It still did.
He would recapture the traitors.
He would not fail his king.
Fane guided his horse to the stable, and, without waiting for a mounting block, slid from its back. He tossed the reins to a waiting stable hand.
"You caught the traitors, milord?" The lad's question seemed to be what all the folk lingering around the shadowed stables wanted to hear.
Fane shook his head. "Not this day. We will search again on the morrow." Managing a smile, he added, "We did find the boy. The traitors let him go."
A woman moved out of the throng. The hostage boy's mother. She gasped and, with a curtsey, bolted past. She hurried to Kester who was assisting the boy down from his horse.
"Mama!" The child ran forward and threw his arms around his mother's waist. She hugged him.
Fane tore his gaze from the joyous scene. He shut out the mother's laughter, the celebratory cheers, as well as his own sense of relief. Too many questions remained unanswered. Why had Villeaux released his hostage? Did Villeaux fear being held responsible for the boy's death? Or, now Villeaux was free, had he set into motion a treacherous plan for which he did not need a hostage?
Mayhap he aimed to plunge Warringham into rebellion.
Fane groaned, brushed through the crowd, and headed for the keep. His head pounded, the discomfort as intense as the torment eating at his soul. He struggled to maintain focus.
Duty was more important than his happiness.
Duty would sustain him when his heart shriveled to dust.
He strode through the great hall, growled a greeting to Winton, then loped up the stairs to the solar. His hand hovered over the doors' handles. Bracing himself to face Rexana's anger along with demands for word on her brother, he depressed the handles and strode in.
She lay with her back to him, stretched out on the hearth tiles. Her head rested on her bent arm. Her hair spilled over her shoulder in a tangled swath. Firelight danced over her slender figure, gilding her silk gown in light and shadow. Her rib cage rose and fell on the gentle rhythm of sleep.
She looked incredibly lovely.
He paused, yet his jaw hardened with resolve. He quieted his boots' tread, crossed the chamber, and knelt beside his wooden chest. Opening it, he withdrew parchment, ink, and a quill, then lowered the lid, being careful not to make a sound.
Fane returned to the solar doors and glanced back at Rexana. She slept on, oblivious to his deeds. His fingers curled tighter around the blank parchment. At dawn's first light, the missive she had danced so bravely to get would be on its way to the king's ministers, along with an official report. In wretched detail, her brother's treachery would be revealed to the crown.
Rudd Villeaux's fate was sealed.
Through the muzzy haze of slumber, Rexana heard the solar doors open and close. Footfalls approached.
"Rexana."
Fane. Her mind shot instantly alert. Her pulse quickened with a rush of joy, anticipation, and dread. She raised her head from her numbed, bent arm. Through a snarl of hair, she blinked up at him.
Firelight limned his scuffed boots, muscled legs encased in snug hose, and tunic hazed with dust. He looked tousled. Tired. Desirable.
His gaze sparked with irritation. "Why do you lie on the floor? I have not banished you from our bed."
Concern rang in his voice. Pressing her palms to the floorboards, she pushed to sitting, then pulled her hair from her face. "I do not remember falling asleep."
He carried a small pot, a quill, and rolled parchment. Black ink stained his fingers. When her gaze fell to his hands, he crossed to his linen chest, tossed the items inside, and slammed the lid.
Confusion swirled inside her. Had he fetched the quill and parchment from the solar? When? She drew a breath, yet before she could ask, he spoke.
"I expected the wooden stool against the door this eve. Mayhap even the trestle table."
"I am sorry I disappointed you." As soon as she spoke, she realized her words' double meaning.
His hands, plowing through his hair, stilled. "As am I."
Anguish stabbed through her again. Rebellion surged inside her in a boiling wave. She may have disappointed him by helping Rudd escape, but she had just cause for her actions. When Rudd proved himself guiltless, would Fane at last accept what she did was right? Mayhap not. Fane's disdain for Rudd seemed complete.
Defiant words filled her mouth, yet she could not voice them. The bond between her and Fane seemed so fragile. Rising to her feet, she smoothed her wrinkled gown and fought to hold together her shattering heart.
He, too, seemed eager to avoid an argument. Looking away, he unbuckled his sword belt. "Have you eaten?"
She shook her head.
He frowned, tossed the weapon onto the bed and crossed to the table. He looked at the untouched plate of bread and cheese. "You did not drink the wine either. Why?"
"I was not thirsty."
Wine pattered into two silver goblets. "You will achieve naught by denying yourself sustenance." He strode back to her and pressed a goblet into her hands. "Drink. You look terrible." When she frowned, the faintest grin touched his lips. "Ah. I see your spirit is unharmed."
"You are unwise to insult me, milord," she said with biting heat. "You look wretched yourself."
"I pursued your brother for many miles."
Half way down, the wine lodged in her throat. She forced herself to swallow. "Did you capture him?"
