Falcon's Heart. Denise Lynn

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.”

      At that, he did laugh. “Quite the handful to control, are you?”

      His question, asked in a tone one would use with someone much younger than she, nicked at her pride. She lifted her chin a notch before seeking to set him right. “I am not a child to be controlled by my family.”

      Ashforde met her stare for a moment before letting it trail pointedly down the length of her body. His eyes shimmered and a soft half smile played at his lips as he drew his gaze ever so slowly back up to hers. “No, Marianne of Faucon, you are no child.”

      The growing hunger in his eyes sent her heart stuttering madly in her chest. Good Lord above, what had she done?

      Silence fell heavily inside the tent. The walls seemed to inch closer, suffocating her. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Ashforde’s sharp intake of air echoed in the confined space.

      To her amazement and dismay her body reacted not with fear, but with anticipation. It was apparent, to her body at least, that this man, this tall blond stranger could fulfill the longing that’d battered at her day and night for countless months.

      When she’d gone looking for excitement to quench her frustration, this is what she’d been seeking—but not in this manner.

      Not as a prisoner needing rescue.

      And most certainly not as a prize offered in a game of dice.

      She wanted to step back, to move away from the desire wafting from him, beckoning her to surrender to her own hunger. She needed to run before she did something extremely unwise—like bolt right into his arms.

      Voices from outside the tent distracted her. Ashforde lunged and she instinctively threw her weight forward, while at the same time swinging her right hand, blade extended.

      Bryce saw the knife coming and twisted his body just enough to catch the blade on his side, not directly into his stomach.

      After knocking the knife from her grip, he jerked her against his chest with one hand, threaded the fingers of his other hand through the snarls at the back of her head and ordered against her lax lips, “Fight me, you little fool.”

      When she did nothing except stare blankly at him in shock, he slid his hand down her back, cupped the soft roundness below and brought her roughly against his groin. “If you wish to leave here in one piece, fight me, Marianne.”

      Once she started struggling in his arms, Bryce swung her around so he could face the intruder who’d entered the tent. Just before lifting his mouth from hers, he whispered, “Scream.”

      He glared over her shoulder at the man standing before the tent flap. “Something you want?” He curled his lips, hoping the man took it as a feral snarl and not a grimace of pain.

      “Let me go,” Marianne shouted. “Release me.”

      The man laughed. “Nothing, my lord. I only wished to make certain you were enjoying your prize.”

      Marianne gasped and strengthened her struggles.

      Bryce hung on to her, laughing harshly. “I was, until you interrupted me.”

      The man tipped his head and before leaving said, “Forgive me, my lord. I leave you to your sport.”

      “Sport?” Marianne’s voice rose. “Rhys will see you all dead!”

      Once Bryce was certain the man was truly gone, he released Marianne.

      “You pig!” She swung an open palm at his face striking him against the cheek.

      He ignored his stinging face and grabbed her wrist. “Try anything that stupid again and you will regret it.”

      “Me?” Anger suffused her face with a deep blush. She bent over and picked up the small eating knife, then pointed it at him. “If