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She turned back to the wall, watching the flurry of nighttime activities in the outer bailey. Fires for cooking and warmth glowed from the doorway of each cottage and hut. The smells of food being prepared set her stomach rolling.
The calls and laughter of those gathering their tools and closing their shops for the day made her smile wistfully. They were going home to wives, husbands and children. Their lives might be poor and humble compared to hers, but they had someone to go home to, someplace to call home.
While she had nothing and no one. Nay, her chance at having someplace to consider her own was lost. She closed her eyes tightly against the tears. Her chance at having a happy, fulfilling life had been taken from her.
Lyonesse turned and glared across Taniere’s inner courtyard. Her heated stare swept across the muddy practice yard, past the stables and mews to fly up the earthen motte that supported the high walls of the keep. Aye, lost because the monster locked inside the tower knew not the meaning of honor.
He’d killed Guillaume as if the man had been nothing but a mere foot soldier, instead of heir to a title and great wealth. It would have been of more benefit to take Guillaume for ransom, than killing him in such a cowardly fashion. No sane man would have mutilated Guillaume beyond recognition. Only someone of the devil’s ilk could have committed such a deed. Someone like Faucon. What savagery lurked in the soul of the man she’d imprisoned? Perhaps he had no soul.
Perhaps killing him would not be a sin.
She crossed her arms tightly across her stomach. Every time she thought of Guillaume’s death, bile rose to choke her. Pain, as sharp as that from a thrusted sword, pierced her temples.
She would never get used to not having Guillaume about. He had paged at Ryonne. Under her father’s tutelage he had grown into manhood. Once he’d become an adult, he had a man’s responsibilities. While many of his duties took him away from Ryonne for long periods, he’d never been away from her heart.
Anger thickened her blood. Renewed rage fired her resolve. Aye, she still desired revenge. From between clenched teeth, Lyonesse vowed, “Misbegotten spawn of Satan, you will pay dearly for what you have done.”
A cool gust of wind made her shiver. Determined to end her growing nightmares this very night, Lyonesse pulled her cloak closer about her and marched toward the keep.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled, making her stop in midstep. Someone or something was watching her. Watching her like a predator stalking its prey.
From the shelter of the forest he watched, biding his time. Faucon still lived. His minion’s announcement hadn’t been needed. He’d felt it in his heart. The gut-wrenching taunts rustled in the leaves—he lives, he lives.
Glaring across the open expanse of land separating Taniere’s walls from the dense forest, he lifted his gaze to the keep. The beast had killed the most important person in the world, and her son. For that Faucon would pay.
For now Faucon drew breath—safely locked in one of the towers. But soon—very soon the devil’s heart would cease beating and his breath would come no more.
When Faucon lost his life only one person would be held to blame. Lyonesse.
For five years he’d planned Faucon’s death. The time had stretched like an eternity before him. An endless, lonely eternity. Lyonesse made a grave error by taking the murderer captive instead of dispatching him to his master. For that she would suffer the pangs of hell.
Rhys stared through the arrow slit and watched the sun sink from view. His heart fell in unison with the light of this remarkably strange day.
He cursed his forced inactivity. The idle solitude permitted unbidden images to form in his mind. Memories that he had not previously allowed to disturb, or interrupt his life, now threatened to overwhelm him.
The rushing thoughts were so vivid he could hear and see them. Shapeless thoughts from years past transformed into actions of now. Rhys groaned at the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. His groans turned to a strangled gasp of horror when the screams of a dying infant and mother invaded his senses.
A sword cutting through his flesh would not be as painful as the piercing wails that rang relentlessly in his own mind. He could hear her accusations and her laughter.
She’d taken a naive, eager boy to husband and had effortlessly crushed his hopes and dreams with her vileness.
“By the Rood, cease.” His growl bounced off the bare walls of the empty cell.
He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of his tower jail. The act did little to comfort him. Nor did it provide the action his body desperately needed to quell the unwelcome memories.
The arrow slit silently beckoned to him. Drawn to teasing thoughts of freedom, Rhys paused before the narrow opening and gazed down at the baileys and walls below.
He watched two lone figures on the closer wall. Unable to hear their words, he could only assess their moods by the posturing of their bodies. The quick motions of his captor expressed her agitation and impatience. While the tense, stiff movements of the man conveyed tightly leashed anger.
