Dance Of Desire Read online

  She must find a way to warn Henry. She would save him and Rudd from the sheriff's clutches.

  And herself.

  As a quartet of nimble male and female jugglers ran toward the dais and began to spin brightly colored balls, Fane chewed another fig. Sticky residue clung to his fingers, and he licked away the essence. Would the dancer's skin taste as sweet?

  His loins roused again, a distracting press of flesh against his wool hose. Drying his hand on the tablecloth, he forced himself to concentrate on the jugglers' feats. He must be patient. Once he knew the outcome of this night's carefully laid scheme — planned earlier with his trusted men-at-arms and now unfolding leagues away — he could attend his physical needs.

  And hers.

  What an unexpected turn of events, to meet her this eve.

  The delicious memory of her filled Fane's mind. As he looked at the jugglers, he mentally slipped off her head covering, veil, bodice, skirt, and dancing bells until she stood naked before him. Ah, God. His gut twisted. He fought to keep himself from rising from the table to charge after her.

  He sighed and gritted his teeth. Never had he been so drawn to a woman, even Leila. This dancer intrigued him. Enticed him with her mysterious allure, one that seemed an odd blend of temptress and veiled innocent. She was a talented actress. Or, she had a great deal to hide.

  Darwell tapped his fingers on the table. "She reminds me of someone."

  Fane's gaze snapped from the jugglers. "Who?"

  "The pretty wench you invited to your chamber," Darwell said with a disgruntled laugh. "I vow I have met her before. Cannot think where."

  Fane toyed with a morsel of fig on his tongue. "She mentioned she learned her dance here in England. Mayhap you saw her perform at a local fete."

  "Mmm." Darwell scratched his chin, and gaze darted to the oranges in the fruit bowl. Picking out the largest orange, he turned it slowly in his palm.

  Footfalls intruded over the jugglers' antics. Looking past the closest tables, Fane saw two men-at-arms in full chain mail striding toward him. He smiled.

  Soon, little dancer. Soon.

  The men skirted the jugglers and halted before the dais. "Milord."

  Aware of the curious stares from noblemen at the nearby tables, Fane asked quietly, "What news do you bring?"

  The taller guard squared his shoulders. His face lit with pride. "We found them, milord. In a tavern several leagues from Tangston."

  "Excellent." Satisfaction coiled inside Fane. His instincts had not failed him.

  Darwell's eyes widened. "Found who?"

  "Lords who conspire against the crown." Not taking his gaze from the guards, Fane said, "Where are they now?"

  "The bailey. Soon all four will be in the dungeon, as you ordered."

  Fane frowned. "Only four? Surely there were more."

  The second guard's face reddened and he shuffled his feet. "The others escaped out a hidden door in the cellar. We tracked them through a corn field, but lost them at the riverbank."

  With effort, Fane stifled a flare of annoyance. "No matter. We will capture the others soon enough." He fixed the men-at-arms with a firm glare. "Put the prisoners in cells. See that they are well guarded. I will come to the dungeon shortly."

  "Aye, milord." The men-at-arms bowed, then retreated across the hall.

  The orange in Darwell's hand thudded to the table. Trapping the rolling fruit with his palm, he said, "This eve, of all eves, you sent men to root out traitors?"

  Fane shrugged. "What better time for them to plot? No doubt they assumed I would be too busy carousing with my honored guests to pursue their treachery. They were wrong."

  "Indeed." With the barest tremble, Darwell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, may I be the first to congratulate you on your victory."

  A wry laugh burst from Fane's lips. "I cannot claim victory yet. I must capture the other conspirators. I will not be satisfied until I have them all."

  Darwell picked up the orange and tossed it back into the bowl, dislodging the neat mound of figs. "For your sake, I hope the lords you arrested this eve are traitors. What if your guards mistakenly detained innocent men?" He clucked his tongue. "What a wretched scandal that would be. I would not like to be in your position, milord, if you are in error."

  Fane's blood boiled. Were Darwell's words a warning? Or, a statement of genuine concern?

  His thumb brushed his eating dagger's smooth handle. He needed no reminders of the dangers of the coming days. He had known them before he rode through Tangston's gates to assume his duties as sheriff, but he had confronted death more times than he could count on his fingers and still lived.

  He would not fail in his duty to eliminate the corruption in Warringham, even if it entailed the temporary detention of guiltless men. No one he knew had ever died from rankled pride. If his men-at-arms had acted in error, he would extend a suitable apology and make restitution. He would prove that beneath his bronzed skin and barbaric scars, his English blood ran as red as any other lord's in this hall, and that he was worthy of respect.

  Fane's fingers closed around the dagger. "I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry. Unless, of course, your fealty is questionable." He raised an eyebrow at Darwell.

  The older man's eyes crinkled as he laughed. "Do not be foolish. I am as loyal to the king as any other lord here this eve."

  "Those who did not attend? What of them?"

  Darwell's mouth tightened. "Garmonn is not here this eve because he is unwell. Will you condemn him, Rudd Villeaux, and others like them who wanted to come, but could not?"

  "I assure you, I will not condemn an innocent man."

