Praise for Denise Lynn

FALCON’S DESIRE

‘With revenge, romance, intrigue and passion at its hottest, Ms Lynn has truly penned a story that ranks high with the best romances I have ever read…A definite keeper.’

—Romance Reviews Today

‘A charming romance full of wit and sensuality.’

—Historical Romance Writers Review

‘This medieval romance has all the things that I enjoy reading in a book: a mystery to solve, and a hero and heroine who hate each other so much that when they finally realise they are in love, it’s explosive!’

—The Best Reviews

FALCON’S HONOUR

‘Non-stop action, a marvellous captive/captor plotline, a hint of fantasy and more than a touch of passion converge, making this book a memorable romance and a feast for fans of medieval romance.’

—RT Book Reviews

“Was it easy to forget our marriage? Did you go as willingly to Thornson’s bed as you did mine?”

“Do not be crude. What choice did I have?”

“You could have said no. We’d exchanged vows.”

Marguerite had expected this. But the deadly tone of his voice brought a breathless gasp out of her lips. “I spoke but a promise to you. Not all promises can be kept.”

“It was much more than a simple promise.” Darius stepped towards her. “It was a vow made to me, before God, before witnesses. A vow to be my wife.”

She pushed him away. “Do not do this, Darius. We were impetuous children who acted on a whim. Nobody, not the King nor the Church, would hold us to those vows.”

“Children? Impetuous children?” He grasped her arms. “Did you love Thornson?”

She nodded, then thought to turn the tables. “What about you? Do you not care for your wife?”

“I cared a great deal for my wife. To my misfortune she cared not enough.”

Marguerite was stunned to realise he talked about her…

Award-winning author Denise Lynn has been an avid reader of romance novels for many years. Between the pages of books she has travelled to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and neverending love. Now she can share with others her dream of telling tales of adventure and romance.

Denise lives with her real-life hero, Tom, and a slew of four-legged ‘kids’ in north western Ohio, USA. Their two-legged son, Ken, serves in the USN, and comes home on occasion to visit and fix the computers, VCRs or any other electronic device Mum can confuse in his absence. You can write to her at PO Box 17, Monclova, OH 43542, USA, or visit her website, www.denise-lynn.com

Falcon’s Love
Denise Lynn

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mom, with love.

Prologue

Falcongate Normandy, Late Spring 1142

A small brazier provided light in the one-room hunter’s cottage. They would supply their own brand of heat to warm the tiny chamber.

He slid beneath the furs on the narrow cot, then gathered her close. She came to him willingly, pressing the length of her body against his.

Her head rested just below his shoulder, her shaking breath blew hot against his chest. Stray curls from hair as bright as the summer sun tickled at his neck.

Her skin was so soft and smooth, like the fluffy softness of a rabbit. He stroked her slender naked limbs, reveling in the knowledge that she was his. She trembled beneath his touch, her nervousness making him feel bold and protective at the same time.

The thought humbled him and he silently swore to protect her always. Had he not recently vowed to keep her safe, to honor her, to love her for all time?

This night they would learn of passion and desire together. They would bind the vows they’d shared with love.

“You would think a Faucon would know not to let down his guard.”

Darius of Faucon jolted out of his dream at the statement. He’d fallen asleep while fishing and had not heard the men approach. His first instinct was to grab the weapon lying at his side. But the tip of a sword steadily pressed to his neck kept him in place against the tree he’d leaned against earlier this day.

He squinted against the blazing sun and counted eight blades pointed at his chest. He glanced toward the next tree and saw Sir Osbert in the same predicament. Darius felt a measure of relief knowing that the aging captain of his guard had come to no harm.

From the tenseness of the man’s stout body and the bushing of his near-white eyebrows, Darius doubted if Sir Osbert shared that relief. One thing was certain, had these armed men wanted either of them dead, they’d already be conversing with those in the afterlife.

Darius stared at the man leaning closest to him and asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”

The man stood, sheathing his blade as he did so. “King Stephen and Queen Maud wish a favor.”

Though Darius was thankful to have been awoken from a dream that had haunted him nightly for nearly six years, he asked, “They could not simply send a missive?”

“They did. No one responded.”

Obviously the request had been sent to Faucon Keep. He’d not been on his brother’s property for a fortnight now. Instead, he’d taken up residence at the smaller and more secluded holding of Falcongate. Situated along a lazy river, it suited his needs for the moment.

Darius informed the man, “Comte Faucon is recently married and has not yet arrived home. The king knows this.”

“Aye, and your other brother is encumbered elsewhere. That is why Queen Maud sent us directly to you. She thought you might be here instead of at the main keep.”

“Obviously, she was correct.” Darius rose, silently cursing the queen for remembering this holding. “What do they want?”

“An exchange.”

The humor evident in the man’s voice gave Darius pause. “Exchange of what?”

“A favor for your traitorous life.”

“Traitorous?”

The man shrugged. “It seems proof has been given to place you in league with Empress Matilda.”

The possible repercussions of that statement brought Darius’s heart to a near standstill. “Who makes this wild accusation?”

The man’s smirk widened. “Queen Maud.”

Darius gritted his teeth to capture a shout of frustration. This false accusation was nothing but a game. A game the king and queen would play to ensure his immediate cooperation. A game where his life would likely be the only prize.

A game he obviously had no choice but to play. “And what…favor causes King Stephen and Queen Maud to employ such extreme measures to gain my assistance?”

The man nodded. “Good. You seem to understand the importance of this request.” He waited until Darius was joined by his captain before continuing, “It is a simple task.”

Sir Osbert snorted in disbelief. Darius shared his man’s opinion. Simple would likely translate to a mission requiring much gold, men and risk. He motioned for the man to explain. “Define what this simple task entails.”

“Lord Thornson has died. He leaves behind a widow.”

Likely a widow requiring a new husband. Darius swallowed before asking, “And they wish me to do what?”

“You are to take and hold Thornson Keep until the king and queen can find a man suitable to be a husband for the lady and a master for the keep.”

Darius’s exhale of relief escaped in a rush at the knowledge that he was not this suitable man. Then he realized that Thornson Keep was near the border of Scotland. It would put him not only weeks away from Falcongate, but on the edge of the enemy’s territory. “A simple task to be sure.”

The man’s wicked chuckle preceded an ominous warning. “There is more.”

Of course there would be more. Darius closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I am not surprised.”

Chapter One

Thornson Keep, Northeast coast of England Early summer, 1142

He had never found much pleasure in killing another, but Darius of Faucon was certain that battle would provide more engaging action than tracking down smugglers for the king. If nothing else, at least he’d be on the back of a sturdy warhorse and not lying on his belly in the cold mud staring over the edge of a cliff.

To keep the hilt of his sword from digging any farther into his flesh, he shifted his position on the ground. After two nights of this, nothing he did helped much. With the coldness of the earth, the hardness of his chain mail and the cursed dampness of the night, he doubted he’d ever again find comfort, warmth or even a measure of dryness.

He peered over the edge of the cliff, down at the flickering torchlight below. The figures on the beach hustled to meet boats landing on the shore. They lifted trunks and bags out of the four small vessels, carried them across the beach and disappeared into the cliffs. Only six men guarded the operation on the beach. The guards appeared to stand close to each other, instead of spreading out to keep their cohorts safe. Judging by this lack of concern for safety, he doubted there were any others farther up the shoreline.

Darius glanced up at the position of the moon. Each night at the same time, men had lit torches on the beach to guide the boats to those standing at hand to unload the cargo. King Stephen’s fears were valid—a smuggling operation existed in Thornson.

And Darius had but a month to root them out.

No sense in waiting. They’d confront the smugglers this night. He scooted back from the edge of the cliff, rose and motioned to Sir Osbert. At least one of his “simple tasks” could be completed on schedule. First one mission and then the other.

Sir Osbert had the men ready for action when Darius met them a short distance from the cliff. Without a word, he led the men along the edge of the cliff as it sloped down to meet the beach.

Once on the pebbled shoreline, they kept their backs to the rocky wall as they moved closer to the smugglers. Just as Darius had surmised, the outlaws kept no guard on the outskirts of their operation, so certain were they of their safety. How long had they enjoyed free run of Thornson?

One of the many questions he’d have answered before his missions were completed…

When they neared the smugglers, Darius nodded to his men, drew his sword, stepped away from the rocks, then shouted, “For King Stephen!”

Men scattered. Those closest to the vessels jumped inside the boats and quickly rowed away, taking the remainder of their cargo along. Those on the beach who did not run into the mouth of the cave dropped their loads, grabbed their weapons and raced toward Darius and his men.

Three of the smugglers fell with the first clashing blows from Darius’s men; the criminals were no match for armed warriors. Those who’d been standing guard gave but a halfhearted effort to defend themselves. When it soon became obvious that Darius’s men had gained the upper hand, one of the outlaws shouted, “To the lady!”

At the man’s command, the remaining smugglers and their guards turned and raced into the cave. Certain the man who’d shouted must be in charge of the others, Darius pointed at him and ordered, “Take him alive.”

He wanted all the information he could gather to take back to King Stephen, along with the name of the person backing this operation.

Sir Osbert quickly nabbed the man and held him at sword point. “Milord, shall I make him talk?”

Darius took one look at the unholy gleam in Osbert’s eyes and shook his head. “Nay, it would be easier to discover what he knows while he can still breathe.”

At that moment, the captured smuggler yelled, “Never.” Then he threw himself at Osbert’s sword.

Caught off guard, the captain had no time to move his weapon before the man impaled himself on the blade. “Good Lord, man.” Osbert pulled his sword free and let the man fall to the ground.

Darius cursed, then knelt beside the dying man. “Give over. Tell me who you serve.”

The man’s laugh gurgled through his parted lips. He shook his head. “No.”

“Which lady do you seek to protect? The Empress Matilda? The Lady of Thornson?” Darius frowned. Determined to gain any scrap of information he could, he grasped the man’s shoulders and offered, “Go to your maker with a clean heart. Tell me and I will see you are buried with the blessing of the Church. Matilda or Thornson’s lady?”

