"Violets?" Her gaze widened, even as her fingers flitted up to her mouth.
"Aye." He stepped closer. "Sweet, ambrosial, like the finest nectar. When we kiss, your taste floods my tongue. I am the honeybee, drunk on your essence. I taste . . . bliss."
"Bliss?" Her fingertips brushed over her lips.
"Exquisite bliss," he amended on a whisper. "The sweet passion consumes me. Torments me. Devours my sense of reason. I roar inside with wanting you."
She half moaned, half sighed. Her eyelids slipped closed. She swayed slightly against the table, and he quietly crossed the space between them. He halted before her. Close enough to catch her in his arms. Close enough to claim his prized kiss.
Her lashes fluttered. "Milord —"
"Kiss me, Rexana."
Her eyes opened and clouded with doubt. Longing. Resistance.
He touched her sleeve's embroidered cuff. Slowly, gently, he trailed his fingers up her arm. She shivered, stepped back two paces, and stumbled over her gown's hem.
"You want my kiss." Frustration darkened his tone. "Do not deny it."
"I want it," she agreed in a tight voice. At least she did not foolishly try to refute what they both knew to be true.
"Then take what you want." He spread his arms wide in invitation. "I am yours."
Her eyes were as bright as the sapphire on her finger. She did not move toward him or attempt to speak, and his frustration swelled to anger.
"Love."
"I cannot." Her fingers wrapped tighter around the fig, as though the sweet fruit could sap the poison from her refusal.
"You are my wife." The words, hard as stones, ground between his teeth. As he looked at her face, etched with rejection and misery, a thought cleaved him like the blow of a Saracen sword. The luscious taste of her soured in his mouth. "I see now. You find me repulsive," he said coldly, "because of my past."
She inhaled sharply. "Of course not."
His hand thumped on the table. Oranges and figs bounced from the fruit bowl to roll across the table. "You think me barbaric. Unclean. Unfit to despoil your pure, unsullied English body."
Her face reddened. "Cease!"
Fury and disappointment snapped inside him. Had he really thought her his soul mate? Had he thought her different from all the others? He could not school the bitterness from his words. "We are man and wife now, Rexana. You belong to me. By law, I own your kiss, as well as your maidenhood."
Her eyes hardened to the green of polished glass. Her jaw set, and he heard the pop as her nails pierced the fig's flesh.
Had he really spoken such callous words? Would he prove himself to be the barbarian the rumors claimed him to be? He would never win her trust, or her heart.
Cursing under his breath, he moved toward her. "Rexana —"
Her arm swung back. Before he could step aside, the fig thudded against his chest. The earthy smell of ripe fruit exploded in the air around him. The fig dropped onto the toe of his boot, then rolled onto the floor.
Stunned by the force behind her blow, he halted.
Another fig slammed into his shoulder, then an orange. He grunted, annoyance smothering a flare of amusement. "God's teeth."
"How dare you speak cruelly to me?" She grabbed more fruit from the table. "You mean, insolent —"
An orange smacked into his belly, shocking the breath from his lungs. "Ouch. Stop." He strode toward her.
"I think not." A fig whizzed past his ear, narrowly missing his head. Zounds. Did she try to injure him? With fruit?
Incredulous laughter rose in his throat.
She scowled. As she darted past the end of the table, she caught a fat orange. "You smile. You find my anger amusing? Unwise." Her gaze dropped to his tunic's hem. His groin. She held the orange as though it were a dangerous weapon, a determined smile curving her lips. "Beware. I am an excellent shot. I used to shoot targets with Rudd."
Before she took aim, he lunged. He caught her wrist and pried the orange from her fingers. She shrieked. Cursed. Fought like a wild creature while her free hand pummeled his chest. With a growl, he grabbed her other wrist. Raised both arms above her head. Propelled her backward.
"Release me," she spat, twisting in his hold.
"Not until you listen to me." Meeting her furious glare, he tightened his grip on her wrists, enough to secure them but not enough to hurt. She swore again, planted her feet firmly on the floorboards, and resisted the backward momentum. He leaned his body full against her. His legs tangled with her skirts. His belly pressed against her stomach. Her breasts crushed against his tunic until her spine arched. With a frustrated cry, she stumbled back.
One step. Two. She bumped against the wall.
Panting, Fane slid his palms up her wrists to lock his fingers through hers. He pinned her hands above her head, against the stone, and stared down into her face. Her hair snarled over her flushed cheeks and snagged in the stone. Her braid hung in a tangled mess. Her lashes flicked up, and she returned his gaze with icy resolve. Her blazing eyes told him what she wanted him to believe — she would never yield.
She lied.
As he flattened his body against her, she quivered. Her lips parted on a ragged gasp. Her eyelids drifted closed. He slowly shifted against her. Chest to chest. Belly to belly. Steel against womanly softness.
Her breath caught. "Fane —"
He covered her mouth with his own. Tasted her, as he had wanted. Ah, God. Naught compared to her velvety sweetness. To the essence of proud, fierce, desirable woman.
