Dance Of Desire Read online

  Curving her arms in an elegant move, she straightened and rose to her feet. She peeked at Linford through her splayed fingers. His gaze met hers. He slid another fig between his teeth, chewed, then licked his bottom lip.

  She glided toward him.

  He resumed talking with Lord Darwell.

  A scream burned for release. Stubborn, stubborn man. She had piqued his curiosity. Now, how did she keep him enticed? How did she hold the interest of a savage?

  Heady anticipation shimmered through her. She must think like a barbarian. Act the part of an infidel courtesan. Play to his desires. Reveal the wildness trapped in her soul.

  Dance, Rexana!

  Closing her eyes to the faces around her, she focused on the tabor's rhythmic beat as well as the plaintive melody. Reminded herself that Rudd's life hinged upon this moment. Stretched her body and limbs farther than she ever had before.

  The ankle bells tinkled.

  Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

  Fear, anxiety, and longing bloomed inside her, feelings she had known well since childhood. The schooling of a titled lady left little time for chasing beetles or butterflies, or for picking bouquets of stringy wild- flowers.

  Her parents had expected her to accept her noble duty. She had done so. Bravely. Willingly. She had loved and trusted them. Now, they lay buried in the hard earth.

  Dance, Rexana! Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

  He was watching now.

  The silk brushed against her legs, a sensation similar to the breeze wafting through the grasses near her secret pool.

  There, surrounded by the quiet majesty of trees and weathered rocks, she allowed the stifled voice inside her to cry out.

  There, lifting her hands to the sun, she absorbed the power of the vast blue sky and the soil beneath her feet.

  Surrendering to the passionate howl inside her, she danced.

  She reached her palms upward. Aye, just like that.

  Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

  Rexana dared another glance. Linford stared as though he could not look away. As though her dance seduced him.

  She rolled her head and shoulders in a slow, sensual arc.

  Exhilaration flooded her mind.

  Her steps quickened.

  The familiar cry hummed through her body. Heightened her senses. Infused her heart and soul with a heady blend of joy, confusion, and . . . yearning.

  Her body arched.

  Spun.

  She danced as she dared near the pool, where no one could see, with only her reflection to laugh at her folly. In those moments, she felt more alive than at any other time in her life.

  As she whirled in wild momentum, she heard the music slow. The dance was ending. Too soon!

  She would summon the musicians to begin another song. She lowered her arms. Blinking away the haze of bittersweet memories, Rexana dipped her head, then extended her arms in an elegant finale.

  The last strains of the music stopped.

  The hall fell silent.

  Utterly silent.

  Her breaths, obscenely loud, rattled in her throat.

  Why had the chatter and merriment halted?

  She raised her head a fraction. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. Darwell sat alone at the lord's table, his cheeks flushed and his jaw gaping.

  Not five paces to her right stood Linford, his arms crossed over the front of his tunic. Half masked by smoky shadow, his face revealed no emotion.

  She rubbed her trembling hands over her belly. What had happened? Had Darwell recognized her? Had he told the sheriff her identity?

  Fear shot through her. For herself. For Henry and the musicians. For Rudd.

  Tugging her veil closer about her face she took two startled steps back.

  "You will not run away." Linford's mouth tipped up in a half smile. He crooked a finger. "Come here, little dancer."

  Fane scowled as the woman's eyes widened with panic. Why did she want to flee ? Because of the shocked murmurs spreading through the hall? Because of the rumors about him? Or because no man had dared to confront her after a performance?

  Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm. Perspiration beaded on her throat and dotted her bronzed skin. He looked lower, at her breasts swelling against the embroidered silk bodice. Beautiful. A generous handful of warm flesh. Breasts as big as . . . oranges.

  His hardened loins stirred.

  With effort, Fane wrenched his gaze from the dancer's cleavage to meet her stare. She had not moved, but stood as still as a carved stone statue. He sensed her reticence, strong as the sensation that virtually hummed in the space between them. She would cross to him. Of that, he had no doubt. Whatever the rumors, he was Warringham's sheriff, appointed by the crown. By virtue of setting foot within his keep, she owed him that gesture of respect.

  "I am waiting, love."

  She swallowed and made a small sound of distress. His gaze narrowed on her face. Her nose, mouth, and chin were concealed by the veil. Were her lips full and red? Was her nose slim or angular? A woman of mystery. Mayhap deliberately so. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, heavily lashed but . . . emerald green. Unusual, for a wench of dark skin and eastern blood.

  Frowning, he glanced at the cloth covering her head, but the fabric lay flat against her temples. He doubted her hair flowed thick, glossy, and black like Leila's.

  His hands tightened into fists, even as he snuffed a sting of anger. Foolish, to take offense. This woman was an entertainer, a wench of English blood acting a role. She did not understand the nuances of eastern dance. He had recognized that the moment he saw her move.

  As though sensing his displeasure, the woman tipped up her chin. She started toward him, each step articulated by the chime of bells. Ah, but how she moved.

