Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  The last strains of the music stopped.

  The hall fell silent.

  Utterly silent.

  Her breaths, obscenely loud, rattled in her throat.

  Why had the chatter and merriment halted?

  She raised her head a fraction. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. Darwell sat alone at the lord’s table, his cheeks flushed and his jaw gaping.

  Not five paces to her right stood Linford, his arms crossed over the front of his tunic. Half masked by smoky shadow, his face revealed no emotion.

  She rubbed her trembling hands over her belly. What had happened? Had Darwell recognized her? Had he told the sheriff who she was?

  Fear shot through her. For herself. For Henry and the musicians. For Rudd.

  Tugging her veil closer about her face she took two startled steps back.

  “You will not run away.” Linford’s mouth tipped up in a half smile. He crooked a finger. “Come here, little dancer.”

  Fane scowled as the woman’s eyes widened with panic. Why did she want to flee? Because of the shocked murmurs spreading through the hall? Because of the rumors about him? Or because no man had dared to confront her after a performance?

  Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm. Sweat beaded on her throat and dotted her bronzed skin. He looked lower, at her breasts swelling against the embroidered silk bodice. Beautiful. A generous handful of warm flesh. Breasts as big as . . . oranges.

  His hardened loins stirred.

  With effort, Fane wrenched his gaze from the dancer’s cleavage to meet her stare. She hadn’t moved, but stood as still as a carved stone statue. He sensed her reticence, as strong as the sensation that virtually hummed in the space between them.

  She would cross to him. Of that, he had no doubt. Whatever the rumors, he was Warringham’s sheriff, appointed by the crown. By virtue of setting foot within his keep, she owed him that gesture of respect.

  “I am waiting, love.”

  She swallowed and made a small sound of distress. His gaze narrowed on her face. Her nose, mouth, and chin were concealed by the veil. Were her lips full and red? Was her nose slim or angular? A woman of mystery. Mayhap deliberately so. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, heavily lashed but . . . emerald green. Unusual, for a wench of dark skin and eastern blood.

  Frowning, he glanced at the cloth covering her head, but the fabric lay flat against her temples. He doubted her hair flowed thick, glossy, and black like Leila’s.

  His hands tightened into fists, even as he snuffed a sting of anger. Foolish, to take offense. This woman was an entertainer, a wench of English blood acting a role. She didn’t understand the nuances of eastern dance. He’d recognized that the moment he’d seen her move.

  As though sensing his displeasure, the woman tipped up her chin. She started toward him, each step articulated by the chime of bells. Ah, but how she moved.

  Torchlight skimmed over her slender shoulders and down the planes of her firm stomach. She glided toward him as though she approached King Richard himself. Head held high, she radiated the poise and elegance expected of the highest noble courts.

  Who was this woman?

  She paused before him. Almost in afterthought, with the barest hint of resentment, she lowered her gaze to stare at his tunic. He sensed the tumultuous emotions warring within her, threatening her self-control. The same fierce emotions had reverberated in her dance and touched a note deep inside him. Her heart had spoken. It had echoed the profound, primitive bellow of his own tormented heart. Before her dance had finished, before he could stop himself or consider the consequences, he’d walked around the table, stepped off the dais, and crossed to her.

  Steeling his wayward concentration, Fane drew in a breath. She smelled of violets. Sweet. Delicious.

  “An interesting dance you performed this eve,” he said.

  “I hope it pleased you, milord.” Her very English voice sounded slightly husky and breathless. The way a woman sounded after she had been kissed. Focus, fool!

  Shoving aside the distracting thought, Fane muttered, “I never saw a dance quite like yours in all my years in the east.”

  She stiffened. The bells at her wrists jingled as she clasped her hands over her stomach. “I was instructed in this fair country. I admit I have never danced before a sheriff of such . . . authority, milord. Your esteemed reputation—”

  “Ah.” With a firm hand, he reached up and touched the edge of her veil. As his fingers tried to drag down the shimmering fabric, she jerked away. He frowned. “You fear me, little dancer?”

  Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her eyes sparked. “I do not.”

