Falcon's Desire. Denise Lynn

heard her vow to Howard, he’d been awake the whole time.

      Before charging out the door, she yelled, “Go to the devil, Faucon.”

      Rhys laughed. Lord Baldwin of Ryonne had chosen well by naming his daughter after his wife’s father. This cunning she-cub was worthy of being called Lyonesse. Too bad she’d not inherited her father’s even temper. For all her bravado and trickery, the Lady Lyonesse angered too easily. Her emotional displays would not serve her well. But it would provide him with some amusement while he was here.

      Since she’d not killed him in the forest, he had a bad feeling that he might be here a long time. If that happened, he’d end up dying at King Stephen’s orders without ever discovering the true murderer.

      Rhys jerked his arm, grimacing at the bite of the iron manacle holding him to the bed.

      Surely they didn’t mean to keep him chained to this bed forever? They knew who he was, so they’d heard the stories about Lord Faucon.

      His bitter sigh filled the chamber. How could anyone not have heard the tales? Rhys purposely let the rumors of his terrible disposition grow and spread. Secretly he enjoyed the fear that sprang to men’s eyes when they realized whom they faced. It suited him to build upon this dark image by dressing himself, his horse and his men in nothing but black.

      Those who knew him well found the stories of his evilness amusing, even assisting Rhys in building the fables beyond the believable. He had to admit, it effectively kept the unwanted daughters of his peers from being dangled beneath his nose.

      In truth, he’d not needed stories to keep women away. Word of Alyce’s death had sufficed. That suited him well. He’d no wish to avail himself of another woman’s lies and deceit.

      Again, what he’d thought was a long-buried pain, stabbed at his heart. “Blast it all.” The curse echoed in his ears. He glanced out the arrow slit. The sun was already setting.

      How much time would pass before his men found their way to his captain Melwyn? They’d broken the men up into two groups. Melwyn’s group headed toward Faucon’s keep, seeking aid from his brother Gareth. The other group rode with him, toward Richmond. The most logical area to begin his search had seemed the site where the rumors about the murder were circulating. Instead, they’d ridden into a trap.

      A cleverly devised trap. Since du Pree’s lands and Ryonne were to the south, he’d not expected to encounter vengeance on the north road.

      Where was he? He knew what general area. His foolish captors had taken no pains to hide their direction. The cart had followed the north road before turning slightly east toward the coast. That would put him in either the Earl of York’s, or the Earl of Richmond’s territory. Since both men were considered friends, he was in a safe region.

      Yet they were close to the Scottish border. All were aware that the Lord of Faucon was a staunch supporter of King Stephen in his battle against the Empress for the throne. No matter what had taken place during King Henry’s reign, the Empress had no right to the crown.

      Rhys refused to believe for an instant that Baldwin’s daughter would be loyal to the enemy. So where had Lady Lyonesse taken him? He closed his eyes, recalling snippets of court gossip. Had he heard anything about Ryonne, Lyonesse or du Pree? Other than about the upcoming marriage ceremony, he didn’t recall—wait! Rhys sat up. Yes, he did recall something…from last summer. What?

      He smiled with relief. Taniere. How could he have forgotten the uproar when old Leon had handed his prized possession to his granddaughter?

      His smile died. Knowing where he was did little to help him. His only hope was his men.

      They were all to meet outside of Northampton next week. If his men could not find him, would either of his brothers be able to prevent the loss of all they held dear?

      How did he let this happen? The ridiculousness of the situation wiped away his anger and worry. Unable to contain himself, he started to laugh.

      Once started, his deep, throaty laugher was nearly impossible to stop. He did not care if the sound echoed out of the chamber and down to the hall.

      “A female. The terrible Faucon has had his wings clipped by a female.”

      All his years of hard work to build a reputation wasted. Wiped out by the small hand of a grief-stricken female. He shook his head. “Not even a woman fully grown, but by an untried girl.”

      When he reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes, Rhys flinched at the bite of his chains. The flash of pain didn’t stop the laughter from erupting again.

      Lyonesse. Aye, she was well named. His shoulders trembled with mirth. In his mind a green-eyed kitten pounced on an unsuspecting falcon and shook the bird of prey between its small, white, sharp teeth.

      Chapter Two

      An early evening breeze brushed lightly across Lyonesse’s cheek. The gentle current carried a fine, cool mist from the sea it just crossed, causing her to pull the woolen mantle more closely around her to ward off the chill. Her perch in the crenellation of the stone wall may have shielded her from a person’s view, but it provided little shelter from the seeking wind.

      She’d had two days to think. Two long days to figure out what to do with Faucon until his time ran out.

      So far she’d come up with little else besides holding him in her tower. He’d only laughed at her with a deep, sinister laugh that sent shivers down her spine. He didn’t realize that she knew about the king’s command. Faucon had one short month to prove his innocence, or die. If she could hold him long enough, his death would not be on her hands.

      Faucon would have to be content with being held captive—for a time. She’d ordered the chains securing him to the bed removed, making his lot slightly better. A thick, iron-studded door with a locking bar on the outside, secured him within his tower cell.

      “The murdering scum be dead?”

      Lyonesse jumped at the intrusion. “No.” Intent on her thoughts, she gave Sir John little more than a glance.

      He grasped her shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

      She jerked away from his unwelcome touch, reluctantly climbing down from the wall. “No, Faucon is not dead.”

      “’Tis not what we planned.” Anger tinged his words. “Milord du Pree will not wait forever for his revenge.”

      Lyonesse lifted an eyebrow at his impatience. “What does a day or two matter to one who is dead?”

      Sir John loomed over her, his lips curled into a snarl. “Lord Guillaume trusted you. Like a besotted fool he was ready to give you everything.” He spat on the wooden planks of the wallwalk. “You dishonor him with your hesitation.”

      “I dishonor no one.” She swallowed her fear of the man and stared up at him. “Faucon will pay for what he did.”

      “When? You have had time aplenty to finish the deed.”

      Howard’s dire warnings about trusting Sir John rang in her mind. No. She would not tell him her plans.

      “What would you like me to do, Sir John? Run a sword through him with Ryonne’s captain at hand?”

      Sir John’s smile sent a tremor down her spine. “I can see to your captain easily enough.”

      “You will not endanger Howard.”

      The man stepped away. “If the deed is not done by this time tomorrow, I will see to it myself.”

      “Give me no ultimatums. I will deal with Faucon.”

      Lyonesse gasped when he grabbed her arm. “Unhand me.”

      He tightened his hold. “The time for games is over. I came to you to fulfill my lord’s final wish and I will see it done. No one will stop me. I will kill any who get in my way. It