Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Darwell picked up the orange and tossed it back into the bowl, dislodging the neat mound of figs. “For your sake, I hope the lords you arrested this eve are traitors. What if your guards mistakenly detained innocent men?” He clucked his tongue. “What a wretched scandal that would be. I would not like to be in your position, milord, if you are in error.”

  Fane’s blood boiled. Were Darwell’s words a warning? Or, a statement of genuine concern?

  His thumb brushed the smooth handle of his eating dagger. He needed no reminders of the dangers of the coming days. He’d known them before he had ridden through Tangston’s gates to assume his duties as sheriff, but he’d confronted death more times than he could count on his fingers and still lived.

  He wouldn’t fail in his duty to eliminate the corruption in Warringham, even if it entailed the temporary detention of guiltless men. No one he knew had ever died from rankled pride. If his men-at-arms had acted in error, he would extend a suitable apology and make restitution. He would prove that beneath his bronzed skin and barbaric scars, his English blood ran as red as any other lord’s in this hall, and that he was worthy of respect.

  Fane’s fingers closed around the dagger. “I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry. Unless, of course, your fealty is questionable.” He raised an eyebrow at Darwell.

  The older man’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “Do not be foolish. I am as loyal to the king as any other lord here this eve.”

  “Those who did not attend? What of them?”

  Darwell’s mouth tightened. “Garmonn is not here because he is unwell. Will you condemn him, Rudd Villeaux, and others like them who wanted to come, but could not?”

  “I assure you, I will not condemn an innocent man.”

  Sweat shone on Darwell’s pale forehead as he nodded his agreement. His love for his son was admirable. Not all fathers respected the seed of their loins.

  With the stinging force of a sandstorm, a painful image blasted into Fane’s thoughts. His sire, purple in the face, condemning Fane’s irresponsible behavior. Refusing to heed his pleas. Ordering him to leave and never return, despite Fane’s mother’s shrill weeping.

  A hard smile tilted Fane’s lips. A pity, his sire would never see how he’d misjudged his “utterly worthless” son.

  Glittering fabric near the wooden landing caught Fane’s gaze. The dancer? Nay, a nobleman wearing an embroidered tunic the same color as her costume. By now, she should be curled up on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Fane’s blood quickened. Another duty he wouldn’t neglect.

  Setting aside his eating dagger, Fane rose from the table.

  “You must leave, milord?” Darwell’s hand fluttered in the direction of the jugglers. “They have not finished their act.”

  Fane smiled. “I must attend to pressing duties.”

  Her pulse drumming a fierce beat, Rexana stepped onto the landing overlooking the hall. Laughter boomed from below. As she followed Winton toward a torch-lit corridor ahead, she glanced through the hovering smoke to the jugglers who gamboled before the dais, balancing wooden boards on their heads.

  Before she could caution herself, her gaze slid to Linford. His dark, untamed hair gleamed as he turned to speak to Darwell. Even from a distance, the sheriff exuded raw authority and a keen intellect that warned he was a man who wouldn’t appreciate deception, especially within the walls of his keep.

  She must warn Henry. Quickly.

  An idea skittered into her mind.

  She hiked up her skirt with both hands and hurried to catch up with Winton. Her bare foot caught on a patch of rough wood. Sudden, sharp pain pierced her heel. “Mercy!”

  Winton halted and looked at her. “What ails you?”

  She bit her lip against the discomfort. Her plan didn’t include getting a sliver, but she could use the injury to her advantage.

  Raising her voice to carry above the hall’s commotion, she called, “’Tis my foot. A sliver, I vow.”

  Oh, Henry! Please hear the sound of my voice. If you are still in the solar, hide. Now!

  With a whimper, she raised her foot. If she could convince Winton she needed help to walk, she could delay reaching the solar by a few precious moments.

  Winton’s face pinched into an irritated scowl. “Come. We can tend your wound in the solar.” Turning his back to her, he strode into the passage.

  She whispered a curse. The steward wasn’t to be deterred. Well, neither was she. She limped after him and fumbled with her bracelet’s clasp. “How far is his lordship’s chamber?”

  Winton pointed to broad oak doors to his right. In the light cast by blazing reed torches, she saw two armed guards. How had Henry managed to slip past the sentries? What if he hadn’t succeeded? What if—

  She dismissed her anxious thoughts. A man as clever as Henry would have found a way. A distraction. A ruse. However, if he tried to run from the chamber now, he would be challenged, captured, or even killed.