  Perspiration shone on Darwell's pale forehead as he nodded his agreement. His love for his son was admirable. Not all fathers respected the seed of their loins. A painful image blasted into Fane's thoughts like a sandstorm. His sire, purple in the face, condemning Fane's irresponsible behavior. Refusing to heed his pleas. Ordering him to leave and never return, despite Fane's mother's shrill weeping.

  A hard smile tilted Fane's lips. A pity, his sire would never see how he had misjudged his "utterly worthless" son.

  Glittering fabric near the wooden landing caught Fane's gaze. The dancer? Nay, a nobleman wearing an embroidered tunic the same color as her costume. By now, she should be curled up on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Fane's blood quickened. Another duty he would not neglect.

  Setting aside his eating dagger, Fane rose from the table.

  "You must leave, milord?" Darwell's hand fluttered in the direction of the jugglers. "They have not finished their act."

  Fane smiled. "I must attend to pressing duties."

  Her pulse drumming a fierce beat, Rexana stepped onto the landing overlooking the hall. Laughter boomed from below. As she followed Winton toward a torch-lit corridor ahead, she glanced through the hovering smoke to the jugglers who gamboled before the dais, balancing wooden boards on their heads.

  Before she could caution herself, her gaze slid to Linford. His dark, untamed hair gleamed as he turned to speak to Darwell. Even from a distance, the sheriff exuded raw authority and a keen intellect that warned he was a man who would not appreciate deception, especially within the walls of his keep.

  She must warn Henry. Quickly.

  An idea skittered into her mind.

  She hiked up her skirt with both hands and hurried to catch up with Winton. Her bare foot caught on a patch of rough wood. Sudden, sharp pain pierced her heel. "Mercy!"

  Winton halted and looked at her. "What ails you?"

  She bit her lip against the discomfort. Her plan did not include getting a sliver, but she could use the injury to her advantage. Raising her voice to carry above the hall's commotion, she called, " 'Tis my foot. A sliver, I vow."

  Oh, Henry! Please hear the sound of my voice. If you are still in the solar, hide. Now!

  With a whimper, she raised her foot. If she could convince Winton she needed help to walk, she could delay reaching the s
olar by a few precious moments.

  Winton's face pinched into an irritated scowl. "Come. We can tend your wound in the solar." Turning his back to her, he strode into the passage.

  She whispered a curse. The steward was not to be deterred. Well, neither was she. As she limped after him, she fumbled with her bracelet's clasp. "How far is his lordship's chamber?"

  Winton pointed to broad oak doors to his right. In the light cast by blazing reed torches, she saw two armed guards. How had Henry managed to slip past the sentries? What if he had not succeeded? What if —

  She dismissed her anxious thoughts. A man as clever as Henry would have found a way. A distraction. A ruse. However, if he tried to run from the chamber now, he would be challenged, captured, or even killed.

  She had one last chance to warn him.

  "This is the solar?" She flicked her hand, repeating Winton's gesture. The bracelet flew through the air and smacked against one of the wooden panels, then landed on the floor with a musical clunk. She feigned utter surprise. "The goldsmith told me he fixed the clasp. I will have words with him."

  A sigh rushed between Winton's thinned lips. He rolled his eyes, stooped, and picked up the ornament.

  Hide, Henry. Hide! Do not try to run.

  The steward held the tinkling bracelet out to her. "Thank you," she murmured. With a relieved smile, she noted the jewel was undamaged by the fall. As she fastened it around her wrist, Winton depressed the door's wrought iron handles, pushed open the panels, then motioned her inside.

  As though a magical box had sprung open, an exotic scent wafted out of the solar to greet her. A reminder that she entered Linford's lair. A reminder of danger, forbidden temptations, and desire. A shiver tingled down her spine.

  As she stepped into the shadowed solar, illuminated only by the hearth's orange-yellow blaze, her breath caught in her throat. Glancing about, she braced herself for Henry's bolt for the door. For Winton's cry of alarm. For the rasp of the guards' broadswords and their bellows to "halt." For the imminent confrontation, in which she must aid Henry and somehow keep the missive from Linford's men.

  Her gaze fell to a pair of strangely decorated gold candlesticks on the nearby wall shelf. She edged toward them. A candlestick was a wretched substitute for a weapon, but it must do.

  Sweeping through the doorway with a flaming reed, Winton began lighting the wall torches. The room's shadows surrendered to a warm glow. Every nerve in Rexana's body hummed. The sapphire ring pressed against her skin as her hands closed around the candlestick's cool gold.

  Few places remained for Henry to hide. Did he stand behind the carved wooden screen to the left of the hearth? Was he crouched on the opposite side of the bed?

  As Winton skirted the enormous bed, strewn with pillows and an animal skin she did not recognize, she hardly dared to breathe. She watched, the chased metal slick beneath her fingers, as he knelt, tossed several more logs into the fire, then rose and lit the remaining torches. Without incident.

  Relief filtered through her. Either Henry remained well hidden, or he had found a way out of the solar.

  Easing her rigid grip on the candlesticks, she sighed.

  Winton crossed to her. "You will wait here for Sheriff Linford. I will send a maidservant to treat your foot."