  “Yet, you turn your face away and refuse to look up at me. You are indeed frightened. Or you hide secrets from me.”

  Her green eyes glittered in the torchlight. Lovely eyes, darkened with anger, confusion, and distrust. Eyes that revealed the passion within her.

  “I am honored you wished to speak with me,” she said with the barest quaver, stepping back, “but I must leave now.”

  His jaw hardened. “You cannot. I have not dismissed you.”

  “I do not need—” Her sharp voice faltered.

  Fane’s lip curled in anger. She didn’t need to finish. He heard her unspoken words: I do not need your wretched dismissal, barbarian. A treacherous thought for a peasant who fed herself through the coin she earned from her dancing.

  As though sensing his displeasure, her gaze softened. So, she was wise enough to bite her tongue and try to pacify him. “I believe the jugglers are to perform next. I do not wish to delay the rest of the eve’s celebrations,” she said. Glancing at the musicians, who stood staring at her as though awaiting a superior’s orders, she added, “Your guests will grow restless.”

  As I grow restless, woman, in your presence. As my blood stirs, and my pulse thickens, and my soul hungers for more of your dance. “You will stay.”

  She gasped, a sound of utter indignation.

  Before she could dart away, he caught her hands. Raising them to his lips, he kissed her fingers, feeling the tremor that coursed through her. As he released her, he drew the sapphire ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm.

  “A token of my appreciation, and of my interest.” He trailed his thumb down over the veil to her lips. “You will stay, love, as I command. By the end of this eve, we will know each other very well. And I will know all of your secrets.”

  A shudder ran down Rexana’s spine. How could she refuse Linford’s gift and proposition without causing grave offense? At all costs, she must avoid creating a commotion as well as any disastrous consequences for herself, Rudd, and her loyal friends.

  Turning the ring in her damp fingers, she looked down at the sapphire. A large stone, set in delicately etched gold. No doubt worth the equivalent of a wealthy lady’s dowry. Did he favor all his women so generously? Did he pay for her body—or the secrets he expected her to reveal?

  Fear tingled through her to the tips of her toes. She would never betray Rudd. Nor would she offer herself to a stranger. A barbarian. Yet, even as she steeled her resolve, a strange excitement surged. Forbidden interest, coaxed to life by his hungry gaze. Wanton curiosity.

  What would it be like to taste Linford’s sinfully curved lips? To feel his fingers skimming over her skin? To sense his breath upon her belly?

  As though he tried to read her mind, Linford’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Mentally squashing her thoughts, she averted her gaze. Her parents, a blessing upon their departed souls, had expected her to remain pure for her noble husband and the sons she would bear him in love and honor. By God’s holy rood, she wanted to keep this vow.

  But Rudd’s life was more important than her virtue.

  Her fingers tightened on the jewel. She had no other way to protect Henry and win time for him to find the missive, but to accept Linford’s offer. From what she’d heard of the sheriff, she doubted she could simply refuse, hand back the ring, and walk out of the hall. If she declined, he might toss h
er over his shoulder and carry her off to his private chambers, as she’d heard was the custom of hot-blooded infidels. Dread and excitement trembled through her.

  Conversation began to fill the hall. The sheriff’s interest in her was already inciting gossip. Turning her head a little, Rexana glanced at the musicians. The drummer met her gaze, scratched his cheek, then shook his head. The signal. Henry hadn’t yet returned.

  Anticipation buzzed in her veins like a swarm of bees. Until Henry had the missive, she must act her role to the fullest. Like the courtesan Linford thought her to be, she must tempt. Seduce. And, if necessary, yield her body to him.

  Curving her mouth into a smile, she raised her lashes. “Your gift is most generous, milord.” Panic swelled up between her ribs. She struggled to ignore it.

  “The stone is of high quality.” With strong fingers, Linford clasped her hand. He tilted it sideways, so light gleamed off the sapphire’s polished surface. “It is exquisite,” he murmured. “As are you.”

  “You are equally generous with your flattery.”