She sighed against his lips. As though the leashed passion inside her broke free, her mouth opened beneath his. Seeking. Hungry. He slid his tongue between her teeth. She nipped him, and he started with the unexpected pleasure. With the blinding surge of lust.
With a muffled cry, she strained against his imprisoning hold. He loosened his fingers. Her hands slid free and plowed into his hair. She held his head firm, kissing him back.
He met her kiss, thrust for thrust, gasp for gasp. She molded against him as though wanting more. Needing more. She smelled incredibly, arousingly good. A possessive groan tore from his lips. Heat seared through him. Tore at his loins. Devoured his thoughts.
He wanted her. Now.
Why deny what they both desired?
With a gentle shove, he pushed her back against the wall. Here, his mind screamed. Lift her skirts. Take her as she begs to be taken. He squeezed his eyes tight to shut out the nagging voice. Later, he would show her the exciting and creative variations on lovemaking. The first time as his wife, she would have the tender seduction he planned.
Sliding one arm behind her shoulders, the other under her trembling knees, he lifted her into his arms. She fitted easily. Perfectly. Careful not to stumble on her gown's flowing drape, he strode toward the bed. His body tightened with anticipation of their joining. He could scarce wait to see her naked body. To slide into her softness. To feel her arching and moaning against him.
"Fane," she said thickly. Through the haze of lust, he sensed her hand pressed against his chest.
Resistance. Again.
He stifled the groan rising in his throat. Tenderness mingled with his frustration. Of course. She was virgin. She had uncertainties.
As he approached the violet-strewn bed, he pressed a kiss to her brow. "Hush, love. 'Twill be all right."
She pushed more firmly, then kicked her legs. He could scarce see past the froth of pale skin and silk.
"Zounds, woman." His knees hit the oak bed frame. Before he could regain his balance, he dropped her onto the mattress' edge. The bed ropes creaked in protest.
Scooting sideways, she tried to rise. He braced his hands on the coverlet, either side of her hips, curtailing her progress. As her eyes glinted with warning, he pressed a bold, open kiss to her mouth. With a low moan, she melted into his touch, and his right hand fumbled for the ties securing her gown.
Before he had unfastened the first one, she caught his wrist. "Fane, stop."
"I am
sorry for my bitter words," he said against her lips, his words punctuated by kisses and nibbles. "I would never take you in anger. Please, believe me."
She drew back, her mouth swollen and red. Tears glistened along her lashes.
"I love you, Rexana."
Confusion and disbelief darkened her eyes. "How can you? We have known one another but a few days."
"My heart and soul belong to you. They have from the moment you first danced for me."
"Nay," she whispered.
His fingers curled into the embroidered coverlet, the silk as soft as a woman's bare thigh. "Make love with me, Rexana. Let us share our passion."
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. Misery lined her beautiful face. "I cannot."
"You mean, will not." The wilting violets strewn on the linens mocked him, as did her scent. She did not want his seduction. She did not want him.
As though sensing his thoughts, she shivered a sigh. "From the time I was a young girl, I studied to be wife and chatelaine." She returned his stare with one of fierce intensity, while her voice roughened. "My father told me I would wed a nobleman of compassion and honor. A man who would trust me. A man who would love me, and whom I would trust and love in return. Into our loving home, we would bring children."
"What are you saying? I am not noble enough for you?" Fane bit out the words. "Have I not treated you with compassion and honor?"
He leaned forward to brush his cheek against hers. He crowded her with his body. A shameless coaxing, but he could not resist. He needed her. Desperately.
Her fingers knotted in her lap. Her hands almost touched his loins, the hard place that throbbed for her. The place that consumed his focus. He groaned inwardly. If she touched him there . . . Barely able to leash his lust, he forced himself to inhale slowly.
"You ask me to couple with you, to commit an act of love and trust." Her voice quavered. "Yet, I do not trust you. I do not love you."
How can I? You will persecute my brother, his mind finished for her. Her earlier words rang sharp in his mind. I cannot love you. I never will.
He snorted. "You believe all men and women fornicate for love? Some want only the pleasure." He forced the urgency from his tone, fought the sensation of falling into a deep pool with no way out. "I can give you pleasure. I am not unskilled in the arts of pleasuring a woman." As he spoke, he slid his fingers up into her hair to tip her head back for his kiss.
"To lie with you this way mocks all I have been taught, all that I believe." She turned her face away so his kiss landed on her cheek. "Will you ask it of me?"
He growled against her skin. "Once you have experienced pleasure, you will feel differently." He set his hand on her shoulder, and began to press her back on the bed.
"If you believe so, then you do not love me after all."
He stared at her pale face and the proud line of her jaw. As her words infiltrated his lust-hazed brain, shock and crushing disappointment followed. "You expect me to refrain from my marital rights."
She swallowed, then looked away. "Aye."
