Dance Of Desire Page 4

  "I do not doubt your skills." By the saints, she hoped she sounded appropriately intrigued.

  His teeth flashed white, a brazen promise. "Good. Yet, unfortunately, I came to tell you our pleasure must be delayed until later this eve. I have urgent matters to attend first."

  "Urgent matters?" Rexana sensed steel behind his words. Had he captured Henry? Did he know of the plan to steal the missive? Oh, God, she must know.

  She smoothed her veil and schooled uncertainty from her tone. "What could possibly be more important than pleasure?"

  "Traitors."

  "Here? In Warringham?" She cleared the catch from her voice. "Who would attempt treason with you as High Sheriff?"

  "Indeed." With a faint smile, he closed the distance between them. His gaze held hers with fierce intensity. Her stomach did an unsettling swoop, like a swallow plummeting to snatch a fat worm. Did he suspect her?

  He moved so close, his breath warmed her brow. She took a step back. Bumped against the rough stone wall. The splinter bit deeper into her foot, and she winced, even as she forced a giggle. "Surely you do not believe —"

  "— that I frighten you? I know I do. You will not fear me once we have coupled. Of that, I am certain." He flattened one hand on the wall beside her head. His expression turned stark with sensual hunger, and he kissed her temple. "I will return to you as soon as I can. I vow upon my honor, I would rather stay here with you than question the traitors, but I cannot ignore my duties to the king." His voice softened, became a warm tingle against her cheek. "Do you understand, little dancer? Until the moment I return, I will be thinking of you, your beauty, and all the secrets we will share."

  His words became a throaty murmur, a sound like a cat's purr. Unable to resist, she looked up into his eyes. This close, they were a decadent brown shade, the color of a mélange of costly spices. Cinnamon. Cumin. Coriander. His lashes dropped on a blink. In that gesture, he promised her a multitude of sinful pleasures. Her skin prickled with delight.

  Nay! She should not be tempted by what he offered.

  Henry and the others could be in danger.

  Linford's fingers skimmed up her forearm in a feather-light caress. Skilled. Sure. A lover's touch. Her flesh throbbed with the contact, even as sudden heat swirled down to her belly. Her breath puffed against the veil.

  Disquiet and yearning pulled at her heart, even as his fingers glided up past her elbow. How could one touch elicit such a multitude of sensations? As she willed the muzzy haze from her mind, his fingers snagged the veil's edge. Tugged.

  He intended to see her face!

  She swatted aside his hand and whirled away, her skirt swirling about her legs. Forcing a petulant tone, she said, "You should not tease me when you cannot stay. Shame, milord."

  Chuckling, he started toward her. "Little dancer—"

  Her frantic gaze fell to the wine goblets. "A drink, before you leave?" She limped to the trestle table and picked up the jug. Wine splashed over the goblet's rim.

  Spattered on the table. Dripped onto the floor with a steady pat, pat. Under her breath, she cursed her trembling hands.

  Hearing him stride up behind her, she turned and pressed the goblet into his palm. He raised the vessel to his lips.

  "To your pleasure," she said in a bright tone.

  His lazy smile returned. "To our pleasure, love." He took a sip, then frowned. "Why do you not drink?"

  Her fingers fluttered to the veil. "I am not thirsty." As she shifted her weight to ease pressure on the splinter, pain shot through her sole. She smothered a gasp. "Later, when you return, we can drink tog—"

  His goblet clanged down beside her. He crowded her against the table. The hard edge pressed against the back of her thighs. As his masculine smell enveloped her, and his legs bumped against hers, she wilted to half sitting on the table's edge. She barely resisted bolting for the door.

  "You find fault with the wine?" Her fingers clutched the table's edge so hard, she vowed the wood would snap.

  "The wine is delicious. I must keep a clear head for the interrogation." He smiled. "Now, before I go . . ."

