Falcon's Desire. Denise Lynn
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“Do nothing rash. I wish to be the one who takes your worthless life.”
She frowned at his laugh. Did he believe she was jesting?
Callused fingers brushed along her cheek and lifted her chin. When he knelt next to her, Lyonesse was surprised to find him so near. Amazed that he’d removed his battle glove so quickly and so quietly.
His breath warmed the flesh beneath her ear as he spoke. “Little Lioness, my worthless life will be yours to take.”
The loud, rapid beating of her heart drowned out the sounds of the coming battle. His lips touched hers lightly as if seeking permission.
Her thoughts tumbled against each other in their rush to her head.
She hated him.
Yet his mere presence disarmed her soul. Embers glowing red with warmth filled her senses with a new, unfamiliar confusion.
Lyonesse pressed her lips against his….
Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce debut author DENISE LYNN
#643 THE SCOT
Lyn Stone
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Kate Bridges
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Charlene Sands
Falcon’s Desire
Denise Lynn
MILLS & BOON
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Available from Harlequin Historicals and DENISE LYNN
Falcon’s Desire #645
Thank you—
Kim and Tracy, for taking the chance.
Lori and Tony, for being the best fairy Godparents ever.
Tom, my hero, my knight in armor, for being the model I build heroes on, the shoulder I lean on and the foundation I build dreams on. I love you, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Contents
Prologue
Scarborough—Yorkshire
England—1142
Murder.
The accusation rippled through the crowded hall. Carried from one courtier to the next, the word found its way back to the man accused of the foul deed.
Murder.
“Rhys, Lord of Faucon, for the murder of Guillaume du Pree your lands and properties are forfeit to the crown.”
The black-robed holy man smiled with satanic glee as he finished his proclamation. “Your life will be forfeited to the devil you have served.”
From his chair on the raised dais King Stephen leaned forward. “Rhys?” He waited but a heartbeat before continuing. “Faucon, have you nothing to say?”
Rhys wanted to say much, but he bit back his sarcastic retort. The hard, cold floor beneath his knees helped keep his tongue in check. Chained like a dog, he was in no position to test King Stephen’s humor.
Instead, Rhys searched the crowded hall for one ally who would vouch for his honor. Those who would do so were oddly absent from this gathering.
He strained against the chains binding his arms behind him. His muscles burned with pain. Rhys glanced across the torch-lit hall, seeking the three men who’d roused him from his much-needed slumber. They glared back at him. Their odd array of blackening eyes, swollen lips and bloodied noses gave him a measure of satisfaction. He’d not made their task an easy one.
“Answer your king!” The cleric scurried toward Rhys. The man’s robe flapped about his stout legs.
Rhys looked up at King Stephen, ignoring what seemed to him nothing more than a short, cawing crow. He weighed his words carefully. His life and the continued welfare of his family rested on his ability to control his tongue. “Sire, I have killed many men while serving under your standard. Who is to say whether those who perished during the heat of battle were friend or foe?”