“Aye.” The man’s whispered answer was barely audible.

“Who?” Darius leaned down to better hear the answer, but the only sound that met his ears was the lapping of water at the edge of the beach. The man heaved one last breath and died.

Darius released the body. What could have been the end of one task was now reduced to a gain of nothing.

“Milord, shall we follow the others into the cave?”

Darius glanced from Osbert to the approaching sea. The incoming tide would soon crash against the rocks. Any caught between the sea and the cliff would be crushed.

He glanced at the steep rock face. The darker waterline high above them was visible in the moon’s light. The height made following the smugglers into the cave dangerous: water would soon flood the unfamiliar escape route.

Since the possibility of a watery grave was not to his liking, he answered Osbert, “Nay. There is no more time this night.” Darius rose and waved toward the dead bodies of the smugglers. “Gather the dead.”

“Why not leave them here for the sea to bury?” Sir Osbert shrugged. “Let their death befit their deeds.”

“I will not have that on my soul.” Darius stared down at his captain. “Gather the dead. Take all but this one to the church in Thornson and let the villagers deal with them in whatever manner they desire.”

A solitary figure backed farther away from the mouth of the cave, into the safety provided by the network of tunnels. He clenched his jaw with helpless rage, then whispered, “Fools.”

These strangers knew not with whom they dealt. Swift and deadly justice would be their prize for interfering in things they did not understand.

He was sick unto death of serving another. It was time he answer only to the king. He deserved that privilege. Surely none would disagree. He would see to the strangers’ deaths himself. He had already risked much—even murder—to get this far. It would be only right that he be the one to hold the sword to their necks.

The sea pounded against the rock cliffs, echoing like thunder across the open grassy land between the forest and Thornson Keep. On such a clear, sunny morning the rumbling echoed ominously.

From the cover of the trees Darius stared up at the great stone keep. The sound of the crashing waves reverberated through him, providing the perfect setting for the coming attack.

The king had given him the men, arms and gold needed to complete this part of his task—to take and hold Thornson Keep. After studying the keep’s layout, he had assumed his force would be more than enough—he couldn’t have been more wrong.

They’d rushed the keep repeatedly yesterday to no avail. As far as he could tell, Thornson’s force had been decreased by four men. But Darius had lost one of Faucon’s men when the scaling ladder was pushed away from the wall and the man hit the hard earth, snapping his neck. Hopefully, his brother the Comte would take the situation into consideration when he learned the news.

Darius took another look at the parchment with the building plans before crumpling them and tossing the useless information to the ground. He stared back up at Thornson. It was more fortress than keep.

Continued battling would be a waste of time and lives. He and his pitiful band of men could batter at the gates until the world ended and it would make no difference to those inside.

The thought of laying siege crossed his mind—briefly. Darius’s instincts warned him that he and those with him would die of old age before Thornson’s stores dwindled.

How was he to hold the keep if he could not find a way to gain control?

And why did the king seem not to know of this situation? Perhaps he did know and simply did not care, or think it worth mentioning.

Sir Osbert joined him at the edge of the clearing. “Milord, have you done something to anger King Stephen or Queen Maud?” Osbert’s stare remained on Thornson.

“Besides the false accusations they lay at my feet, nothing I am aware of comes to mind.”

“How do they expect you to take and hold this keep?” Osbert swung around and looked at Darius. “We would need more than twice the manpower we have.”

“I know.” His captain was correct. Thirty men would not be able to breach Thornson’s thick, stone walls. “I thought we would try the direct approach next.”

“The direct approach?”

“Aye.” Darius stared at his captain, waiting for the objections sure to come.

Osbert widened his eyes. “You think to just ride up to the gate, accuse them of being traitors and demand they hand over the keep?”

“It is worth a try.” In truth, Darius held little hope that the tactic would work. While it would be an easy thing to lay the smuggling operation at Thornson’s feet, it might not prove as easy to place that burden on the traitor’s widow.

However, he had a gut feeling that someone at Thornson might want the dead body currently draped across the back of one of Darius’s horses.

“But, Milord…”

“Even if we do not accuse them outright, Thornson died months ago.” Darius cut off his man’s further objections. “His widow holds the keep. Do you think she enjoys the work and responsibility something that size requires?” When Osbert said nothing, Darius continued. “If that isn’t enough incentive, surely someone wishes to lay claim to the body we possess.”

Osbert sat back in his saddle, contemplating Darius’s explanation. Finally, the man nodded. “Aye, it is worth a try.”

“I am glad you agree.” His sarcasm was clearly lost on the captain. Darius pulled a rolled parchment from a strap on his saddle. “And if either of those ideas fails, perhaps the king’s written orders will help convince Thornson’s lady to see reason.”

Sir Osbert nodded, then turned his horse around. “I will gather a few men to join us.”

“Four archers will be enough.” While Darius held little hope that this would work, he was not foolish enough to think it held no risk. The archers could provide the cover needed if they had to beat a hasty retreat. “And we’ll take the body with us to the gates.”

Osbert and the archers joined Darius in a few minutes. Darius led them out of the woods wondering if it would be a bad day to die. He squinted against the bright sunlight and hoped the Saints would be for him and not against him this day.

He, the four archers, Osbert and the horse with the body slung over its back crossed the expanse of open land toward Thornson.

The wind howled, buffeting them with a force that threatened to knock them from their mounts.

Darius kept his gaze trained on the wall. Though Thornson’s men peered between the crenellations, none had aimed arrows at Darius or his companions. Still, he did not relax his focus. They were only halfway to the keep and anything could happen. In less than a heartbeat circumstances could reverse. A single, well-placed arrow could change everything.

Not that any would mourn his death. His father had disowned him years ago when Darius had foolishly taken his future into his own hands.

He blinked. What had brought that thought to his waking mind? Until this moment, the memories of his young wife and the wrath of both fathers had plagued him only in his dreams.

Darius rolled his shoulders, seeking any action that would take his mind off the insanity of the past. There was plenty to concern him right now. Smugglers to rout, a keep to hold, and now, less than a full month to complete his missions.

And his mind wished to dwell on things long dead?

He never should have returned to Faucon. He should have stayed away and let the rumors of his demise flourish and grow unchallenged. That would have been the easier thing to do.

But when had he ever chosen the easier way?

Darius silently cursed his womanly concerns into nothingness.

They drew nearer the walls of Thornson. He motioned to Sir Osbert to lift his banner. It was time to see if his direct approach would succeed or fail.

The brilliant green silk unfurled and whipped in the strong winds. Would those on the wall recognize the black falcon? And would they realize the folded wings and closed talons were a position of peace, not war?

Lady Marguerite of Thornson leaned against the saw-toothed wall surrounding the keep, fighting to keep her wits about her. Whenever she thought it was not possible for life to get worse, it somehow did.

Two nights ago they’d lost Matthew on the beach, along with at least three of the villagers. Yesterday, four of Thornson’s guards had died while fighting off this force attacking her keep.

All knew the day would come when King Stephen’s men approached their gates. In truth, she was surprised it had taken this many months.

Thornson Keep was too strong, too rich and far too strategically located for King Stephen to ignore for long. The keep was a veritable fortress near the border of Scotland. He needed the men and the gold this property could supply. Little did he know that these men were loyal to Thornson alone. And Thornson’s loyalties had been bought by Empress Matilda.

If Stephen would investigate the rights he’d issued, he’d soon realize that Thornson far exceeded what had been granted. This adulterine holding was no tower keep constructed of timber, with useless wooden palisades to protect those inside.

By the good graces of Empress Matilda and her uncle, King David of Scotland, just a short two days’ ride to the north, Thornson had quickly grown and prospered.

And while they had not denounced King Stephen outright, they openly remained loyal to those who had helped them. It was a game Thornson played. A dangerous game to be sure, but one he’d seemed to enjoy. It had kept him out of Stephen’s useless battles until the end.

She wrapped her arms about her waist. She’d not thought of his death for many weeks now and had no wish to revive that nightmare. It was better to remember her husband alive.

The Lord of Thornson had been old, so nobody had deemed him worth notice. A foolish mistake. She shifted her gaze toward the pounding sea. It thundered with an intensity that had fired her elderly husband’s blood. His passion had been poured into completing this keep before he left this world…for her.

She’d arrived at Thornson with naught but the naivete of a girl ten and five. The keep had seemed more of a guardhouse for the men and stables for the horses, than a keep. Now, a little over six years later, Thornson had become a fortress built to keep her safe.

She turned and surveyed the work Henry had seen completed. Two thick stone walls surrounded Thornson. An enemy could batter away at them for a lifetime and not gain entrance.

The inner courtyard housed the men, their horses and practice grounds. The grounds had seen much use since their completion.

The outer courtyard served as a gathering place and a market of sorts. Here, the villagers came to buy and sell wares, and to share the local gossip and news.

At the northeast corner rose the keep itself. Steep, jagged cliffs served as the back wall to the keep. With the constant surging of the sea, nature had created a safer, more secure wall than man. None could scale the slippery, sheer rock face.

“Milady.”

Jerked out of her thoughts, she looked at Sir Everett, Thornson’s captain of the guard. “Yes?”

He nodded toward the field. “They approach.”

She gasped and turned. She’d expected them to once again charge full strength toward their certain death. Instead, only six men rode forward. Six men and one riderless horse.

She swallowed an unladylike curse. Matthew. There was little doubt in her mind that the body draped across the back of the horse was he. When the others had returned the night before last they’d recounted the battle on the beach and how Matthew had foolishly called out for them to return to her.

How many times had she begged them to cease their nighttime activities? She’d warned them that eventually this would happen. Now it had.

When she’d received word from the villagers about the bodies left at the church, Matthew hadn’t been among them. She’d hoped he’d somehow escaped.

Sir Everett asked, “What do you think they are about?”

Marguerite shrugged. “You would know the minds of men better than I.” After Thornson’s death, she’d received no word from King Stephen. She’d assumed that he’d send someone to become the new Lord of Thornson when he saw fit.

Which warmonger had the king sent?

Even though it was his right, she bristled at the thought of a king’s man taking possession of her husband’s keep.

