“—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 scarcely 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 strange 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.”
About Catherine
Award-winning author Catherine Kean has always loved tales of heroic knights and stubborn damsels. Her debut medieval historical romance, Dance of Desire, was the launch title of Medallion Press’s Sapphire Jewel Imprint. Dance of Desire won two Reviewer’s Choice Awards, Best Medieval in industry review magazine Affaire de Coeur’s 2006 Reader-Writers’ Poll, and finaled in four contests for published romance novelists.
Her other medieval romances have also garnered accolades. Among them, My Lady’s Treasure won the historical category of the 2008 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest and finaled in the 2008 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. A Knight’s Reward was a 2008 National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist.
When not writing, Catherine enjoys cooking, baking, browsing antique shops, shopping trips with her daughter, and gardening. She lives in Florida with her husband, daughter, and a very spoiled cat. For the latest news on her books and author appearances, please visit her website: www.catherinekean.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
More from Catherine Kean
My Lady's Treasure Page 31