  His hands landed upon her hips. A firm, deliberate touch. His fingers splayed upon her skirt. Then, with agonizing slowness, they slid down the curve of her hips, bare legs, and calves. A thorough, appreciative touch, as though he relished the feel of silk and flesh. A silent, answering cry of pleasure warbled inside her.

  He groaned, dropping to his knees before her. She stared down at his unruly hair, the crown of his head scarce a hand's reach away from her.

  His fingers brushed her skirt's hem.

  She drew a sharp breath. Was he fulfilling some kind of eastern mating ritual? "W - What are you doing?"

  He touched her right ankle. "This one, is it not?"

  With effort, she forced herself to exhale. "Pardon?"

  "You limp. This foot hurts you. Aye?"

  She nodded. With gentle pressure, he tilted her grubby foot to inspect it, and she squirmed with embarrassment. " 'Tis naught. Only a splinter."

  "It causes you pain. I would be barbaric, indeed, to leave you in discomfort."

  She ceased struggling. Odd tenderness blossomed within her. As his face furrowed in concentration and his fingers skimmed between her toes and over her sole, the ache grew.

  In the past, young lords had courted her, but she had never permitted them to touch her. Above all, Garmonn. He had begged for her kisses, crudely demanded them once when he had walked with her in Ickleton's garden, but she had refused. No man kissed or touched a lady, except her wedded husband. Now, with Linford's deft hands probing her skin and her flesh shimmering with strange sensations, she appreciated the wisdom of her parents' strict tutelage.

  His light touch tickled. She squirmed.

  He chuckled, then moved to the heel of her foot. "Ah," he said, "There."

  "Is it. . . large?"

  "Enormous." When she groaned, he added, "Half a tree."

  Rexana laughed. She could not resist.

  He grinned. With his thumb and forefinger, he plucked at her sole. A quick pinch. Then, arching an eyebrow in triumph, he held up the splinter.

  "Thank you. It feels much better."

  Smiling, he tossed the bit of wood aside. With utmost care, he placed her foot on the floor and then rose, smoothing the creases from his tunic. She stared at his tanned fingers, so strong, capable and careful. Her stomach did a queer turn. Was he truly the unprincipled barbarian the gossips claimed him to be? Had they misjudged him?

  He caught her staring. His smile changed and, from one heartbeat to the next, sharpened with determination and desire. "I regret I must leave now." Lowering his face to hers, he murmured, "But first, I will have a kiss."

  She froze, numbed by a rush of alarm. "Kiss?"

  "Kiss. Remove the veil, love."

  Chapter Three

  As the dancer shrank from him, Fane fought a frustrated growl. By the barest thread of restraint, he resisted the urge to wrench the slip of fabric from her face. Why did she look at him as though he asked her to commit a forbidden act?

  Moments ago, he had sensed her anxiety. He had been patient, leashed his lust, and done his best to soothe her fears. For a brief while, he had succeeded. When he had teased her about the splinter, her eyes had sparkled. Yet, so quickly, the mirth had evaporated and been replaced with distrust.

  Uncurling his clenched fingers, he reached out to smooth a hand up her slender arm. A slow caress, without threat. A whisper of touch, as one would handle a violet's delicate, fragrant bloom. She shivered, and he swallowed a surge of annoyance. Did his chivalry mean naught?

  As though sensing his impatience, she raised her darkened eyelashes. She looked at him with a hint of coy challenge. "Why must you see my face now? Why spoil the anticipation? When you return, we will explore each other's secrets. We will have all night, and many more nights, if you wish."

  Her voice sounded unsteady. As though, despite her provocative words, she had little knowled
ge of sensual pleasure. Did she pretend to be an innocent? A shy virgin who had yet to experience the pleasures between a man and woman?

  Clever little actress. How she toyed with him.

  He could not wait to taste her. "One kiss," he said. Inhaling deeply of her luscious scent, he reached for the veil.

