tent. “You black-haired wench, never try something like that again.”
Edgar sucked in a breath at the menace evident in Faucon’s low, emotionless tone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others freeze. All knew that deadly tone meant Faucon had reached the limit of his patience. Edgar feared for his stash of gold; in his mind’s eye he saw it shrink considerably.
Gareth glanced at his stinging forearm where she’d raked her nails