The enormity of her demand blasted through him. His blood cried with the injustice. His mind howled. His loins cooled slowly. Painfully.
He released her shoulder and dropped his head. He stared down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Her knuckles were white. She sat in stiff silence, as though she were a bow drawn tight and at the slightest provocation she would snap.
Shaking with need, he breathed in the tantalizing scent of violets and woman. He could continue his seduction, woo her passion-drugged senses until she was too aroused to stop him. He could overpower her and force her to spread her thighs, as was his right by law. Yet, the pleasure would be temporary. Afterward, she would hate him.
His eyes closed on a groan. He could never, ever disrespect or force her. He would not mistreat her, as General Gazir had mistreated all the pretty virgins sold into his bed.
Spitting an oath, Fane straightened. He righted his tunic and turned from the bed. Away from her, before the last thread of his control frayed.
Behind him, the mattress groaned. Silk whispered. He imagined Rexana smoothing her bliaut over her shapely legs. He tried to squash the lascivious images romping through his mind. Her naked, laughing, and rolling beneath him. Him suckling one of her incredible, pink-tipped breasts while his hand —
He cursed and strode toward the door.
"Milord?"
Her unsteady voice made him pause. Fane sensed her relief, yet also uncertainty. He dared not turn around. He dared not glance back to see her kiss-reddened lips and tousled hair. He dared not give himself one reason to walk back to the bed, especially to reassure her. If he did, all his honorable intentions would be lost.
"I will not take you now," he muttered, the words painful. I will think of you though, luscious little fig, his mind seethed. I will imagine my hands on your soft white skin. I will envision my body sweating and straining above yours.
"You are leaving?"
He managed a sharp nod. "Get into bed. If you are wise, you will be asleep when I return."
"Where are you going?"
Hellfire! Why did she ask? She did not care. She only wanted the marriage to save her brother. She had not wed for pleasure or love.
Never for love.
Fane crossed the last paces to the doors. He yanked them open. Without a backward glance, he slammed them behind him.
As the solar doors boomed closed, Rexana slid off the bed. She fell to her knees on the lush carpet. Her gown slithered into a pool around her, and she pressed her trembling hands over her face.
Fane had accepted her refusal. He had not forced her to couple with him. Relief rushed through her like a wave crashing upon a sandy stretch of beach.
Tears filled her eyes. Part of her had not expected him to honor her wishes. Was he not a pitiless savage? A man whose morals had been sullied in desert lands far from England? A warrior who took what he wanted, simply because he wished to?
Yet, Fane had been . . . chivalrous.
The confusion that had pestered her earlier grew. She had sensed his intense arousal and his desire. Why had he heeded her? Did he care what she thought of him?
Muttering an oath, she dug her fingernails into the patterned carpet. She deluded herself. He had stopped because he did not want to rouse nasty gossip. He did not want rumblings that he had foully treated his virgin wife, a distant cousin of the king, a claim that might win her sympathy amongst the nobles who distrusted him. Fane did not want to give them reason to take up arms against him or stir the brewing rebellion. If the nobles took their grievances to the king, and the king believed them justified, Fane might be stripped of his status and his lands.
Her hope fizzled like a fire doused by water. Fane left her this eve because he was a master tactician, a man who understood power. He had not left because he cared for her.
Logs shifted in the hearth. The blaze popped, sending red embers scattering across the tiles. She dried her eyes, and weariness weighed upon her. Fane was a far more complex and cunning man than she had imagined.
Yet tonight, she had accomplished what she hoped. She had resisted and won.
Fane is gone for now, her conscience warned, but he will be back. Soon.
Rexana glanced at the mussed coverlet. Crushed violets marked the fabric. The stains might never wash out. Memories of Fane standing over her, his hands caressing and his mouth toying with hers, flitted through her mind. She could not suppress a shudder.
The fire's warmth stretched out to her. It echoed the heat, invisible yet frighteningly potent, coursing in her blood. Fane was fire. He had only to touch her, whisper to her, and the flames inside her roared to life.
He must never know how close she had come to surrendering.
His words slashed through her mind. I will not take you now. He had told her to be asleep when he returned. What would happen if she were still awake?
Did he infer that if she were not sleeping, she must accept the co
nsequences—and his lust?
She must be sound asleep. Snoring, even, to prove her oblivion.
With jerky movements, she dried her cheeks and stood. She searched the chamber for a night shift, but found none. A nervous laugh bubbled up inside her. The servants had not expected her to need a sleeping garment. They expected her to be naked in bed with her husband, warmed by his body, heated by their love- making.
Shivering in the ghost of a draft, Rexana crossed to the bed, unfastened her gown's ties and let the garment fall to the floorboards. Only her linen shift, embroidered with tiny flowers, protected her from the chill. From him.
She pulled back the sheets, swept aside the violets, and climbed in. Hands folded together atop the bedding, she lay staring at the ceiling. She prayed for sleep.
Dance Of Desire Page 12