She could not stop him from taking the keep any more than she could stop what the future would hold for her. Nor could she prevent this man from doling out his form of justice to those he found to be outlaws.

Still, she chafed at the ever-present certainty that King Stephen could and would control her destiny.

Oh, would that her husband had been an earl, or that she’d been rich or powerful in her own right. Then none would determine her future. She’d determine her own. She’d also be able to protect those in Thornson who thought they were doing the right thing.

Marguerite slapped the skirt of her billowing gown in frustration. What good was if only? Wishing for what could not be only served to pass the time, nothing more.

She focused on the men approaching. Would one of them become the new master of Thornson? Or would they only hold the keep in Stephen’s name until a more suitable man could be found?

She studied the men closely. It was not hard to determine who led whom. Obviously, the tall man riding in the center of the group would be the leader. His outward appearance of calm belied everything she’d learned about warriors.

Contrary to what her father and his men had taught her as a child, she’d found that the calmest was always the most alert, the most attentive to detail, the most dangerous.

It would be best for all if this was the king’s chosen man. It would be easier to learn the ways of one man and be done with it, than to learn his ways only to have yet another man to deal with later.

Marguerite narrowed her eyes. Dangerous or not, she’d soon learn his weaknesses. Everyone had at least one, and she’d discover his quickly enough.

A movement from one of the other approaching men caught her attention. Curious, she stared as he lifted and unfurled a brilliant green banner.

Her heart lodged in her throat. Curiosity quickly became horror. She had wondered if life could get worse? Here was her answer.

Yes. It could, and had.

Of all the men serving King Stephen, why did the king have to send him to Thornson?

The man seated in the center of the approaching group could be none other than Darius of Faucon. The green banner, bearing the black falcon at rest, whipped in the stiff breeze above his head. If it did not scream his identity to anyone else, it did to her.

Against all common courtesy, Rhys, the Comte of Faucon, would display a royal golden eagle on his banner. Gareth, the second brother, would fly his deceased father’s falcon with talons extended in a posture of war. But she knew Darius’s standard well—the falcon at rest had a double meaning to her, one she’d not forgotten.

She no longer had the option to defend her keep. Marguerite could not, would not be responsible for this man’s injury or death.

Marguerite raised her voice so the men gathered on her walls could hear her order. “Hold your weapons.”

“My lady?” Sir Everett made no effort to conceal his disappointment.

She pinned him with a stare, silently daring him to disobey. He motioned the others to hold.

Certain they would follow her orders, she gestured to the men at the gate tower. She lifted her fist in the air, with her thumb pointed down. All at Thornson knew the signal to surrender.

Whispers raced from man to man along the walls. The murmurs of disbelief and disgust reached her ears. She wanted to apologize to each and every man who’d pledged to protect her from harm. But she could not.

She held firm to her orders, but even she cringed as the plain white flag rose slowly above Thornson keep.

Marguerite wrapped her arms about her stomach, in an attempt to quell the sudden spasms. If any discovered the secret she and Thornson had so carefully hidden, her whole world would shatter. Her future would be lost before it began.

This could not be happening. Not Faucon. Not now.

“My lady?” Sir Everett stepped closer to her. “Shall we raise the gate?”

“No!” She nearly choked on her shout.

The men on the walls turned to stare at her sudden contradictory order. She wanted to slap herself for her sudden outburst. Instead, Marguerite slapped at the skirt of her gown again. She needed to be more careful. It could do much harm to let all know how nervous she felt.

“No, not yet.” She took her time and kept her voice steady. “Let us see what they want first.”

She already knew what they wanted; her men probably did, too. But she needed a way to gain time to think, and this was the only tactic she could devise at the moment.

Darius and his men stopped within shouting distance. The man next to Darius yelled up at the gate tower. “Darius of Faucon demands entrance.”

Marguerite bit her lower lip to stop the unbidden smile from crossing her mouth. Sir Osbert’s voice was a little deeper, a little older, but it still carried true and strong—an ability that had helped earn him a place at Darius’s side.

Sir Everett, the captain of Thornson’s guard asked, “On what authority?”

Faucon held up a rolled missive. “On the authority of King Stephen.”

“For what purpose?”

“To hold this keep for your future lord.”

“My lady?” Sir Everett looked to her for his orders. “Do you wish to grant them entry?” A wicked smile lit his face as he grasped the hilt of his sword. “Or do we send them away?”

She shook her head. “No, we have already cried truce. Sending Faucon away will do no good.” Marguerite spoke more to herself than to the captain of Thornson’s guard. “He would only find another way to gain entry.” She frowned, desperately seeking a way to protect herself and those in Thornson.

She could not deny Faucon and his men entrance—no matter how much she wished to do so. Everyone would then know she had something to hide, and she could not permit that to happen.

All was not hopeless or lost. Her stomach calmed and her racing heart slowed to a more normal rhythm. There was something she could do.

She gave Everett his answer. “Nay. Do not send them away. Tell them to hold for a time.”

“Are you certain, lady?” Sir Everett sounded incredulous, as if he could not believe what his ears had heard. “You know what this will mean for Thornson? For all of us?”

Marguerite narrowed her eyes and stared pointedly up at him, refusing to have her orders ignored. “It means Stephen’s men will have charge of the keep…for now.” She pushed passed Sir Everett. “If it does not happen today, it will happen tomorrow or the day after. Let us see this through now. Tell them to hold. Permit them entrance only after I send you word.”

“And how do I keep them at the gates until then?”

She paused before descending the ladder to the bailey. “I care not. Discuss the weather. Just do as I say.”

Everett nodded in acceptance of her wishes, but his wide eyes gave away his doubt at her wisdom. “Aye.”

Marguerite paused on the ladder. “It will not be for long. No more than a few moments. Once they are inside, direct them to the hall. I will greet them there.”

Chapter Two

After delivering the body to the captain of Thornson’s guard, Darius strode up the stairs leading to the Great Hall. Each step made him wish he’d left his helmet and mailed gloves on. Right now he was more than ready to do battle. If the Lady of Thornson thought to try his patience, she’d succeeded thus far.

She knew full well that he was here on the king’s business. Yet for most of the morning, she’d kept him and his men pacing outside Thornson’s walls like unwanted beggars.

King Stephen was right. Someone did need to take charge of Thornson. It was obvious by the way the men on the walls acted. No guard in his right mind would have thought to use trite conversation about the weather as a ploy to detain a company of men from the king.

And no guard who possessed even the minimum knowledge of warfare would have kept them waiting after hoisting a white banner signaling surrender. Their notion of surrender needed much revising.

Darius wondered if the men, arms and gold supplied by the king would be enough to complete the missions he’d been assigned. If King Stephen’s concerns had been left to stew for too long, Darius knew he could find himself in more danger than they’d imagined.

He stopped outside the door to the Great Hall and took a deep breath. One item on his long list of tasks was to take control of Thornson. He’d do that through the widow. She’d already played him for a fool once this day, and he’d see to it that little game was never repeated.

Darius turned the metal rod and pushed the door open with enough force to slam the iron-studded oak against the inside wall. He stepped through the doorway more than ready to put the Lady of Thornson in her place—and met the shocked gasps of servants with a glare.

He swept the hall with a searching look and found—nothing but servants and a few guards.

His temples throbbed. Livid, Darius clenched his jaw to keep from shouting in rage. Instead, he grabbed the closest man by the front of his tunic and dragged him forward. “Where is your lady?”

The man raised his hands in a useless manner to protect himself. “I do not know, my lord.”

“Find her and bring her here now.” He pushed the man away and watched in satisfaction as his order was carried out.

The other servants and guards scurried out of his way as he crossed the hall. His spurs jingled with each step on the hard earthen floor. A guard quickly grabbed a chair and pulled it over to the long trestle table before making good his escape.

Darius tossed his helmet on the table, then threw his gloves alongside of it before taking the seat. A female servant approached hesitantly, carrying a tray of food. Another brought a jug and a goblet. Neither said a word as they placed the items on the table, then left.

Within a few heartbeats the hall was empty save him. Which suited Darius just fine. He poured himself a draught of wine and leaned back in the chair to await the Lady of Thornson.

Marguerite made certain to keep to the shadows as she leaned on the railing and peered down into the hall at Darius.

“My lady, he seems to be in a fine rage.”

Marguerite laughed softly at her maid’s statement of the obvious. “Of course he is, Bertha. Considering how long I have kept him waiting, I am surprised he is not roaring about like a wounded bear.”

“Do you think this wise?”

“Ah, Bertha, this is not Lord Thornson whose anger flared in fists and shouts. Darius of Faucon is slow to anger and quick to forgive.”

“You know this man?”

“Aye, from when we were children.”

Bertha glanced over the railing, then faced Marguerite. “I beg pardon, my lady, but he does not look like a child any longer. You could not have seen him in the time you have been here. So you cannot be certain of his temperament now.”

Marguerite knew she’d already said far too much. “You are right. It has been a long time. I do hope the man is as close as possible to the child in temper.”

“From your lips to the angels’ wings, my lady.” Bertha nodded down toward the hall. “Do ye think it might be best to join him?”

While it might be best, it wasn’t something Marguerite looked forward to doing. “Has Marcus’s welfare been guaranteed?”

“Aye. He will remain in the village until plans can be made to take him north. Everyone in the keep and the village have been informed of your wishes. None doubt your wisdom in this matter.”

Marguerite’s chest tightened around her heart. She grabbed the railing to keep from falling. Oh, Marcus, my love, know my heart goes with you always. There was nothing she could do to alter what must be. But that knowledge did little to ease the pain of facing yet another loss so soon.

“Thank you.” She gently grasped Bertha’s hand. “What would I do without you?”

The maid patted her shoulder. “My lady, you know full well that I would do anything for you and his lordship.”

Marguerite straightened her back. “I need see this done.”

Bertha wrinkled her nose in distaste and shrugged before asking, “Do you wish me to accompany you?”

“No.”

The maid’s relief was audible in her sigh. “Very well, my lady.”

“I should do this alone. But I thank you for the offer.”

