Angel of the Knight (7 page)

A
warm breeze ruffled Falke’s hair as he paused in his search. His uncle’s woods—nay, his woods—bowed with stately greenery. With surprise, he noted the brushstrokes of turquoise and rose in the sky above. Hours had passed since he had first entered the forest and heard the wren.

He must have been wrong. ’Twas some villein or poacher he had spotted at the forest edge, not Lady Wren.

With the sun sinking, ’twould be best to make his way back to the castle. Looking about, he realized he had ventured far into the woods. Far enough that he was unsure of his landmarks. He headed off to the east, believing he would either run into fields or find the castle.

Speaking out loud to the muse of nature, Falke questioned the wind. “Where is my infamous luck now? How could this sixth sense of mine lead me so far astray?”

Luck served as his aegis, a way to hide his intelligence and prowess…and irritate his father. Bernard de Chretian hated the fact that his son accomplished military coups so easily and brushed them away as just a manifestation of good fortune. Falke always kept his planning hidden under the guise of carousing and wenching. Now, when he could really use some good fortune, not even a glimmer of hope burned.

Ozbern was right—Falke did not want to lose this keep. Mayhap, at last, he had a home. And luck aside, he was determined to secure Mistedge as his own. Despite Laron and the dismal village, Falke knew he could build Mistedge to a prosperous keep, if given the chance.

He let his feet pound against the leaf-littered forest floor. Down a steep vale, a jump across a narrow creek, then a scamper up the other side. He crested a ridge and scanned for some telltale mark that he was on the correct path.

Daylight battled with the coming night, but twilight would last only so long. Already he spotted the cold face of the full moon as the sun dipped below the treetops. Disheartened, he trudged on as the darkness deepened, until he heard again the wren’s serene song, a splash, then a gasping chortle.

He pivoted, his instincts telling him the sound was feminine in origin. Aye, he could hear it plainly now, an odd, scratchy-throated laughter, but womanly. He followed the sound as he made his way through the forest.

Pushing aside berry brambles and wild rose
bushes, he entered a clearing. A small pond nestled in a gentle groove of land. Wildflowers, their colorful heads nodding like sleepy children, sprinkled the mossy green banks. Moonlight glided across the water, the silvery beams twinkling like underwater stars.

Kneeling on one knee, Falke cursed his foolishness. There was no woman here. Whomever he had spotted earlier must be long gone by now. In an attempt to relieve his frustration, he skipped a flat stone across the water.

He followed its path as a shadow against the moonlight, and then stumbled to his feet and gasped. Just where his stone disappeared into the depths of the dark water, the moonlight came to life.

Rays of silver-white light turned to strands of floating hair. From the blue-black depths, two arms surfaced. Then a chest, with full, uplifted breasts, followed by a narrow waist and slim hips.

His own chest constricted and his heart demanded he take a breath of air, yet Falke could not. The image before him made movement a forgotten act. At the far shore, the petite figure emerged from the pond. Artemis, goddess of the moon, stood on the bank opposite him, clad only in the glorious light of her hair. She disappeared behind a clump of vines and at last Falke found his breath.

A dream…a fit brought on by his troubled mind. Falke tried to rationalize away the mirage as he wove in and out of the shadows toward the mysterious woman. Like a thief, he stalked a hidden treasure,
afraid it was all a dream. Afraid the vision might be real.

His answer came on the breeze. Gentle humming called to him as the Sirens called to Ulysses. As helpless as the Greek mariner, Falke could not help but seek out the songstress.

Seated on a pallet of lichens and moss, his goddess brushed the tangles from her moonbeam hair. She was dressed in a modest linen chemise, and his eyes lingered on the way it clung to her damp body. The material molded to her tiny waist and the full curve of her breasts. Alabaster skin peeked from the open throat. Dainty ankles invited his mind to explore the rest of the hidden contours. Her face, tilted up toward the sky, remained obscure.

He leaned forward, straining to see her features. A dry branch snapped, the sound deafening in his own ears. Falke watched with dismay and anticipation as she turned toward his hiding place. Beauty, so pure as to blind him, stared at him with eyes the color of a star-filled night.

She rose and sped off like a deer, silent and swift.

