Denise Lynn - Falcon's Desire

Certain the shimmering glare would lacerate him as surely as any uncut emerald, Rhys returned the glowering stare and asked, “What do you want from me?”

“I want nothing from you, Faucon.” She laughed at him. “Nothing, except your worthless soul.”

He already knew the answer, still he asked, “Why? Why do you seek my soul?”

“Why?” She ripped off one of her metal-studded leather gloves and slapped his face.

A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “If I am to die, I would at the very least like to know the reason.”

She lifted her glove, as if to strike him again and paused. With one hand raised in the air and one red-tinged eyebrow higher than the other, she stared at him for a moment. “No.” She shook her head and lowered her hand. “No. You do not play with a simple girl, Faucon. You will not force me to forget my motives in a fit of rage.”

“Then answer my question.”

Calmly slipping the overlarge glove back onto her hand, she said nothing.

It mattered not. Rhys did not need to hear the words from her lips. Guillaume du Pree had no sisters, but he had been betrothed. The hatred written plainly on the face before him held the answer to his unasked question. Lyonesse of Ryonne had captured him.

The lady’s well-planned actions would likely end in his death. King Stephen and The Earl of York had been wrong in their assumption that none from Ryonne or du Pree’s holding would seek retribution for du Pree’s murder until the month was up.

Her continued silence filled him with sudden rage. Rhys sought words to reason with her.

“I did not murder your betrothed.”

“You lie, Faucon.”

“Waste no more time talking.” Sir John interrupted the debate. His menacing tone fit the evil scowl covering his face. “I will kill him now.”

Rhys’s attention shifted to John. Whatever held the knight in check thus far was quickly losing its tenuous hold. Every muscle in the man’s body was poised for battle. The air around him was thick with the scent of blood-lust.

“Nay, be patient a few moments longer.” Lyonesse placed a restraining hand on John’s wrist. “I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life.”

Thankfully, the man retained enough sense to listen. Rhys returned his focus to his captor. “I tell you for the last time, I did not kill du Pree.”

“Silence, Faucon. Save your lies for your maker. I’m certain in hell they are worth something.”

Fear was nothing new to any sane fighting man. Sometimes a healthy respect for fear could save your life. This would not be one of those times. Tendrils of both, fear and regret snaked through his veins.

Anger at the unjust accusation and rage at the coward’s death he now faced, gave him the strength to fight off the creeping tendrils. Certain that his own death was imminent, he asked, “What about my men?”

“They will not be harmed. They have been taken to safety.”

“Safety?”

“Aye, Lord Faucon, they are safe. However, it may take them a while to find their way free.”

The men surrounding them laughed.

He ignored their oddly placed humor and took a deep breath before asking, “And how do you plan to kill me?”

“You ran a sword through Guillaume’s back.” Sparks of fire shot from her eyes. “You will die the same way.”

She removed her gloves and ordered, “Get him up.”

John lifted his blade against Rhys’s chin, forcing his head up. He had no option but to follow the upward motion of the weapon. He silently cursed as two soldiers began to secure his arms behind his back with leather straps.

He would rather die fighting than be slaughtered like a trussed boar. “No!”

Mindless of the weapons aimed at his body, he violently jerked around, shoved past John and sprinted toward the safety of the forest.

“Stop him!”

His escape was short-lived. Five men flew at him, knocking him from his feet. Fists pummeled him about the head and body. The gash on his side tore even more from the blows. They shoved his face into the dirt, quickly securing his arms and legs. Then they hauled him to his feet and led him back to Lyonesse.

His heart pounded loud in his ears. Rhys shook with a helplessness he’d never before felt. He riveted his attention on the woman before him and shouted, “Get this over with.”

“In all due time, Faucon.”

Lyonesse savored the deliciously sweet taste of her victory. Certain the restraints would hold, she allowed her gaze to slowly roam up her captive’s massive form.

The stories had not been completely accurate. This man was not simply big. Like the fabled warriors of old, he was a huge dangerous giant. Gaps in the laced seams of the chain mail protecting his legs gave evidence to tightly corded muscles bulging toward freedom.

She admired the richness of his plain, black surcoat. Even hanging in torn disarray, the fabric bespoke of quality. Lyonesse knew that while the material would be as strong as the muscles it covered, beneath her fingers it would feel as soft and silky as a kitten’s fur.

Her attention trailed up the long, wooden scabbard hanging at his side. Soaring falcons were artfully carved into the sword’s case. The wide belt at his waist served not only to anchor the scabbard; it also did much to accentuate the outward flare of his chest.

Muscles strained violently below flesh in his silent struggle to break the bonds holding him. Lyonesse could see the fierce expansion of his chest and arms with each effort.

She glanced up and shuddered. If his strength were as great as the determination etched on his face, he would soon gain his freedom. His full lips narrowed into a grim line. A rapid pulse beat against one cheek. His swarthy complexion was broken by the cuts her glove had made on one side of his face. On the other side a thin white scar trickled like a tear from the corner of one eye to his mouth.

He leaned forward. For a brief moment unruly hair hid his face. Sunlight glistened off the shoulder-length mane. When he straightened, one raven lock fell across his face. Lyonesse’s fingers itched to smooth the wayward strands back into place.

She peered into his eyes and was horrified to find Faucon watching her perusal. Flecks of gold sparkled against his light brown orbs. The shimmering brightness flared and paled with a life of their own.

“Look your fill, milady,” he taunted. “For I will be the one who haunts your nightmares. You will wish you’d never beheld me.”

She quickly turned away to hide the rush of embarrassment that heated her face. Lyonesse gritted her teeth. What evilness possessed her to so intently study this vile beast? After collecting her wits, she turned back to him. “Those are bold words for one trussed like a gutted stag.”

The black brows of the captive winged higher over his amazing eyes. It would be far too easy for a person to fall helpless under that striking glare.

To her amazement, he only laughed at her. The desperate tone of his laughter sent a ripple of guilt down her spine. She studied her captive and frowned. Behind the fierce anger that brightened his eyes lay something akin to…pain.

She’d seen that expression staring back at her from the polished surface of her mirror. Pain. Loss. They already haunted her nightmares.

What did Faucon know of pain? Or of loss? This man doled out death and destruction as a pastime. He gave no thought to the lives his actions touched, or ruined in the process. Nay, even though she could not name the emotion, she knew it was not pain flickering in his gaze.

Even if the demon did possess a tiny bit of remorse in his black-hearted soul, what did it matter to her? Nothing would change. Guillaume would still lie dead. How would she find a husband within the time left to her? For without a husband, King Stephen would take Taniere.