Marguerite waited until Bertha took her leave before glancing down at Darius one more time. To her, he’d been a breathtaking boy, and he’d grown into a fine-looking man. From what she could see, the years had been kind to him. They’d blessed him with broader shoulders and muscular arms. His dark hair still waved about his head in riotous disorder. She knew it would run through her fingers like a rabbit’s silky fur.

After smoothing the skirt of her dark green gown, Marguerite headed toward the stairs. Would he remember her? Would his memories speak kindly of her? She shook her head. What matter to her what he did or did not remember?

After what she’d done to him this day—crying truce, then making him wait—she doubted if any man, friend or foe, would look upon her kindly.

No. Between those slights and making him enter an empty hall with none to greet him properly, she’d more than likely dealt quite a blow to his pride.

No matter. It meant little whether he looked upon her kindly or not. She’d had a life away from Darius. A full, good life. One that would live in her mind and her heart forever. One that she had to protect at all costs.

She paused halfway down the steep winding stairs and looked at him. “My lord, pray forgive my tardiness in attending you.”

He rose and stared up at her, his visage angry and impatient. No, it was plain that he did not remember her. Marguerite realized suddenly that his remembering and securing his kindness mattered a great deal to her, but she knew not why.

Darius’s heart seemed to halt at the first word that had left her lips. It couldn’t be. Dear Lord above, let me awaken from this dream.

He rose and stared speechless at the vision in green coming toward him. Even though he’d have thought it impossible, Marguerite was lovelier than the memory he’d carried in his mind.

He knew Marguerite had wed, that had been made quite plain to him. He’d not known whom she married and he’d not asked, afraid the knowing would prompt him to further rashness.

The years had softened her girlish body to womanly curves. From the swell of her breasts and the fullness of her hips, she was a sight that could stir a dying man’s passion.

And he knew full well what passion lay beneath the silken softness of her skin.

His only regret was that he’d not been here to watch her grow into such a fine woman.

Darius lifted his gaze and stared into the sea-blue eyes he’d missed for so long. She stared back at him. Confident. Proud. Not even a small smile of welcome crossed her face. She looked upon him as if she were meeting a stranger.

He swallowed. Surely she remembered him. How could she have forgotten?

Did Stephen and Maud know of his past relationship with the Lady of Thornson? Had they devised this mission for him intentionally?

She approached the head of the table and took a seat in the high-backed chair. Once he’d regained his own seat, she said, “My Lord Faucon, I understand you are here from the king.”

What game did she play with him now? Torn between the desire to tear the covering from her head and run his fingers through what he knew would be unruly blond tresses and a sworn responsibility to his king, Darius chose a third option instead.

He handed her Stephen’s written orders. “Yes, Lady Thornson, I am here on the king’s mission.”

If she wished to toy with him, he’d see it through. And in the end he’d beat her soundly at her own game.

Marguerite smoothed the missive out on the table. Her hands remained steady; never once did her fingers tremble with suppressed nervousness. After reading the orders, she rolled the parchment carefully into a scroll and handed it back to Darius.

“So, I am to surmise that you will see to the care and security of Thornson until a suitable replacement for the lord can be found?”

“You surmise correctly, yes.”

“Excellent.” She rose. “Then I shall retire to my chambers and leave all to your capable hands.”

Darius hooked a foot around the leg of her chair and jerked it beneath her. “Sit back down.”

Except for the widening of her eyes and the thinning of her lips, she gave no outward show of emotion.

Darius waited until she resumed her seat before stating, “I will see to the safety and defense of Thornson and you will continue to oversee the daily activities while awaiting the arrival of your new husband.” Suddenly the thought of awaiting a new lord for Thornson left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She folded her hands atop the table and stared intently at them. “I have yet to mourn my first husband.”

That wasn’t precisely true, but he only offered, “The king obviously thinks three months has given you plenty of time for mourning.”

Marguerite looked up, her eyes flashing like uncut gems caught in the sunlight. “I care not what your king thinks.” Her voice rose with each word. She gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white.

“My king?” Were the rumors true? Had Thornson been loyal to Empress Matilda or King David instead of to King Stephen?

“I have sworn allegiance to no one. Thus, he is your king. Not mine.”

“Your husband swore an oath for the both of you. You and Thornson’s men are bound to honor that oath, or be held as traitors to the Crown.”

“My men are not traitors.”

“Lady Marguerite—”

“My pardon?” She interrupted him and leaned forward. “I gave you no leave to make use of my given name.”

Had she cracked an open palm across his face, Darius would not have been any more shocked. A sword to his chest would not have brought as much unbidden pain as her sharply spoken words.

He wanted to yell, to demand she explain not only her actions of six years ago, but her coldness now. Darius swallowed against the building tightness in his chest. He would not permit her the power to once again hurt him.

Instead, he drew on the memories still fresh in his mind and willed his heart to harden against her. Before she could read his thoughts, he schooled his features to remain frozen in a mask showing as little concern as she displayed.

“Forgive me, Lady Thornson, but they are not your men. They are King Stephen’s men and will be expected to act as such.”

“And if they choose otherwise?”

Darius smiled. “Then they will die.”

She gasped. “How dare you.”

He leaned across the table, until they were nearly nose to nose, before warning, “I will dare much more if you unwisely insist on playing out this charade any further, Marguerite.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the door to the hall creaked open and Sir Osbert crossed the chamber.

The captain’s soft curse heralded his arrival at the table. Darius turned his attention to Sir Osbert. “Yes?”

“My lord, the men are settled in, orders have been given.” He tipped his head at Marguerite. “You are looking well, my lady. The years have been kind to you.”

“I cannot say the same for you, Osbert. You look a might older.”

Darius whipped his head around and glared at her. “And here I thought you’d forgotten.”

She smiled. “Darius, how could I ever forget a childhood friend?”

Childhood friend? What an odd way to refer to their relationship when last they’d parted. He silently invited Osbert to join them with a wave toward an empty seat.

Marguerite shrugged. “Would you care to start over?”

Start over? No. Unless murder had been declared legal. What he really wanted to do at this moment would brand him a criminal. Darius leaned back in his chair.

“Oh, yes, by all means, let us begin again.” His sarcasm was rewarded by the arching of her eyebrows. Certain he had her attention, he continued, “Let me go first this time, shall I?”

It took a few moments, but Marguerite nodded her consent.

“To make this transfer of power easier for all concerned, give me the names of the smugglers operating on your beach.”

Marguerite’s already pale complexion lightened further. She looked from him to Sir Osbert and then to the door before saying, “I know not of what you speak. What smugglers?” Finally, she brought her wavering attention back to him. “If you know of any such criminals in the area it is your duty to bring them to justice.”

She had always been a terrible liar. He was grateful that much had not changed. At one time his touch had driven her to distraction, making her say and do things she’d otherwise not.

Would that have changed?

Darius smiled before leaning his arms on the table and taking her hands between his. “Oh, my lady, fear not. I intend to bring them to justice.”

He lifted one of her beringed hands and studied it intently, tracing the blue spiderweb of veins on the back of her hand with a fingertip. Her skin was soft beneath his touch.

He turned her hand over and lazily traced the lines on her palm. A tremor coursed up her arm. When she tried to pull free, he tightened his hold, keeping her firmly in his grasp.

“My lord, what are you—”

He cut off her question by placing a kiss on the palm of her hand. “In the East, there are palm readers who would tell you that your life line is broken.”

When she knitted her brows in confusion, he explained by tracing the jagged line. “Here, see how it stops and starts again?”

She leaned forward to peer at her palm. “Yes.”

“’Tis broken.” He traced the line again, ever so lightly. Darius bit the inside of his mouth to hold back his smile at her shiver. He still had the power to shake her reserve. That could only work in his favor.

Marguerite inhaled sharply before asking, “What does that mean?”

Darius raised her hand and brought it to his mouth. Before she could react, he trailed the tip of his tongue along the line on her palm. At her gasp, he brushed her hand across his cheek, leaning into the forced caress.

He kept his gaze locked on her face. “What it means is that you have had more than one husband.” When just the lightest shade of pink colored her face, he added, “At the same time.”

Marguerite tried unsuccessfully to jerk her hand from his hold. “How dare you.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, I dare much and will dare much more before you and I are through.”

This time when she tried to free her hand, he let her go. Without another word, she rose and headed toward the steps.

She thought it would be that easy? That she could just walk away and be done with him? Not this time. Darius remained seated, but called out, “If you walk away before you are excused, I will find the smugglers myself and they will be executed in your bailey.”

She halted and turned around to face him. “Who are you to excuse me in my own keep? Who are you to decide the life and death of Thornson’s men?”

Darius rose. “Who am I?” He picked up the missive from the king. “In case you have forgotten, I am your lord and master for now. I alone have the power to decide life and death over those at Thornson.”

Marguerite returned to the table and stood across from him. “What has become of you, Darius?”

He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “My dear wife, I am everything you ever dreamed of, everything you ever desired.” He tossed her own words, spoken long ago, in her face. Then he added his own. “I am every nightmare that ever pulled you from your sleep.”

“I am not your wife.” She straightened her spine, lifted her chin and stared back at him. “I will beg you to remember that. I will do as you order, Faucon, but no more.”

We will see about that. He kept his thoughts to himself, nodded and said, “Good. Then I order you to take yourself to your chamber and remain there until I say otherwise.”

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing before leaving the hall.

Darius’s heart beat so hard he thought it would burst. He lunged back down into the chair and rubbed the throbbing in his temples.

Sir Osbert had remained silent through the conversation with Marguerite, but now he cleared his throat and asked, “My lord, if I might speak out of turn?”

Surprised, Darius peered up at him. “If you have to ask, this should be interesting. Please, feel free.”

“Do you not think that was a little rough?”

“Perhaps. Should I have sweetened every word so she felt at ease? That way, she would have thought herself free to continue on her merry way as if nothing were amiss.”

“’Tis not what I meant and you know that well.”

“Then what do you suggest, Osbert?” Darius lowered his hands and sighed. “She made fools of us at the wall. She called a truce and then kept us waiting for God only knows what reason. She pretended not to know me, then lied to my face.”