“Nay, do not go.” Falke crashed through the undergrowth after her. “I’ll not harm you.”

She bolted, a flash of white streaking against the growing night. Falke rushed after her, loath to end the encounter. His legs stretched to shorten the distance between them.

Ahead, like an animal caught in a poacher’s snare, his nymph tugged at the hem of her chemise trapped in some thorns.

Slowly, he approached. Her actions became more frantic. The thin chemise clung to her trim waist and the smooth curves of her backside. Falke felt the embers of lust ignite to the heat of passion. Never had a woman’s features so moved him. Beautiful women had begged him to make love to them, but never, until this night, had he ever thought to beg a woman to lay with him. He wanted this woman, and he wanted her to desire him just as much.

“Rest easy. I’ll not touch you.” His words stuck in his throat.

Her beauty transcended any mortal vision. The high cheekbones and delicate chin reminded him of a marble sculpture. Each fine line drew attention to her magnificent eyes. Eyes now filled with terror. Tiny whimpers came from her graceful throat as she tried to rip her covering from the tangle of thorns.

Falke bit his lower lip and raised his hands to show he had no weapon. With care to keep his movements small and precise, he pulled free the threads of her chemise, then dropped his hold.

Immediately, she turned to flee.

“Nay. Stay.” He wanted to run after her but fought the need. If he chased her in the fading light, she might stumble and hurt herself. Tamping down the fear that he might lose her, Falke remained near the brambles.

A few strides down the trail, close to the water, she stopped and turned. She combed back the wet hair from her face. The action tickled Falke’s in stincts.
Somehow the movement seemed familiar. From a secure distance, she scrutinized him.

Pulses of excitement raced through his body. Falke schooled his features to show none of the rampant desire in his loins. “Are you real or a dream created in my fitful wandering?” In the depths of his soul, he believed she might evaporate into the fingers of mist rising from the water, but prayed she would answer. What would her voice be like? Music? Bells?

A voice of strength answered him—feminine, yet deep, with layers of wisdom and understanding. “I am no dream.” She tilted her head and her eyes narrowed. “Do you oft walk alone, Sir Falke? I thought you kept your nights occupied with other pursuits.”

A sardonic laugh rolled from his lips. “If only the gossip about me were true, I’d be a happy man.”

“And you’re not happy? Pray tell me what more you could desire. You have a fine home and riches enough to please any man.” Her voice held a hint of reproof at his ingratitude.

“And responsibilities.” Falke settled himself on a fallen tree and waved his hand to her. He patted the space next to him. “Pray, have a seat so that we may converse in comfort.”

Her full lips puckered into a pout while she shook her head. “Nay, I think ’tis close enough.”

Falke opened his eyes wide in mock indignation. “I give you my word I’ll do nothing improper.”

“Your word? Are you not the knight who proclaimed you have no honor and are not bound by such maudlin customs?”

“Who are you that you know me so well? I’d stake my life I’ve never seen you before. Have you been hiding in the village?” An eerie feeling of premonition slithered along his spine. Who was this woman?

“Nay, but do not let my absence stop you from visiting the village.” Again her voice seemed to reproach him for some unknown crime.

Falke rested his elbow on his knee and cradled his chin in his hand. For some reason his usual charm and wit were failing to win the woman over. He gave her his seductive smile, the one that displayed both of his dimples. “And if I came, would you be there for me to find?”

“Nay, but you might find a way to help the people of Mistedge.”

No effect? Falke shook his head. Something was terribly wrong. That smile never failed him.

“Lord Falke? Did you hear me? I understand the blacksmith is a terrible bully. He’s drunk most of the time and beats his family—”

“How do you know all this? Who are you?” Falke shot off the log. How dare this woman lecture him? How was she privy to so much information about his keep? Perhaps Laron had sent her to spy on him.

“I keep my eyes and ears open.” She backed away from him, her eyes wary and distrustful.

Falke pondered his next move. If Laron had set her up in this espionage, she would tell Falke nothing out of fear. Better to gain her trust. If so, she might slip and reveal her identity.

“As will I, now that I have something to search for.” He gave her a wink and waited for her expected blush.