  He smiled. His palm cradled her hand. How neatly her fingers fit into his. His breath fanned across her brow, and as he leaned closer, she caught the scents of spices, red wine, and sweet figs.

  Pleasure tingled inside her, swiftly followed by caution. So easily, she could be swayed by his intriguing scent and false praise. Spoken in a husky whisper, his words had glided off his tongue with the practiced smoothness of a rogue skilled in the art of seducing women. How foolish, that her heart had fluttered.

  Yet, no man had ever spoken to her with the passion that underscored Linford’s tone. Certainly not Garmonn, Darwell’s son, who courted her with all the charm of a randy bull.

  Blocking out the memories of Garmonn, she thought of the arrow brooch. Why she always wore it. Why, even if it cost her every last bit of her courage, she was honor bound to save Rudd.

  Linford’s callused thumb brushed over her wrist. A caress. As she feigned a coy giggle and glanced back at him, she noticed a servant setting fresh jugs of wine on the lord’s table. A plan floated into her mind. Reassurance flooded through her like cool, refreshing rainwater. She might not have to yield her virtue, after all.

  If she kept her wits about her, she could ply Linford with drink as she laughed, teased, and tempted him. When his eyes rolled back into his head and he toppled over in a drunken stupor, she could slip away. Leaving his gaudy bauble behind, of course. He would gain naught from her but a sore head.

  A delighted laugh bubbled in her throat.

  He gently squeezed her hand. “You accept my offer?”

  “Aye.” She withdrew her fingers from his. Turning her hand over, she slipped on the ring. The gold band was too large, but that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t wear the jewel for long. With a lazy shrug, she eyed the stone. “How could I refuse?”

  Grinning, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “I am pleased I did not mistake your craving for adventure, or your wild and lusty spirit.” As he exhaled, his breath blew over the silk covering her ear. Her head spun.

  Wild and lusty spirit? She gulped. “You are indeed . . . most perceptive.”

  “And ravenous.” His mouth curved into a wolfish smile that blazed its way through her entire body. Her sheer silk garments suddenly felt tight and unbearably hot. Before she could protest, before she could refuse, Linford took her hand. He drew her toward the dais. Toward the vacant chair beside his.

  Toward Darwell, who looked on the verge of recognizing her.

  Alarm burst inside her. She tore from Linford’s grasp.

  He turned with the predatory grace of a stalking cat.

  “One moment, milord,” she said, keeping her face averted from Darwell’s probing gaze. “I . . . ah . . . must speak with my friends. Reassure them all is well. They may be concerned.” Gesturing to the musicians, she started toward them.

  As she neared the tables, a bead of sweat ran between her breasts. What if Darwell called out her name?

  Two steps, then Linford caught her elbow. “Do not worry. My steward will speak with them.”

  “Still, I should—”

  With gentle pressure, he turned her back to face him. “Why do you hesitate? Do you intend to deny me?”

  Her blood chilled at the hint of warning in his voice. Laughing softly, she straightened the bells at her wrist. “Of course not. I am weary after my dance, ’tis all. The musicians usually see that I rest before we undertake our journey home.”

  Before the last words had left her lips, Linford flicked his hand. A balding man in a red woolen tunic shot to his side.

  His face somber, the man bowed with excessive flair. “What is your pleasure, Sheriff Linford? Shall I tell the other entertainers to begin?”

  “Winton, show this woman to my solar. See that she is made comfortable.”

  Staring at the steward’s shiny, bowed pate, Rexana swallowed a desperate moan. The solar!

  As he turned away, Linford added, “I will join her as soon as I am able.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  Bowing to Rexana, Winton thrust out his arm. He pointed to the stairs that rose along the hall’s far wall and ended at a wooden platform.

  The stairs Henry had climbed moments before.

  Was Henry still searching Linford’s chamber?

  She half turned toward the sheriff, half formed a protest, but her courage wavered. He already suspected her enthusiasm. She couldn’t risk further arousing his distrust, or lingering in the hall when Darwell might guess her identity.

  Her belly ached. Her mind raced with visions of Winton opening the solar door and Henry springing to his feet before an opened chest, a parchment in his hand.

