wish to thank you for your words.” Falke gave her a gallant bow and his most charming smile.
Welcome flashed in her blue-black eyes. “Nay, do not thank me. ’Twas only the truth.” Ivette waved away her maid. “I hope you do not hold my brother’s behavior against me.”
“I am thankful you do not share Laron’s opinion of me.”
She smiled and slowly ran her tongue along her teeth to her lip. “There are many things I would share with you.”
He slanted one brow. “Really? Pray, can you elaborate? I would be most interested.”
A titter of laughter answered his question. “Aye, I would show you…someday. For now, let us walk in the garden and leave the staring eyes of these men.”
“Gladly.” Falke took her arm, then led her past the glaring eyes of his vassals. The heat of their anger beat against his back as he walked out into the fresh air.
Leaving the winter scents of old rushes and smoke-lit rooms, Falke inhaled the perfume of the newly arrived spring. New shoots eagerly reached for the morning sunshine. Stark trees and shrubs showed an array of tiny leaves. A lone bird chirped from the whitewashed trellis, its song a hymn to the season.
“What an ugly little bird,” Ivette clucked. “All brown and drab. What a dreary existence it must have.”
“’Tis a wren. A delightful song, is it not?” The bird’s melancholy notes caused his heart to flutter. His second sense, which some called luck, clicked inside his head. The little bird cocked its head and stared at Falke intently, then began its song over again.
“Delightful? Nay, ’tis a rather sorrowful melody. Mayhaps it knows its lack of beauty and laments its fate.” Ivette snapped shut her fan and laughed.
Her voice halted the bird’s serenade and it retreated to a maple tree. The song did not resume, but Falke’s instincts remained charged with energy.
He watched the bird hop along a branch and perch its bit of weight on a thin twig. “Its lack of splendor is only more apparent because of the beauty before me.”
The flattery melted Ivette’s pout. She gazed at him through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. “Sir Falke, you are too kind.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with my words. ’Tis not gratitude I seek, lady.” He cradled her cheek in his hand.
“Then perhaps you should be more aggressive in your search, Lord Falke.” She emphasized his title and thereby his rights as her liege.
All gentleness left his caress and he pulled her to him. Eagerly, she sought his lips and molded her body to his. The nubs of her breasts rubbed against his chest, inflaming his lust. He held a practiced seductress in his arms. With full knowledge of her intentions, he cupped one full globe, his finger massaging the hard tip.
“Sir Falke.” A breathless page ran down the cobblestone path. “They’re here.”
Releasing Ivette, Falke vented his frustration at the lad. “God’s blood, make sense of yourself. Who is here?”
Red faced, the page stumbled to a stop and gulped deep breaths into his wiry rib cage. “Cravenmoor. Sir Falke, your bride has arrived.”
Ivette sucked in her breath and a quiet pall settled on the garden. Cravenmoor here already? Crafty old Merin must have sent for the girl as soon as Falke accepted his offer of inheritance.
“Milord, they’re entering the castle gate now.” The lad shifted from one foot to the other, obviously impatient to see the queue of guests.
“I suppose I should be there to greet them.” The page raced off before Falke could even finish. Taking Ivette’s hand, he strolled toward the castle, his mind churning with ideas on how to handle the Cravenmoor dilemma.
For some reason the melody of the little bird wouldn’t dislodge from his mind. A speck of a shadow flew off into the sparse green of the woods beyond the garden just as Falke climbed the forebuilding stairs.
The men and women of Mistedge already huddled in tight groups, awaiting the arrivals. Ozbern came to Falke’s side, shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the mayhem entering the inner bailey.
The procession dragged through the barbican gate in a cloud of noise and dust. Sir Titus, seated on a hide-scarred palfrey, shouted curses at the servants. His crop slashed across the back of a bearer. “Drop that trunk and I’ll open your back with fifty lashes.”
Falke watched the display of cruelty and noted to his friend, “Titus hasn’t mellowed with age.”
Ozbern nodded and wagged his finger toward where Ivette stood with a cluster of ladies. She ripped the lace from her handkerchief as the women gossiped. Tiny shreds of thread floated to the ground like snowflakes. “’Tis plain Ivette is worried. Am I correct in assuming you knew not of this arrival?” Ozbern queried.
“Aye, Merin must have been certain I’d agree to the arrangement.” Falke scratched his chin. “Or he thought ’twould be harder for me to deny the girl if she stood before me.”
“Perhaps this girl will not be as sordid as her guardian.”
“Growing up in a household ruled by Titus?” Falke crossed his arms and widened his stance. Revulsion tensed his muscles. “That man is the vilest human being I know. My aunt is certain he arranged his brother’s death and the widow’s. Just the fact that his niece is still alive tells me something.”
“Titus is known as a lecher. Any man would be a fool to leave his daughter alone with him.” Grimness settled in lines around Ozbern’s mouth. “’Tis said Isolde, her mother, was the fairest woman of the realm.”
“If Isolde’s daughter has any looks about her, you can be sure Titus has already tasted her wares. She’s probably as twisted as he is. Mark me, my friend, I’ll not wed away my freedom just to honor a dead uncle’s wish. Mistedge is mine, marriage or no. Henry has decreed me heir.”
“Aye, so he has.” Ozbern cocked his head toward the assembled lords. “But should these vassals plan rebellion, with King Henry busy setting London to rights, your throat could be cut and a new lord in place before Henry has time to act in your behalf. A sliced gullet or marriage?” He rubbed his neck tentatively. “Of the two, I suggest the wedding. At least you would be able to enjoy a fine feast.”
“As always, my friend, you add a bit of sunshine to my dreary day.” Falke slapped Ozbern on the back. As the party cleared the inner bailey gate, Falke sighed. ’Twas time to greet his guests.
Horses and servants huddled around Titus, hesitant to move before he gave the signal to dismount. When the dust settled, Falke addressed his guests. “Lord Titus, welcome to my home.” He paused to allow the meaning of the words to sink in.
Titus’s beady eyes searched the crowd for Lord Merin, then he smiled. The wide grin of chipped and crooked teeth reminded Falke of neglected tombstones. “So, Merin’s dead already. Didn’t waste much time, did you?”
“My uncle died from a hunting accident.” Falke kept his eye on the cagey older man, but he searched the group for the girl. He saw no young maiden in the assembly, only a few
