Dance of Desire (18 page)

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.

 
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 her 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."

Secret
? "Milord?"

He patted her hand, clenched again on the linens. "Worry not. A score of trained knights could not beat it out of me."

Panic pounded at her temple. Did he know she intended to get an annulment? Had her intentions been obvious? Surely not. Darwell likely spoke of her veiled dance, and not revealing her identity.

As she mulled her next words, his expression sobered. "You are a courageous woman. I regret you will not be Garmonn's wife. He loves you, you know. He would have fought for your hand in marriage and championed you, if you had let him."

She exhaled a held breath. Thank God Darwell had changed the subject. Yet, relief could never smother the chilling memory of Garmonn's foolishness in the market, or his past cruelty. "Mayhap 'tis better that I wed Sheriff Linford," she said. "Garmonn and I may not have suited one another, after all."

Darwell shook his graying head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fane move away from the table below. Nearby, musicians began a lively song on lute and tabor.

She glanced back at Darwell, who now stared at her with open curiosity. He caught her hand. "Forgive my boldness, but I must ask. Did you
really
seduce Linford and demand that he marry you? Do you really prefer him to
Garm
—"

"I have left you alone too long, love."

Fane approached the table and set his goblet down with a thud. Darwell released her hand.

Rexana pressed her lips together. Had Fane heard Darwell's words? Not likely, over the music and chatter. Yet, she would be wise to diffuse any suspicion, before she cast unwanted attention upon herself. She picked up the wine jug and held it over Fane's goblet.

"More, milord?"

"Please." As though displeased by what he had seen, he turned to Darwell, who hastily brushed a crease from his burgundy tunic. "I hope you were not frightening my wife with tales of the marriage bed. She looks as pale as an old sheet."

Darwell chuckled. "I did not speak of such matters. I congratulated her on the wedding. An excellent day for Warringham, I vow." "Ah."

As Fane's gaze once again settled on her, Rexana gulped. She had tried not to think of the physical encounter to come, the intimacy she must prevent. As she poured, light gleamed on the jug. A memory flashed through her mind. Fane kept wine in his solar. Tonight, would she have to bash him on the head to snuff his ardor?