"I regret we did not. We found the boy, though, huddled under an oak on the outskirts of Tangston village."
"Unharmed?"
Fane nodded. "He wore your brother's tunic. It seems he was given it to stay warm."
She cheered. "I told you! Rudd—"
"The boy likely became a burden. Your brother did not want the extra weight on his horse to hinder his escape."
Scowling, she said, "I vow he intended to let the boy go."
"Think what you will. The truth remains. With your help, your brother broke out of my dungeon, took hostages, and escaped. For those crimes and all his others, he will be captured, tried, and punished."
Fane's steely voice grated on her nerves like rough stone. He spoke as though Rudd's fate was predetermined. Arching an eyebrow, she said, "What if he is innocent of treason?"
Fane turned his back to her and pulled off his tunic.
He tossed it onto the floor by his side of the bed. She watched, unable to look away, as he yanked off his ivory lawn shirt. The muscles across his back flexed, rippled. With her fingers, lips and tongue, she had memorized every one of his scars. She had come to love his unique physical beauty.
Yet, their intimacy seemed years ago.
When he did not answer her, she said in a tight voice, "Well? Will you answer my question?"
"He is guilty, therefore you know my answer." When she shook her head, Fane sighed, a sound of torment, and swept his sword off the bed. It thumped onto the carpet. " 'Tis a senseless debate, and I am weary. Go to bed, Rexana."
"Fane —"
A groan tore from him. "God help me, I cannot stop loving you. But I am angry."
Her belly did a painful somersault. She stared at his rigid back, her eyes dampening with tears. "I had no choice."
His hands stilled on the belt of his hose. He looked at her, before his rough laughter raked over her like an icy draft. "You had every choice. You made the wrong one."
"We shall see."
Muttering a curse, he yanked off his hose. Naked, beautiful, he climbed into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chest. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, one tanned arm draped over his brow.
She moved to the bedside. Silence stretched taut as a length of silk cord. She sensed his gaze upon her, studying her, as she untied and removed her bliaut.
Desperate hope sparked within her.
Despite his fury, he still wanted her.
Her need flared, along with a desire to make him yearn as intensely as she. To seduce him beyond anger to raw, und
eniable lust. To bridge the vast chasm between them with sensual pleasure.
She removed her shift and let it slide with a whisper to the floor. Her skin cooled. Tingled. Raising her arms over her head, she stretched her nude body in slow, sinewy movements that echoed her brazen dance. She coaxed him to touch her, kiss her, and love her as he craved.
He drew a breath. Then, as though battling his self- control, he rolled onto his side to face the fire.
Her body trembled with unfulfilled desire. Fresh tears stung her eyes, yet with a calm she did not fully understand, Rexana drew back the sheets and lay down. As the darkness soothed her burning eyes, she understood.
It was not calm inside her, after all, but emptiness.
Chapter Nineteen
Three days later, Fane sat at the lord's table in the great hall, swirling the dregs of his ale. He pushed aside the pile of parchments he had been reviewing — complaints of thefts in the market, disputes between villagers over livestock and crops, and other matters of law that required his scrutiny — and stared at the wax tablets Kester had set out before him, fresh reports from the men-at-arms who continued to search roads, towns, and taverns for Villeaux.
"Well?" Fane muttered.
Dropping into the chair beside him, Kester shook his head. "Villeaux has disappeared."
"A man cannot simply vanish."
"Agreed." Kester's mouth pursed in thought.
"Mayhap we should extend the search beyond Warringham county."
Fane's fingers tightened around the earthenware mug trapped between his palms. Lord Darwell's lands were the closest to border his own. Fane smothered a groan. If he contacted Darwell and asked permission to send men onto his estates, Darwell would want to know why. Despite past loyalty to the Villeaux family, Darwell might offer his own forces to assist in the hunt, and would want to be involved in all the decisions.
Yet, involving him was a risk. Word of the traitors' escape was not yet common knowledge, and Darwell's loose tongue could not be trusted. In no time, half of England would know that High Sheriff Linford, crusading spy hero, had failed to capture escaped prisoners on his own lands. That did not speak well of his abilities as sheriff. It bode far worse for his efforts to win his noble peers' respect.
Most galling of all, Garmonn would know. He would no doubt use the opportunity to his advantage. If he had ties to the traitors, as Fane strongly suspected, this could prove disastrous. Fane did not fear for his own life, but if the traitorous bastards got to Rexana —
Kester shifted in his chair. "Milord?"
Fane snapped his attention back to the tablets. A ruthless pain pounded at his brow. "Villeaux may be well hidden, but he cannot remain so for long. If he is not sighted in two days, I will order the search extended."
"Very well, milord." Kester rose. Then, as though reconsidering, he sat again. He cleared his throat. "I mean no disrespect, milord, but I must ask. Might Lady Linford know of her brother's whereabouts?"
