family every step of the way. For two solid days now she’d made their lives miserable.
Edgar couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied his lord’s patience. If she were his charge, she’d have felt the back of his hand by now. None would blame Faucon for doing just that.
“Unhand me!”
The sharp crack of a resounding slap caused more than one soldier to flinch as they envisioned the smack on their own face. Others peered intently into the bottom of their ale mugs. Edgar wondered how much of the brew would be required before this night ended.
“You filthy swine!”
“Enough of this madness.” With a heavy sigh, Edgar rose and headed toward his master’s tent.
Before he could cross the clearing, Lord Gareth of Faucon backed hastily out of the tent inspecting his arm in the light emanating from the tent. “You black-haired wench, never try something like that again.”
Edgar sucked in a breath at the menace evident in Faucon’s low, emotionless tone. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others freeze. All knew that deadly tone meant Faucon had reached the limit of his patience. Edgar feared for his stash of gold; in his mind’s eye he saw it shrink considerably.
Gareth glanced at his stinging forearm where she’d raked her nails in an attempt to further prove her displeasure. “By God, I am bleeding!”
Enraged, he swung away from the tent to tend his arm and collided with his man, nearly knocking the two of them to the dirt.
“Milord.” Edgar caught his footing first and swiftly pulled Gareth upright. “Perhaps it would be best to explain the situation to her one more time?”
“One more time?” Gareth looked down at his man in surprise. “You think I have not tried?” His amazement was obviously not lost on his shamefaced captain. “Repeated discussion has brought me only an aching head, stinging cheek and bleeding arm.”
He stomped toward the fire and accepted a proffered wineskin. The overly fermented grape coursed a bitter trail across his tongue, then down his throat. He swallowed hard, seeking to hold back his grimace as he returned the container to its owner.
Ack. Sour wine and sour women had one thing in common—they both sought to ruin his good nature.
“Milord Faucon!”
Gareth instinctively turned toward the man’s shout, only to see his captive rush around the side of his tent and disappear into the blackness of the forest.
“By all the saints’ bones!” he cursed aloud. If that crafty little wench who barely came up to his chest thought for one heartbeat she would escape, she needed to think again.
Gareth and his men reached the edge of the clearing as one. Long association made spoken orders unnecessary. When Gareth motioned with a quick jerk of his hand, the men fell into a line on either side of him. They would comb the dark forest with little more than an arm’s length separating them.
Surely, ten and five men working as a single unit would be able to find one obstinate woman. Gareth cursed again.
He’d vowed to deliver this wench to her kinsmen and return to the king’s service within a month. What had seemed nothing more than a brief respite from war, suddenly appeared to be a quest to retain his honor and life.
Honor. Gareth swore at the memory of honor lost. He’d already besmirched his honor and his family name at Lincoln.
Even though he had only followed his overlord’s orders to retreat during the battle, Gareth’s guilt weighed heavily on his soul. They’d left the king unprotected, enabling the enemy to capture and imprison Stephen for months.
Aye, he’d find the woman all right. It was not as if he had a choice. If he failed his sire this time he’d find his head adorning the battlements at Windsor—compliments of King Stephen.
Another, smaller gathering of men watched in silence. When the woman escaped, all glanced toward their leader. He waved them back with one hand. Their time would come. She would be theirs eventually.
It was best for now to remain hidden—unseen. Let Faucon catch the wench. Much satisfaction would be gained in taking her from him.
Time and preordained fate was on their side.
Chapter One
“Choose.”
Rhian jumped. The hissed order seemed to come from the very air itself. She nearly dropped the ewers of ale she carried to the great hall.
Choose what?
After rebalancing her load, she swallowed her dread before heading toward the boisterous gathering.
She had not the leisure to contemplate the uneasy feeling that started as little more than a prickle at the nape of her neck and now swept through her limbs like a cold winter wind. She’d not been at Browan Keep more than a few days and had no intention of staying long enough to discover what caused her unease.
This was naught but a temporary haven—one that grew more unpleasant by the day.
And now a formless voice urged her to choose.
Choose what?
“Wench!” The shout came from one of the men in the hall. “Be quicker with that ale.” An order that had been repeated many times this evening.
The act of serving those gathered in the great hall bothered her little, but the drunken louts yelling and pawing at her set her teeth on edge. There was no master at Browan. She’d heard that the lord here had died in a hunting accident and King Stephen had not yet replaced him.
The man who was temporarily in charge had no control over the others, so they ran wild. Their entertainment had risen to the level of a game this night. The more they drank, the more they sought to pull her down onto their laps or to fondle her as she walked by.
While some of the other girls welcomed these advances, she had no wish to be compromised in such a manner. She’d already compromised herself enough by coming here alone in the first place; she’d not make her lot worse.
After slamming one ewer down onto the table with a heavy thud she spun away, successfully avoiding a pair of reaching hands. Slurred curses met her maneuver.
No sooner had a smile of success twitched at her lips, when she plowed into a smelly, beefy wall of flesh. “Ah, my beauty, you show excellent taste.” The man wrapped his arms about her waist, securing her as neatly as herring caught in a net.
Rhian mumbled her own curse. She’d spun too far—right into the snare of yet another lout.
When he sought to lean in for a kiss, the stench of his breath gagged her and fueled her need to escape. She nearly growled before rapping a pitcher of ale against his head.
The earthen jug shattered, leaving her holding naught but the handle. Either his skull was made of rock, or he was too far in his cups to notice, because he did not fall, nor did he release her. At least not at first.
In expectation