  Clearing the nervous squeak from her throat, she cast Linford what she hoped was a seductive smile. Aware of his gaze trailing down her bare back, she tilted up her chin, then started after Winton, who marched past the crowded tables with brisk efficiency.

  As she walked, she forced her proper, ladylike steps into loose-hipped strides. Made her body sway, as the dancer had instructed, in a manner that promised and enticed.

  She must find a way to warn Henry. She would save him and Rudd from the sheriff’s clutches.

  And herself.

  As a quartet of nimble male and female jugglers ran toward the dais and began to spin brightly colored balls, Fane chewed another fig. Sticky residue clung to his fingers, and he licked away the essence. Would the dancer’s skin taste as sweet?

  His loins roused again, a distracting press of flesh against his wool hose. Drying his hand on the tablecloth, he forced himself to concentrate on the jugglers’ feats. He must be patient. Once he knew the outcome of this night’s carefully laid scheme—planned earlier with his trusted men-at-arms and now unfolding leagues away—he could attend his physical needs.

  And hers.

  What an unexpected turn of events, to meet her this eve.

  The delicious memory of her filled Fane’s mind. As he looked at the jugglers, he mentally slipped off her head covering, veil, bodice, skirt, and dancing bells until she stood naked before him. Ah, God. His gut twisted. He fought to keep himself from rising from the table to charge after her.

  He sighed and gritted his teeth. Never had he been so drawn to a woman, even Leila. This dancer intrigued him. Enticed him with her mysterious allure, one that seemed an odd blend of temptress and veiled innocent. She was a talented actress. Or, she had a great deal to hide.

  Darwell tapped his fingers on the table. “She reminds me of someone.”

  Fane’s gaze snapped from the jugglers. “Who?”

  “The pretty wench you invited to your chamber,” Darwell said with a disgruntled laugh. “I vow I have met her before. Cannot think where.”

  Fane toyed with a morsel of fig on his tongue. “She mentioned she learned her dance here in England. Mayhap you saw her perform at a local fete.”

  “Mmm.” Darwell scratched his chin, and his gaze darted to the oranges in the fruit
bowl. Picking out the largest orange, he turned it slowly in his palm.

  Footfalls intruded over the jugglers’ antics. Looking past the closest tables, Fane saw two men-at-arms in full chain mail striding toward him. He smiled.

  Soon, little dancer. Soon.

  The men skirted the jugglers and halted before the dais. “Milord.”

  Aware of the curious stares from noblemen at the nearby tables, Fane asked quietly, “What news do you bring?”

  The taller guard squared his shoulders. His face lit with pride. “We found them, milord. In a tavern several leagues from Tangston.”

  “Excellent.” Satisfaction coiled inside Fane. His instincts hadn’t failed him.

  Darwell’s eyes widened. “Found who?”

  “Lords who conspire against the crown.” Not taking his gaze from the guards, Fane said, “Where are they now?”

  “The bailey. Soon all four will be in the dungeon, as you ordered.”

  Fane frowned. “Only four? Surely there were more.”

  The second guard’s face reddened and he shuffled his feet. “The others escaped out a hidden door in the cellar. We tracked them through a corn field, but lost them at the riverbank.”

  With effort, Fane stifled a flare of annoyance. “No matter. We will capture the others soon enough.” He fixed the men-at-arms with a firm glare. “Put the prisoners in cells. See that they are well guarded. I will come to the dungeon shortly.”

  The men-at-arms bowed, then retreated across the hall.

  The orange in Darwell’s hand thudded to the table. Trapping the rolling fruit with his palm, he said, “This eve, of all eves, you sent men to root out traitors?”

  “What better time for them to plot? No doubt they assumed I would be too busy carousing with my honored guests to pursue their treachery. They were wrong.”

  “Indeed.” With the barest tremble, Darwell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, may I be the first to congratulate you on your victory.”

  A wry laugh burst from Fane’s lips. “I cannot claim victory yet. I must capture the other conspirators. I will not be satisfied until I have them all.”