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?
Dread whipped through her. If she did not free Rudd as well and escape with him, she would have to explain herself to Fane when he roused. Not a pleasant prospect.
She concentrated on pouring the drink. Still, when Fane's fingers trailed over her knuckles, her hand jerked.
"You look tired, love. Are you well?"
"Aye."
"Shall we retire to our chamber?"
Before she sloshed wine all over the tablecloth, she set the vessel down. She smiled brightly. "Not yet. I have finished with my pastry. Now, I wish to see our guests. I am eager to begin my duties as lady of the keep and your wife."
"Indeed." He grinned as though her words greatly pleased him.
Darwell bowed low, excused himself, then hurried away.
Pushing back her chair, Rexana stood. She held Fane's heated stare. His mouth still bore a crooked grin, and she frowned. Did he tease her? Surely he realized the importance of her mingling with the guests and playing the role of Lady Linford. This eve, she would be the cultured hostess and bride in love. Her mouth tightened. She would not neglect her part of the pretense to which she and Fane had agreed. Nor would she give Fane one reason to forget his promise to help Rudd.
She skirted around him, heading toward a crowded table where she recognized a few nobles.
The music swelled. The tempo quickened.
Her heart thumped faster. Oh, how she wanted to dance!
Several noblemen and women moved into the open space between the tables, then linked hands to form a circle. They began to dance. Longing swirled inside Rexana. She hesitated on the circle's outskirts. Her body swayed to the rhythm.
Fane came up behind her. His hands slid around her waist as he murmured against her ear, "Shall we join them?"
His body brushed against hers. Where his palms pressed, her skin burned. Sensual craving flamed inside her, and she trembled. Her feet itched to step to the side, step together, in time to the tabor's rhythm. She yearned to spin, like a bird feather falling down, down, down in a graceful spiral. Her blood hummed with the call of the dance.
Fane's breath warmed her cheek. "One dance, then you can chat with the guests. Aye?"
He moved to her side, holding out his hand. An invitation. A chivalric gesture, underscored by a sensual significance she was only beginning to understand. Was she wise to dance with him? She shrugged aside her unease. She could socialize with some of the guests. And Fane could not whisk her off to the solar.
She drew in a breath scented with flowers and wood smoke, then slid her hand into Fane's.
His sure, warm fingers closed around hers. Smiling, he drew her toward the ring of dancers. The circle parted, she moved into the line, and the gap closed.
Step to the side. Step together.
Rushes crunched beneath her feet. The scent of crushed herbs and petals rose around her, a smell that reminded her of the forest glade. She tried to ignore the brush of Fane's callused palm against hers. His hand's gentle clasp. The graceful way he moved. He stepped and swayed in perfect rhythm, as though he, too, felt the music in his soul. He was magnificent to watch.
With a cheer, the revelers broke apart. Rexana spun around, her skirts floating at her ankles. Excitement thrummed in her blood. Beside her, Fane grinned. He caught her hand again, and the circle resumed.
"Faster," he called, and the other dancers laughed. The musicians nodded.
The pace quickened. Around and around the circle went.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Perspiration beaded between Rexana's breasts. Wispy hair fell into her eyes. Freeing her hand from Fane's, she wiped her brow. The perfume of flowers seemed stronger than before. The hall's smoky darkness seemed more intense. The scene around her blurred.
She closed her eyes, and saw herself dancing near the gray-green pool. Mist cloaked the edges of the clearing. Beneath her feet, dewy flowers opened to the dawn.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Faster.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Her breath rasped through her lips. The day's tension whirled through her like mist swirling in a gust of wind. She raised her hands, reached for the hint of daylight streaming through the mist.
Faster.
Turn. Turn—
She bumped into a solid object. Her eyes flew open. She reached out, halting her fall. Her hands met not a gnarled old tree but a trestle table. The forest vision dissipated, and again she discerned flowers and wood smoke.
She stood in the center of Tangston's great hall.
From the edge of the dance circle, Fane stared at her.
As he advanced toward her, Rexana's thoughts scattered like windblown apple blossoms. His eyes glittered. His broad chest rose and fell. His breathing sounded as ragged as her own.
