A Wanton's Thief

  A Wanton’s Thief

  Titania Ladley

  Book 1 in the Thieves & Lovers series.

  The thief…

  Falcon Montague has been dubbed many things in his long, immortal

  life. Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, murderer, hero. But never had his soul been so deeply branded by a woman. On a late-night raid, he overhears the murder plot of the mistress of Wyngate Hall, the breathtaking beauty Lady Salena Tremayne. But after snatching her from her chambers to remove her to safety, Falcon soon finds Salena to be the thief… of his heart.

  The wanton…

  Lady Salena Tremayne has heard the rumors about the dangerous outlaw Robin Hood. Though it's said he steals from the rich to give to the poor, she isn't quite sure what her handsome captor intends to do with her. Kidnapped by the masked bandit, she finds herself woven into his web of eroticism in which she must guard her heart with her life. But her fight, she soon discovers, may be a futile one. Wielding erotic powers, Falcon and his cohort in crime, Little John, captivate her mind, body and soul.

  A Wanton’s Thief

  Titania Ladley

  To the Reader:

  The tales of the infamous Robin Hood and his Merry Men have been told and re-told in many ways over the centuries. It is thought in some accounts that the bandit, who reportedly stole from the rich to provide for the poor, first emerged during the reign of King Henry II in the twelfth century. Some place him during the later era of King Richard—or Richard the Lionhearted—son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England and former Queen of France. And yet other stories set him within the thirteenth, fourteenth or fifteenth centuries. Each telling is different, each version of this outlaw legend more exciting than the last. But what of the notations of speculation on wizardry or magic associated with the elusive desperado?

  What, indeed?

  Thus I bring you my version, that of magic and sorcery, spells and immortal life. Meet my “Robin Hood”, a charming rogue of the supernatural, a thief of not only a sixpence or two, but of a young maid’s heart and her blazing desire to be set free. And what a better explanation to Robin Hood sightings in various centuries and locales than that of an immortal hero who moves through time, who could quite possibly be among us even today…

  Dedication

  To Tara, my one and only little girl. This one is for you, a lover of romance and chivalry, magic and passion. I love you, sweet daughter, and even though you’re all grown up now, you’ll always be my precious baby girl.

  Chapter One

  Northern England

  Early November 1536

  Wyngate Hall

  “Lady Salena must die.”

  At the terse, ominous tone, Falcon Montague stiffened within the confines of his hiding place. Standing still between the thick drapes and the cool frosted glass of the veranda door, he narrowed his eyes, attempting to peer through a tiny slit in the fabric. His heart pounded with excitement and curiosity. If the inhabitants of the study knew the infamous “Robin Hood” eavesdropped on them, the hounds of hell would be set loose in a matter of seconds. But not before he could inflict his share of mayhem upon the sorry chaps.

  To silently emphasize his point, he flexed his hand around the solid gold candelabra he’d just plucked up before the occupants had entered the library not moments ago. Unable to spy the figures through the minute opening, he perked his ears instead, and listened intently to the murder plot he’d suddenly become privy to.

  “But how, sir? She has very loyal staff surrounding her day and night.” The voice grew deeper, softer, as if the man leaned in to continue in utmost confidence. “I daresay, however, her chambermaid could be disposed of easily, making way for the task as our lady slept. But still, are you certain…?”

  “Am I certain?” the other voice hissed, bringing to mind the devil in his sourest of moods. “Does the sun not rise every morning? Of course I’m certain you fool! She cannot live here—or anywhere—any longer. There is no other way about it. Wyngate Hall, though her home since birth, will no longer be hers as long as you do as you are told. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand completely that she can no longer remain as the mistress of Wyngate Hall and that her dowry will not be leaving this keep…if things go as planned.” The man sighed. “But I suppose you wish me to do the dubious honor of seeing to her termination?”

  Falcon suppressed a jerk when the reverberation of a fist pounding down upon wood sounded in the room.

  “No,” the tyrannical one sneered. “I wish myself to do it.”

  “You do?”