“You do not think she does that to protect herself?”

“She does that to protect not only herself, but the secrets she’s hiding.”

“Lord Darius?”

He shook his head. “Osbert, there is much more going on here at Thornson than even what the king was aware of, and I intend to ferret out all I can. To do that, I need her to know she cannot trust me. To realize that she cannot use what was once between us to her benefit.”

“I see your point.” Osbert scratched his head. “I am just not certain this is the best way around the problem.”

“And you suggest?”

His captain shrugged. “I suggest I follow your lead and see where we end up.”

“Good.” Darius rose, picked up his helmet and gloves, then headed toward the iron-studded door. “For now, let us take stock of this keep.”

He needed to know how many men currently served at Thornson. It would also be to his benefit to discover the type and number of arms available.

Since the keep itself was more than what it was supposed to be, there was no telling what other details had not been reported to King Stephen. Darius would sleep better knowing what he faced.

Chapter Three

Once she heard the great oak door thud closed, Marguerite cracked her chamber door open wider. Had Faucon left the hall? She crept out onto the landing and peered down into the Great Hall.

Her shoulders sagged with relief at finding it empty. Stay in her chamber, indeed. How did he think she was going to oversee Thornson if she was confined to her room like a wayward child?

There were many tasks requiring her attention. Tasks that no one else could complete.

Marguerite sighed. She gritted her teeth and squinted her eyes. She would allow no further complications in her life.

“My lady?”

Marguerite jumped. She’d not heard Sir Everett’s approach. She forced herself to ignore her musings and looked at her captain. “Yes?”

He made an exaggerated point of slowly looking from her, down to the door of the Great Hall, then back to her before inquiring, “Is anything amiss?”

She wasn’t certain if it was the arrogant tone of his voice, the disapproving tilt of his brows or just his demeanor overall that set her teeth on edge. Thornson’s captain had become increasingly harder to control of late. This was something Marguerite knew she needed to stop—now. If she did not see to his demeanor, Darius would.

Straightening her spine did little to bring her face-to-face with the man, but the action fortified her strength of will. “Nay, Sir Everett, nothing is amiss.” She kept her voice steady, and was rewarded when the arrogance momentarily left his face.

He took a step back. “Is there anything you require?”

Marguerite shook her head. “Not at this moment. Why do you ask?”

“You were overlong with Faucon and I feared you required assistance.”

Her chest tightened with her anger. He had been watching her. How dare he spy on her in her own keep. “I was not with him overlong. Faucon is here on the king’s business. Would it not appear strange if I did not greet him?”

“Well, yes it would, but—”

She gave him no time to complete his sentence before asking, “And since I was the one who kept him waiting for so long, is it not right that I spend a little time assuring him of our welcome?”

Everett tugged his forelock and dipped his head. “You are correct. Pray, forgive me.”

He gave in far too easily, but unwilling to pursue this any further at this time, she relented. “Fear not, Sir Everett, I will do nothing to bring shame or disgrace to Thornson.” To herself she added, Especially not with Darius. We’ve shamed ourselves more than once in the past. I’ll not repeat my childish mistakes.

Marguerite nearly laughed at Everett’s loud sigh of relief. She waved him away. “Go. See that Faucon’s men have all they require. Let them have no reason to question our hospitality—or loyalty to King Stephen.”

She knew that Everett fully understood what would happen if Faucon discovered Thornson’s loyalty to Empress Matilda. Her captain would be the last person that would let that happen.

After Sir Everett left, she headed toward the alcove at the back of the Great Hall, mentally ticking off the tasks still needing attention this afternoon.

The cooks would need an accounting of how many more mouths would require food. And she needed to assure herself that everyone understood her odd request of silence about Marcus. To do that, she would have to travel into the village, and while there it would be a sin not to visit with Bertha’s sister, who was due with her fifth child any day now. Sally Miller had mentioned that her husband’s joints ached him to no end of late; she should see how he fared. Then, she could spend some time with Marcus. He would be gone from her soon and she wanted to spend every moment possible in his company until they were parted.

And when all of that was done, she would need to conjure some womanly type of excuse to give to Darius for disobeying his orders. Marguerite rolled her eyes. Orders, indeed. She was the Lady of Thornson and she’d not seen anything in King Stephen’s missive that changed her status.

Darius already knew she’d lied. He just didn’t yet realize it had been intentional. She needed his attention focused on her.

With a little subterfuge on her part and a lot of luck, she would be Darius of Faucon’s weakness. If he spent most of his waking hours concentrating on what she was doing, or not doing, he’d not notice the activities of her men.

“Pray tell me, how did Faucon come to be inside Thornson?”

Sir Everett flinched at the smooth tone of his inquisitor’s voice. He’d learned that the calm hid a violent temper. “Faucon and his men were sent here on King Stephen’s orders. They tried to capture the smugglers, and then attacked the keep.”

A twig snapped beneath the man’s boot when he stepped closer. “I saw what happened on the beach. And I heard about the attack.” Like a snake attacking its hapless prey, he wrapped his fingers around Everett’s neck. “I asked you how Faucon came to be inside the keep.”

Everett swallowed. His throat strained against the deadly grasp. “Lady Thornson cried truce and let them enter.”

The other’s loud curse sent a nearby rodent scurrying beneath the leaves on the forest floor. “No one will be permitted to thwart my plans. No one. Keep an eye on both of them. Make certain the lady does nothing further to jeopardize our plans, and find out all you can about Faucon.” He released his hold on Everett’s neck and stepped back. “I will return tomorrow. Have some news by then.”

Still gasping to draw air into his burning chest, Everett could do little but nod.

Marguerite slipped into the kitchens through an oftused tunnel door. The cook and her helpers merely nodded and carried on with their duties.

This afternoon’s tasks had taken longer than she’d expected. She had little time left to make herself presentable before the evening meal was served.

The servants were in the process of setting up the long trestle tables in the hall when she passed through on her way to her chamber. She had less time than she had thought. Since she’d used the maze of tunnels to exit and return to the keep, it had wasted more time than usual.

But it wasn’t as if she would have been permitted to simply walk through the gates. She’d had no other choice but the tunnels.

At least her day had not been wasteful. Even during this trying time it had been filled with joy. She smiled at the memories.

She and Marcus had ventured into the forest seeking yarrow for one of Bertha’s concoctions. They’d laughed and danced about the forest as if not a care in the world beset them or Thornson.

And when she’d forced herself to part from him to return to the keep, their shared tears of sadness at the coming separation had mingled. Not long, my love. Our parting will not be for long. It was a vow she would sooner die than break.

Would that Faucon’s departure came soon. She needed things at Thornson to return to some semblance of normalcy. Even if they found another man for her to marry, a stranger’s presence would be better than Faucon’s. Someone who knew her not.

Bertha joined her at the foot of the stairs. “How fares my sister?”

“Other than being anxious for the babe to arrive, she is fine, Bertha.” Marguerite glanced about the hall before heading up to her chamber. “Have you seen Faucon or his men?”

Bertha followed. “His men guard the walls and the gates.”

“His men? What about Thornson’s guards?” Marguerite was thankful she’d not approached the gates.

“Our men have been relieved of duty, my lady. I am not certain what, but something happened earlier that seemed to anger Faucon.”

“I wonder what it could have been?” No doubt he’d found her missing.

The women paused at the top of the landing. Marguerite noted Faucon’s guards flanking the stairs. She raised her eyebrows at their presence, but said nothing as she and Bertha walked by them.

She pushed the door to her chamber open and frowned at the warmth rushing out from inside the room. “Bertha, did you—”

Her maid’s gasp effectively stopped her question. Marguerite spun around.

Sir Osbert smiled at her from behind the maid. He had one hand covering Bertha’s mouth and his other wrapped around the maid’s arm. He nodded toward the chamber before leading Bertha away.

“Get in here and close the door.”

Marguerite’s heart thumped against her chest. She turned toward the stairs, only to see both guards waiting for her. Escape would not be an option.

After taking a deep breath, she entered her chamber and shut the door behind her.

Darius stood by the lit brazier—the source of the heat she’d felt. He held out a goblet. “Here, join me.”

“Join you in what?”

“Our evening meal. Since it seems you cannot follow even the simplest order to remain in your chamber, I thought I would see to it myself.”

Marguerite swallowed a curse. She’d expected his anger, not his personal attention. What game did he play? She took the proffered goblet and sat down on a stool. “I am certain you have many other responsibilities to keep you busy.”

He shrugged before walking to the narrow window and staring out at the now darkening sky. “I thought so, too. But, obviously, my main responsibility is seeing to your safety.”

“My safety? There is no danger for me at Thornson.”

“No?” He turned and looked at her. Golden flecks glittered in his hazel eyes. “Just earlier today you intentionally lied to me about smugglers and criminals, knowing full well that I’d see through your fabrication. Then you reminded me that it was my duty to bring those men to justice. A duty I will not shirk.”

She couldn’t deny his accusations, so she remained silent.

“Do you think the years have addled my wits and made me a simpleton?”

“No.”

“Then how could you even begin to imagine that lying to me would not arouse my suspicions about everyone at Thornson? Did you really believe for one moment that I would ignore all the others because of your falsehoods?”

Her heart raced. She gripped the edge of the stool with one hand to keep from bolting to her feet.

“Need I remind you, I had two brothers? It was an easy game for one of us to draw our father’s attention, so that one of the other boys was free to do whatever he wasn’t supposed to do. How could I not suspect Thornson’s men of being up to something nefarious?”

Wonderful. Not even one day had been completed, yet he was full aware that she toyed with him.

And by the glint in his eyes, the stiffness of his stance and the tic in his cheek, she knew he was furious. Marguerite had to admit the years had taught him to restrain his anger remarkably well.

“Your obvious lying was so out-of-character that I could come to no other conclusion but that you were doing so to protect your men. Now I need discover what they need protecting from.”

She took another swallow of the watered wine before asking, “And what do you plan to do with me?”