  "Cease!" She twisted against the table, catching his wrists. Her palms were damp, the tinkling bells cold against the backs of his fingers. Disquiet settled in his gut like a dry, sun-scorched stone. Did she find him repulsive? Nay. When she had laughed and relaxed her guard, he had caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

  Her gaze was no longer flirtatious but glittering with warning. Her fingertips pressed into his skin with steady pressure. Saucy wench. She dared to tell him what to do? Only now, when he lowered his arms, did she release her grip. Only now did she avert her gaze and show him the respect his position as High Sheriff and noble lord demanded.

  He stared down at the sweep of her lashes, noted the stiff line of her body. Suspicion gnawed at his thoughts. There was a reason for her reticence. One he must pursue. "Why can I not see your face? What do you not wish me to discover?"

  Her bosom rose and fell on a ragged breath. So, his suspicions were correct. He would know this secret before he left to see the prisoners in the dungeon. He must know, or the nagging mystery would devour his concentration.

  "Why do you deny me?" As he wiped brown powder from his fingers, a cosmetic she had used to darken her skin, a thought leapt to his mind. "Is your skin flawed? Do you fear I will reject you because of imperfection?"

  "Nay." Her hushed reply quivered in the air between them.

  "Then, why?" he demanded. "Tell me now, love—"

  A knock pounded on the door.

  She started. The bells at her wrists and feet chimed, a burst of sound that shattered the tension between them like a boulder crashing through stained glass. In a graceful shift of limbs, a waft of fragrance, she slipped past him, heading toward the hearth.

  Fane cursed.

  The knock sounded again. "Milord," a man called.

  Hesitating not far from the crackling fire, she pressed a hand to her breast. Did she try to still the wild beat of her heart? Did it pulse with even the barest fraction of the urgency that roared in his veins and fed his rock hard loins? Ah, God. 'Twas madness, to crave a woman so intensely.

  Especially when he had important duties.

  Resisting the overwhelming urge to chase her, Fane sighed and tore his fingers through his hair. For now, God help him, his need must wait. "Enter," he bellowed.

  The door opened. A man-at-arms, one of the guards who had captured the rebels earlier, marched into the solar and shoved the door shut. A purpling bruise marked his right cheek. Fane frowned. He had not noticed the injury earlier in the hall.

  The man halted abruptly. His face paled before he dropped to a bow. "I apologize for disturbing you, milord. One of the traitors is being difficult. He demanded to see you. He says no lord of his status should be treated in such a foul manner."

  A bitter laugh burst from Fane. "What insolence. Did you tell him he must wait his turn for an interrogation, like all the other conspirators?"

  The guard's expression turned grim. "He refused to heed me. He ran for the stairwell, yelling your name. Took three men to subdue him enough to get him inside a cell and chained." Rubbing his jaw, the guard added, "Would have been easier to hit him back, but you ordered us not to use unnecessary force."

  "So I did." Fane looked at the dancer. She stared into the fire as though she pondered a difficult dilemma. Light danced over her figure, and his gaze skimmed down to her bottom's curve beneath the clinging costume. Hunger and disappointment flooded through him. His duties might keep them apart longer than he anticipated. How unfortunate.

  Scooping up his wine goblet, he took a final sip. The spicy wine, simultaneously sharp and sweet, drenched his tongue. She would taste as exquisite when, at last, he kissed her.

  Fane set down his goblet and turned to the guard. "This traitor," he said, starting for the door. "What is his name?"

  "He is the late earl's son. Rudd Villeaux."

  A cry broke from Rexana before she could smother it. She had feared for Henry and the musicians. But her brother, imprisoned in Tangston's dungeon? Arrested as a traitor?

  Horror and disbelief tightened her stomach into a painful knot. Gasping, she clutched the wall. How could fate be so cruel? Rudd would never turn against the crown. He was not that foolish. Young and impulsive, aye, but still loyal.

  "Love?"