  The insolent man snorted sarcastically. “You idiot! No. It must be by someone other than myself. As a favorite at court, Salena carries with her automatic protection. Henry would have my head upon a platter if he were to discover I’d seen to her demise. If she should turn up dead—and she will—I cannot be blamed. You hear me, man? Do you hear me? You must cover your tracks and you must be careful. I will have her fortune, but without suspicion. So it must look like an accident—and before she marries the duke, Edward Devonshire, in a fortnight. Before he claims her riches and satisfies his horrific debts with every last shilling of her fat dowry.”

  “B-but…no matter who performs the dastardly deed itself, the king will most likely uncover all involved, eventually. Therefore,” the man said with an audible swallow, “he’ll have my head on that platter.”

  Falcon heard wood grate against wood and the undeniable smack of a chair toppling onto the hard floor. “If I do not have your head first.”

  The other man gasped. “No, please!”

  “Please, what?” In his mind, Falcon could almost see the perpetrator’s eyebrows rising in mockery.

  “I shall perform your bidding with extreme precision. Please, I…I…”

  “Very well. Now, it seems we suddenly see eye to eye.” Falcon heard the tightness of the smile in the gloating tone. “See to it immediately, cover your tracks well and you will be rewarded handsomely…as soon as she’s dead.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The quivering voice moved nearer and Falcon caught a brief glimpse of the backside of a man of average height and build with mousy brown hair. Its texture failed to gleam even by the light of the fat candle burning in the sconce near the door, as if the fellow lacked a sufficient, nutritious diet. He moved quickly to the portal just out of Falcon’s sight. “I shall implement a plan this very night. By morning, your command will be…old news. Our lady will be dead.”

  “Good. Good. Now, be gone with you. I feel a sudden headache coming on and wish to retire.”

  “I…yes, I will report back to you first thing at sunrise. Good night to you.” The sliding study door whooshed open and shut. Once the man had exited, all Falcon could hear for the longest time was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. He closed his eyes, beads of perspiration trickling down his spine despite the chill of the glass at his back. The musky smell of the drapes filled his nostrils and swirled sickeningly in his stomach. He longed to be gone from the stuffy confines of this sudden prison, to snatch up what he’d come for and be on his merry way. But now it seemed there would be another jewel to confiscate.

  Lady Salena Tremayne.

  Ah, yes, the arrogant, prim and bewitching daughter of the deceased Earl of Herringrose. With the exception of this very night, prior to entering through the library veranda door, Falcon had seen her but once through the slit of his helmet at the king’s annual jousting tournament. He’d promptly lost that competition due to disrupted concentration and the annoying bulge in his braies.

  A swish of fabric and a clomp of boots on wood sounded across the room, jolting Falcon from the erotic direction of his thoughts. Through the tiny crack in the curtains, it wa
s all he could do to strain and watch as a pair of hands drew out a key from behind a stone above the hearth. The tall figure, nothing but a dark silhouette against the firelight, moved to the left of the fireplace, just out of Falcon’s range. He heard the insertion of the key, the click of metal against metal, the slide of a drawer. And the angry crumple of paper.

  “The bitch!” the man growled. “You’ll die, Salena. You’ll die this very night.”

  Falcon stood stiff and ready as the drawer slammed shut and the snap of the lock echoed, melding with the tune of the crackling fire. Holding his breath, the thud of his heart choking him, Falcon listened as heavy footsteps neared. His hand tightened around the candlestick. Mentally preparing himself, he stood ready to strike at the first sign of discovery. But luck would be with him this night. He sighed when the study door slid open and shut, and the footfalls of a murderer gradually died off into the distance of the great hall.

  Cautiously, Falcon pushed aside the drapes. He grimaced when his elbow tapped the window behind him. Waiting, he cocked his head but heard no returning footsteps. Slipping from the half-open gap, he stealthily stepped toward the small side table positioned to the left of the hearth. On his way, he replaced the candelabra on the massive mahogany desk set before the paned French doors. Soaked from his confinement in the closet, he avoided the heat of the fire, despite the chill in the November air. Reaching for the one drawer hidden within the elm side table, he jiggled the handle. It wouldn’t budge. His eyes rose to the area of stones set above the mantel where he’d seen the man remove the rocky protrusion and withdraw the key.

