Dance Of Desire Page 5

  The words grated between Linford teeth. A thrill rippled through her. Saints above, was he jealous? Her tutors had never instructed her how to deal with a jealous suitor. Nor had the mummer advised her on such a predicament. Yet, somehow, she must ease his volatile emotions.

  "'Tis a token of his friendship," she soothed. "Naught more."

  To her dismay, the suspicion in the sheriff's gaze did not ease, but intensified. She must be more persuasive. Bolder. She ignored a prickle of fear and caught his fingers touching the brooch. Covered his big, rough hand with hers. His dark lashes lowered a fraction, as though he acknowledged her caress.

  "Milord, I have never danced for Lord Villeaux as I danced for you. Nor do I wish to."

  Heat seeped from his hand into hers. Sensation flooded through her fingers and swept up her arm. A hot, bittersweet curl of desire. Potent. Undeniable. Wanton.

  She should never have dared to touch him.

  Before she could pull away, Linford half sighed, half growled. "Your words please me. I have no wish to compete with Villeaux for your heart."

  "He and I could never be lovers. After all, he is a nobleman. I am a common peasant."

  A crooked smile curved Linford's mouth. "You are far from common, love. Villeaux believes this as well, or he would not have given you gold."

  Dread hummed through her in a single, shattering scream. Did the sheriff toy with her? Had he guessed her identity? Her hand flew to her throat. She tried to giggle, to dismiss his statement, but sounds and words refused to warm her lips.

  "'Twould please me to have a closer look at your brooch. The unique design intrigues me." Linford's fingers skimmed up and down her arm, an insistent touch. "Remove it, love."

  Protest burned within her. Her eyes stung. Blinking away fresh tears, she said, "I cannot part with my brooch."

  His smile thinned. "Fear not. I shall return it to you this eve. You have my word."

  Her hand dropped from her throat to fist into her skirt. Numbness swept through her, chased by frustration. If she declined, would she further arouse his suspicions about the relationship between her and Rudd?

  She scrambled to hone her thoughts. What would a peasant dancer do? One whose livelihood depended upon the generosity of the man standing before her. Watching. Waiting.

  She was not in any position to refuse.

  Fighting bitter regret, Rexana reached up and unfastened the brooch's clasp. She dropped the ornament into his palm. The little arrow glinted, a flash of light, before his bronzed fingers closed over it.

  Across the chamber, the man-at-arms cleared his throat.

  Fane dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "I must leave you now, but I will return as soon as I am able."

  The brooch! "Milord —"

  "I will take good care of your jewel, I promise. Think of me, as I shall think of you," he whispered. "I look forward to the pleasures to come."

  He bowed to her in farewell, then turned and crossed to the waiting man-at-arms. The door closed behind them.

  Rexana crossed her arms over her bodice. Already she missed the brooch's delicate weight. What did Linford intend to do with it? Show it to Rudd during the interrogation? Demand to know why he gave it to her, as well as his feelings for her?

  The solar's silence pressed down upon her. She paced the floorboards. Fie! Rudd would recognize the brooch. He did not know of her dance this eve or the mission to save his honor, so he had no reason to deny knowledge of the brooch. What might Linford do, when he learned the truth? To her? To Rudd?

  She pivoted sharply. She could do naught shut away in Linford's chamber. She must think of a way to deceive the solar's guards and escape. Now.

  As Rexana started back across the chamber, she caught metal shining on the table. The wine jug.

  She hurried to the table, scooped up the heavy vessel, then tossed the remaining wine into the fire. The blaze hissed and belched a cloud of smoke. A shame to waste good drink, but that could not be helped.

  As she adjusted her grip on the curved handle, the sapphire ring weighed upon her knuckle. Anger stirred. Why should she not keep the ring, in payment for Linford confiscating her brooch? With a furious sigh, she slipped it off and tossed it onto the animal skin. She had no desire to keep Linford's gift, or to be in any way indebted to him.