“I have not yet decided. When I first made my rounds of the keep and started putting the pieces together, I had planned on hanging you from the tower. But I realized that would only find disfavor with the king.”

She completed that thought for him. “And heaven forbid that a Faucon incurs the king’s disfavor.”

He raised his goblet toward her. “True. Or at least let it not be on this Faucon’s head.”

“So, after that realization what did you decide?”

Darius walked away from the window toward her. “I thought to drag it all out into the open. But alas, you were not in your chamber.”

Marguerite swallowed. Lie? Don’t lie? Darius grasped her chin, tipping her head back and stared at her. Her mental debate found a quick death under his piercing attention.

She jerked her chin out of his grasp. “I have responsibilities, too, Faucon.”

“So you used the tunnel in the kitchen building to sneak out of the keep.”

How in Hades did he know that?

“Do not look so surprised, Marguerite. My men are good at their jobs. It took all of a few hours to find at least three tunnels. And the kitchen one brought them closest to the village.”

A knock on the chamber door stopped their discussion. Marguerite rose, but Darius pointed to the stool. “I will get it—you stay right there.”

She sat back down and fumed. Her mistake had been in forgetting that Darius of Faucon was not a stupid man. He knew her well, and it would be an easy thing for him to deduce her motives and then actions.

She would simply have to become much cleverer than he. And quickly.

He came back from the door carrying a tray laden with thick slabs of bread, cheese, fowl, two apples and what Marguerite hoped was a pitched of cider. “I assumed after your full day that you would be hungry.” He put the tray atop a wooden chest.

“No, I find my appetite is quite small this evening.” Actually, she was famished, but she was also tired of his assumptions on her behalf. “But please, feel free to eat your fill.”

“I plan on it.” He broke off a piece of bread and handed it to her. “You are going to eat, too. I’ll not have you getting sick.”

“I said I am not hungry.” Her rebellious stomach picked that moment to growl. Marguerite sighed, then took the bread from Darius. Before taking a bite, she looked up at him and said, “I could easily learn to hate you.”

He reached out and stroked her cheek with his finger. “I know from experience that it is not quite as easy as you might think.”

Not wanting an explanation for that cryptic remark, she concentrated as best she could on eating, her cheek still tingled from his brief touch.

As she reached for a small eating knife, Darius plucked it from beneath her hand. “Let me.”

She leaned back. “Let you what?”

He speared a small bit of the hen and lifted the meat to her mouth. “Feed you.”

“I am capable of feeding myself, thank you.” She reached for the knife, only to have him wave it away.

He drew the morsel before his face and make a grand play of inhaling. “Ah, I detect a trace of cumin beneath the garlic sauce.” He again offered the tidbit to her. “It does smell appetizing.”

He was right. The aroma made her mouth water. “I would prefer—”

Darius stopped her complaint about feeding herself by sliding at bite between her open lips. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she swallowed the tender fowl. From the self-satisfied look on Darius’s face, it was apparent if she wanted to eat, she’d have to let him have his way.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this before. Feeding each other with pilfered food used to be a regular occurrence—one they’d both enjoyed.

She held out her empty goblet. “Is that cider or wine?” Would he remember that she didn’t like wine?

“Cider, of course.” He filled her drinking vessel, took a sip and handed it back to her.

Marguerite took the proffered goblet, knowing his full attention was focused on her, she lifted it to her lips, and drank from the same spot as he.

It would be all too easy to let the years slide away. From somewhere deep in her heart she could almost hear the gurgle of a rushing stream, smell the freshness of newly harvested hay and feel the softness of the grass beneath her. The sparkle had always come quickly to Darius’s eyes, and her smiles had come gently to her lips. Everything was simpler then—back when love was new.

What was she thinking? Marguerite banished the nearly forgotten memories before they bore fruit. She had a keep, men and promises to worry about. The luxury of simpler days and newly forged bonds were beyond her grasp.

Darius offered her another bite of hen. Garlic sauce dripped off the end of the knife and ran down her chin. Before she would wipe it away, he removed it with a swipe of his finger.

As he lifted it to his mouth, time seemed to come to a standstill again and Marguerite knew, by the faraway look in his eyes, that he, too, was remembering another time, another shared meal. She wondered if his stomach knotted while a sudden warmth heated blood, or his pulse quickened the same way hers had.

Darius cleared his throat, then handed her the knife. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Once they’d finished eating, Darius asked, “Where were we?”

“I do not remember.”

“Ah, yes, what am I going to do with you?” He frowned, mimicking intense concentration. “Since hanging you is out of the question and truly any form of physical punishment would also be unthinkable, I can only think of one thing.”

She dreaded his answer, but asked all the same, “And that is?”

He flashed her a smile. The same one that used to set her blood racing and reduce her limbs to little more than jelly.

“I will remain at your side at all times.”

That would not do. Not at all. It would be impossible to carry out her duties and responsibilities with him underfoot. How would she see to the weekly shipments? Worse, how would she spend what precious time she had left with Marcus?

Marguerite shook her head. “I do not think that is wise.”

“No?”

He was enjoying this far too much. “No.”

“And why is that?”

“It will make it difficult to meet my love each day if you are always about.” Now that was not exactly a lie.

“My, my. Two husbands and a lover.” He paced the chamber before her. “What a busy woman you are.”

“I do not have two husbands.” Nor had she said lover, but let him think what he wanted on that score.

“I stand corrected. One of your husbands is dead.”

“My only husband is dead.”

Darius walked behind her. Before she could turn around, or move out of his way, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Marguerite knew the taste of fear. A cold dread snaked its way down her spine, all the way to her toes. The hairs on her neck rose.

But it was not Faucon she feared. It was herself.

It was fear of the memories that had surfaced when he’d held her hand earlier and again when he’d fed her. Fear of the bubbling passion his obscene caresses of her palm had created. Fear of the way her memories had returned with such ease. Fear of wanting his steady warm touch to continue.

He kneaded her shoulders, stroked his thumbs along the back of her neck. More than six years disappeared…and they were once again in the hunting lodge.

Marguerite tipped her head forward, letting him work the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. Not having the strength or the will to fight him, she sighed.

Darius’s breath was hot against her neck. His kiss on the sensitive flesh beneath her ear brought a soft moan to her throat. Unable to stop herself, she let it escape.

He answered the sound with a low, gentle laugh before pulling her to her feet. “I am your husband, Marguerite.” He kicked the stool out of the way, slid his arms around her and held her back against his chest.

She pressed into his embrace, grasping his forearms for support. “Those vows were not binding.”

He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head before returning his lips to her ear. “They were as binding as the actions in our marriage bed.”

He slid a hand up her stomach, scorching her skin through the layers of her clothes. He cupped one breast, thumbing the nipple to a hard peak, drawing a breathless gasp from her lips.

“Darius, do not do this.”

He turned her around in his arms. As he lowered his head to hers, he asked, “Do what?” before running his tongue along the line between her lips and easily parting them to delve inside.

His kiss stole the slim remainder of her will. She curled her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. She had remembered correctly, his hair was still as soft as a rabbit’s fur.

And his kiss still had the power to make her hungry for more.

Darius lifted his head. “Will one husband and one lover be enough, do you think?”

His question was like a punch to her stomach. She lowered her arms and pushed him away. What had she been thinking? Was she little more than a whore willing to put her entire future in danger for a kiss?

He retrieved his goblet and downed the contents before turning back to face her. “Tell me something, Marguerite, was it easy to forget our marriage? Did you go as willingly to Thornson’s bed as you did to mine?”

“Do not be crude. What choice did I have?” She crossed the chamber, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“You could have said no. We’d exchanged vows.”

From the moment she’d recognized him from high atop the wall, she’d expected this, but the deadly tone of his voice made her gasp. “I spoke but a promise. Not all promises can be kept.”

Shards of gold sparkled in his angry eyes. There had been a time when she’d been content to lose herself in his gaze. A time when no secrets lay between them. A time so long ago.

“I remember that vow, Marguerite. It was much more than a simple promise.” He stepped toward her. “It was a vow made to me, before God, before witnesses.”

He stood before her, close enough that his warm breath caressed her cheek. “A vow to ever be my faithful wife.”

“No.” She pushed him an arm’s length away. “Do not do this, Darius.”

“Do what? Do not remind you of vows made and broken?”

She closed her eyes. She did not need to see his face to recognize the anger in the tightly controlled tone. Even though she’d come to love Henry Thornson, the years that had separated her from Darius had never dimmed the memories she’d carried in her mind, in her heart.

But she could not allow fleeting whims of childhood to mar her recent past, or destroy her future. No matter the cost to her soul, Faucon had to be led to believe how little those vows meant to her.

Marguerite silently prayed for the strength to lie to him yet again this day. Certain her riotous heart would withstand the self-inflicted pain, she stared up at him and hardened her voice. “We were children, Darius. Impetuous children who acted rashly on a whim. It was more childish folly than binding oath. Nobody, not the king nor the Church, would hold us to those vows.”

“Children? Impetuous children?”

She flinched at the fury in his voice.

He grasped her arms, his hold tight and unyielding. “Childish folly? Were we not of an age to wed? Had we not been promised to each other since birth?”

“Yes, but it was not what my father wanted.”

“And you did not argue with him?”

“Argue with my father?” She swallowed an unbidden laugh. “Be reasonable, Darius. You know it would have been easier to argue with a boulder.”

“Did you go willingly to Thornson’s bed?”

Marguerite paused before answering. He was not going to like this at all. “Not at first. At first I wanted only you.”

“And then?”

“When I knew that you and I were never going to be reunited, I had to choose what kind of life I wanted.”

“And you chose…?”

“Safety. Security. Warmth and love.” If he knew the whole truth, would he be angry, or would he understand? Uncertain, she could not take the risk.

He looked at her. “You loved Thornson?”

She nodded, then thought to turn the table by asking, “What about you? Do you not care for your wife?”

He made a noise that sounded like something between a cough and a snort before answering. “I cared a great deal for my wife. To my misfortune, she cared not enough.”

She was stunned to realize he talked about her. She found it hard to believe that he had never married another.