  A creak of boards sounded above his head. His gaze shot upward and he sighed, knowing that meant someone was still about, possibly on their way downstairs.

  He shook his head. There was no time to search for the paper. He must ascend to the upper level and locate Lady Salena’s chamber immediately. Clearly, he’d have to be patient. It would be necessary to return in the future to investigate the telling document the man had wadded up in anger and stored in the locked drawer. Hopefully, it would still be there and would provide the clue Falcon needed to confirm his growing suspicions.

  Clenching his jaw with regret and irritation, he spun on his leather boots and crept to the door. Sliding one panel open just enough to poke his head through, he furtively regarded the long candlelit corridor of the richly furnished manor. Woven tapestries, gold-framed self-portraits and high-backed, heavy walnut settees lined the arched passageway. Deafening, eerie silence filled his ears. The pungent odor of beeswax and tallow drifted down from the heavy wood and iron candle beam supports dangling above. A sweeping wood staircase descended along the wall to his right. But he’d be a fool to climb it, he mused, swiftly assessing his plan of action. Servants could be about, or the gentlemen from the study could return at any moment.

  Instead, Falcon darted left and hugged the cold, stone wall. He shot in and out of alcoves and recessed porticos until he reached the darkened rear of the hall. And there, just as he’d suspected, rose the narrow servant’s stairwell. He first tested one step, leaning his weight upon its expanse. Pleased that it made not so much as a minor squeak, he took them two at a time and followed the curved, steep path. Emerging on an upper landing, he noted the absence of light below the portal he hoped would lead to the upstairs bedroom chambers. Slowly, he pushed open the door, relieved that it was indeed the long hallway of suites he sought.

  It had been on his approach to the stone castle not an hour before that he’d gotten that brief second glimpse of Salena as she’d drawn near her upstairs chamber window and pulled the shutters in against the chilly night air. He’d stood there beneath the gnarling, leafless oak gazing up at her, utterly transfixed by her beauty. She’d paused, staring out pensively into the moonless black of night, the firelight from within shimmering upon her hair. It had immediately brought to mind a long curtain of rich, sable fur, the glory of it silhouetting her in a sexual, fire-edged glow. And, like a lovesick, foolish lad, he’d indulged himself in the fantasy of running his fingers through its silky, soft tresses while sinking himself between her legs.

  “Enough, Falcon,” he whispered to himself.

  Mentally, he ascertained which chamber door would be hers based on the position of the window he’d seen her in. And he darted to it, noting with disappointment that light filtered below the closed door. So, he wouldn’t have the luck of an easy abduction after all, for it seemed the maiden remained awake.

  Getting right to the chore, he turned the ornate crystal door handle and slipped into the antechamber of her suite. The chambermaid’s rumpled straw pallet within the alcove was vacant, just as he suspected it might be. Apparently, the murder plot had already begun with the calling away of Lady Salena’s personal servant. Would they have attempted to win over the servant and include her in the plot? Perhaps poisoning of Salena’s food by the maid or smothering her in her sleep? Or would the villains eliminate the maid altogether, later enter the lady’s chamber, do the deed directly or possibly see that she suffered a deadly riding accident on the morrow? Well, there wasn’t time to determine the exact plan, but Falcon knew he must immediately remove her from any impending danger.

  Yet that wasn’t the reason his heart pounded and fluttered in anticipation.

  No. He had nothing to fear from Lady Salena’s death or the men who planned it, for he would alter fate this very moment and see that she lived. Neither did he worry over the necessary, lifesaving deed of kidnapping he was about to implement.

  What Falcon Montague feared was his fiercely guarded heart suddenly coming under siege again.

  And when he caught sight of her lying in sensual slumber upon the massive bed, the warm glow of fire dancing upon her ethereal beauty, he could have sworn an arrow pierced his heart and brought him to his very knees.