  Torchlight skimmed over her slender shoulders and down the planes of her firm stomach. She glided toward him as though she approached King Richard himself. Head held high, she radiated the poise and elegance expected of the highest noble courts.

  Who was this woman?

  She paused before him. Almost in afterthought, with the barest hint of resentment, she lowered her gaze to stare at his tunic. He sensed the tumultuous emotions warring within her, threatening her self-control. The same fierce emotions had reverberated in her dance and touched a note deep inside him. Her heart had spoken.

  It echoed the profound, primitive bellow of his own tormented heart. Before her dance had finished, before he could stop himself or consider the consequences, he had walked around the table, stepped off the dais, and crossed to her.

  Steeling his wayward concentration, Fane drew in a breath. She smelled of violets. Sweet. Delicious.

  "An interesting dance you performed this eve," he said.

  "I hope it pleased you, milord." Her very English voice sounded slightly husky and breathless. The way a woman sounded after she had been kissed. Focus, fool!

  Shoving aside the distracting thought, Fane muttered, "I never saw a dance quite like yours in all my years in the east."

  She stiffened. The bells at her wrists jingled as she clasped her hands over her stomach. "I was instructed in this fair country. I admit I have never danced before a sheriff of such . . . authority, milord. Your esteemed reputation —"

  "Ah." With a firm hand, he reached up and touched the edge of her veil. As his fingers tried to drag down the shimmering fabric, she jerked away. He frowned. "You fear me, little dancer?"

  Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her eyes sparked. "I do not."

  "Yet, you turn your face away and refuse to look up at me. You are indeed frightened. Or you hide secrets from me."

  Her green eyes glittered in the torchlight. Lovely eyes, darkened with anger, confusion and distrust. Eyes that revealed the passion within her.

  "I am honored you wished to speak with me," she said with the barest quaver, stepping back, "but I must leave now."

  His jaw hardened. "You cannot. I have not dismissed you."

  "I do not need —" Her sharp voice falte
red.

  Fane's lip curled in anger. She did not need to finish. He heard her unspoken words. I do not need your wretched dismissal, barbarian. A treacherous thought for a peasant who fed herself through the coin earned from her dance.

  As though sensing his displeasure, her gaze softened. So, she was wise enough to bite her tongue and try to pacify him. "I believe the jugglers are to perform next. I do not wish to delay the rest of the eve's celebrations," she said. Glancing at the musicians, who stood staring at her as though awaiting a superior's orders, she added, "Your guests will grow restless."

  As I grow restless, woman, in your presence. As my blood stirs, and my pulse thickens, and my soul hungers for more of your dance. "You will stay."

  She gasped, a sound of utter indignation.

  Before she could dart away, he caught her hands. Raising them to his lips, he kissed her fingers, feeling the tremor that coursed through her. As he released her, he drew the sapphire ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm.

  "A token of my appreciation, and my interest." He trailed his thumb down over the veil to her lips. "You will stay, love, as I command. By the end of this eve, we will know each other very well. And I will know all of your secrets."

  Chapter Two

  A shudder ran down Rexana's spine. How could she refuse Linford's gift and proposition without causing grave offense? At all costs, she must avoid creating a commotion as well as any disastrous consequences for herself, Rudd, and her loyal friends.

  Turning the ring in her damp fingers, she looked down at the sapphire. A large stone, set in delicately etched gold. No doubt worth the equivalent of a wealthy lady's dowry. Did he favor all his women so generously? Did he pay for her body — or the secrets he expected her to reveal?

  Fear tingled through her to the tips of her toes. She would never betray Rudd. Nor would she offer herself to a stranger. A barbarian. Yet, even as she steeled her resolve, a strange excitement surged. Forbidden interest, coaxed to life by his hungry gaze. Wanton curiosity.

  What would it be like to taste Linford's sinfully curved lips? To feel his fingers skimming over her skin? To sense his breath upon her belly?

  As though he tried to read her mind, Linford's eyes narrowed a fraction. Mentally squashing her thoughts, she averted her gaze. Her parents, a blessing upon their departed souls, had expected her to remain pure for her noble husband and the sons she would bear him in love and honor. By God's holy rood, she wanted to keep this vow.

  But Rudd's life was more important than her virtue.

  Her fingers tightened on the jewel. She had no other way to protect Henry and win time for him to find the missive, but to accept Linford's offer. From what she had heard of the sheriff, she doubted she could simply refuse, hand back the ring, and walk out of the hall. If she declined, he might toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his private chambers, as she had heard was the custom of hot-blooded infidels. Dread and excitement trembled through her.

  Conversation began to fill the hall. The sheriff's interest in her was already inciting gossip. Turning her head a little, Rexana glanced at the musicians. The drummer met her gaze, scratched his cheek, then shook his head. The signal. Henry had not yet returned.

  Anticipation buzzed in her veins like a swarm of bees. Until Henry had the missive, she must act her role to the fullest. Like the courtesan Linford thought her to be, she must tempt. Seduce. And, if necessary, yield her body to him.

