Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) Read Online Free

breathe, as though the dead of five hundred years still fought to claim their own. No icings of intricate plasterwork, no gilt sconces or whimsical sculptures could mask the stark history that wove among the candle flames flickering in the shadows. It was as though the walls themselves cried out for vengeance.
    "So. You've shamed me yet again." Maryssa wheeled at the slice of a razor-sharp voice through the silence. Her chin lifted a fraction, her fingers clenching as she faced the stout figure silhouetted in the doorway. Even so, she couldn't still the hammering of her heart. The somber waistcoat, denuded of any fancy work, puffed out over the waistband of too-tight breeches, the shirt ruffle couched beneath a double chin as stiff as the lips of the man who owned it.
    "Good day, Father."
    "Good day," Bainbridge Wylder mocked, yanking the massive oak door closed behind him with a plump, square hand. "Is that all you have to say, girl? I released you from Carradown into the care of that pompous witch, Lady Dallywoulde, hoping she could fashion you into a tolerable bride for your esteemed cousin, Sir Ascot, and even she could not bear your insolence. Tell me, miss, do you know what this letter says?"
    He dug into the pocket of his rumpled frock coat and yanked out a wad of paper to wave beneath her nose. "Lady Olivette claims that, in the center of a ballroom you defamed your betrothed, humiliating him before his peers."
    "I—I only said it was wrong to condemn innocent children to the flames.”
    "After Sir Ascot had been touting the necessity of ridding society of its filth before they grow large enough to do evil."
    "Father, they tortured that little girl.”
    "I don't give a damn about anything except ridding myself of the burden of being responsible for you." Her father spun around and jammed the missive down onto the vast top of his desk, then turned to face her. "Aye, miss, and now, because of your insolence, you may be a spinster instead of a nobleman's wife. A disinherited spinster, perhaps.”
    "I think I would rather be a spinster than—"
    "Than wife to a noble and godly man?"
    "Godly!" Maryssa nearly choked on the word, picturing her weasel-thin cousin as he had looked in the hours before the infamous ball, his nostrils pinched, his lips pursed with displeasure at having been cheated out of his afternoon's entertainment.
    He had forced her to ride out with him in his sedan chair to a crowded square. Filthy bodies had crowded around them, leering and laughing as a girl of thirteen was dragged forth. A witch, Ascot had claimed, guilty of having lured a high holy bishop into her bed through sorcery. But Maryssa had seen no lascivious evil in the girl's countenance, only narrow, white-robed shoulders, thick honeyed curls, and eyes so terrified they seemed to swallow the child's whole face. Maryssa had begged to leave, but Ascot's mouth had merely curled with self-righteous glee as the executioner bound the screaming girl to the stake and piled the faggots beneath her bare feet.
    Maryssa shut her eyes, the terrible stench of seared flesh still burning her nostrils. Thank God for the wind! It had rushed the flames up the girl's slight body with merciful speed, stopping the inhuman screams that still haunted Maryssa's dreams.
    And pious Ascot Dallywoulde had raged the whole way home that the child's pain had not lasted long enough to make her pay for her wickedness.
    “Girl! You'll listen when I speak to you!"
    Her father’s hand clamped on her shoulder, yanking her back from the horrifying memory. Marissa winced, as he jerked her around to meet his baleful glare. “You've not heeded a word I've said."
    "I have." Her fingers strayed to her throat, seeking the familiar security of the tiny swan pendant, only to be flooded once again with desolation at its loss. Her hand dropped to her side. "I can explain what happened, Father, if you'll—"
    "If I'll what? Waste my time listening to you spin excuses? I spent three