The Lady and the Falconer

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “If he were here, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

  “If he were here, I wouldn’t have to be doing this.”

  The man smiled sadly. “He’s been away for a long time.”

  Solace nodded, an ache tugging at her heart. She missed her father. She whimsically remembered the way his smile curved his droopy mustache. She wondered if the gray peppering through his dark hair had completely spread over his head yet. The few letters he had sent her had been filled with tales of court intrigue, giving only glimpses of the man -- the father -- she remembered. Yes, she mused silently. He had been away for a long time.

  “I have to take my post now,” the man said, jarring her from her reverie. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” she said and watched him walk away.

  She thought about Ed’s description of the murderer. A strong man. A tall man. Peter’s height. She scowled, glancing down the path Peter had taken. Most of the guards were shorter than Peter and almost none were as strong. And none of them, not one, had a staff.

  Solace frowned, trying to think. But suddenly the memory of hot hands on her shoulders invaded her mind. She recalled cold silver eyes staring at her with forging-hot intensity. She had been fighting the images all day, burying them beneath her duty.

  Something pulled at the back of her mind, demanding her attention. The image of the crest on the falconer’s sword loomed in her thoughts again. She had drawn it on a piece of paper... two swords crossed over a full moon. She had seen it before, she was sure of it. But where? She wished desperately that Gwen were still here so she could talk about her turbulent emotions with her.

  Solace paused for a moment, her hand outstretched for the handle of her chamber door. She had so much to do. She needed to see to the wounded, had to help the villagers whose animal pens had been damaged in the arrow attack, needed to meet with the servants about the rationing of water and food. She had to find out who the killer was. Then why did she want to return to the mews so badly?

  Solace whirled and headed away from her room toward the spiral staircase at the end of the corridor. So much to do. People depending on her. She took the stairs upward. But she needed to think. She needed to be alone. She needed to sort out these new emotions, these strange feelings.

  The dust parted beneath her feet, trailing her like the wake of a boat, as she moved down a shadowy hallway. Spider webs dangled from the top corners of the door at the end of the hallway. The servants all believed ghosts of the dead lived behind the massive doors. But not Solace. Talk of ghosts was nonsense. She liked coming here because she knew no one else would dare set foot in this room. She stared at the heavy wooden doors, studying the intricate carvings hewn into their surface, an elaborate scrollwork of heraldry shapes and symbols. As she pushed the huge double doors open, they creaked in protest.

  Before her stretched a long room. Soldiers lined the wall in silent effigy in the forms of plate-mail suits and pictures of long-dead fighters.

  Solace swept into the room, unmindful of the ancient warriors. The sun’s rays reached through a large window at the opposite end, stretching across the floor like fingers. She approached the window.

  Before her, Fulton stretched, unblemished lands of rolling hills. If she tried hard enough, she could almost imagine it was just another beautiful day, that there wasn’t a horde of soldiers below her, that her people weren’t wounded and hurt. Solace sighed. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the siege. All she wanted was to clear her mind, to relax enough to think. Who could the murderer have been looking for? Why was he desperate enough to kill? Would he do it again? She could not let his identity escape her.

  A creak sounded behind her and she whirled, her eyes scanning the room. Had someone followed her? But there was no one in the room. That was odd. She shrugged slightly and turned back to gaze upon the deceivingly serene sky above her.

  I suppose anyone would be jumpy with this siege going on, she thought to herself. There was always risk of infiltration and...

  Footsteps. Solace turned. But the large room was empty. Not a soul in sight. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she took a step away from the window. Her gaze swept the pictures, the suits of plate armor. This had been the ancestral hall of the previous lord. Lord Randol. His family was the one watching her out of unseeing eyes. Her father had wanted the hall cleared and scrubbed clean of any memory of lord Randol and his barbarous history, but her stepmother had convinced him otherwise. She was afraid the angry ghosts would be freed from this room and begin a reign of terror, haunting the entire castle.

  The first time Solace had set foot in the room and seen lord Randol’s image hanging on the wall, a wave of nausea and a prickling of fear had washed over her. But she had been determined not to let these feelings get the best of her. She would not let lord Randol scare her again. She was not a child any longer. It had taken her a long time to conquer her fear. And she was not about to take a giant step backward.

  Solace placed a hand to her chest, willing her pounding heart to slow. She was hearing things. She didn’t believe in ghosts, or she would be afraid that the specter of lord Randol would appear before her, demanding retribution for the loss of his castle. Stubbornly, Solace returned, albeit a bit hesitantly, to the window. Her ears were now finely tuned to every sound, every odd creak. But there was nothing. Only the dead air of silence. She laughed silently. Ghosts, she thought, forcing herself to relax.

  Then, she heard a rustle and something swept past her shoulders. She whirled, stepping away from the window, demanding, “Who’s there?”

  Silence answered her. The paintings stared at her with judging eyes, and a chill ran up her spine. She took a step back toward the window, reaching toward the ledge with her hand. But it wasn’t the cold stone she touched -- it was warm skin!

  Chapter Ten

  Solace whirled, stifling a scream, to find the falconer standing before her. The light of the window cascaded over his head, outlining him in a bright yellow halo. Solace blinked and stepped back, gasping. With her movement, the sun hit his shoulders instead of his head, wiping away the angelic illusion.