With effort, Fane eased his crushing grip on the mug. "I have asked her. She refuses to cooperate."
"Still?" Kester said.
"Aye, still."
Fane rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He remembered her frosty gaze as he quit the solar that morn. Her defiance gleamed as bright as the sunlight flashing off her brooch, which she had pinned to her fitted gown of blue wool. She looked ravishingly beautiful standing at the window, her hands clasped on the stone ledge.
Three days of confinement had not softened her resolve. Yet, after long, lonely nights of watching her sleep, burning for her body's sweetness, he had barely leashed his desire to cross to her, sink his hands into her hair, and seduce her. Despite the ache in his loins, he had resisted. Just as she, with infuriating stubbornness, resisted giving him any useful insights into her brother's character or favorite haunts.
He drained his mug and banged it down on the table. Why did the crux of his thoughts always return to her?
He froze. Why, indeed?
Kester stood, his chair scraping on the floorboards. "Have you finished with the tablets, milord?"
Fane nodded and waved a dismissive hand. The idea drifting through his thoughts gathered momentum like a spinning whirlwind. Why had he not realized such an option before now?
The answer to his dilemma was within his grasp.
Specifically, she was confined to the solar.
Rexana, of all people, could lure Villeaux out of hiding. She, of all people, could lead her brother into a well-laid trap, or lead Fane to him.
Yet, she would not do so of her own will. If she learned of the plot, she would fight it with every ounce of her willpower.
For that reason, she must not know. She must believe she acted of her own initiative.
Regret tempered Fane's excitement. He would have to deceive her. Betray her trust.
Bitter frustration cut through him. Had she not betrayed his trust by freeing her brother? Had she not chosen loyalty to her brother over loyalty to her faithful, wedded husband?
His anguish sharpened with an edge of fear, for his plan entailed danger, most of all for her. Yet, despite the rift between them, he would never let her come to harm. He would plan well, protect her life from a distance, and with his own life, if need be.
A hard smile curled Fane's mouth. When she realized he had used her to bring about her brother's capture, she would hate him. Yet, he had no choice. He had few options left, and he would not fail his king.
Fane shoved to his feet. He looked at Kester. "How soon can you arrange a meeting of the men-at-arms?"
Kester's eyes widened. "Reasonably soon, milord."
"Do it. Now."
Rexana drew the wrinkled parchment from her sleeve and unrolled the tattered edges. As she reread the bold words, which she had long ago committed to memory, her vision blurred.
I am the randy bee. I cannot wait to suck your nectar.
She swiped at her damp lashes. How ridiculous to torment herself with Fane's poem. Yet, each day she found it harder to fight her misery. In her enforced solitude, longing taunted her. Yearning for what she and Fane had shared, his wondrous touch, and the pleasure he had shown her.
Irritation rubbed her raw nerves. She would accomplish naught by yielding to tears.
Footfalls and voices sounded beyond the solar door. If Fane found her weepy eyed over his poem . . .
Her face burned. Rising from the stool set near the window to catch the afternoon sunlight, she hurried to the bed and shoved the parchment under her pillow.
As she smoothed her sleeve, the door opened. Fane strode in, his face a mask of cool politeness. She saw no trace of the heat that had smoldered in his eyes before he left that morn.
The door slammed. "You are hale, wife?" His tone held an odd hint of foreboding and resolve.
"I am, husband."
"You looked flushed." He scanned the room, as though searching for what had consumed her attention before he entered. "What were you up to?"
She would not tell him a moment ago she had sniffled over his words of love. Pointing to the wooden stool, drowned in a pool of light, she said, "I am warm from sitting in the sun."
His lips twisted into a smile. "You watched the bailey?"
"I have few ways to pass my day." Resentment tightened her voice, yet she held his gaze. "Do you bring word of Rudd?"
When Fane's eyes flashed, relief rushed through her. He had not captured her brother. There was still a chance for Rudd to prove his innocence.
Fane spun on his heel and strode to the wooden chest. He bent down, flipped the lid, then rummaged through the contents. A leather belt slapped against the side. Coins jangled.
The clatter of horses' hooves rose from the bailey. Many riders were leaving the keep. Before she could hurry to the window to look down, a rolled parchment flew out of the chest and rolled across the floor toward her.
The list of traitors?
Rexana lunged forward, snatched it up, and whisked off the strip of le
ather binding it. She glimpsed scrawled handwriting before Fane grabbed her wrist and yanked the parchment away.
Her skin burned beneath his fingers. She jerked back. With a mirthless grin, he released her.
"Sorry, love. 'Tis not the document you seek."
The bitter taste of disappointment flooded her tongue. "I know."
His gaze sharpened. "You do? How?"
Dance Of Desire Page 27