  She had one last chance to warn him.

  “This is the solar?” She flicked her hand, repeating Winton’s gesture. The bracelet flew through the air, smacked against one of the wooden panels, then landed on the floor with a musical clunk. She feigned utter surprise. “The goldsmith told me he had fixed the clasp. I will have words with him.”

  A sigh rushed between Winton’s thinned lips. He rolled his eyes, stooped, and picked up the ornament.

  Hide, Henry. Hide! Do not try to run.

  The steward held the tinkling bracelet out to her. “Thank you,” she murmured. With a relieved smile, she noted the jewel was undamaged. As she fastened it around her wrist, Winton depressed the door’s wrought iron handles, pushed open the panels, then motioned her inside.

  As though a magical box had sprung open, an exotic scent wafted out of the solar to greet her. A reminder that she entered Linford’s lair. A reminder of danger, forbidden temptations, and desire. A shiver tingled down her spine.

  As she stepped into the shadowed solar, illuminated only by the hearth’s orange-yellow blaze, her breath caught in her throat. Glancing about, she braced herself for Henry’s bolt for the door. For Winton’s cry of alarm. For the rasp of the guards’ broadswords and their bellows to “halt.” For the imminent confrontation, in which she must help Henry and somehow keep the missive from Linford’s men.

  Her gaze fell to a pair of strangely decorated gold candlesticks on the nearby wall shelf. She edged toward them. A candlestick was a wretched substitute for a weapon, but it must do.

  Sweeping through the doorway with a flaming reed, Winton began lighting the wall torches. The room’s shadows surrendered to a warm glow. Every nerve in Rexana’s body hummed. The sapphire ring pressed against her skin as her hands closed around the candlestick’s cool gold.

  Few places remained for Henry to hide. Did he stand behind the carved wooden screen to the left of the hearth? Was he crouched on the opposite side of the bed?

  As Winton skirted the enormous bed, strewn with pillows and an animal skin she didn’t recognize, she hardly dared to breathe. She watched, the chased metal slick beneath her fingers, as he knelt, tossed several more logs into the fire, then rose and lit the remaining torches. Without incident.

  Relief filtered through her. Either Henry remained well hidden, or he’d found a way out of the solar. Easing her rigid grip on the candlesticks, she sighed.

  Winton crossed to her. “You will wait here for Sheriff Linford. I will send a maidservant to treat your foot.”

  “Nay,” Rexana said hastily. “I can tend the splinter.”

  “Very well.” The steward’s voice turned stern, as though he addressed a truant child. “You are not to touch any of his lordship’s possessions. Including the candlesticks.”

  Rexana managed an insolent shrug. “I am only looking at the odd decoration.” With her fingertip, she finished tracing a curved symbol, then lowered her hands.

  Winton’s visage softened only a fraction. He tipped his head toward the nearby table. “Whi
le you wait, you may have wine. Or figs and oranges from the fruit bowl.”

  After shooting her a final, pointed glance, he strode through the doors. They clicked shut behind him.

  Rexana exhaled on a whoosh. She was alone . . . unless Henry had squeezed himself into a corner and awaited a signal from her before he emerged.

  Rubbing her arms with her hands, she whispered, “Henry?”

  Silence, broken only by the fire crackling in the hearth.

  “Henry, ’tis safe to come out. Are you here?”

  No answer. She grinned. He was probably on his way back to the hall to meet up with the musicians.

  If Henry had the missive, she didn’t need to tempt the sheriff. She could regroup with the others and leave before Linford realized she had gone.

  The sheriff’s parting smile nipped through her mind. She fought a pang of disappointment, for she wouldn’t experience his skilled kiss, touch, or breath upon her belly, after all.

  Rexana shook her head and dismissed the senseless emotion. She didn’t crave a barbarian’s attentions. Not now. Not ever.

  Setting her hands on her hips, she glanced about the chamber. Could she outwit the guards at the solar doors? Mayhap. Yet, Henry had managed to slip out by an alternate route. ’Twould be wiser for her to leave that way too.

  Her gaze fell upon the tall, elaborately carved screen which blocked a corner of the chamber. What did the wooden panels conceal? A hidden door? She stepped forward. Pain lanced through her foot. Cursed splinter. No time to remove it. Linford would soon come to his chamber, and she wished to be long gone before he arrived.

