would soon make her senses take leave. As she drew closer to the keep, she mingled with a group of people. If anyone from her family saw her entering Faucon, she could then say she’d not been out alone.
Before heading to her pallet for an early night, Marianne detoured toward the family’s private sitting area. Maybe a brief visit with her nephews would take her worries off things she could not change.
“Who do you think Marianne should be given to?” Lyonesse’s voice drifted out of the chamber.
Marianne came to a rocking halt just outside the archway. She ducked out of sight and pressed tightly against the wall, listening to her sisters-by-marriage discuss her future.
“I thought Lord Markam’s son looked promising,” Rhian, Gareth’s wife offered.
Marianne bit the inside of her mouth to keep from snorting aloud. Markam’s son? Only over her dead body would they convince her to wed that pompous ass.
“Markam?” Rhys’s wife laughed before thankfully dousing any continued discussion of that suggestion. “Lord Markam’s son has not enough gold, strength or wit to protect his own pretty face let alone Marianne’s.”
“It is well past time for her to marry. Soon, she will be too old for any to consider. Marianne has seventeen years on her and is not getting any younger. She must wed with haste.”
Oh, bless you for that observation. Marianne wanted nothing more than to wrap her hands around Marguerite’s neck and squeeze tightly. How Darius could have married this woman was completely beyond her comprehension.
“Rhys is well aware of his sister’s age.” Marianne cringed at Lyonesse’s sharp tone. When the Lady of Faucon spoke in that manner, most people gave her a wide berth. “He is doing his best to find someone suitable.”
“Yes, well, Rhys needs to quicken his search before some knave recognizes the unquenched lust sparking from those eyes of hers.” Marguerite’s observation brought the heat of embarrassment back to Marianne’s cheeks.
“Ah, you’ve noticed that, too? Then perhaps to hasten the matter along, maybe the three of us should offer to assist him.” Rhian’s calming tone eased some of the tension from Marianne’s neck and shoulders. “After all, we are more able to know what would make another woman content.”
Content? Marianne shook her head as the tension returned. She wished not to be content. Not wanting to be seen, or heard, she backed silently away from the chamber. Not one of them would have settled for being content, why did they assume she would?
She was no different, she wanted the same things they had. There was little privacy in a keep, even one as large as Faucon. Marianne knew what these women shared with their husbands. She’d heard the throaty laughter of the chase, the breathless sighs of pleasure and the lingering moans of fulfillment.
She needed that, too. She craved desire, a fierce all-consuming passion that would drive her mad, while at the same time leave her completely fulfilled.
But never content.
Dear Lord, please, never let her live in so boring a manner as content. She’d sooner die.
Marianne physically shook the thought from her mind and body with a heartfelt shrug before heading below stairs. But the overheard conversation had left her more restless than before. A restlessness now laced with urgency. Perhaps, instead of seeking her bed she could find some type of entertainment in the great hall.
She paused at the bottom of the narrow stairs, sweeping her attention across the hall. In preparation for the festival the walls had been recently white-washed. Lyonesse and Marguerite had painted wildflowers and herbs on them. When Gareth and his wife had arrived, Rhian had added trailing vines to the colorful foliage.
The floor had been cleared of the old rushes and new ones had been spread. Sweet woodruff had been scattered liberally to aid in keeping the smells as pleasant as possible.
Since the great hall was used mostly for eating right now, the trestle tables were left in place most of the day, instead of being taken down after the meals. Extra benches had been brought in and lined the walls.
The far end of the hall was left open, giving the entertainers a place to perform. It also provided room for those guests wanting to take part in dancing.
To the right side of the hall, shallow alcoves had been cut into stone walls. These tiny, cavelike rooms were used for private conversations…or stolen moments alone.
The one alcove at the farthest end was curtained and used only by her brothers. Two guards stood just outside that alcove, letting her and everyone else know that two of her brothers were inside the private room and wished not to be disturbed.
Marianne drew her attention back to the overcrowded hall. Very few of the men still gathered had not succumbed to the heady intoxication of Faucon’s wine. Those who still possessed their wits were either very old, or very young. Neither group attracted her interest.
She headed toward the large double doors leading out of the keep. If she couldn’t count on her family to find her a man worth having, perhaps it was time to count on herself. With the number of men gathered for the tourney, there had to be at least one who would quicken her pulse and make her knees weak with longing.
After dismissing the guards at the door with a nod, she stepped outside the keep. Thankfully, none of her brothers’ captains were present. They never would have let her pass so easily.
The wind lifted her ebony hair and sent a chill down her spine. A slight nip in the evening’s breeze bore promise of the coming winter. She pulled the hood of her woolen mantle over her head.
The sound of people enjoying themselves drifted on the wind. Hoots of laughter, voices raised in song and good-natured shouts of dare sailed over the keep’s walls.
Marianne glanced briefly over her shoulder. If none of the family saw her leave, they couldn’t stop her. She would pay dearly when they discovered her missing, but right now, she needed this freedom.
Never in all her life had she been permitted outside the walls at night without one of her brothers in attendance. But since their marriages, they’d seldom seen fit to escort her into the village to attend any of the celebrations. She’d spent many a night sitting beneath the narrow slit of a window in her chamber listening to others’ merriment and growing more frustrated with each beat of her heart.
She was tired of being obedient, sick unto death of being the good Faucon sister. If she was well beyond her prime age for marriage, then surely she was of an age to take care of herself while seeking just a measure of entertainment.
With a quick check of the small sheath hanging from her belted waist, she made certain her dagger was at hand before passing through a postern gate at the rear of the keep.
She soon caught up with a group of tradesmen and their families who were headed toward the faire grounds set up off to the side of the clearing. If there was truly safety in numbers, then she’d be more than happy to follow right behind them on the short walk.
The moon shone brightly in the cloudless, star-studded sky. A fine night for a faire. Perhaps a night so fine she might forget the nagging unease clawing at her belly.
The succulent aroma of pig roasting on an open spit set her mouth to water. If Faucon’s cook had anything to do with this feast, the meat would be basted and served in a rich raisin and wine sauce. A pinch of cumin would be added to lend just the right bite to the flavor. If done correctly, the diner’s stomach would trip with joyous anticipation before the first mouthful even reached his waiting lips.
Marianne followed her nose. With winter fast approaching it was her duty to pad her flesh with a little extra fat for warmth. She chuckled at her reasoning—extra padding was something she didn’t need, but she was out here this night to make merry. And if making merry couldn’t include a man, then food would have to suffice.
“Are ye all alone?” A man grabbed her arm, stopping her abruptly. “No lass