  After reviewing her plan one last time, she crossed the chamber to yank open the door. Rowdy cheers and music echoed in from the corridor outside. A boon, that the revelry in the hall continued. She had hoped as much.

  The nearest guard, a stout man with greasy brown hair, frowned. "What do ye want, wench?"

  Rexana bit back an indignant retort. She must remain in character, at least for a while longer. "Sheriff Linford finished the wine before he left." With a sensuous turn of her wrist, she held the vessel out for the man's inspection. " 'Twould be discourteous of me not to get more."

  The guard grunted. "I will summon a kitchen maid."

  A brazen laugh rumbled in Rexana's throat as she flattened one hand against the door's embrasure. Leaning forward to display more cleavage, she tilted her head toward the merriment. "All the servants are tending the lord's guests. They are far too busy to see to this little errand. Direct me to the kitchens, good man, and I will fetch the wine myself." Brushing a finger down her veil, she winked at him. "No one will ever know."

  The guard licked his lips and glanced at his fellow sentry, who snapped a reprimand. The brown-haired man's grin vanished. "Ye cannot leave. Our strict orders —"

  She clucked her tongue. "His lordship will have great thirst when he returns from his important duties. Imagine his fury, when I tell him you prevented me from fetching more wine."

  The two guards exchanged glances.

  "Are you afraid I will run away?" she cooed. "Why would I wish to? His lordship has offered me riches if I please him this eve, and I intend to claim them all."

  Shaking his greasy hair, the guard said, "Come. I will go with you." He pointed down the passage. "That way."

  Clutching the jug, she walked down the shadowed corridor. The guard clomped beside her. His unwashed body smelled as strong as the acrid smoke spewing from burning torches along the walls. Rexana gritted her teeth. She must elude this armed oaf at the earliest opportunity. How?

  She squinted through the smoke fogging the passage. Ahead, brightly colored tapestries which depicted crusading knights winning a bloody battle against gruesome demons decorated one wall. With a shiver, she forced herself to block out the images and quickened her pace.

  "Milady."

  The whisper came from the tapestry portraying a hideous, fanged, three-headed beast run through by a crusader's sword. A shriek bubbled in her throat. Did her mind play tricks on her?

  "Zounds! Milady, do not scream."

  The guard froze. His face crumpled into a wary scowl. "Did you speak?"

  Moistening her dry lips Rexana halted. "Nay, good man. Mayhap 'twas a . . . monster?"

  The tapestry shifted, as though the beast writhed in its dying moments. The guard blanched. He reached for his sword. Before he unsheathed the weapon, Henry lunged out from behind the hanging and smashed his fist into the guard's jaw. With a grunt, the guard staggered back, struggling to draw his weapon.

  Henry kicked him in the shin. The guard bent double. Lunged at Henry. Plowed him back into the tapestry. A cloud of dust poofed into the air around them.

  Rexana's fingers tightened on the jug. Ignoring the panic quickening her breaths, she swung her arm high. Brought the jug arcing down. Smacked it into the guard's head with a metallic clonk. The guard slumped to the floor.

  "Well done, milady." Henry straightened, shoved aside the sleeve of his gray woolen cloak, and scrubbed his hand over his reddened nose. "Pah! Wretched dust."

  Rexana hurried over and clasped his free hand. At the familiar feel of his rough, wrinkled skin, reassurance flowed through her. "I am glad to see you."

  His eyes crinkled with a smile. "And I you." His gaze softened with p
uzzlement. In hushed tones, he asked, "Why are you not dancing in the hall? Why do you carry a wine jug?"

  A blush heated her cheeks. "I will explain later. You had no trouble slipping past the sentries? You have the missive?"

  Henry's smile vanished. "Milady, I do not."

  The tapestry's colors blurred before Rexana's eyes.

  The breath rushed out of her lungs and she fought to keep her voice lowered. "Oh, God!"

