Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) Read Free

that den of thieves!" Celeste bristled. "No proper lady would!”
    "Well, you two proper ladies had better." Wickersby kneaded the back of his plump neck as he appealed to Maryssa. "It's not as bad as it looks, miss. The most dangerous highwayman inside is the owner, Jack Peabody, an' the worst he'll do is charge you three times the true price of his ale. No harm will come to you there, especially with you bein' Mr. Wylder's daughter an' all."
    "We must be close to Nightwylde. At the last stop you said we'd reach it before nightfall."
    "Thought we would, but I been nursing that wheel along, hoping it'd hold. I'd keep driving if there was any way, but we'd break down sure, somewhere between here and Nightwylde, and the dark be full of rebels an' rogues. Heard tell just three days ago the Black Falcon's been circling these parts lazy-like, ready to strike at the stirring of a feather, an' your father'd flay my hide if I let you be that brigand's prey."
    The irony Maryssa felt at Wickersby's touting of her father's parental concern was eclipsed by stark imaginings of a highwayman, his cloak flowing about his shoulders like sinister wings, his mouth savage and brutal. "The Black Falcon?" she echoed.
    "Aye, miss. He's a bad one. An' deadly as his name. Fired Lord Thomas's storehouse but a fortnight past an' carved the word thief on 'is lordship's cheek. Took the lord's mistress, too, an' the horrors the Falcon's band worked on her..." Wickersby rolled his eyes skyward. "A hedger found 'er wandering the roads pure nake—"
    "Fine. I mean that's enough," Maryssa interrupted hastily, her fingers flying to the fastening of her cloak. "I'm thirstier than I thought." She gave her hand to the coachman and swung down from the box on wobbly knees. "Celes—"
    She started to turn back to the coach, but the maid had already bounded after her like a startled roe, her face having puckered as though she had swallowed a basketful of lemons. Yet despite the ridiculous expression, Celeste managed to drag her mantle of superiority around herself. "If you're determined to go, I suppose I shall be forced to accompany you," she said haughtily. "For the sake of propriety."
    Maryssa bit back a sarcastic reply. She strode to the door, her hand freezing on the latch when the raucous shouts from behind the wood panel died as if every throat within had been suddenly slit. A shiver scuttled down her spine as the latch seemed to release itself of its own accord, the heavy door creaking open on sagging hinges.
    The stench of rancid mutton sizzling over embers in the inn's stone fireplace struck her, its greasy odor blending with that of sour ale and a score of unwashed bodies. Shifting orange light cast eerie shadows over faces glowering across the dimly lit room—like crimson-eyed wolves closing for the kill, the flames painting their savage features in gold and red.
    Maryssa swallowed hard and took a step backward, but Celeste, rushing behind her, would allow no retreat. Maryssa felt the toe of one shoe snag on a splintered floorboard, catapulting her into the room. Her ribs slammed into the edge of a filthy table, her hand clutching the slippery surface as her knees crashed to the floor, her hold barely saving her from sprawling across a leering drunk's lap. Firelight danced across a wicked curved blade poised inches from her chest. The man's lips split in a toothy grin.
    "Would ye be likin' me to carve ye a bit o' breast, yer ladyship?''
    Quaking inside, Maryssa followed his gaze to where it was fastened on her chest, horror and embarrassment rushing through her veins. The camlet cloak had torn open in her fall, exposing the soft, creamy skin above her décolletage. The table edge pushed up her full breasts until they swelled above the meager modesty panel, giving them the absurd appearance of being some tempting culinary delicacy.
    "No. I..." Maryssa clamped her hands over the bared skin, trying to scramble to her feet, but the drunken man caught her