Falcon's Heart. Denise Lynn

The girl hadn’t appeared at the evening meal. Nor had she gathered with the family in the solar afterward.

      “What?” Rhys looked down at her, his scowl quickly turning to a frown of worry. “When did you see her last?”

      Lyonesse turned yesterday’s events over in her mind. Had she seen Marianne after the morning meal? Not that she could remember. “Yesterday morning. But I saw her maid before retiring last night.”

      His eyes widened. “Alone?”

      “Yes. The maid had helped out in the keep yesterday. I assumed Marianne would know enough to remain close by.”

      Rhys groaned. “What sort of mood was Marianne in last you saw her?”

      Lyonesse glanced toward the ceiling. “The usual. Moody. Distracted. Frustrated.”

      While he appeared to toss that information around, she asked, “Do you think she would have taken it into her head to run away?”

      Rhys paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head. “Nay. She might be willful, and might on occasion slip away from her maid for a ride across the demesne lands, but no, she would not run away.”

      “Then that can only mean—” Lyonesse gasped. “That someone took her.”

      “Aye. ‘Tis what I fear.”

      “Perhaps a ransom note will soon arrive?”

      “If the people who took her wish to live, a demand for ransom better arrive quickly.”

      “Have you told the others?”

      Rhys shook his head. “No, I wanted to speak to you first.”

      Lyonesse suggested, “Perhaps you’d better tell them now.”

      “I will locate Gareth and Darius, while you find their wives.”

      “Of course. Shall we meet in the solar? It would provide more privacy than the hall.”

      After Rhys left she turned her full attention to the task at hand. Lyonesse prayed that those who’d taken Marianne knew who they had captured. The girl was ripe for a smooth-talking man to turn her thoughts from honor.

      If her identity was known, it was highly doubtful any man would be stupid enough to dishonor the Faucons’ little sister.

      While she worried for Marianne, she knew that Rhys and his brothers would do everything in their power to find their sister.

      And once they did, she’d see to it that the girl found herself a husband posthaste.

       Chapter Three

       Hampshire, England

       October 19, 1143

      It took nearly four days before anything fell into place for Bryce of Ashforde. From the start, luck had seemingly gone against him. The men who’d kidnapped Faucon’s sister joined up with a caravan heading north. Then they’d crossed the channel, and traveled toward Hampshire.

      Bryce had sent two of his men ahead, to ferret out what they could. The kidnapping of Faucon’s sister was a daring act. One that would set the tongues of rumor and gossipmongers wagging at a furious pace. He wanted to know what word was being bandied about.

      Then, with little more than the blink of one eye, the Good Lord saw fit to be kind—an occurrence that did not happen much of late. Bryce wiped the smile from his face before rejoining the circle of men.

      For the first time in months he felt that luck was on his side—he could feel it pulse through his veins like warm honey, and could taste its sweetness.

      The men gathered in a circle diced for a rare prize—one that would be his. A prize that would gain him the opportunity to make Comte Rhys of Faucon experience just a measure of the revenge due him.

      Faucon thought he could destroy Ashforde Keep without suffering the consequences. The coward and his men had attacked while Bryce was attending Empress Matilda. He’d returned to his demesne lands to find his keep in ruins, his crops destroyed, seven villagers dead and his men gone.

      War was war, and while Faucon may have been the victor on that particular day, he would soon taste defeat. In the end, Ashforde would prove victorious.

      Just this morning his men had brought word of a rumor from Baldwin de Redvers the Earl of Devon. The band of thieves who had kidnapped Faucon’s sister held her outside of Hampshire.

      After lightening his purse of coin to grease a few palms, Bryce discovered the merit behind Baldwin’s tip. He’d learned the kidnappers were horrified to discover who they’d taken. Too afraid to demand ransom, they’d left Normandy and crossed the channel into England. Perhaps they weren’t complete idiots—they’d immediately realized that Faucon would kill them in lieu of paying ransom.

      To relieve themselves of what they now deemed an unprofitable burden, the thieves were going to offer her as a prize in a game of chance. A prize Bryce would gladly accept.

      The game was to take place this day. He’d made certain to be at the prearranged site behind the smithy’s early. Bryce would not chance missing this blessed opportunity.

      “Your toss, milord.”

      He took the pair of dice and warmed them in his hand. It all came down to this final toss. Silence fell heavy upon the circle. He could nearly hear the thrumming of pounding hearts as the others watched…and waited.

      He shook the dice, willing the smooth carved bones to do his bidding one more time, then released them into the circle.

      A lifetime passed before his mind’s eye as the dice tumbled and rolled across the crude circle etched into uneven dirt, before coming to a rocking stop.

      All of the other men shouted—some in despair for their own loss, others in congratulations for Ashforde.

      He rose, accepting the hearty congratulations in silence. But inwardly his shouts of victory bounced against his chest. A toss of the dice not only won him the prize he sought, it saved him from ordering his men to take Faucon’s sister by force.

      The man in charge of the game waved morosely toward a multicolored tent. “Your prize is in there, milord.”

      Before the man finished speaking, Bryce had crossed half the distance to the tent pitched at the edge of the clearing. He paused for a moment, savoring his win and the taste of long-awaited revenge, before stepping through the flap.

      A small metal brazier dimly lit the inside of the tent, chasing away the shadowed darkness and illuminating his winnings in the far corner of the tent.

      Even bedraggled and dirt-streaked, Faucon’s sister made him wish circumstances were different. As dark-haired as her brothers, she was taller than most women, but taking the height of her siblings into consideration, her family most likely found her stature unremarkable.

      The sudden desire to see those long limbs stripped bare for his perusal made his heart pound erratically in his chest. A happening he was certain his intended would not find acceptable in the least.

      He’d only been in Cecily’s company a few short days, but he’d seen her temper flare often enough to know she’d not take kindly to the thoughts running through his mind over another woman. To calm his racing pulse, Bryce lifted his gaze to her face.

      But staring into her brilliant green eyes did little to ease his growing discomfort. By the saints above, what was wrong with him? Not only was he sworn to another, this beguiling woman was his enemy’s sister.

      Yet, she was guiltless. His revenge was not directed toward her, nor should it be. She was simply a means to an end, an unwitting pawn in a game not of her choosing.

      He approached her slowly, wishing not to cause her more fright than what she surely must already have suffered.

      Marianne kept her unwavering