  "Nay," Rexana said hastily. "I can tend the splinter."

  "Very well." The steward's voice turned stern, as though he addressed a truant child. "You are not to touch any of his lordship's possessions. Including the candlesticks."

  Rexana managed an insolent shrug. "I am only looking at the odd decoration." With her fingertip, she finished tracing a curved symbol, then lowered her hands.

  Winton's visage softened only a fraction. He tipped his head toward the nearby table. "While you wait, you may have wine. Or figs and oranges from the fruit bowl."

  After shooting her a final, pointed glance, he strode through the doors. They clicked shut behind him.

  Rexana exhaled on a whoosh. She was alone . . . unless Henry had squeezed himself into a corner and awaited a signal from her before he emerged.

  Rubbing her arms with her hands, she whispered, "Henry?"

  Silence, broken only by the fire crackling in the hearth.

  "Henry, 'tis safe to come out. Are you here?"

  No answer. She grinned. He was probably on his way back to the hall to meet up with the musicians.

  If Henry had the missive, she did not need to tempt the sheriff. She could regroup with the others and leave before Linford realized she had gone.

  The sheriff's parting smile nipped through her mind. She fought a pang of disappointment, for she would not experience his skilled kiss, touch, or breath upon her belly, after all.

  Rexana shook her head and dismissed the senseless emotion. She did not crave a barbarian's attentions. Not now. Not ever.

  Setting her hands on her hips, she glanced about the chamber. She gnawed her bottom lip. Could she outwit the guards at the solar doors? Mayhap. Yet, Henry had managed to slip out by an alternate route. 'Twould be wiser for her to leave that way too.

  Her gaze fell upon the tall, elaborately carved screen which blocked a corner of the chamber. What did the wooden panels conceal? A hidden door? She stepped forward. Pain lanced through her foot. Cursed splinter. No time to remove it. Linford would soon come to his chamber, and she wished to be long gone before he arrived.

  As though attuned to her dishonorable thoughts, the fire popped and hissed. Only burning pitch, Rexana reminded herself with a nervous laugh, as the flames flared and cast accusing fingers of light across the screen.

  She hobbled across the floorboards. Her feet sank into the brightly patterned carpet near the bed. Ignoring the silkiness, the urge to pause and wiggle her toes in deeper, she approached the screen. Gripping one edge, she peered around.

  The fire crackled. Logs shifted and thumped onto the hearth grate, while the blaze roared with a fierce heat.

  Behind the screen, a bathing tub, wet from use earlier in the day, rested on the floorboards. Beside it was a small table holding a bowl of water, folded linen cloths, a towel, and a round cake of soap. No hidden door, only an intriguing scent.

  Rexana wiggled her nose. What a fragrance. Unique. Exotic. Irresistible. Ignoring the fire's loud snapping, as well as the warning buzz skittering through her mind, she picked up the cake, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply through the veil. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  "Mmm." Lemon, cinnamon —

  "Is it to your liking, love?"

  With a startled squeak, Rexana dropped the soap. It bounced off the edge of the tub, banged the opposite side, then fell to the bottom with a thud. Hands pressed over her heart, she whirled around. Linford stood beside the screen. Close enough for her to recognize his spicy musk. He had used the soap when he bathed.

  Vivid images flooded her imagination. Him sprawled in the tub, rubbing the soap between his palms. Lathering the cake into a frothy mass. Rubbing it, slowly, inch by wanton inch, over his broad, damp, naked chest.

  She stifled another appreciative "Mmm." Oh, mercy.

  Their gazes met. He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge, as though awaiting an explanation.

  "Milord." She scarcely heard her voice over her hammering pulse. "I did not expect you so soon."

  "So I see."

  Her gaze shot past him to the closed doors. Too late, she recalled his cat-like stealth which she had witnessed in the hall. The noisy fire had disguised his entry.

  Yet, she had only herself to blame for her curiosity.

  She looked back at the tub. Laughing, she pointed to the soap which had slid far out of reach. "I hope you do not mind. I have never smelled that particular blend of scents." Her voice quavered and she groaned inwardly. How effortlessly he rattled years of carefully tutored poise. She had not trembled this much when her father had presented her to King Richard.

  As though noticing her discomfort, a smile tilted Linford's mouth. "I bought that kind at a bazaar in Cypru
s. Worth every bit of coin. English soap is simply not the same."

  Rexana swallowed. His enticing male scent, his closeness, and the assessing glint in his eyes sent chills rippling over her skin. Stifling a swell of worry, she focused her thoughts upon acting her role. She must not foolishly betray herself or endanger the others, or undermine her own plans for escape.

  She must tempt. Seduce. Distract.

  Linford's gaze sharpened slightly. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. Though he did not touch her, she felt his gaze traveling over her face like a physical caress.

  "Why do you look at me so?" he asked.

  Forcing sultry warmth into her voice, she said, "Whatever do you mean, milord?"

  He laughed softly, but his tone held a hint of derision. "As though I will throw you upon the bed and ravish you like a hot-blooded savage. I promise I will treat you with civility."