  As though attuned to her dishonorable thoughts, the fire popped and hissed. Only burning pitch, Rexana reminded herself with a nervous laugh, as the flames flared and cast accusing fingers of light across the screen.

  She hobbled across the floorboards. Her feet sank into the brightly patterned carpet near the bed. Ignoring the silkiness, the urge to pause and wiggle her toes in deeper, she approached the screen. Gripping one edge, she peered around.

  The fire crackled. Logs shifted and thumped onto the hearth grate, while the blaze roared with a fierce heat.

  Behind the screen, a bathing tub, wet from use earlier in the day, rested on the floorboards. Beside it was a small table holding a bowl of water, folded linen cloths, a towel, and a round cake of soap. No hidden door, only an intriguing scent.

  Rexana wiggled her nose. What a fragrance. Unique. Exotic. Irresistible. Ignoring the fire’s loud snapping, as well as the warning buzz skittering through her mind, she picked up the cake, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply through the veil. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  “Mmm.” Lemon, cinnamon—

  “Is it to your liking, love?”

  With a startled squeak, Rexana dropped the soap. It bounced off the edge of the tub, banged the opposite side, then fell to the bottom with a thud.

  Hands pressed over her heart, she whirled around. Linford stood beside the screen. Close enough for her to recognize his spicy musk. He’d used the soap when he bathed.

  Vivid images flooded her imagination. Him sprawled in the tub, rubbing the soap between his palms. Lathering the cake into a frothy mass. Rubbing it, slowly, inch by wanton inch, over his broad, damp, naked chest.

  She stifled another appreciative “Mmm.” Oh, mercy.

  Their gazes met. He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge; he was clearly awaiting an explanation.

  “Milord.” She scarcely heard her voice over her hammering pulse. “I did not expect you so soon.”

  “So I see.”

  Her gaze shot past him to the closed doors. Too late, she recalled his cat-like stealth that she’d witnessed in the hall. The noisy fire had disguised his entry.

  Yet, she had only herself to blame for her curiosity.

  She looked back at the tub. Laughing, she pointed to the soap which had slid far out of reach. “I hope you do not mind. I have never smelled that particular blend of scents.” Her voice quavered and she groaned inwardly. How effortlessly he rattled years of carefully tutored poise. She hadn’t trembled this much when her father had presented her to King Richard.

  As though noticing her discomfort, a smile tilted Linford’s mouth. “I bought that kind at a bazaar in Cyprus. Worth every bit of coin. English soap is simply not the same.”

  Rexana swallowed. His enticing male scent, his closeness, and the assessing glint in his eyes sent chills rippling over her skin. Stifling a swell of worry, she focused her thoughts upon acting her role. She mustn’t foolishly betray herself, endanger the others, or undermine her own plans for escape.

  She must tempt. Seduce. Distract.

  Linford’s gaze sharpened slightly. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. Though he didn’t touch her, she felt his gaze traveling over her face like a physical caress.

  “Why do you look at me so?” he asked.

  Forcing sultry warmth into her voice, she said, “Whatever do you mean, milord?”

  He laughed softly, but his tone held a hint of derision. “As though I will throw you upon the bed and ravish you like a hot-blooded savage. I promise I will treat you with civility.”

  “I do not doubt your skills.” By the saints, she hoped she sounded appropriately intrigued.

  His teeth flashed white, a brazen promise. “Good. Yet, unfortunately, I came to tell you our pleasure must be delayed until later this eve. I have urgent matters to attend first.”

  “Urgent matters?” Rexana sensed steel behind his words. Had he captured Henry? Did he know of the plan to steal the missive? Oh, God, she must know.

  She smoothed her veil and schooled uncertainty from her tone. “What could possibly be more important than pleasure?”

  “Traitors.”

  “Here? In Warringham?” She cleared the catch from her voice. “Who would attempt treason with you as High Sheriff?”

  “Indeed.” With a faint smile, he closed the distance between them. His gaze held hers with fierce intensity. Her stomach did an unsettling swoop, like a swallow plummeting to snatch a fat worm. Did he suspect her?

  He moved so close, his breath warmed her brow. She took a step back. Bumped against the rough stone wall. The splinter bit deeper into her foot, and she winced, even as she forced a giggle. “Surely you do not believe—”

  “—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?”