Dance Of Desire Read online

  She twisted away. "Stop."

  "Am I that fearsome? Come. I am to be your husband. Grant me one little kiss. For luck."

  Luck? Oh, aye, she needed plenty. His sinful smile promised he knew all the ways to kiss a woman and make her beg for more. Did he know she had never been kissed on the lips by a man? Did he know that if she kissed him here, now, she might not want to stop?

  Pushing aside his hand, which glided up her arn she said, "You wish to kiss on the mouth?"

  His eyes gleamed with surprise and obvious plea sure. "Aye."

  As though caught up in the clandestine excitement her traitorous pulse quickened. The heady scents o crushed flowers and potent male teased her, tempted her. What would it feel like, to kiss mouth to mouth Would he taste of exotic spices and wine? Would he —

  Mercy! How could she think such things?

  She adjusted her hold on the reins as he leaned for ward, his gaze hungry and expectant.

  "I regret, milord," she murmured, "you will have to wait."

  Kicking her heels into the mare's sides, she urged the horse to a brisk walk.

  His bold laughter chased her. "Rexana, you vixen You will make me a happy man." His footfalls echoed in the alley.

  He pursued.

  She whistled between her teeth. The mare broke into a fast trot. Smiling, Rexana rode out into the market square.

  Fane caught up with Rexana near the church. He halted at the edge of the milling crowd. More people than he had expected had gathered to witness the public ceremony held on the church portico, before the wedding party moved inside for the private, nuptial mass.

  Breathing hard, he set his hands on his hips and stared at Rexana, still seated upon her mount. The wind had pulled strands of hair from her braid, once smoothly coiled around her head. Her mantle hung askew, and her cheeks glowed from her defiant flight.

  He had never seen a woman look more beautiful.

  Meeting his gaze, she quirked an eyebrow. He grinned. They were well matched. If she proved equally feisty in the privacy of his solar —

  "Ready, milord?"

  "What?" Fane dragged his gaze from Rexana, being assisted from her horse by Henry. Clad in full ceremonial robes, and holding a leather-bound book, the priest stood at Fane's side. Shoving aside his lustful thoughts, Fane nodded. "Aye, Father." He withdrew the sapphire ring from his finger and handed it to the priest.

  As Rexana removed her mantle and smoothed her exquisite silk gown, Fane walked to her. Henry withdrew a wrapped bundle from her saddlebag. With a hint of reluctance, she shook out the sheer veil and draped it over her hair, then secured it with a gold circlet. Her gaze sharpened as he approached, as though she expected him to follow through with his threat of a kiss, but she did not step away.

  He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms and pleasure her with a thorough, soul-wrenching kiss that would sap the rebellion out of her. That particular pleasure must wait.

  Capturing her elbow, he propelled her toward the church's carved stone portico. He ignored her squeak of protest.

  "I am quite capable of walking on my own." She tugged, unsuccessfully, to free her arm.

  "You might try to run away again," Fane said. "We cannot have that, can we?" As he walked, he nodded to Lord Darwell, who stood at the front of the crowd, surrounded by other prominent nobles Fane recognized from the celebration at Tangston. Darwell smiled broadly and waved, yet looked on the verge of tears.

  Rexana sighed. "I will not run. I signed the writ and agreed to wed you. I will not relinquish my vow."

  "Nor shall I, little fig."

  Fane glanced at her. Beneath the veil's gauzy edge, determination glittered in her eyes. Remorse chilled his innards to icy stone. She wanted this marriage, would see the ceremony done, though not for her own pleasure or personal reward. Only for her damned traitorous brother.

  Anger soured his heady anticipation. She gave herself to save Rudd, as Fane had known she would. Did she truly expect to receive naught in return? Was she unaware of the profound union awaiting them when she willingly gave herself to him? Together, they would write their dance into the night sky and pinpoint each exquisite step with stars.

  He would show her he was no compassionless barbarian, regardless of her brother's fate.

  Father John stood in front of the church's massive carved wooden door, chatting to a lady with her young son. Fane drew Rexana to the bottom of the stone steps. Head held high, her bliaut drifting in the breeze, she stopped beside him. He released her elbow. Taking her hand, he linked his fingers through hers. She stiffened, but did not push him away.

  Leaning close to her, Fane whispered, "Smile, Rexana." Her veiled hair smelled of sunshine and violets.

  As Rexana stared straight ahead, her mouth eased into a ghost of a smile. "I am, milord."

  Shaking his head, Fane murmured, "Mayhap if I kissed you, there, on your cheek that is the color of desert sand blushed by dawn, you would not have difficulty smiling."

  Her lips twitched.

  "Ah. I knew you had a smile hidden away with your dancing bells."

  Her fingernails bit into the palm of his hand, a reprimand. "You are not the only one in strange spirits. Whatever is the matter with Lord Darwell? I cannot decide if he is bursting with a secret, or about to bawl like a babe."

  "He is disappointed, no doubt, that you will not be wedding Garmonn." Mischief warmed Fane's heart. "I also told him you pursued me. Tempted me. Seduced me into proposing marriage."

