Falcon's Heart. Denise Lynn

      “I am not addled.”

      “So you say.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      Without halting their progress, he said, “I find it interesting that someone in your position would consider this amusing.”

      “You said you posed no threat.”

      “And you believed a complete stranger? Do you not find that a mite foolish?”

      She found it more than a mite foolish—and before he had the opportunity to realize what she was about to do, she unclamped her fingers from the horse’s mane, sent a quick silent prayer to God, then threw herself sideways from the saddle.

      Marianne hit the ground with a thud, rolling immediately to her knees. Her heart racing, she scrambled blindly to her feet and ran into a solid wall of masculine flesh and muscle encased in chain mail.

      Before she could back away, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “While I fully expected you to seek your freedom, I thought you would at least wait until we were gone from this area.”

      Marianne said nothing. She only tugged sharply at his hold, trying to get him to release her.

      He slid a knife from its sheath and held it between them. Her stomach flipped with dread. Her head spun wildly. She’d been right not to trust him. She would die here in the middle of nowhere and her family would never know.

      Frantic, she kicked at him while trying to pull free from the hold he now had on her one wrist.

      “Stop it.” He jerked hard, slamming her body against his. “Cease this stupidity.”

      Before she could gasp for another breath, he pulled her wrist up, slapped the handle of the knife into her palm and forced her fingers to curl around it. He then stepped back and pointed toward the denseness of the forest. “You are free to go.”

      No sooner had she spun in the direction he’d suggested, he added, “Be warned, the men who took you to begin with are right behind us.”

      Marianne froze.

      “You need make a choice right now. Either get moving into the forest, or get back on the horse and let us be gone from here.”

      The distant sound of men’s voices ended her mental debate. She bid freedom farewell—for now—and turned back toward the horse. Without saying anything, he assisted her into the saddle, grabbed the reins and took off at a run, leading the horse behind him.

      Marianne clung to the horse’s mane. “You cannot keep up this pace. I can ride pillion behind you.”

      “I thank you, no. My camp is but a short ways from here.”

      “Perhaps, but would it not be faster—” Shouts from the men chasing them cut her argument short.

      Marianne turned in the saddle and saw four men racing toward them on foot. All of them were from the group who had kidnapped her at Faucon. And all of them held their swords before them, ready to do battle.

      Her rescuer drew his weapon, while urging, “Go. My men are camped straight down this path at the first clearing.”

      “I cannot leave you here alone.”

      His eyebrows rose at her statement, but he only tossed her the reins and smacked the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, nearly throwing her from the saddle.

      The effort to bring the beast under control nearly drained her of what life she had left. But she quickly dragged the horse’s head around, slowed its pace and headed back to where Ashforde fought the other men.

      She had to give him credit—he fought well. He had already dispatched one man by the time she returned to the clearing. With a sudden burst of renewed energy, Marianne slid from the saddle and led the horse into the forest where she wrapped the reins around a small tree trunk. She then picked her way from tree to tree and retrieved the dead man’s weapon. Before anyone saw her, she raced back to the horse and mounted with the aid of a fallen log.

      While being harbingers of death came easily to her brothers, she’d never killed a man. But there was a first time for everything and that time seemed to be now.

      Two of the men attacked Ashforde. The third had spotted her and rushed in her direction. The expression of glee on his faced boded ill will. Marianne sent a quick, silent prayer for strength and kicked the horse into movement.

      Her enemy did not appear to be afraid of her. In fact, he appeared to be laughing at her. She tested the balance of the sword in her hand. Poorly made, it did not swing evenly. She held the blade low, parallel to the ground, resting the flat of the blade against her leg and charged toward the man.

      Caught off guard by the mere idea that a female would bring him injury, the man left his chest unprotected, making it a perfect target.

      When she swung the blade straight ahead, the open target was one she did not miss.

      The expression of complete surprise on his face just before he fell would have amused her, had she not been overwhelmed with the sudden urge to vomit. Marianne blinked away the tears threatening to blur her vision and urged the horse toward Ashforde.

      With her borrowed sword still lodged in the chest of the man she’d just killed, the only thing she could think to do was to run one of the men over with the horse.

      She chose the one farthest from the forest, leaned low over the beast and urged the horse toward the man. Flesh and bone were little protection beneath the heavy hooves of a full-grown warhorse.

      Her tactic gave Ashforde the chance to dispatch the man still standing. He spun around, knocked the last man to the ground and then pressed the tip of his sword to the hollow at the base of the man’s neck.

      Fear tightened the muscles in the kidnapper’s neck. He swallowed hard, unwittingly pushing his throat up against the tip of the blade.

      As she dismounted, Marianne heard Ashforde ask, “Why would you think to go into battle against a knight without wearing your armor?”

      She joined the men and realized he had asked a valid question, considering her kidnapper wore only a padded gambeson. The heavily quilted short tunic offered no safety against the thrust of a sword.

      “We thought the odds were in our favor.”

      Ashforde stepped back and ordered, “Get up.” After the man rose, he knocked the sword from the lout’s hand. “Tell your master this game is finished. Leave Marianne of Faucon alone.” He placed the edge of his weapon across the man’s throat for emphasis, adding, “You won’t be as fortunate the next time.”

      When the sword lowered, the man took off at a dead run. But it wasn’t that man who captured her attention. It was the one who’d remained. Ashforde.

      The sheen of sweat coated his face. His overlong hair, damp from his exertion, curled about his neck. Iceblue eyes glimmered with rage.

      Warmth flowed through her veins. Her heart lurched before settling into an uneven rhythm. It made little logical sense. But she’d learned long ago that logic sometimes got in the way. She swallowed a gasp and bit back a smile.

      His clothing, chain mail and weapons were of excellent quality, so apparently he had wealth enough. She’d just seen him in battle and knew without a doubt that he was strong and brave enough. While his rugged good looks made her heart beat faster, he seemed not to notice them, so he obviously was not vain. His speech was refined, so he would be considered intelligent enough.

      There were many unanswered questions regarding Ashforde and she wasn’t at all certain she could completely trust him. But she could not deny the simple truth her entire being screamed—this was the man.

      Rhys would not be able to find anything wrong with him. And if he did, well, she’d go over his head. It would be easy to throw herself on the mercy of her sisters by marriage.

      The biggest obstacle would be Ashforde himself.