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

skirt and drove the point of his knife through a hank of her gown, pinning the fabric to the wood below.
    "Come now, my little partridge. You wouldn’t wanna fly the snare so soon," he slurred as Maryssa tugged desperately on the pinned cloth.
    "A snare would be the only way you'd catch a woman, MacTeague," a voice, dangerous and deep as the devil's well, said at Maryssa's shoulder. "I prefer gentler measures." She tried to pull away as a strong black-gloved hand cupped her elbow, but the unseen man only hauled her back against a frame as long and tough as a wind-scarred oak, his other fist closing on the bone hilt of MacTeague's knife. "We must show our English guests hospitality," he crooned. "Kindness such as they've shown us these many years."
    The man yanked the knife free, and Maryssa spun to face him. Horror froze in her throat. Plumes the hue of blood swept back from a sable cocked hat, the face beneath it hidden by a black silk hood. A hood emblazoned with the silver talons of a falcon.
    "Please. Let me go." Maryssa squeezed the words through the lump lodged in her throat, her whole body shaking. "My father . . ." Eyes, so green they seemed to have stolen all the tint from the verdant Irish glens, narrowed as they regarded her through slits cut in the hood. Maryssa suddenly realized what Bainbridge Wylder's daughter might mean to a savage like this—a hostage to be held for a huge ransom, a tool to be used in vengeance for lands her father had taken—used, perhaps like the mistress of Lord Thomas.
    Her gaze darted to the doorway. Celeste had disappeared back into the darkness of the yard, but Maryssa had no false hope that the woman would bring her aid.
    "Your father?"the Falcon prompted. Maryssa set her teeth, knowing her refusal to answer might unleash fury in the man. Her brain struggled to come up with some plausible lie. The black-gloved hands skimmed back the folds of her cloak, then slid down to span her slender waist in a firm grip as the green eyes pierced her. Even through the layers of cloth, whalebone, and leather, the heat of him seemed to burn her.
    "So you dare defy the Black Falcon?" An underlying edge bit the deep voice. “Perhaps you were about to tell me that your father is lethal with a sword? That he will cut my black heart out and see me hang if I stain your virtue?"
    "No. I . . ."
    The blood seemed to rush from Maryssa's body, leaving her weak and shaken, as his broad palms eased up to curve just beneath the swells of her breasts.
    "Come, now," his voice caressed, as his thumbs brushed lazy circles over the satin. "A woman with your eyes, your lips, surely some man before me has been wise enough to sample . . ." With a suddenness that nearly threw her off her feet, sensation swept back into her veins. He was laughing! Damn him to hell, behind his mask the cur was laughing!
    Hurt washed through her, as painful as the hundreds of times her father had derided her for her ugliness, fresh as the taunts of Celeste and Lady Dallywoulde. And Maryssa hated the fact that even now, with the danger all around her, it mattered to her that this brigand, this renegade, a breath from the hangman's noose was making jest of her before the rabble.
    "I assure you that my virtue is intact," Maryssa said, the hooded figure blurring through the tears that rose in her eyes.
    "Is it?" There was a sudden gentleness to his voice. "That is more of a pity than you know." His fingers trailed up to the hollow of her throat, lifting the tiny swan pendant that dangled there against her skin. "Then I guess I shall have to satisfy myself with some other favor from the most winsome woman I've ever seen."
    She flinched, and his fingers stilled.
    "Have you ever seen a young swan, colleen, a hatchling cygnet swimming behind its mother? It's all gray down, its neck long. No one could call it beautiful. But time passes, and it blossoms into the most graceful and lovely of birds."
    “He’s going soft in the skull!" MacTeague's