  Linford's voice sliced into her thoughts. Beware, Rexana. Beware! Dragging together the strength to respond, she straightened and offered an apologetic wave. "I did not mean to interrupt. I stepped on my sore heel."

  His eyes narrowed. "Ah."

  She turned back to face the hearth. Did he not believe her? Aware of his intent gaze, she softened her body's sway, pressing one hand against the wall and lazily resting the other on her hip. She wiggled her injured foot as though easing discomfort.

  Linford resumed speaking with the guard. Thank the saints!

  The fire blazed with fierce heat, yet Rexana's blood ran as cold as a frozen pond. She prayed Henry had found the missive. She must burn it as soon as she returned to Ickleton, before Rudd's life was destroyed by this horrible misunderstanding.

  As she partly listened to the men's conversation, wispy smoke drifted up from the flames. Tears stung her eyes. Unable to resist, she lifted her hand from her hip, parted her bodice's fringe, and touched the arrow brooch.

  Earlier that day, Rudd had told her he could not attend Linford's feast, despite making prior arrangements to go, because of a matter in a nearby village that would delay his return until late eve. Part of her had been glad, for he would not be able to stop her leaving for Tangston or know of her dance. Part of her had worried that he missed such an important event, especially the opportunity to meet the sheriff. Yet, with all her tasks to complete around the keep before she left, along with the additional ones Rudd had delegated to her, she had not paused to question his commitment. She should have.

  The rough wall dug into her palm. What had he done to cause his arrest? Had he accepted another reckless dare from Garmonn? The knot in her belly twisted. She would have to smother her pride and plead forgiveness for Rudd's misdeeds, as she had only last month when he had taunted then set loose a neighboring lord's prized bull. The beast had caused untold damage before being recaptured.

  This time, she would have to face Linford, not a cantankerous old lord with poor hearing. She would have to prove beyond doubt that Rudd did not conspire against the crown. That someone else had penned his signature on the missive. That he deserved his freedom.

  She brushed her fingers over the brooch's hammered gold one last time. She shoved away from the wall, wiping her eyes before kohl and tears ran black lines down her veil. Whatever she must do to save her brother, she would do it. Rudd was all she had left. She would not lose him.

  A touch on her shoulder snapped her from her thoughts. A familiar, spicy musk blended with the tang of burning oak. Linford stood behind her. He had moved silently, like a shadow.

  "What ails you, little dancer? 'Tis more than a tender foot." With firm hands, he turned her around and stared down into her face.

  Rexana urged herself to relax. Her right arm settled over her belly in a futile attempt to curb her queasiness. "You are wise, milord. My foot's pain is naught compared to my troubled thoughts. I could not help but overhear. I do not like word of treason, especially in this peaceful county."

  He nodded gravely. His gaze dropped to the fringe covering her brooch. She prayed the ornament stayed hidden from view.

  "I, too, despise treachery," he said.

  Behind the veil, she sucked her lip between her teeth. I deceive you, a voice within her cried, but I have good reason. My brother is not a traitor. He should not be imprisoned in your dungeon.

  A questioning smile
touched Linford's mouth. "You cried out with such . . . passion. Do you know Villeaux?"

  Denial flew to her lips, but her frayed nerves hummed with warning. She would only further pique Linford's suspicions if she tried to speak false. "I am an . . . acquaintance of his."

  Linford's eyebrow arched in cool disbelief. Before she guessed his intentions, he reached out. Flicked aside the fringe. Exposed the little arrow bound with ribbon. "Acquaintance?" he demanded. "Or lover?"

  Rexana's breath wedged in her throat. "Not lover," she managed to say. As he tilted the ornament to examine it, his fingers grazed her bare skin. Her body trembled.

  "Did he give you this brooch?"

  Her pulse thundered at a dangerous pace. She forced a shrug. "He gave me the trinket, aye, but he is not my lover."

  "Why, then, did he gift you with this? 'Tis a favor? A token of his passionate intent?"