drunken jeering split the quiet. "The Black Falcon spouting verses like a fop! Next thing ye know he'll be kissin' the Sassenach doxy's hand instead o' bedding her."
The fear that had loosened its grip on Maryssa with the Falcon's words clenched around her again as the green eyes behind the hood blazed with anger, and with an odd, more subtle emotion.
She could almost see the hidden lips shift to a wry, mocking grin. "Ah, MacTeague." The Falcon shook his head, tipping Maryssa's face more fully into the path of the drunk's bleary gaze. "I said the cygnet would blossom into the most beautiful of birds." Gloved fingers tugged at the wispy mahogany curls that had pulled free of the loosely pinned knot at the back of her head. "This swan still has a bit too much down left to heat my blood." A sick feeling knotted in Maryssa’s stomach. "I'll slake my lust with her gold instead of her maidenhead."
She pulled back, grasping the swan pendant as he reached for it. "Please," she whispered, "don't take this. It belonged to . . ." Her words trailed to silence.
She felt his hand hesitate at the chain around her throat. "To whom? Some lover?"
"No. My mother. She died when I was a babe. If you take it—"
"I stand to forfeit much more than you this night." The rich, husky tones of his voice touched her, lulled her. The face behind the hood seemed to strain toward her, and she felt the dizzying suspicion that he wanted to touch her lips with his.
She swallowed, unaware that she had loosened her grasp on the golden swan until she felt the quick, sharp tug of the chain snapping.
"No! No! You—" The misery she had fought to hold inside since that horrible night at the ball burst forth in a sob as the broad shoulders wheeled away from her.
"Well?" He barked, cramming the necklet into a pouch at his waist. "Don't stand there gawking like striplings! Make an end to what we came for!''
A dozen black-garbed masked figures melted out of the shadows near the walls, but Maryssa was barely aware of the innkeeper's pleading, the sounds of crockery shattering and wooden casks being split as the band of rogues tore the room apart. Sticky red wine seeped through the morocco sides of her shoes, splashed her petticoat and cloak, but the sickly sweet smell of violence didn’t sour her stomach half as much as the hatred she felt for the hooded man who now stood rigid at the door of the room.
"Curse you to hell!" The sound of her own voice startled her, piercing through a lull in the din. The Falcon's men froze. The rebel himself appeared carved in stone.
With a jerk of his head he commanded his band out the door, then wheeled to stalk into the night. Maryssa's nails bit deep into her sweating palms as she saw him swing up onto a huge black stallion one of his cohorts had brought to the doorway. For what seemed an eternity those piercing green eyes glowed at her through the slits in his night-black hood.
He seemed almost to shake himself as one hand took up the reins. "You want hell, my little English bitch?" he snarled, his eyes raking the lands around him. "You've just arrived."
Chapter 2
H ell . Maryssa bit her lower lip to stop the wild laughter rising inside her as the Falcon's words echoed in her mind a day later. He had thrown out disdainful barbs to wound a pampered brat. As if she'd known anything but hell in her life, or expected anything better from Ascot Dallywoulde or from her father.
The cold stone beneath her feet seeped through the carpets as she paced the huge room at Nightwylde. It was like her father to summon her to this chamber, then force her to wait, tortured by her own imagination. Three hundred years ago this chamber had served as the solarium, graced by lords and ladies, rulers of their own land. But now their ghosts seemed to dart from dark stone corners and creep beneath the velvet hangings that dripped from the walls of Nightwylde.
Stones shrouded in ancient mysteries seemed to compress her chest until she couldn't
The fear that had loosened its grip on Maryssa with the Falcon's words clenched around her again as the green eyes behind the hood blazed with anger, and with an odd, more subtle emotion.
She could almost see the hidden lips shift to a wry, mocking grin. "Ah, MacTeague." The Falcon shook his head, tipping Maryssa's face more fully into the path of the drunk's bleary gaze. "I said the cygnet would blossom into the most beautiful of birds." Gloved fingers tugged at the wispy mahogany curls that had pulled free of the loosely pinned knot at the back of her head. "This swan still has a bit too much down left to heat my blood." A sick feeling knotted in Maryssa’s stomach. "I'll slake my lust with her gold instead of her maidenhead."
She pulled back, grasping the swan pendant as he reached for it. "Please," she whispered, "don't take this. It belonged to . . ." Her words trailed to silence.
She felt his hand hesitate at the chain around her throat. "To whom? Some lover?"
"No. My mother. She died when I was a babe. If you take it—"
"I stand to forfeit much more than you this night." The rich, husky tones of his voice touched her, lulled her. The face behind the hood seemed to strain toward her, and she felt the dizzying suspicion that he wanted to touch her lips with his.
She swallowed, unaware that she had loosened her grasp on the golden swan until she felt the quick, sharp tug of the chain snapping.
"No! No! You—" The misery she had fought to hold inside since that horrible night at the ball burst forth in a sob as the broad shoulders wheeled away from her.
"Well?" He barked, cramming the necklet into a pouch at his waist. "Don't stand there gawking like striplings! Make an end to what we came for!''
A dozen black-garbed masked figures melted out of the shadows near the walls, but Maryssa was barely aware of the innkeeper's pleading, the sounds of crockery shattering and wooden casks being split as the band of rogues tore the room apart. Sticky red wine seeped through the morocco sides of her shoes, splashed her petticoat and cloak, but the sickly sweet smell of violence didn’t sour her stomach half as much as the hatred she felt for the hooded man who now stood rigid at the door of the room.
"Curse you to hell!" The sound of her own voice startled her, piercing through a lull in the din. The Falcon's men froze. The rebel himself appeared carved in stone.
With a jerk of his head he commanded his band out the door, then wheeled to stalk into the night. Maryssa's nails bit deep into her sweating palms as she saw him swing up onto a huge black stallion one of his cohorts had brought to the doorway. For what seemed an eternity those piercing green eyes glowed at her through the slits in his night-black hood.
He seemed almost to shake himself as one hand took up the reins. "You want hell, my little English bitch?" he snarled, his eyes raking the lands around him. "You've just arrived."
Chapter 2
H ell . Maryssa bit her lower lip to stop the wild laughter rising inside her as the Falcon's words echoed in her mind a day later. He had thrown out disdainful barbs to wound a pampered brat. As if she'd known anything but hell in her life, or expected anything better from Ascot Dallywoulde or from her father.
The cold stone beneath her feet seeped through the carpets as she paced the huge room at Nightwylde. It was like her father to summon her to this chamber, then force her to wait, tortured by her own imagination. Three hundred years ago this chamber had served as the solarium, graced by lords and ladies, rulers of their own land. But now their ghosts seemed to dart from dark stone corners and creep beneath the velvet hangings that dripped from the walls of Nightwylde.
Stones shrouded in ancient mysteries seemed to compress her chest until she couldn't
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