  * * * * *

  Even from the depths of sleep, Salena sensed she wasn’t alone. Clawing her way to awareness, she slowly opened her eyes. Her heart galloped in her chest as she stared up at the hangings of gold-fringed, royal blue velvet draped from the bedstead. Studying one tassel in order to keep herself grounded, she inhaled and caught the wild scent of forest and…man?

  She gasped and sat upright. Having fallen asleep in a diagonal position across the bed, she suddenly became aware of the narrow space between the side of the bed and the wall behind her. Aware, lord help her, of the fact that she sensed that very space was no longer empty.

  A large, hot hand clamped over her mouth before she could tell her limbs to move. An arm, thick and strong, hooked around her and held her own arms captive at her sides. That musky scent of man intensified, and with it, the heat of a beast blanketed her backside.

  “Shh. Don’t scream. Don’t utter a word.” The voice, a deep timbre edged with danger, filled her left ear and coiled down long and slow into her abdomen. Salena stiffened against the wall of a rippled, steely chest. Fear overrode the pleasant sensation of warmth, and she wiggled and thrashed, releasing a muffled, feral screech.

  “I said don’t scream.” The arm shook her as he growled out the command. “Do you want to die?”

  Her eyes widened. Of course I don’t wish to die!

  “Then shush.”

  Terror gripped her to the marrow of her bones. Trembling, she shook her head violently, fighting against the shame of tears. Through the blur of them, she searched her chamber for a possible weapon. Her nervous gaze darted across the blue and gold Turkish carpet to the pair of Flanders chairs set before the blazing hearth. Somewhere—was it in one of the chairs or upon the side cupboard?—the small tapestry she’d been embroidering held a large needle. And set upon the low table between the chairs, her late dinner tray remained, a blessed knife still stabbed into the thick hunk of bread remaining there.

  Panting, her eyes suddenly shifted to the chest set against the footboard of her bed.

  She had a dagger inside! Hope flourished behind her breastbone. Maybe if she could distract the intruder, or play
dead or…

  With quick decisiveness, Salena relaxed and ceased her thrashing, feigning a swoon. The interloper sighed and loosened his grip. Waiting for the perfect moment to escape, she shivered inwardly when one large hand petted her hair. Salena could swear she heard the erratic thud of the man’s heart, as well as that of her own. Shimmers of something altogether strange and yet pleasant rippled through her blood and settled between her legs. Shocked at her body’s traitorous reaction, Salena focused instead on the crackle of the fire, the shift of a burning log, the sound of the autumn night wind howling about the outer walls of the keep. She forced herself to ignore the woodsy aroma and heat of the man now holding her tenderly in his arms.

  And with quick, nimble precision, she darted from the circle of his arms and scrambled from the bed.

  She was across the room with the knife in her hand in a flash. The bulk of her nightrail spun around with her in a flurry of silk and lace. She faced the intruder headlong, her gaze riveting to him where he remained kneeling on the opposite side of her bed.

  “Don’t you come near me!” Above the glint of the fire off the sterling silver blade, she got her first full perusal of him. Wide and thick of shoulder, his frame seemed to dwarf her massive bed. As she studied him, he came off the mattress and stood to his full height. Her eyes widened. The man was a bloody giant!

  “Hello, Lady Salena. How are you this lovely autumn eve?”

  With that deep English woodsman’s dialect that seemed to caress her ears, he crossed to her, his thick arms folded mockingly over his chest. That scent of wild outdoors filled her nostrils once again and did strange things to her insides. She took in the mannish sway of the Lincoln-green cloak, the tautness of the dark brown, leather jerkin over a wide torso. And beneath the bulky garment, she caught a glimpse of a white linen shirt in stark contrast to the bronzed skin of his neck. Nervously, her gaze sank lower to that narrow pelvis and shocking…area of his anatomy. The codpiece he wore over his crotch was attached in the manner of the less fortunate, by leather strappings and cords. His braies, she noted with a hot flush to her cheeks, were snug over finely muscled thighs and calves, and disappeared into shin-high, leather riding buskins.