It did not come. Instead she straightened her back and tilted her head up in a vain attempt to look down her nose at him. “Will you take nothing seriously?” The sapphire blue of her eyes darkened to black. “One pretty face, and you forget the heartache of your serfs. These people till the soil and plant your fields. In return they expect your guidance, justice and protection.”

Falke rubbed the spot between his brows. Never had a woman so disregarded him. If he wanted a lecture, all he need do was return home to his father, who was quite capable of making Falke feel like a failure.

“Woman, that is enough. What business is it of mine if a man beats his wife?”

An outraged snort was her only reply. This conversation was not going as planned. He should be plying her with sweet words and tender names. Names! He had yet to know hers.

“Who are you that you know so much about me?”

She dropped her gaze to the ground. Her naked toe scraped the soft dirt back and forth. Again Falke felt a glimmer of recognition in the act, as though he should know this woman.

“I do not think my name important.” Her voice rose, as did her gaze. Falke expected to see condemnation; instead hope filled her eyes. “Will you do something about the blacksmith?”

Disapproval he could have swept away without a thought. He could not ignore her heart-touching favor. “Aye, little angel, I’ll see to the blacksmith. Does that ease your worry?”

“I’m sure you’ll sleep better this night for your decision.” A riot of platinum curls cascaded across her slender shoulders. Falke had to stop himself from reaching for the riches before him. There’d be no peaceful slumber for him this night. Dreams of the woman before him would keep him awake for many evenings to come.

“Come, angel, do not fear me. Tell me your name.”

Why was she so hesitant to tell him who she was? Every nerve in his body jumped when she took a few hesitant steps toward him.

“I’m not afraid. After all, ’tis I to whom you owe your lot.”

In the depths of her eyes, Falke saw a quickening of spirit and the heavy footprint of grief. She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much pain, experienced life’s hardships and survived. The mixture made her more alluring, less a child-woman, more woman-child.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You call me angel. Was it not a kiss by an angel that granted you exceptional luck?” When she moved closer, he could smell the scent of lavender soap from her skin and hair.

“’Tis nothing but an old wives’ tale. Village gossip.”

With each word, her stance grew less rigid, more relaxed. Falke shrugged his shoulders, nonchalantly kicked a stone off the trail and scuffed his boots in the dirt. His shuffling steps brought him to within arm’s reach of his prize.

“But I would gladly turn the myth to reality.” He winked at her and pulled a persuasive smile from his arsenal of charm.

“Nay, one kiss from an angel brought you good fortune. If you should have another, ’twould turn the favored luck to bad.” She swung away from him, her dainty foot raised to escape down the path.

“A risk I’m willing to take.” He captured her wrist in his hand. A quick tug and he pulled her to his chest. He buried his lips into the wealth of hair and inhaled her scent. She twisted in his arms, arching her body, seeking to be free. The brush of her breasts against his chest thickened his longing.

With practiced seduction, he trailed kisses down the delicate line of her jaw, then captured the moistness of her lips. Deep carnal hunger ached to be fed on the sweetness of her mouth. The kiss took on a life of its own, feeding from his passion and her awakening desire.

Confident of his victory, Falke relaxed his hold and lifted his mouth from hers. Her upturned face mesmerized him. Lips swollen from his kiss parted, offering more delights. Quick breaths made her chest rise and fall, rubbing her stiff peaks against his chest. She slipped her arm from his grasp and rested both
hands lightly on his chest, feeling the nap of his velvet tunic.

“I thought I could make you see reason.” Falke winked at his now pliant hostage.

“Aye, that you have, Lord Falke.” Her breath danced across the hollow of his neck, warming his skin. “You’ve made me see how blind you really are.” With a mighty shove, his dainty angel hurled him backward into the pond. Dark cold water swallowed him. He sputtered to the surface in time to see a flash of white disappear over the ridge and melt into the forest.

Staggering to his feet, Falke trudged to the shore and twisted the corner of his tunic to wring out the water. Each squish of his wet boots as he walked up the rise reminded him of the beauty and his desire. He’d have that woman, and he would torture her with passion, until she cried for him to bring her relief. Standing atop the high point, he saw the flickering lights of the castle.