His breath could be her own.
She heard titters and murmurs. The dancers looked at her, their expressions bemused. Awareness prickled. She had broken the circle. She had yielded to the maelstrom of emotion and yearning inside her. Oh, God, she had been foolish to dance.
Fane halted before her. As though no one watched, as though they were the only two people in the hall, he reached out to catch a strand of her hair. Her stomach did a sluggish turn. His body heat scorched her across the space separating them. For one reckless moment, she longed to press her body against his. To run her hands over him. To kiss him.
"Come, little fig."
His words shivered through her. "Why?" she whispered.
"You know why."
Her pulse drummed an erratic tempo, nothing like the music which had resumed. The table pressed against her, hard an
d immovable, while her body felt shimmery and weightless.
Dipping his head, he leaned his damp forehead against hers. His thumb stroked over her mouth. "I have waited all day for this moment. As have you." Before she could say a word, he cupped her chin and tilted her head back so she looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "I want all of you, Rexana. Body, heart, and soul. Tonight, at least in body, you will become my wife."
Exhilaration sang through her. As his husky words faded into the noise around them, she stared at his mouth. Wondrously formed. Close. Tempting.
Caution nipped at her. Beware, Rexana! Do not yield to his seduction. If you do, you will be bound to him forever.
As though sensing her reticence, he nuzzled her cheek. His hair, soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon, brushed her flushed skin. "I know the passion in your soul," he purred. "Let me release it. Let me show you pleasure."
Yes, her wicked body cried. Oh, yes.
With effort, she stifled her wantonness. Shame! Too easily she thought of surrender, when she must focus on preserving her maidenhood and saving Rudd.
Rexana pressed her hands against his chest. "Milord—"
He winked. "Later, you may thank me."
Thank him? Her jaw dropped and her hands fell away. Was there no end to his boldness?
Laughing, she said, "How arrogant, to speak highly of your prowess in the bed chamber." She pushed away from the table to slip past him.
His arm slid easily through hers, curtailing her escape. "I will prove my skill. This way."
Mercy! How would she keep him at arm's length when they were alone? She glanced at the tables nearby. "Wait. My duties. The guests —"
"— will understand. They expect us to leave early. We are, after all, newly wed."
Fane steered her past the nobles who had formed the circle again and resumed dancing. Slipping one arm around her waist, he guided her toward the landing's stairs.
The crowd parted around them. Bawdy whistles followed.
A scream burned inside Rexana.
"Milord, we will carry you to your chamber," a man called. Footsteps came up behind them, and a tremor shot through her.
"We will help you and your wife disrobe and get into bed," another yelled, as raucous laughter boomed. " 'Tis tradition in this part of England."
Rexana cringed.
As though sensing her distress, Fane chuckled and shook his head. " 'Tis a foolish custom. One I will not heed."
"You do not respect English customs, Sheriff?" a man cried.
The music and conversation faded to eerie silence. Every person in the hall seemed to be watching what happened next.
Rexana swallowed. Would Fane yield to nuptial tradition? Would he defer to his guests, and allow the marriage bed to be public spectacle? Would he choose his guests' wishes over hers? Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.
Fane's possessive arm tightened around her waist before he smiled down at her. "My apologies, sires, but I share my lovely wife with no one."
A relieved sigh whooshed out of her lungs . . . until Fane slapped her bottom.
Laughter echoed through the hall.
She jerked out of his hold to glare at him. "Cease."
His teeth flashed. "Soon, you may scold me properly."
Before she could utter one word, he bent and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of onions.
"Put me down!"
The laughter swelled. Rexana's face burned. He walked toward the stairs. She shook hair out of her face. Pummeled her fists against his back. Kicked her legs. Twisted.
His laughter rumbled beneath her. "Go on, little fig. Scream. 'Twill give the guests plenty to talk about.
Aye?"
Chapter Nine
Rexana continued to struggle as Fane neared the stairs. He tightened his hold on her silk covered legs. He would never forgive himself if he dropped her head first on the landing. The gossips would never forgive him, either.