They took turns glancing up at this tower while continuing their animated discussion. Obviously, he was the topic of their argument. With a dismissive shrug, Rhys let his attention wander. He looked beyond the outer wall.
A large expanse of cleared land lay between the keep and the woods. No force of men would be able to approach the keep unseen. Not even his own.
The outer bailey of the keep drew his attention. Fires burned inside the thatched huts. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d enjoyed the contentment of hearth and home.
The lingering warmth and joy shared at his parents’ hearth had once made him long for a wife and children of his own. A bitter marriage and too many deaths had driven that childish longing to an early grave.
He rested his forehead against the damp stone wall. What unholy saint drew those thoughts from the bowels of hell?
A key grated in the lock of the tower door, drawing him away from the arrow slit and away from his building gloom.
A young page carried a wooden tray laden with food and set the tray on the floor before turning to Rhys.
The boy looked up at him and asked, “You are the devil Faucon?”
Rhys smiled at the child’s boldness. Only by keeping his voice low was he able to contain his laughter. “Aye, ’tis what some call me.”
The lad squinted. “Why do you not look like a demon?”
Rhys crossed his arms against his chest, then looked down his nose at the imp. “What should a demon look like?”
An innocent knowledge of devils rushed from the child’s mouth. “You should have horns and a tail. How do you wear boots over hoofed feet?” He paused to point down at the tray. “A true demon would not eat this food. It is already dead.”
Rhys kicked his foot toward the tray, forced a growl to his voice and asked, “How do you know I will not eat you instead of this rubbish?” He took a step closer to the boy. “Should you not run for your life?”
The child drew his small shoulders back, held his ground and tilted his head up a little farther. He pointed at Rhys, insisting, “A true demon would not have been captured by—”
“Michael!”
The accusation was cut short by a shout from beyond the door. Michael instantly scampered out of the room.
Lyonesse stood in the doorway. “That child is innocent.” She glowered at him and ordered, “You will leave him be.”
Rhys’s mouth twitched with sorely suppressed humor. He lifted one shoulder briefly. “A child is a delicacy that I have not tasted in many weeks.”
Lyonesse paused. Not one muscle in her tense face moved. Then a look of uncertainty settled on her face.
Rhys provoked the confusion even further. He assumed an air of nonchalance, bargaining, “If you will turn a blind eye to my ungodly appetites I will promise to stifle the child’s screams.” He picked at an imaginary speck of dirt beneath a fingernail and waited for her.
“Have you not yet killed enough innocent people to satisfy your taste for flesh and blood?”
“By all the Saints’ bones!” Had the woman no sense of humor? “I was but jesting.”
She stepped into the chamber, the hem of her overlong mantle trailing across the floor behind her. “Your humor is ill-received here, Faucon. I found nothing humorous in committing Guillaume to his grave.”
“No, you probably did not.”
“’Tis all you have to say?” She closed the door behind her, shutting out the guards. “No apology for the havoc you have brought to my life? No regret for killing an innocent man?”
Every fiber of his being warned him of danger. “I have never taken an innocent life.”
She smiled. “You lie so well.”
The warning grew stronger. Rhys narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
She unclasped the brooch of her hooded mantle, letting it fall to the floor. Rhys’s mouth went dry. Her hair, worn loose, cascaded over her shoulders and down her bare arms. Pale, silken flesh mounded gently above the deep-cut neck of her sleeveless overgown. The bliaut hugged her body like a second skin. She wore no chainse beneath—nothing but flesh showed through the tightly laced openings on either side.
The soft, thin fabric of her gown clung to her legs as she approached. Long, shapely legs carried her almost silently across the floor.
He did his best to breathe. Rhys willed his riotous heart to cease its wild thudding inside his chest. The erratic rhythm made it nearly impossible to think.
“Why, Faucon.” Her whispered words floated like a spring breeze. “I want the same thing that I have always wanted.”
The sweet scent of roses and spice acted like strong ale to his senses. He looked down at her. When had she moved so close? He resisted the strong urge to reach out and draw her against his chest. “And what might that be?”
Lyonesse looked up at him. Light from the wall torches twinkled like stars in her eyes. She smiled and he felt his heart turn over itself.