  He stepped toward her and she moved back. The look in his mercury eyes was hungry and dangerous. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said in a quiet voice.

  She backed away from him. But he still approached, and there was something predatory in his movement, in his eyes, that frightened her.

  “It’s dangerous,” he added.

  His voice rang in her ears, a warning. She backed into a plate of armor and it jangled.

  Logan’s arm shot out and Solace winced, but he didn’t touch her. He placed his hand against the armor, stopping its precarious swaying. His gaze slid to hers.

  His arm, so close to her shoulder, was strong, and a warmth flooded her. She raised her chin in defiance of both her feelings and of him. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Should I be?”

  She swallowed and her gaze lowered to his lips. Then, embarrassed, she looked at his eyes again. There was just a faint glimmer of laughter there, and she scowled at him, wanting to wipe away that smug look. She mustered her courage to retort, “I still want to know what a falconer is doing with a sword.”

  It worked. Too well.

  A dark look clouded his eyes. He leaned closer to her and Solace could feel his breath fan her lips. “It was a gift,” he answered. “From a very special person.”

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  “Logan,” he replied.

  Solace’s heart pounded, her eyes captivated by the way his lips caressed the word. “Logan,” she repeated dully through the haze of fog that had enveloped her. Her gaze shifted to his silver eyes, eyes the color of glinted steel. She could smell the thick scent of leather and something musky and... masculine. Even though their bodies weren’t touching, she could feel the strength emanating from him, the power. She wanted him to touch her, wanted to feel his fingers on her skin, his lips on h
ers. The thought frightened her, and she pulled away with such force that her head smacked the plate armor behind her. Even with Logan’s hand on it, it swung backward.

  Suddenly, she was swept into his arms, and he turned his back to the suit of mail as it lurched forward, clutching her in his embrace and hunching his shoulders to protect her.

  The suit of armor toppled around them, crashing to the floor. Solace hid behind Logan for a long moment after the noise had ceased. Then, realizing what had happened, she lifted her head. His arms were still around her, a fact that was strangely reassuring. But it was in his eyes she found true comfort. There was something tender and caring deep within his orbs, and for a moment Solace thought it was worry as his gaze swept her face, looking for something. So intensely did they search that she believed he could see into her very soul, see the reason why she still clung to him, see the reason for the ease with which her body lay against his.

  Embarrassed, she looked away. The scattered pieces of plate mail on the floor caught her attention, and she lowered her eyes to the fallen shield. Blue and gold reflected up at her in the sun’s bright light. There was a crest upon the shield, but before she could look at it, Logan’s hand was at the nape of her neck, turning her head toward his. His lips descended over hers, desperately, warming hers with his, igniting a fire so hot that it threatened to consume her. She clung to him as if he were her only hope at salvation. She tilted her head to his in an innocent mixture of curiosity and relinquishment. His desperation turned into a slow seduction as he gently coaxed her mouth to open to him with gentle touches of his lips and tongue against her soft skin.

  She tentatively parted her lips for him, and he urged them wider, entering her mouth with his tongue, exploring the soft recesses. A groan escaped her lips, and she leaned fully against his strong, hard body.

  Logan broke the kiss, pulling back slightly. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he repeated.

  His body was pressed against hers, and his arms were still securely around her, binding her to him. Solace stared at him through half-opened eyes. She felt she was floating, caught in a foggy dream.

  “It’s dangerous,” he whispered.

  Dangerous, her groggy mind repeated. Her gaze settled on his lips, wanting more of the sensual delight they aroused in her. Only then did she realize that the grin on his lips was not a lazy smile of pleasure, but rather a taunting smirk of arrogance. Dangerous. She suddenly straightened in indignation. He was teaching her a lesson!

  She lurched away from him, almost stumbling in her hurry to escape him, his mocking tone still stinging her ears. She tripped and almost fell over a piece of the fallen armor, but quickly righted herself and fled the room.

  ***

  Logan watched her go, feeling a sudden chill as the warmth of her body abandoned him. Desperation had forced him to kiss her. But as the kiss had deepened, his desperation had turned easily to passion. Perhaps too easily. Her lips had been so soft, her skin so hot. She had been so willing!

  Logan cursed silently, forcing the unwelcome feelings from his body. He glanced down at the floor where the fallen armor was scattered, his eyes immediately drawn to the shield. The blue and gold of the insignia shone hotly in the sunlight. On its surface was a full moon overlain with two crossed swords. If Solace had seen the shield, he was sure she would have figured out who he was. She had seen the same crest inscribed on his sword.

  Logan picked up the shield. He couldn’t take it back to his room. He could barely hide the sword there. His eyes scanned the hall. There had to be somewhere to hide it.

  Then, his gaze came to rest on a rich, detailed tapestry that lined one of the stone walls.

  ***

  With a flick of his wrist, the dagger expertly carved out the last strand of hair on the piece of wood. But it was other hair Logan was imagining. Hair that looked as dark and rich as mahogany. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. He hadn’t meant to hold her so close. But she had been standing just below a picture of his great-great grandfather. The suit of armor she had knocked over had been his father’s.

