Dance of Desire (7 page)

Her voice sounded unsteady. As though, despite her provocative words, she had little knowledge 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?"

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.