  Thrusting up his hands, he said, "I could not find a way past the guards, or another entry into the solar. Nor could I subdue two armed men on my own without causing a commotion." He shook his head. "When they questioned me, I pretended to be drunk. I asked directions to the garderobe. I hid behind these tapestries, waited for one of the guards to need a piss, but —"

  "Henry, Linford has arrested Rudd for treason."

  The old warrior's jaw dropped. "What?"

  "Rudd is imprisoned in Tangston's dungeon. Linford is interrogating him now. The sheriff took my brooch, so I fear Rudd will tell —" Linking her fingers through Henry's, Rexana stepped over the guard's limp body. She tugged Henry back down the passage, heedless of his muffled protest. "We must return to the solar and find the missive. Then, find a way to free Rudd."

  Henry pulled her to a halt. "Milady, nay."

  She spun to face him, her skirt wafting to stillness about her legs. As she planted her hands on her hips, the jug thumped against her hip, releasing the tang of residual wine. "I do not fear Linford," she said, grateful for a steady voice.

  "Mayhap not," — Henry tapped his broad chest — "but I do. I worry for more than my cracked old bones. You must not risk your own capture, or your brother's life, by attempting to free him when the dungeons are crawling with armed guards. Think, milady. What will Linford do when he discovers who you are?"

  Frustration swelled inside her. "Henry —"

  His tone roughened. "I promised your parents as they lay dying that I would watch over you, protect you. Please. The dangers this eve are too great."

  As she held Henry's beseeching gaze, a chill crawled down her spine. The draft, gusting over the floor, brushed over her toes and ankles like thin bone fingers. Was the air as cold in Tangston's dungeon?

  "I cannot bear to be without Rudd," she whispered.

  Henry patted her shoulder. "You must. For now. If luck is with us, we can meet up with the musicians and ride with them to Ickleton. 'Twill be safest to travel the road together."

  A nearby torch spat. Over the smoky crackle, she caught the unmistakable tromp of footsteps.

  Had the other guard by the solar heard the scuffle?

  Had he decided to investigate?

  She glanced at Henry. "Run."

  "Wait." Reaching into his cloak's folds, Henry withdrew the leather slippers she had bought on a visit to market with Rudd. Blinking back tears, she set the jug on the floor near the fallen guard and yanked on the shoes.

  As she straightened, Henry tossed his long cloak around her shoulders, then drew the hood over her face. The garment smelled of smoke and horses.

  The footfalls grew louder.

  Henry pulled her to a lope. "Keep your head down," he said over her chiming bells. "I will find the bailey."

  "How?" As she ran, she fumbled to unclasp the noisy bracelets. Stuffing the first into the mantle's pocket, she said, "Do you know the way?"

  Henry shot her a worried glance. "While I look, you pray."

  Chapter Four

  His hands balled into fists, Fane stepped into the dank stairwell that led down to Tangston's dungeon. In the shadows ahead, the man-at-arms massaged his bruised cheek, then disappeared around a curve in the passage.

  Fane shrugged the tightness from between his shoulders. After escaping General Gazir's hellish eastern prison, he had hoped never to set foot in a dungeon again. A foolish thought for a High Sheriff. 'Twas a necessary part of his duty.

  His boots clipped on the uneven stone stairs. The darkness thickened. Memories scuttled out of his mind's farthest reaches, the place that hurt a thousand times worse than a scorpion's poisoned sting. A tremor raked his body. Again, he felt chains biting into his wrists. A whip lashing his back. Knives, hooks, and other wicked instruments of torture, too horrible to envision, cutting his flesh. His stomach churned.

  Rough voices floated up from the dungeon and wove into his thoughts. He forced the memories aside. The past would forever haunt him, had irrevocably scarred him, but did not alter his immediate obligations to the crown. Leila had respected his loyalty to his English king, which had burned in Fane's soul and sustained him through unspeakable torture. She had told him so. He would not fail Leila's memory. Or himself.

