Angel of the Knight by Diana Hall Read Free Book Online Page B

sliver of conscience sliced through Falke. Could he really send the girl back with this depraved man? In his mind, the ominous voice of his father rebuked him for the dishonorable act. Falke forced himself to muffle the voice and harden his emotions.
    “I appreciate doing business with you,” Titus cackled. “Mayhap we can do a bit more business before I leave.”
    An underlying evil lay in his words and slithered along Falke’s spine. Repulsed, he answered, “I think our business has concluded.”
    Titus rose and smirked. “’Twould be to your benefit to hear me out.” He gave an evil laugh, then stalked from the room. The rest of the table dispersed quickly, except for Ferris. The willow-thin knight refilledhis goblet with wine and cursed his father between sips.
    “Robert,” Falke called to one of his younger knights, seated at his right. “’Tis enough wine for tonight. What will Sir Laron think if my men make drunkards of themselves?”
    “But, Falke,” his man protested, “’tis only my third…nay, my fourth cup.” He lifted his glass high in the air and spoke in a slurred voice. “Sir Laron…is a knight…who appreciates a good press.” Robert, his fine auburn hair covering his bleary eyes, brought the cup to his lips, overestimated the distance and sloshed wine down the front of his gold tunic. A dark stain spread across the wool.
    “I’d expect as much from one of your men.” Laron sniffed with disdain.
    Ozbern gave Falke a quizzical look. “He’s too far into his cups to stop him now.”
    Falke laughed, then smiled at Robert, who staggered across the room, balancing two wine jugs and several cups. When the young knight reached a bench near the fireplace, he sat and poured another goblet of wine. Robert raised the cup, took one sip, then grew limp. The knight passed out, the crack of bone against wood making Falke flinch in empathic pain.
    Robert rolled off the bench and landed facedown in the rushes. Falke rose, surveyed the passed-out figure and commented, “A night in the cold and a heavy head will teach him a lesson.”
    The comment dispersed the nobles into small gossipingcliques. Ozbern rose, cocked a brow toward Laron, then sauntered off toward the gallery.
    Tension gripped Falke’s neck like a hawk’s talons. He wanted a breath of fresh air and a moment or two of privacy. He strode through the hall to the courtyard.
    The fragrance of new grass hung in the cool evening air. Mistedge blossomed with spring’s promise of new beginnings. And the keep offered Falke a promise also, of remaking himself from a cavalier to a lord. With time and patience, all the pieces would fall into place. The vassals. The villeins. Lady Wren? The girl would take much thought, but somehow he would arrange to end the betrothal.
    Worry nagged at the back of his mind. His feet followed the garden path as it curved away from the castle. A whiff of old urine and spoiled wine warned him of who waited ahead.
    Emerging from the pruned shrubs, Titus broke into a ragged-toothed grin. “A year will come and go afore you know it. What will you do when the time’s up?”
    “As I said, I’ll rethink the situation.” Falke tried to sidestep around the corpulent knight.
    “’Tis a dangerous trip home.” The malice in Titus’s voice brought Falke to a quick stop. Titus rubbed his beefy hands together. “For fifty gold pieces and a deed to her lands, I’ll see she finds the sharp edge of a sword should we be attacked by, say…bandits. None of those high-and-mighty lords will be able to connect you with her death.”
    An unexplainable fear replaced the villainy in his stare. Falke detected a slight wavering in Titus’s voice as he finished, “But the deed must not be done on Cravenmoor soil, nor can a Cravenmoor knight spill her blood.”
    Revulsion gagged Falke and he restrained the urge to beat the old man senseless. He could feel the steady throb of blood pounding in his head and heart. And questions. Why