  And the crest on his sword matched the crest on the shield. It was the only way he could think of to distract her. But he had not really been thinking. He had just acted. So often in the past his instincts had saved his life. How could they have been so wrong this time?

  How could he have kissed his enemy? He had to find Peter. He needed to gain her confidence. He needed to befriend her.

  He needed to get her into bed.

  The thought made him grin. He had thought she was untried, a virgin. But then he had seen that man kiss her cheek in the hallway. It had enraged him that she had not even blanched when she’d accepted the kiss. Then, she had let him kiss her, not even protesting when he had violated her mouth... She was no virgin. She was a harlot like her sister.

  He would savor the seduction. How better to get revenge than to present Farindale with a daughter fat with his babe. And while he was at it, he would find out where his brother was. The problem was, he had been exceedingly cruel to her when he had broken the kiss. It had been days since he had last seen her.

  He studied his carving with a satisfaction before nodding and rising. He opened the door to his small room and discovered that it was raining lightly. By the looks of the saturated ground and the dark sky in the distance, there had just been a downpour. He had been so absorbed in his carving that he had not even heard it. The bird squawked in protest and ruffled his feathers, but remained seated on his shoulder. Logan paid it little attention as he walked out of his room.

  Old Ben strolled up to him. “Yer falcon’s gonna catch his death if ya bring him out in this rain.”

  Logan grunted. He believed the damned bird would live through anything.

  “Well, then don’t pay a word of attention ta what I say. I’ve only spent me whole life attending to these falcons,” the old man exclaimed. “I know ‘im like the back of me hand. And I know the back of me hand well.”

  Logan strolled away, moving past the mews toward the courtyard.

  “Don’t spend the day walkin’. I want yer help with the mending of the mews. Now don’t ferget!”

  Old Ben’s voice faded as Logan walked through the ward. His eyes swept the courtyard for Mary, but there was no sign of the small girl. She loved the birds and often visited, annoying Old Ben. But Logan could tell that secretly Old Ben liked the attention and her constant chattering. She had immediately endeared herself to Logan by bringing him a blanket on his first night at Castle Fulton, knowing the mews were cold.

  Busy peasants rushed about to secure their animals. Above the shouts of the villagers and the light pelting of rain, he heard laughter. Frowning at the inappropriate sound, he followed it to the side of the keep. A girl squealed in delight. He peeked around the corner and was shocked at the sight. There, right beside the candle shop, Mary stood laughing. Beside her, Solace stared at the sky, a smile on her face. Both were pressed up against the workshop for shelter, both soaked through to the skin, as if they had been in the brunt of the storm.

  Then, suddenly, his falcon took flight just as the skies opened, sending down a new shower of rain that soaked Logan. Solace took Mary’s hand and they both dashed out into the onslaught of rain. Logan watched them with amused eyes as they turned round and round, their mouths open and raised to the sky. He watched Solace’s face glow with joy, a smile curving her shapely lips. Her dark hair trailed down her back in long, wet strands.

  Her drenched velvet houppelande hung heavily on her, accenting her every curve, every move she made.

  Solace continued to twirl round in the rain, spinning in joyful abandon. He remembered those carefree days, even though they had been so long ago. And something inside him longed to return to them. He found himself lost in her happiness. The joy on her face almost touched his soul. He wanted to reach out to her, to feel just an inkling of the abandon she felt.

  But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. He had once felt that kind of freedom, and i
t had cost him everything he held dear. Everything he loved.

  He didn’t want any part of it. Not at that price.

  Logan turned to go. But he couldn’t resist one last glance at Solace and those brilliant green eyes that sparkled with happiness. The wet garment clung to her shapely hips like skin, the weight of it pulling her skirt until the bodice was conforming tightly to her shapely breasts.

  Longing surged inside him and Logan turned quickly away, clutching the wood carving tightly in his hand. His steps were long and purposeful as he returned to the mews. Drops of rain slid down his head and under the tunic he wore, soaking his skin. He would give the doll to Mary another time. When Solace wasn’t there.

  He knew he should talk to Solace, should tell her that their kiss was a mistake. But he couldn’t.

  And now, when his brother should be filling his thoughts, he found his mind occupied by Solace instead. She was becoming too much of a distraction. He had to cleanse his mind of her. He had to put her out of his thoughts.

  Logan closed his eyes tightly and sighed, relaxing his body. There had to be someone else in this blasted castle who had seen Peter, or knew of him. Perhaps it was time to ask Old Ben. But the old man didn’t trust him now; he would trust him even less if he knew he was searching for someone.

  Right now, it seemed, Solace was his only means to finding Peter. But he had to see her for what she was -- an enemy with information he needed. He should just capture her, interrogate her and...

  “...She needs to be taken care of now,” a woman’s voice insisted in a barely discernible whisper.

  Logan stopped in the middle of the falcon-training ground, in the area bordered by the kennels on one side and the crossbow makers on the other. Something familiar about the woman’s voice made him pause.

  “What difference does it make if it’s today or tomorrow or next week? The siege is going on,” a man replied in the same hushed tone.