  A smile touched Fane's mouth. The sooner he questioned the traitors, the sooner he returned to the dancer that fate had brought to his hall. A delicious thought.

  The brooch shifted in his grasp. Its warm surface touched his palm. A peculiar design, an arrow wrapped with a ribbon. What was its significance? Why had she looked so stricken when he asked her to remove it? What was her true relationship to Villeaux?

  She had denied a love affair. Fane's instincts told him that was true. Yet, he must understand the link between her and Villeaux, even if seduction was required to get the information.

  An even more delicious thought.

  He would enjoy unveiling the woman hidden behind the glittering facade. As he had vividly imagined in the hall, he would slowly disrobe her, from veil to tinkling ankle bracelets. Afterward, he would explore her slender body. Taste her. Prove to her that he understood the wild cry of her dance.

  Together, they would forge unforgettable, sensual memories.

  He hurried down the last stairs. His boots hit dirt. The stairwell opened into a vast chamber, patrolled by men-at-arms. The air smelled of damp stone and mold. Brushing aside a lingering memory, Fane strode into the cavernous room and assessed the three lords who sat in sullen silence within one of the cells. As he turned away, Kester, the stocky, seasoned captain of the guard, bowed his graying head, then offered a wax tablet scratched with notes.

  "We have their names, milord, as you ordered. None of the prisoners will discuss the tavern meeting."

  After skimming the information on the tablet, Fane handed it back. "Where is Villeaux?"

  Kester pointed across the dungeon to the farthest cell.

  As though sensing a confrontation, the men in the other cell muttered amongst themselves. A guard grunted and banged on the bars. As Fane strode across the chamber, silence fell, broken only by the sputter of nearby torches.

  He halted outside the cell and stared at the lad fettered to the wall. The guards had removed his fine leather boots, which lay in a heap near the bars, and chained his ankles and wrists. They had put Villeaux by himself to prevent him from causing further mischief. Or so they hoped.

  A futile wish, Fane mused, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. He studied the lad's taut features. This boy was trouble.

  Fane's mouth twisted into a faint smile. He narrowed his gaze in deliberate challenge. To his surprise, Villeaux did not attempt to speak, or plead his innocence, or bow his head, or sob, or shiver. His green eyes, remarkably like the dancer's, blazed with defiance.

  Aye, this one was definitely trouble.

  In the shadowed darkness, Villeaux looked no more than fifteen. His freckled face held a boyish innocence, yet his quick gaze proved him older than a boy. As Fane curled his fingers around a horizontal bar, Villeaux's manacled wrists, barely visible below his soiled tunic sleeves, jerked, and his hands fisted. His spine went rigid. Fane smothered a chuckle. So. The boy had plenty of pride to accompany his foolishness.

  The cold metal chilled Fane's hands. He waited. He would not be the first to look away. Uncertainty crept into Villeaux's intelligent eyes before his face contorted into a scowl. Blowing matted brown hair from his brow, he took a step forward. Then another. Iron links dragged on the dirt floor. He reached his fetters' limits, and the chains snapped t
aut.

  A memory shot into Fane's mind. Once, he had been a chained prisoner facing his Saracen captors from the other side of the bars. He shoved away the unsettling thought. He would not draw flawed parallels between his imprisonment and Villeaux's. He would not sympathize with a traitor.

  The boy hissed through his teeth. "Are you Linford?"

  "I am High Sheriff Linford," Fane said in a brusque voice. "You will address me with respect, Lord Villeaux."

  The lad snorted in disgust. "Release me."

  Annoyance pricked, yet Fane stifled the emotion. For now. "I cannot let you go. You were caught in a clandestine meeting conspiring with fellow traitors."

  "I am no traitor."

  "Is that so?" Reaching under his tunic's hem, Fane withdrew a thin, rolled parchment tucked into the belt of his hose. He unfurled the skin. Trapping opposite corners between his fingers, he held it against the bars. "Recognize this document? It lists men who have pledged to overthrow the crown. Here, near the bottom. Your signature."