  Curving her mouth into a smile, she raised her lashes. "Your gift is most generous, milord." Panic swelled up between her ribs. She struggled to ignore it.

  "The stone is of high quality." With strong fingers, Linford clasped her hand. He tilted it sideways, so light gleamed off the sapphire's polished surface. "It is exquisite," he murmured, "as are you."

  "You are equally generous with your flattery."

  He smiled. His palm cradled her hand. How neatly her fingers fit into his. His breath fanned across her brow and, as he leaned closer, she caught the scents of spices, red wine, and sweet figs.

  Pleasure tingled inside her, swiftly followed by caution. So easily, she could be swayed by his intriguing scent and false praise. Spoken in a husky whisper, his words had glided off his tongue with the practiced smoothness of a rogue skilled in the art of seducing women. Foolish, that her heart had fluttered.

  Yet, no man had ever spoken to her with the passion underscoring his tone. Certainly not Darwell's son Garmonn, who courted her with all the charm of a randy bull.

  Blocking out the memories of Garmonn, she thought of the arrow brooch. Why she always wore it. Why, even if it cost every last bit of her courage, she was honor bound to save Rudd.

  Linford's callused thumb brushed over her wrist. A caress. As she feigned a coy giggle and glanced back at him, she noticed a servant setting fresh jugs of wine on the lord's table. A plan floated into her mind. Reassurance flooded through her like cool, refreshing rainwater. She might not have to yield her virtue, after all.

  If she kept her wits about her, she could ply Linford with drink as she laughed, teased and tempted him. When his eyes rolled back into his head and he toppled over in a drunken stupor, she could slip away. Leaving his gaudy bauble behind, of course. He would gain naught from her but a sore head.

  A delighted laugh bubbled in her throat.

  He gently squeezed her hand. "You accept my offer?"

  "Aye." She withdrew her fingers from his. Turning her hand over, she slipped on the ring. The gold band was too large, but it did not matter. She would not wear the jewel for long. With a lazy shrug, she eyed the stone. "How could I refuse?"

  Grinning, he lowered his mouth to her ear. "I am pleased I did not mistake your craving for adventure, or your wild and lusty spirit." As he exhaled, his breath blew over the silk covering her ear. Her head spun.

  Wild and lusty spirit} She gulped. "You are indeed . . . most perceptive."

  "And ravenous." His mouth curved into a wolfish smile that blazed its way through her entire body. Her sheer silk garments suddenly felt tight and unbearably hot. Before she could protest, before she could refuse, Linford took her hand. He drew her toward the dais. Toward the vacant chair beside his.

  Toward Darwell, who looked on the verge of recognizing her.

  Alarm burst inside her. She tore from Linford's grasp.

  He turned with the predatory grace of a stalking cat.

  "One moment, milord," she said, keeping her face averted from Darwell's probing gaze. "I . . . ah . . . must speak with my friends. Reassure them all is well. They may be concerned." Gesturing to the musicians, she started toward them.

  As she neared the tables, a bead of sweat ran between her breasts. What if Darwell called out her name?

  Two steps, then Linford caught her elbow. "Do not worry. My steward will speak with them."

  "Still, I should —"

  With gentle pressure, he turned her back to face him. "Why do you hesitate? Do you intend to deny me?"

  Her blood chilled at the hint of warning in his voice. Laughing softly, she straightened the bells at her wrist. "Of course not. I am weary after my dance, 'tis all. The musicians usually see that I rest before we undertake our journey home."

  Before the last words had left her lips, Linford flicked his hand. A balding man in a red woolen tunic shot to his side.

  His face somber, the man bowed with excessive flair. "What is your pleasure, Sheriff Linford? Shall I tell the other entertainers to begin?"

  "Winton, show this woman to my solar. See that she is made comfortable."

  Staring at the steward's shiny, bowed pate, Rexana swallowed a desperate moan. The solar!

  As he turned away, Linford added, "I will join her as soon as I am able."

  "As you wish, milord."

  Bowing to Rexana, Winton thrust out his arm. He pointed to the stairs that rose along the hall's far wall and ended at a wooden platform.

  The stairs Henry had climbed moments before.

  Was Henry sti
ll searching Linford's chamber?

  She half turned toward the sheriff, half formed a protest, but her courage wavered. He already suspected her enthusiasm. She could not risk further arousing his distrust, or lingering in the hall when Darwell might guess her identity.

  Her belly ached. Her mind raced with visions of Winton opening the solar door and Henry springing to his feet before an opened chest, a parchment in his hand.

  Clearing the nervous squeak from her throat, she cast Linford what she hoped was a seductive smile. Aware of his gaze trailing down her bare back, she tilted up her chin, then started after Winton, who marched past the crowded tables with brisk efficiency. As she walked, she forced her proper, ladylike steps into loose-hipped strides. Made her body sway, as the dancer had instructed, in a manner that promised and enticed.