Falcon's Honor. Denise Lynn

reverberated throughout the entire keep. Herb-scented rushes that had been strewn on the floor whooshed past her feet.

      Rhian silently cursed. She was too close now to avoid the arriving party. She stooped her shoulders and bowed her head—hopefully in a perfect servantlike manner. Perhaps if she just continued on as if she were about her lord’s orders, they would simply let her pass.

      Certain the ruse would work, Rhian glanced over her shoulder one last time before ducking into the entryway, to see if anyone would notice. Undetected, she continued through the archway to the entrance and ran smack into a solid, motionless wall of flesh and muscle covered by hard chain mail.

      Chapter Two

      “My pardon, milord.” The man Rhian had run into did not move. Nor did he say a word. In fact, she suddenly realized that those gathered around him held their collective breath.

      Dread curled up from her toes. She closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them and lifting her head until her neck stretched. Only one man could be that tall.

      Her single-word curse was far from silent and far from servantlike.

      “My, my, such a charming greeting. It matches your lovely attire.” His leaf-green eyes staring down at her narrowed. “Ah, now I realize my mistake. I have spent this last week searching for a lady.”

      Rhian knew that his sarcasm was directed at her curse, the ragged dress she wore, her tousled and snarled hair, the streaks of dirt on her now flaming face. Nay, she neither sounded, nor looked anything like a lady.

      She’d not fall prey to his snide remark. Instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and met his glare with one of her own.

      He motioned to one of his men before he continued, “Milady Gervaise, David will see to your safety until I am able to relieve him.” As an afterthought, he added, “Keep her under close guard. Find a cell, or use your sword if you must, but do not let her escape.”

      The young man she had spoken with earlier in the bailey unsheathed his sword with one hand, then held out his free arm. “Milady, if you please.”

      She didn’t please, so Rhian ignored him. Instead, she held Gareth of Faucon’s stare. Torchlight danced a merry jig off the silver streaks of hair that framed his face. Those few strands stood out boldly from the rest of the inky blackness.

      “Still you seek to order me about?” A smile flitted about her lips. “Your commands met with little success before.” A glance at her broken and unkempt fingernails told her that she’d be unable to claw into his flesh this time. A daunting discovery to be sure, but not one that spelled defeat. Not yet.

      “We can draw blood later.” Faster than quicksilver, Faucon grasped her wrist. “It might prove an interesting sport. But for now, just do as you are told.”

      Before she could tell him what to do with his orders, he added, “Lady Rhian, I will gladly spar with you soon. I may even provide you the means to slit my throat. But at the moment—” he paused and nodded toward the arched opening into the hall “—I have business to attend. Spare us both discovery and unwanted complications.”

      It galled her to realize the truth in his words. She could not afford those in this keep discovering that they’d unwittingly aided a runaway from the king. Her inability to explain would indeed bring about many complications. Nor did she wish for those here to learn she was not what she pretended to be.

      Rhian showered Faucon with what she hoped was a withering glare, before hastening back to the kitchens with David fast on her trail.

      Any warrior worth his salt knew the advantage of surprise. Gareth of Faucon was no different. He’d learned many lessons from his older brother Rhys—among them the usefulness of surprise in making an entrance.

      His advantage would have been lost at another keep where he and his men would have met armed resistance had they ridden through the gates without announcing their presence. However, Browan’s gates were unguarded. A mistake bordering on treason.

      Gareth stepped through the archway and looked out across the great hall. He doubted if those men facedown in the rushes on the floor would notice his arrival for days to come. Apparently not all fell to the floor in a drunken stupor.

      One man had found his unnatural sleep with the aid of an earthen jug. It didn’t require much thought to guess who had put him in that position. Obviously, Lady Rhian had been displeased with the man.

      Most of those still coherent sought a willing body to share their pallet with this night. From the seductive laughter of the servants, Gareth wagered that not many pallets would contain a single occupant.

      Since he and his men had not rushed the hall brandishing their weapons, they’d not drawn any attention to themselves. His exchange with the Lady of Gervaise had been brief and unnoticed. Nay, the usefulness of surprise had not been lost in Browan Keep.

      An occurrence that would never happen again.

      Gareth nodded, silently beckoning his men to follow him, then strode toward the center of the room. “Where is Sir Hector?” His shout captured the attention of all gathered.

      Which surprised him, since he’d thought they appeared to be exceedingly drunk. To a man, they turned toward the head table where a poorly dressed figure staggered slowly to his feet. “I am here. Who asks?”

      It was all Gareth could do not to supply the answer immediately. But he’d no wish to give any information away until he was close enough to see it clearly register on Hector’s face. He continued across the floor, pausing only when he reached the foot of the dais.

      “Gareth of Faucon.” He handed the man a missive from King Stephen. “Your new overlord.” The man did not need to know that the boon granting him control of Browan Keep would not be legitimate until after he delivered Rhian to her kin. A minor annoyance that would be accomplished soon.

      His foresight did not go without reward. After glancing at the wax seal, Hector’s mouth dropped open, then closed, then opened again reminding Gareth of a beached fish.

      Sir Hector scurried around the high table as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him and held out a hand, motioning toward the chair at the center of the long table. “Milord, please, join us.” He waved toward a servant. “Bring some food and drink.”

      “Nay. Belay that order.” Gareth flicked a pointed glance toward his captain, then he slowly walked to the other side of the table. Before he reached Browan’s seat of honor, his men had positioned themselves strategically throughout the hall. Not one door, corridor or stairwell was left unguarded. He knew without turning around, that his own back was also well protected.

      Gareth sat down in the high-backed chair and turned his attention back to Sir Hector. “Do you find your service here unacceptable?”

      The man appeared genuinely confused. “Nay, milord. Not at all.”

      “Then perhaps you could explain a few things to me.”

      Hector moved closer to the table. “Would you care for a private conversation?”

      “Nay.” Gareth nodded toward the others. “Since my questions also involve the other men, this will suit.”

      Those who were not overcome with drink moved closer to the dais. Gareth studied each man, wondering if any would ever be worthy of serving him at Browan Keep. The men who were able to stand steady on their feet peered at their more drunken comrades. They mistakenly thought the sodden members of this crowd would be the ones in greater disfavor.

      They couldn’t be more wrong.

      Gareth leaned forward on the table. “Pray tell, Sir Hector, how many men guard these walls?”

      A frown marred Hector’s forehead. It was hard to determine whether the expression held from confusion or thought. “There are two on each gate, main and postern and six scattered along the walkways, milord.”

      Quickly