Darius walked toward the door and ordered, “Get ready for bed. I will return anon.”

“Return? For what?”

He looked at her, his smile more of a smirk. “I was not jesting. I am not leaving you alone.”

Chapter Four

Bertha stood next to Marguerite in the garden. “How do you fare, my lady?”

It was all Marguerite could do not to shout in frustration. But with Darius not more than ten paces away, shouting was unthinkable. She’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence unnerved her.

She kept her voice low and admitted to her maid, “After two days of his constant company, I am ready to run his own sword through him.” She jerked another clump of wayward grass from the herb bed and tossed it on the growing pile of weeds.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Nay. Just tell me how Marcus fares.” Marguerite’s heart ached at the limitations of this forced separation. If she could not abide two days without Marcus’s sweet smile, what would she do when he was completely out of her reach?

“He fares well, fear not on that score. He misses you, of course.”

“And I him.”

“But we received word that the men from King David will be here to take him north by the end of the week.”

Marguerite nearly choked on a strangled sob. “That is only three days from now.”

Bertha leaned down and placed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “I know, child, I know.You have to find a way to see him before he leaves.”

“How?” She wanted to scream. She needed desperately to cry. Faucon’s all-too-knowing stare caught her eye and she knew she could do neither.

Intent on making her sham of weeding look earnest, she yanked more of the wild greenery from the herb bed, while she mulled over the situation. While tugging on a stray runner of yarrow from between the fragrant lemon balm, she got an idea.

Marguerite cursed aloud. “This blasted yarrow. Bertha, would you aid me, please?” When the maid knelt next to her, Marguerite talked fast; she knew Faucon would quickly join them.

“Are all the tunnels guarded?”

“They seem to think so. But, my lady, the ones in the stable and the well have not been found.”

“Good. I will use the stable exit.” It would bring her out just beneath the edge of the cliffs. The weather had been dry of late, so climbing the handholds up to solid ground would be manageable. Risky, but manageable. Right now, the level of risk was not an issue. She had to see Marcus, or die trying.

Marguerite wiped her arm across her forehead, giving her the chance to take a peek at Faucon. He watched them closely, but had not yet moved. “I need a diversion in the bailey. But it has to be something big.”

“Our men could attack Faucon’s. Would that be diverting enough?”

Marguerite blinked at her maid’s unusually bloodthirsty suggestion. “No. I want a diversion, just long enough so I can make my escape. We do not need a battle ending in deaths.” She laughed, more to keep Faucon from becoming overly curious than anything else, and asked, “What about a nice little fire?”

“The men would be willing to do that. It might serve your purpose.”

“It has to work. And it has to be done immediately. The longer we wait, the more time Faucon will have to realize we have something planned.” Footsteps behind them alerted her to his approach. Under her breath, so only Bertha could hear, she quickly ordered, “Tell Everett to see to it now. Failure will rest on his neck.”

Marguerite sat back on her heels and brushed her hands together, dislodging as much dirt as possible before lifting one hand in the air toward Darius. “What excellent timing, my lord. I am done here.”

He assisted her to her feet before offering the same help to the maid. Bertha thanked him, then addressed Marguerite. “By your leave, my lady?”

Marguerite nodded. “Yes, do see to your sister. Give her my regards and best wishes.”

Once the maid left the walled garden, Darius asked, “Is the babe come yet?”

“Not yet.” It amazed her that he kept up with the villagers’ comings and goings almost as well as Henry Thornson had. Her father had never concerned himself with those in the village, or in the keep for that matter. She’d first thought Henry’s outward display of concern odd.

Where Henry’s display was explainable—after all, these were his people—Darius’s concern was downright disturbing. She could not determine his motive.

He pulled her hand through the crook of his arm and led her toward the keep. “Has the midwife been summoned?”

“Yes, Sarah gathered her supplies yesterday and took up residence near the mother-to-be.”

“Good.” He patted Marguerite’s hand. “Then all will be well.”

These were the things that drove her to distraction. His touch and the way it made her flesh tingle. His concern and the way it fluttered against her heart. His nearness that she had so easily come to accept.

Since that first night, as far as anyone could tell, he had been the very vision of decorum. He escorted her everywhere—to meals, outside in the bailey, on visits to the village, even to the chapel. He and no one else guarded her chamber door at night. From the outside.

What those observing this display did not realize was that he had her under complete and total guard. He wasn’t protecting the Lady of Thornson, as they thought. He kept her prisoner.

Granted, her invisible cell was lined with the softest of furs and many bags of gold, but she still chafed under the confinement. And her heart fought valiantly to not take his show of tender care seriously.

They walked out of the walled garden and into the courtyard. Marguerite willed her pulse not to race with anticipation.

“My lord!”

Darius stopped at Everett’s frantic shout. Both Everett and Osbert ran toward them.

Osbert reached them first. “My lord, there is a fire in the main gate tower.”

Darius released Marguerite’s arm. “How did this happen?” He pinned Everett with a glare.

“I don’t know, my lord. It was just now discovered.”

Marguerite took a step away from the men, but without even looking, Darius reached out and grasped her wrist. He held her arm out toward Osbert and ordered, “See that she returns to her chamber and stays there.”

With obvious reservations, Osbert nodded and took her hand in his own. “My lady?”

When Darius bolted toward the main gate, Marguerite took one look at Osbert’s frown of worry and offered, “Go with him. Darius needs you, Osbert. Let no harm befall him.”

To her surprise, her play on his worry for Darius worked.

The captain stared hard at her before asking, “You vow to return to your chamber?”

After silently asking forgiveness for the lie she was about to voice, she pushed at his shoulder. “Yes, I promise. Go. Hurry.” Surely God would understand the necessity.

He did not wait for further urging. Once he was out of earshot, Everett shook his head. “That was easy enough.”

“You need to join them before they notice your absence.” Marguerite pointed a finger at him. “Hear me well, Sir Everett. Let no harm come to anyone from Faucon, or from Thornson—do you understand me?”

His expression hardened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“Go.”

As he headed toward the main gate, she raced across the bailey toward the stables.

“And what have you discovered for me?”

Sir Everett nearly fell off the cliff at the unexpected question. Since Faucon’s arrival, he had met King David’s man in the woods, not out here in the open.

“Nothing with any meat.”

“No? Then you are not giving your responsibilities enough attention.”

The man stepped closer to him, knowing full well that if Everett moved, it would take him to the beach in one long fall.

“Faucon’s men are a closed lot. They fear giving any information away, so they say nothing at all.”

“Let me make this easier for you. I want to know how many men are in Faucon’s company, how well armed they are, how long they plan to remain at Thornson.” He grasped the front of Everett’s tunic and continued. “And I want to know their plans for Thornson’s replacement.”

Everett fought to ignore the chill racing up his spine. He glanced to his left, down at the beach far below, and answered, “Yes, my lord. I will see to it.”

The man released him. “You do that. And quickly, before the next shipment arrives.”

Darius wiped the sweat from his brow. The fire hadn’t lastedlong, but the damage was much more than minor. It would take a few days to repair the gate tower. In the meantime, he would assign more men to this gate.

“How do you think it started?” Osbert asked from behind him.

Darius turned around and glanced at his man’s side. “Where is Marguerite?”

“In her chamber.”

“Are you certain of this?”

Osbert shrugged. “Aye. She vowed to go there and remain while I assisted you.”

“You have been here this whole time?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And she has been alone this whole time?”

Osbert’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. You don’t think she would…she wouldn’t dare.”

A curse escaped his mouth before Darius sprinted toward the keep, Osbert right behind him. “Get two horses ready in case she did dare.”

Osbert veered toward the stable as Darius continued on to the keep. He raced through the Great Hall and up the stairs to Marguerite’s chamber.

Before entering, he paused to catch his breath. If she was not inside this room, he would need all the patience and strength of will he possessed to keep from strangling the first person he encountered.

He pushed the door open and stepped through the entry way into the chamber.

His shouted curses at finding it empty brought Bertha to the doorway. “My lord?”

Darius whipped around and grabbed the maid by the arm. “I thought you had gone to be with your sister.”

Bertha shook her head. “Not with the fire. I might have been needed.”

He did not believe her excuse for a heartbeat. “Where is your mistress?”

Bertha peered around his body “She is not here?”

“Woman, do not play games with me. Where is she?”

“I do not know, Lord Faucon.” The maid shrugged. “The last time I saw her, she was with you.”

Her attitude bordered on nonchalance and made him realize that Marguerite had obviously told the maid not to be afraid of him. A normal servant would be cowering beneath the glare he directed down at her.

Darius needed this woman to understand that while she did not need fear for herself, perhaps she should fear for her charge. He grabbed her other arm and shook her. “Tell me where she is, or I swear to you I will beat her senseless when I do find her. I am sick of her lies and will tolerate them no longer.”

Bertha’s eyes widened. “You will not harm her if I help you?”

He choked. The maid dared to make a deal with him? “I promise you only that she will live.”

Bertha chewed on her lower lip and stared up at him. Finally, she nodded. “She is in the village. She does nothing wrong, my lord.”

“In the village where?” He released her.

“She will be either in the cemetery, or in the woods nearby.”

That made little sense to him, so he asked, “What is so important there that she risks my anger and possibly her own life to thwart me?”

Bertha shrugged. “Since you are going to discover it for yourself, I do no harm by telling you. She goes there to be with Marcus.”

He thought he’d been angry before. He’d been certain that he’d reached the limits of his ire a time or two in the past.

He’d been wrong.

What filled him now was a pure rage so hot, so violent that it clouded his vision, and his thoughts, with a red haze. He strode toward the door, adjusting his sword belt and vowing, “Your lady may live, but her lover will not.”

Bertha rushed after him, shouting, “No, my lord Faucon, you do not understand. Marcus is not—”

Darius slammed the door in her face, cutting off the rest of her words.

Without stopping, without a single glance left or right, he marched out of the keep, into the bailey and silently swung himself up on his horse.

“My lord?” Osbert met his hard gaze and shook his head. “Nothing. It will wait.”