  "What""

  Fane winked, fighting to hold back a chuckle. "A necessary tale. How else could I explain your dance and our quick nuptials without arousing suspicion?"

  She cast Darwell a sidelong glance. "He believed you?"

  Fane licked his lips. He should not tease Rexana any further . . . but shame on him, he could not help himself. Not when for the first time in days, he tested the hot well of passion inside of her. "After a few elaborations." When her eyes widened, Fane shrugged. "I told him you found my eastern allure irresistible."

  "Devil's spawn!"

  In mid-sentence, the priest halted. Turning away from the noblewoman and her son, he peered down at Rexana. "Milady?"

  Rexana's face turned scarlet. Murmurs and chuckles rippled through the crowd. It seemed onlookers were already nudging elbows and placing bets on their wedded happiness.

  Fane's conscience pricked and he squeezed her fingers. He did not care what the others believed. Neither should she. They were destined for one another. He countered her glare with a genial smile.

  She looked away. "My apologies, Father, for the interruption."

  As the priest resumed his conversation, Fane leaned close to her again. Her hand shook in his grasp, as though she was sorely temped to slap him. "Do not be angry, love. Word spread quickly of our wedding. I had to give an explanation." Fane brushed his thumb over her wrist's soft curve. "You believe I have been unfair, depicting you as a lusty vixen?"

  "You misjudge me," she said, her tone cool.

  "Nay. I look forward to proving it."

  She blinked in a gust of wind, and reached up to smooth her veil. He stared at her profile. She was so lovely. Proud. Independent. Yet, she would come to realize they were two halves of the same soul.

  The priest cleared his throat, then tapped his book, a clear signal he wished to begin. Fane met his gaze and nodded. A hush fell over the onlookers, broken only by birdcalls and the wind whistling around the church's walls. The sapphire glittered between the tome's crisp parchment pages. As the priest began to speak in formal Latin, the surrounding world became a blur. Fane knew only the press of Rexana's fingers against his, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her breath was his breath. She belonged to him, as he belonged to her.

  Rexana's elbow jabbed into his side, bringing him back to the present.

  "Take her right hand, milord," the priest said, obviously for the second time, "to say your vows."

  "Gladly, Father." Fane clasped her clammy
fingers in his, held her gaze, and repeated the words that would make them man and wife. He listened as she tonelessly repeated her vows.

  The smiling priest blessed the ring. Rexana looked at it, and her throat moved. Fane's mouth flooded with a bitter taste. Did she think he mocked her with the sapphire, which he had given her before under different circumstances? One day, he would tell her how the ring helped win the battle at Acre and saved thousands of Christian lives. It represented all that was honorable in his past, as well as his future.

  On the priest's instruction, Fane repeated a blessing and slipped the ring onto each of the three fingers of her left hand, then settled it on her ring finger. "With this ring," he murmured, "I thee wed."

  Her bottom lip quivered. He willed her to look up, to see the truth of his gift to her, but she did not.

  It did not matter. He would prove the truth to her.

  "You are husband and wife," the priest said. When the crowd clapped and cheered, his face broke into a ruddy grin. "Come inside, now, for mass."

  "First, Father, I will kiss my bride."

  The crowd tittered. The priest's mouth flapped. "Milord," he said quietly, "that comes later in the proceedings. After I bestow upon you the Kiss of Peace."

  Fane gestured to the throng. "Surely these good people wish to see how deeply we are in love, and that our marriage is one of mutual consent."

  Rexana gasped. Her gaze shot to Henry, who stood nearby, as though seeking reassurance. Then her expression hardened.

  "Rexana—" Fane began.

  She wrenched her hand from his. Her eyes blazed with shock and indignation. He had expected to see maidenly trepidation, mayhap even embarrassment, but not willfulness.

  Did she resent having to kiss him before a crowd? Or did she disagree that their marriage was one of consent?

  Her gaze darkened with challenge, and he grinned. Clever little fig. She dared him to kiss her with all the passion simmering inside him. Dared him to show himself as a lusty, boorish oaf with no morals. Dared him, before the priest and hundreds of witnesses, to show himself as a fool.

  She dared the wrong man.

  He slowly raised her hand to his lips. He felt the tremor run down her arm, heard her quick inhalation. She watched him through half lowered lashes. With the grace he had learned from watching the king's courtiers, with the civilized restraint he had learned years ago, he pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. Once. Twice.

  As though pulled by an invisible string, she tensed. Expectation flared in her eyes. Laughter bubbled inside

  Fane. She thought he would bite her again? This time, he deserved more than a cursory taste. This time, he wanted more.

  He smiled, pulled on her hand, and drew her to him. Her fingers brushed over his tunic as she resisted, a slight, sinewy turn of her body. Before she could wriggle away, he leaned forward to cup the back of her head. Anchoring his fingers into her veiled hair, he kissed her soundly on the lips.

  The crowd murmured and clapped.

  As their lips met, she jumped. A startled rasp came from the back of her throat, as though the contact was not at all what she anticipated.

  What did she feel? Astonishment? Pleasure?