He focused on her mouth. So near. So ready to be kissed. She trailed the tip of her tongue across her lips and he leaned forward, willing to do the task for her.
“All I want, Faucon, is you.” The sharp, cold point of a dagger pressed against his chest accentuated her words.
Chapter Three
Lyonesse would always treasure the look of surprise and anger that crossed Faucon’s face the moments before his death. It would sustain her in the long, lonely years ahead.
When he reached up to grab her wrist, she sank the blade through the top layer of his skin. He stopped instantly and lowered his arm.
“Faucon, how could you think I wanted anything but your life?”
His dark gaze bore into hers. “Considering what a base clod I have obviously become, I bid you hurry.”
She was surprised by how calm his words sounded. Would he really accept death so easily? “It has taken me months to achieve this moment. Let me savor it a little longer.”
“Oh, by all means, please do enjoy yourself.”
“Always the sarcastic retort? Tell me, Faucon, do you take anything seriously?”
His eyes burned. Golden specks flickered into being. “I take living and dying very seriously.”
Suddenly her mouth went dry. “You may take your own living and dying seriously. What about others?”
“It depends.”
His voice, deep and gravelly, whispered across her ears. She found it difficult to concentrate in the warm chamber. She needed to end this quickly. Now. Before losing her will to see it through.
No longer was waiting for his time to run out an option. She’d come this far—debased herself to catch him off guard. To her amazement and satisfaction it had worked.
Keeping her gaze locked on his, she took a deep breath and in the split second before completing her deed, she wondered if there would be much blood. With all the force she could muster, Lyonesse gripped the dagger, prepared to ram the lethal blade into his heart.
Like a hawk snatching its prey in midair, Faucon caught her wrist in a viselike grasp. “You have two choices, Lyonesse. Either end this now, or submit.”
She stared at the hand gripping hers. The muscles and veins in his hands strained against confining flesh. Blood ran down the front of his tunic. She saw her entire life, her future ebb away as easily as his blood. Swallowing the bile caught in her throat, she looked back up at him. “You have to die. If I don’t do it, Sir John will and he’ll kill all who stand in his way.”
“Fine.” His grip tightened over hers as he forced the point of the dagger deeper into his chest.
Dear Lord, she couldn’t do this. She’d tried. Twice now. And failed. In a whisper, she pleaded, “Guillaume, forgive me.”
Faucon whispered back. “You will never let him forgive you.” Pushing the lethal weapon another hair closer to his heart, he beckoned, “Come, Lyonesse, this is what you want. I am helping you all I can.”
“Stop!” She pushed frantically against his chest with her free hand. “Oh, stop, please. I cannot.”
Entwining his fingers through her hair, he grabbed the back of her neck, stopping her attempt at escape. “I thought this is what you wanted.”
“I do.”
“Look at my chest, Lyonesse. Can you not see my blood run? Does it not give you a taste for more? You are almost there. Why stop now when you are so close?”
She glanced past the blood and stared at him. “I am not like you. I could never kill in cold blood.”
He laughed. “You are more like me than you will ever know.”
“No.” Lyonesse shook her head. “I could never do the devil’s work.”
“Then why do you come to this chamber dressed like a temptress and close out the guards? Who gave you the idea of distracting me with your body, so that you could plant a dagger in my heart? If you think those thoughts came from God you need to think again, Lyonesse.”
She would burn in hell for her actions this day. “You do not understand. If you do not die, Sir John has vowed to see it through. Howard will seek to stop him and when he does…” She couldn’t complete the horrifying truth.
“Do you place such little trust in your captain?”
Lyonesse shook her head. “I would trust him with my life.”
“But not his own.”
She gasped. “I could not bear him to die for my mistake.”
“Then correct your mistake now. Kill me. See it through.”
Her knees buckled. Faucon winced, but pulled her upright. “Damn you, Lyonesse. Get it over with.”
Her breath caught on a choked cry. “I cannot.”
“Then I will end this myself.”
Jerking the tip of the dagger out of his chest, he shook her wrist and the weapon clattered to the floor. Faucon pulled her to him. “I gave you two choices, Lyonesse. The first was to kill me.”
His lips grazed hers. “The second was to submit.”
The warmth of his blood seeped through her thin gown. The heat of his lips tore through her veins. This was insane. Yet that knowledge did nothing to prevent her from leaning even closer against him.