The two men rode through both baileys and out of the gates. They crossed the open field, following the narrow road toward the village.

With each fall of his horse’s hooves, Darius willed his anger to cool. It would do him no good to be blinded by rage when he met this Marcus. Battles were not won by those who lost their senses.

And he would win this battle. He cared not what Marguerite, her father, the Church, or even the king thought or said about the matter. As far as he was concerned, their marriage was fully binding, and with God’s grace he would end this charade tonight.

He knew the how of it. What he could not understand was the why.

It was not for love. That had been killed and effectively set aside years ago. It had nothing to do with lust. That was something any woman could provide.

He needed to understand the why—else it would be nothing more than another charade perpetuated by his own pride.

While he had missed her gentle touch, the taste of her lips on his, the sound of her voice, the very scent of her skin, there was something else that drove him to this madness. Something inside of him ate at his gut, tore at his heart. And he knew not what.

It was as if his soul was aware of something that he had yet to discover.

Something he needed to uncover before he went completely mad.

Darius raced through the village, thankful those in his path quickly gave way. He slowed his pace only when he reached the hilly fields on the other side of Thornson’s demesne lands.

With a hard yank, he brought his lathered horse to a stop, pulled his sword from the wooden scabbard hanging at his side and looked across the field, to the cemetery.

Osbert caught up with him and stopped alongside. “Darius.”

His captain’s winded voice held a note of censure. Darius looked at him and tried his best to reassure the man. “I will not harm her. But I cannot promise to let her lover live.”

The captain reached out and briefly touched Darius’s shoulder. “I cannot stop you from doing what you must. But think on this first. Do not let jealousy rule your sword arm.”

“It is not jealousy that eats at me.” That was the plain and simple truth. Not one speck of jealousy flowed through his veins.

“Then what is this?”

Darius shook his head. “At the moment I do not know. But before this day is out, I will.”

A movement at the edge of woods situated on the far side of the cemetery caught his eye.

Osbert saw it, too, and gasped.

Darius sheathed his sword. “For the love of God.” He flicked the reins and started toward the two figures. They walked hand in hand to a spot in the cemetery where they sat down.

Marguerite put an arm around her companion and drew him into her lap. Darius’s heart twisted with pain at the obvious display of love between mother and child.

He and Osbert reined in their horses at a slight distance from the edge of the cemetery. Marguerite’s attention was so focused on the child that she had not noticed him.

Osbert broke the deafening silence by softly stating, “You did not know.”

“Nay.” Darius shook his head. “How could I? No one has said a word about Thornson’s child.”

How had she hidden this from him? Where had the child been? Why had no one at the keep mentioned a word about a child? Not even in hushed whispers. They didn’t so much as ask about his whereabouts.

At that moment the child jumped up from Marguerite’s lap and drew her to her feet. They danced around a few of the crosses, before Marguerite pulled the child into a hug.

Darius’s horse whinnied, catching the attention of Marguerite and the child. The youngster turned around and stared at both men.

Osbert swore. Darius nearly fell from his horse, the blood draining from his head in shock. He now knew what his heart and soul had been hiding from him.

Chapter Five

Marguerite heard the horse’s whinny. With her heart in her throat and a silent prayer on her tongue, she looked up at the men. Her first impulse was to swoon, her next to run. But where would she go? She and Marcus were out in the open on foot. Darius would catch them long before they made it to the cover of the forest.

Osbert’s curse rasped against her ears. She cringed and tightened her arms around Marcus.

Too soon. Darius had discovered her absence too soon. Just a few more precious moments and she’d have taken Marcus back to Hawise and John in the village.

Surrounded by Hawise’s six raven-haired children, the boy would have been safe, hidden in the open, Faucon none the wiser.

What would he do now? She studied Darius intently. At first he’d appeared to be shocked. His complexion had paled, his eyes had widened.

Now, as he held her steady gaze on his approach, he narrowed his eyes. When he was close enough, she could see the unsteady tic in his cheek.

As he drew nearer, his attention shifted to Marcus. Marguerite could not help but wonder at his thoughts as his gold-flecked hazel eyes met the gold-flecked hazel eyes of her son—their son.

Oh, dear Lord, she’d sworn not to break this vow to Thornson. Her entire adult life had been built on a lie of her husband’s making. And she’d never once objected.

How could she object, when keeping the lie meant security, safety and love?

The men stopped their horses little more than an arm’s length in front of her and Marcus.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Osbert’s near whisper mirrored Marguerite’s thoughts. In the end, her lie most likely would damn her. Merciful Lord, let it not condemn Marcus to damnation, too.

Marcus tipped his head and looked up at Osbert. “Do you not know that swearing is a sin?”

“Is it, now?” Osbert acted surprised. “Thank you for making me aware of that, Master…what is your name?”

The boy lifted his chin a notch more. “Marcus. I am Marcus of Thornson.”

Osbert slid down from his horse. He studied the boy from head to toe, then a broad smile lit his face.

His easy recognition only strengthened Marguerite’s resolve to keep anyone else from seeing Marcus and Darius together.

Osbert squatted to Marcus’s level. “Well, Master Marcus, I am honored to meet you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Sir Osbert of Faucon. And how many years are you, Marcus?”

The boy held up all the fingers on one hand, while looking at Osbert’s horse. “Is that your horse?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

“He is big.”

“Not that big.” Osbert straightened and snapped his fingers. “Why, I bet a fine young man like yourself could sit atop him with no trouble at all.”

Marcus twisted against Marguerite’s hold and looked up at her, his eyes alight with anticipation. Marguerite sucked in a shallow breath before pleading, “Osbert, do not harm him.”

Osbert jerked upright as if he’d been struck. “You know me better than that, my lady.”

She pulled her son tighter against her.

Marcus struggled briefly against her hold. “Mama?” He stared up at her, fear replacing the anticipation.

“Do not frighten him.” Darius leaned forward. “It is unnecessary.”

Frighten him? Nay, Marcus had no cause to be afraid. It was her own fear that held her back. If she let him go with Osbert, would she ever see her son again? Marguerite shook her head.

“No. I cannot let you take him.”

“Take him?” Osbert’s dismay was evident in his voice. “I only offer to let him ride my horse, that is all.” He looked at Darius. “My lord?”

Darius dismounted, wrapped his reins around a wooden cross and held Marguerite’s stare. “We need to talk. Let the boy go with Osbert.” When she made no move to release her son, he added, “Do not make me force this issue.”

He was right. They did need to talk. Marguerite took her arms from around her son and ran her fingers through his long black waves before releasing him completely.

Darius looked down at Marcus, then motioned toward Osbert. “Go for a ride. Sir Osbert will see that you are safe.”

Marcus dashed to Osbert’s side, obviously eager to get atop the horse. The captain swung the boy up into the saddle and walked alongside, one hand on the boy’s waist and the other with a firm grip on the horse’s rein.

Marguerite and Darius stared at each other in silence. Darius wondered if the thoughts and emotions running through her mind and body were as confused as his own.

Osbert and Marcus completed two circles around them, and when they came by Darius the second time, Osbert cleared his throat. “Obviously the two of you would like to be alone to share this moment of total silence together. Master Marcus and I will be over in the field teaching this horse a thing or two.”

Marguerite wiped at her tears and turned away.

Darius stepped forward and pulled her hard against his chest. Countless words rushed to his throat. He swallowed, trying to decide what to say, what to ask first.

Finally, he choked out, “What have you done?”

She shook against him, her sobs muffling her voice. He cradled her head against his chest.

“Marguerite, crying will not help.”

When she heaved a sigh and regained control of herself, he asked again, “What have you done?”

She remained in his arms, speaking into his chest, “I thought only to protect my son.”

“Your son? I am fairly certain you did not create him alone. I do not think anyone could deny who fathered him.”

“Thornson is his father.”

“Why do you lie? Thornson is dead. And that boy is Faucon through and through.”

She stiffened against his chest. “He is Thornson’s son.” Her voice rose with each word. “He is Marcus of Thornson.”

“Shh. Hush, Marguerite.” Darius ran a hand down her back, seeking to calm the hysteria apparent in her voice.

Odd, now that he should be angry with her and at all that she had taken from him, Darius’s main thought was that she did not feel threatened. He rested his chin on her head and gently swayed from side to side.

“Why did you seek to hide him?”

“I promised Henry that I would keep our son safe.”

“He was safe at Thornson, was he not?”

“Until you came, yes.”

“Marguerite, what did you think I would do to a child? Is your opinion of me so low that you would believe me capable of harming a child?”

Her head shook beneath his chin. “No.”

“Then why hide him?”

She shrugged. “I was afraid…I thought that…” She sucked in a big breath of air. “I thought that if people saw you and Marcus together that they would think…they would assume…” She paused and buried her face in the folds of his tunic. “They would know he was yours.”

Darius closed his eyes. The pain behind her words tore at his heart. “And why would that be so bad, Marguerite?”

“I promised Henry to never let anyone know the truth. In exchange, he raised Marcus as his own and made sure both of us wanted for nothing.”

“So, he knew?”

“Of course he knew. I was not a virgin on that wedding night. I was already carrying your child.”

“From our wedding night.”

“Yes. Henry protected my child and my honor.”

“And in exchange he gained a son he could no longer conceive on his own. My son.”

She pushed him away. “It was not as if he stole him from you.”

“Heavens, no. He could not steal what I did not know I had. How clever of him.”

“Clever? You talk as if he devised some great plan for his benefit.”

“Did he not? You think Thornson held your honor and well-being above his desires?”

“Desires?” Marguerite fisted her hands at her sides. Her face flamed with anger in the midday sun. “Desires? What desires? What evil plots do you lay at a dead man’s feet?”

Before he finished his missions and returned to Faucon, he’d lay a great many evil plots at Thornson’s feet, but this was not of that caliber. “I did not say his planning was evil, only clever.”

“Clever, how?”

“Please, Marguerite. Do not seek to convince me you have become blind or addled. Tell me the people of Thornson did not look upon your elderly husband in a different light once your condition was known.”

“Different?” Her forehead creased while she searched for an answer. “No. I do not think they did.”

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