  He drew back, and her shuddered breath rushed over his mouth. Her tongue darted between her reddened lips, as though to fully explore the taste of him. Or to savor it.

  He paused, his mouth close to hers. Her fragrance enveloped him, urged him to look into her eyes. She stared back at him, her breathing uneven. Her ringed hand fluttered between their bodies, even as her slightly glazed eyes looked up at him. In their depths, he read surprise. Confusion. Yearning.

  "Another?" he murmured, the hand behind her head drawing her forward.

  Laughter rippled through the onlookers. The priest smiled. Shaking his head, he pulled open the church's wooden door.

  As though snapping from a daze, Rexana slipped free of Fane's hold. Her arms fell primly to her sides. "You are a man of many surprises, milord."

  "There will be more to come," he said easily.

  "Of that, you can be quite certain."

  Raising his brows, Fane looked at her. Before he could ponder her words, or offer a witty reply, she caught up her skirts and climbed the steps to the open doorway.

  He laughed and followed her, his boots rapping on the stone stairs. Puzzlement and anticipation shot through him. Did she intend to surprise him? How? When? At tonight's wedding feast?

  Later, when they were alone in their chamber?

  Ah, God, he could not wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Shutting out the wedding feast's revelry, Rexana picked at the decorations on the marzipan pastry sitting before her on the lord's table. Torchlight glittered on the sugared rose petals tumbling over the delicacy's sides. A riot of sparkles, like sunlight dancing over pristine, newly fallen snow. Too pretty to eat, when her stomach churned with nerves.

  Laughter boomed from a trestle table below the dais. Raising her lashes, she glanced at the noisy hall. Fane stood beside a flush-faced Lord Darwell amongst a crowd of other nobles. Fane was telling a tale, something about a huge spider in a crusader's tent, to the obvious fascination of all the men. He gestured with one hand, while holding a goblet of wine in the other.

  Torchlight played over his angular face and fine tunic, and her stomach did an unsettling swoop. He was a very handsome man, Fane Linford, High Sheriff of Warringham. Her husband.

  She shivered, and a sugary petal crumbled in her fingers. After mass, she had said goodbye to Henry. He had promised to manage Ickleton until Rudd returned, and needed to get back before dark. Fighting tears, she watched him and the men-at-arms ride away. Then, with the musicians playing a jaunty tune, she, Fane, and the wedding guests headed to Tangston Keep.

  As Fane elaborated on the spider, her gaze dropped to his mouth. Since their kiss outside the church, he had been exceedingly courteous. He offered her first choice of the roasted meats and delicately spiced dishes. He offered her first taste of the wine—no cheap, watered down market fare, but a costly red. Moreover, he bestowed upon her compliments worthy of the most romantic chansons. He spoke as though they had not wed for a purpose, but for love.

  Her throat tightened. She snapped her gaze back to the pastry. No matter how much his words had thrilled her, she must uphold her vow to remain virgin. She must deny him on their wedding night, and all the nights after that.

  Yet, after that amazing first kiss . . .

  Fane's earthy chuckle echoed. She fought the strange warmth swirling through her body, and tried to clear her thoughts. Her gaze fell to the circlet and veil she had removed earlier and set on the table, then the roses, gillyflowers and violets spilling from the oddly shaped gold bowl nearby. Flowers adorned every hall table. More dotted the rushes strewn across the floor. Even more blooms trailed from the wrought iron torch brackets, as though a pagan deity had cast a spell upon the hall, transforming it into a meadow. The extravagance was peculiar, but delightful.

  Rexana inhaled the nearby arrangement's fragrance. Reaching out, she caught a violet, half fallen on the linen tablecloth, and her heart flooded with emotion. How her body yearned to dance. If she did, would she conquer her nagging physical cravings? Would she smother the voice inside her, that whispered she would betray her brother if she succumbed to Fane's temptations?

  As though drawn by a silent cry, she looked up. Fane met her gaze. His lips curved in a brazen smile as he raised his goblet to her.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Her breasts tingled as though tiny, icy raindrops peppered her skin. The warmth within her quickened, spread, resurrecting the taste of him on her lips. Spicy. Bold. Wonderful.

  Traitor!

  She looked away. Heat skimmed down her spine to her arm braced on the table. The fragile violet lay crushed in her clenched fingers. When had she closed her hand? She did not remember.

  She wiped her fingers on the tablecloth. She would not be seduced by Linford's charm. She would not forget that h
er only reason for going through with the nuptials was to free Rudd. Right now, as Tangston celebrated, he sat in a dungeon cell, alone and —

  "Lady Linford?"

  Rexana groaned silently. Would she ever grow used to her new title?

  Darwell stood on the opposite side of the table.

  "Good eve," she said.

  "May I congratulate you on your wedding." He spoke politely but an odd light glinted in his eyes. "I wish you and the sheriff a prosperous future."

  "Thank you."

  He leaned closer, his breath smelling of wine. He grinned like a boy who had been handed a bag of sweets. "I have vowed not to speak of your secret" — he winked — "and I shall not. But I wanted you to be certain. 'Tis absolutely safe with me."