Free The Last Arrow RH3 by Marsha Canham Page B

dared, he was a towering pillar of muscle, standing above seven feet in height. His face was hewn out of rock, bearded to the eyes, the cracks and fissures above arranged to give proof his favorite expression was a menacing frown.
    The menace deepened noticeably when he found a thin-bladed, wickedly sharp misericorde tucked into the high cuff of Renaud's boot.
    "You will get this back when you leave," he said as he handed the knife to another guard. "Lord Randwulf supplies his guests with a barber if they wish to be clean shaven." Renaud straightened his tunic and made a small adjustment to the front seam of his hose. "You are very thorough."
    "I like to earn my keep."
    "Then you should probably take this." He withdrew a small knife from a sheath sewn into the collar of his surcoat.
    "And this." He pulled up his sleeve and removed a small crescent-shaped disc he wore strapped to his forearm.
    Brenna, who had been leaning against her bow, enjoying Renaud's discomfort throughout the search, straightened and stared. She had not taken her eyes off him for more than a second or two on the ride home; how had he managed to conceal so many weapons? Even more confounding was the fact he had played the captive so well when he could obviously have overwhelmed her at any time.
    Littlejohn's eyebrows were crushed together to form a single dark slash over the bridge of his nose. He was clearly as startled as Brenna, and the look he gave Griffyn Renaud should have turned his bowels to stone. But the calm, luminous eyes merely stared back, showing as much fear as a cat before a mouse.
    Brevant made a sound in his throat, almost as ominous as the metallic grating of the portcullis being lowered behind them. He leaned close to Renaud and bared his huge front teeth in the nickering torchlight. "I would not try to be

    half so clever when you meet your host. If he takes a dislike to you, we will be using this little toy of yours"—he thumbed the Saracen lancet—"to pluck out your guts and make them into bowstrings."
    Robin sighed and touched Griffyn on the arm, indicating he should follow across the bailey. "You will have to excuse Littlejohn's manners. Not much slips past him and, as I said, his blood is high from lack of sport."
    "Whereas I think he is a wise and canny fellow," Brenna muttered, loud enough to be overheard. "And better to be rude than dead in his bed of a slit throat."
    Griffyn, only two steps ahead of her, stopped so suddenly she ran up his heels and would have stumbled had he not reached out and grasped hold of her upper arms. When she was settled straight again, he released her, but not before she was made shockingly aware of the strength in his hands—hands that felt as if they ached to crush her bones to powder.
    "Have no fear, my lady." His voice was so silky it slithered down her spine and pooled in her belly. "As long as I am within these walls, your throat is quite safe from anyone else's touch."

    It was to be expected that anyone visiting Chateau d'Amboise would be taken first to the main keep and presented before Lord Randwulf, and Griffyn Renaud was no exception. Will loped ahead to announce their arrival and when Robin and Brenna entered the great hall, the family was assembled at the dining tables, the air rich with the smell of roasted meat and savory victuals. It was a large and cavernous chamber with a high vaulted ceiling supported by stone arches. Lacking any windows below the level of the second story, light was provided by a hundred fat wax candles set in iron stands and cressets around the room. Ventilation for the smoke and smells of the crowded room was through narrow, vertical slits cut high in the stone walls. There was a log blazing in the massive stone fireplace—a relatively new renovation to the room after a century of making do with huge iron braziers. The ten-foot log sent flame and sparks climbing halfway up the new chimney that had been incorporated into the stone and mortar, but even with