Ahead, a wide-eyed Winton moved out of his path. "Milord."
"See that the wine flows," Fane said. "Make sure none of the guests get into the dungeon. The guards on duty have been forewarned, but if there are problems, I expect to be informed."
Winton's gaze darted to Rexana's wriggling legs. "On your wedding night, milord?"
Fane gritted his teeth. "Especially on my wedding night."
Ignoring Winton's elegant bow, Fane climbed the stairs. His boots thudded on the dry wood, as anticipation thundered in his veins. His mouth flooded with the remembered taste of Rexana. Tonight, he would taste more than her lush red lips. He would savor her breasts. Her hips. Her thighs . . .
He strode into the shadowed passage off the landing. The guards on duty quickly opened the solar doors. Fane relayed instructions, then strode inside. He kicked the chamber doors closed with his heel.
Soft candlelight flickered on the whitewashed stone walls. The fire glowing in the hearth cast its yellow-orange light over the tiles. The bedding had been turned down, the lion skin folded and set on his wooden chest. As he walked farther into the chamber, he smiled. As per his orders, violets scattered over the floorboards.
He halted and set Rexana on her feet. She stumbled back several steps, putting distance between them. She righted her mussed gown, then glanced about the chamber.
Stooping, he picked up a violet, small yet perfectly formed.
"They are everywhere," she said, "even on the bed linens."
He straightened. She had retreated to the window. The night breeze stirred her loosely braided hair and set the candle flames fluttering. The chamber's shadows shifted, danced.
Drawn by her shaky voice, he walked closer. "I know you like violets."
She nodded. The hair across her brow shifted, and she swept it back with her hand. Her bodice stretched taut with the movement. The taste of her thickened in his mouth.
"You try to seduce me."
"You are my wife. I will do all in my power to please you."
Wariness shadowed her eyes. Pausing beside her, he braced one hand on the wall. Moonlight shimmered on her face and brushed her throat and breasts with light and shadow. Desire coiled up from his belly. She was his. Now. Forever.
His fingers curled against the rough stone. He burned to touch her, to glide his hand over her milky skin. To make her arch against him, sighing with pleasure. By the thinnest thread of restraint, he resisted. He had never forced a woman into his bed. He would not start now.
He would be careful. Clever. Oh, so clever. He would overcome her virgin apprehensions, little by little, until she yielded to her passion. In the great hall, he had sensed how close she came to acquiescing. He had seen it in her glazed eyes, heard it in her breath's uneven tempo.
Soon, of her own free will, he would taste violets on her naked belly.
Soon, they would create their sensual dance.
Easing closer, he tried to slide his arms around her.
She bolted like a spooked horse.
"Rexana."
"Milord." She stood beside the bed, her hand fisted into her skirts. Ready to flee.
A wry laugh burned his throat. Mayhap he had misjudged the ease of this seduction.
Shifting his weight to one leg, he casually leaned his shoulder against the wall. He softened his voice. "Come back. I will not devour you."
"You will kiss me," she said, sounding out of breath.
"Is that so terrible?"
Her mouth quivered, before her shoulders thrust back in clear rebellion. "I am not ready to . . . I cannot kiss just yet." Her gaze darted to the bowl of figs on the nearby table. "Are you not hungry? After all that dancing, I am ravenous."
Ravenous. If only she knew. A grin curved Fane's lips. "I am starved."
"Excellent." Her skirts rustled as she approached the table. She picked over the mound of fruit. "Fig, milord?"
"A little one. Only it can satisfy my craving."
"Little —" Her right hand, clasping a plump fig, froze. She blushed. "Oh."
; "Rexana, let me kiss you. I crave you, as a dying man craves life. I hunger for your glorious taste. Your lips pressed to mine. Your soft body curved against me."
As he spoke, her eyelids fluttered down. Then, as though catching herself surrendering, her eyes flew open.
Satisfaction curled through him. So, she was not immune to his gilded words, the flowery romance of a noble courtier. She wanted a civilized seduction. Slowly, carefully, he shoved away from the wall. "Did you know, love, that you taste of violets?"
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