Free The Lady and the Falconer by Laurel O'Donnell Page A

small room which was attached to the mews, hoping he could sneak by old Ben. But the man turned to him, calling out. Logan winced. The old man had the blasted hearing of a falcon.
    “Out strollin’ about again, hey?” the old man asked, scratching his stubbly chin as he approached. “Yer no falconer,” he mumbled for the thousandth time.
    Logan hid his irritation easily enough. The old man had been suspicious of him from the beginning. But despite his annoying habit of talking too much, the old man was an honest worker and Logan respected him for that. Old Ben worked diligently to keep the mews scrupulously clean and the falcons well fed.
    “Are the birds all right?” Logan asked.
    “Birds,” old Ben grunted. “Me darlin’s are fine. No thanks to ya. Where were ya? Out whorin’?”
    Logan stopped, his back straightening. He had never needed to pay for favors that were freely given. The old man is just irked because I wasn’t here with him to protect his darlin’s from the arrow attack, Logan thought. He turned to Ben, but said nothing.
    Old Ben snorted. “Ya know we’re in a siege. Need every good sword arm we can get. ‘Cause that’s what I think you do.”
    The remark unnerved Logan and he had to turn away, moving toward his quarters.
    “It’s nothin’ ta be embarrassed about. Whatever ya done before coming here is history. Ain’t nothin’ ta me. ‘Sides, I said it before, I’ll say it again. Ya ain’t no falconer, even if ya do go round with that beauty on yer shoulder.”
    Logan ignored the old man and continued to his room. It was a small room, not much bigger than a stall. No better than a horse would have, Logan thought grimly. And colder, too. He slept on a bed of old straw in the corner of the room. At least it’s private, he thought as he shut the door on old Ben’s harangue.
    The bird immediately flew to a small wooden perch Logan had carved for it. It fluttered there, watching him with those round brown eyes. He lit a candle and placed it on a table beside the bed. Feeling the bird’s gaze on him, Logan glanced impatiently at it. “What are you looking at?” he demanded. But there was no answer. It just continued to watch him.
    Of course old Ben was right. He was no falconer. But it was the best disguise he could come up with. And it had worked well enough to get him back into Castle Fulton. He was grateful for the bird’s presence, if only because it had helped him fool lady Alissa into hiring him.
    Logan sat down beside the candle and removed the dagger from his waistband. He picked up a stone from the floor and ran it along the edge of the blade.
    For some reason, his senses were keen now. Perhaps it was the arrow attack. He ran the rock against the blade again.
    For some reason, his nerves were on edge. Perhaps it was the battle lust that stirred his blood. The rock sheared across the metal.
    Or perhaps it was the soft curves that had pressed against his chest. The lingering scent of roses that filled his nose. The green eyes that radiated enough heat to burn his very soul.
    He brought the rock up too far, scraping his knuckles. “Damn,” he muttered and shook his hand as burning engulfed it. He stared at his scraped knuckles, allowing the burning to fill his body, to cleanse it of all thoughts but his mission. He had to find Peter. Nothing else mattered.
    He put the stone down and picked up a piece of wood. He turned the rough bark over in his hands and studied it for a moment. The crude outline of a girl was etched into the thick branch. He pressed the freshly sharpened dagger to the wood and shaved off a piece near the arm, giving it a slender curve.
    Nothing else mattered, he told himself again.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    Solace sat in the Great Hall, staring at the trencher of food before her, but not really seeing it. She turned a roll over in her hand again and again. She had eaten late, well after the sun had set. It was the first time she had gotten a break from attending