Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  With effort, she forced herself to exhale. “Pardon?”

  “You limp. This foot hurts you. Aye?”

  She nodded. With gentle pressure, he tilted her grubby foot to inspect it, and she squirmed with embarrassment. “’Tis naught. Only a splinter.”

  “It causes you pain. I would be barbaric, indeed, to leave you in discomfort.”

  She ceased struggling. Odd tenderness blossomed within her. As his face furrowed in concentration and his fingers skimmed between her toes and over her sole, the ache grew.

  In the past, young lords had courted her, but she’d never permitted them to touch her—above all, Garmonn. He’d begged for her kisses, crudely demanded them once when he had walked with her in Ickleton’s garden, but she’d refused. No man kissed or touched a lady, except her wedded husband. Now, with Linford’s deft hands probing her skin and her flesh shimmering with strange sensations, she appreciated the wisdom of her parents’ strict tutelage.

  His light touch tickled. She squirmed.

  He chuckled, then moved to the heel of her foot. “Ah,” he said, “There.”

  “Is it . . . large?”

  “Enormous.” When she groaned, he added, “Half a tree.”

  Rexana laughed. She couldn’t resist.

  He grinned. With his thumb and forefinger, he plucked at her sole. A quick pinch. Then, arching an eyebrow in triumph, he held up the splinter.

  “Thank you. It feels much better.”

  Smiling, he tossed the bit of wood aside. With utmost care, he placed her foot on the floor and then rose, smoothing the creases from his tunic. She stared at his tanned fingers, so strong, capable, and careful. Her stomach did a strange turn. Was he truly the unprincipled barbarian the gossips claimed him to be? Had they misjudged him?

  He caught her staring. His smile changed; from one heartbeat to the next, it sharpened with determination and desire. “I regret I must leave now.” Lowering his face to hers, he murmured, “But first, I will have a kiss.”

  She froze, numbed by a rush of alarm. “Kiss?”

  “Kiss. Remove the veil, love.”

  As the dancer shrank from him, Fane fought a frustrated growl. By the barest thread of restraint, he resisted the urge to wrench the slip of fabric from her face. Why did she look at him as though he’d asked her to commit a forbidden act?

  Moments ago, he’d sensed her anxiety. He had been patient, leashed his lust, and done his best to soothe her fears. For a brief while, he’d succeeded. When he had teased her about the splinter, her eyes had sparkled. Yet, so quickly, the mirth had evaporated and been replaced with distrust.

  Uncurling his clenched fingers, he reached out to smooth a hand up her slender arm. A slow caress, without threat. A whisper of touch, as one would handle a violet’s delicate, fragrant bloom. She shivered, and he swallowed a surge of annoyance. Did his chivalry mean naught?

  As though sensing his impatience, she raised her darkened eyelashes. She looked at him with a hint of coy challenge. “Why must you see my face now? Why spoil the anticipation? When you return, we will explore each other’s secrets. We will have all night, and many more nights, if you wish.”

  Her voice sounded unsteady. As though, despite her provocative words, she had little knowledge of sensual pleasure. Did she pretend to be an innocent? A shy virgin who had yet to experience the pleasures between a man and woman?

  Clever little actress. How she toyed with him.

  He couldn’t wait to taste her. “One kiss,” he said. Inhaling deeply of her luscious scent, he reached for the veil.

  “Cease!” She twisted against the table, catching his wrists. Her palms were damp, the tinkling bells cold against the backs of his fingers.

  Disquiet settled in his gut like a dry, sun-scorched stone. Did she find him repulsive? Nay. When she’d laughed and relaxed her guard, he’d caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

  Her gaze was no longer flirtatious but glittering with warning. Her fingertips pressed into his skin with steady pressure. Saucy wench. She dared to tell him what to do? Only now, when he lowered his arms, did she release her grip. Only now did she avert her gaze and show him the respect his position as High Sheriff and noble lord demanded.

  He stared down at the sweep of her lashes, noted the stiff line of her body. Suspicion gnawed at his thoughts. There was a reason for her reticence. One he must pursue. “Why can I not see your face? What do you not wish me to discover?”

  Her bosom rose and fell on a ragged breath. So, his suspicions were correct. He would know this secret before he left to see the prisoners in the dungeon. He must know, or the nagging mystery would devour his concentration.

  “Why do you deny me?” As he wiped brown powder from his fingers, a cosmetic she’d used to darken her skin, a thought leapt to his mind. “Is your skin flawed? Do you fear I will reject you because of imperfection?”

  “Nay.” Her hushed reply quivered in the air between them.

  “Then, why?” he demanded. “Tell me now, love—”

  A knock pounded on the door.

  She started. The bells at her wrists and feet chimed, a burst of sound that shattered the tension between them like a boulder crashing through stained glass. In a graceful shift of limbs, a waft of fragrance, she slipped past him, heading toward the hearth.

  Fane cursed.

  The knock sounded again. “Milord,” a man called.

  Hesitating not far from the crackling fire, she pressed a hand to her breast. Did she try to still the wild beating of her heart? Did it pulse with even the barest fraction of the urgency that roared in his veins and fed his rock hard loins?

  ’Twas madness, to crave a woman so intensely. Especially when he had important duties.

  Resisting the overwhelming urge to chase her, Fane sighed and tore his fingers through his hair. For now, God help him, his need must wait. “Enter,” he bellowed.

  The door opened. A man-at-arms, one of the guards who had captured the rebels earlier, marched into the solar and shoved the door shut. A purpling bruise marked his right cheek. Fane frowned. He hadn’t noticed the injury earlier in the hall.

  The man halted abruptly. His face paled before he dropped to a bow. “I apologize for disturbing you, milord. One of the traitors is being difficult. He demanded to see you. He says no lord of his status should be treated in such a foul manner.”

  A bitter laugh burst from Fane. “What insolence. Did you tell him he must wait his turn for an interrogation, like all the other conspirators?”

  The guard’s expression turned grim. “He refused to heed me. He ran for the stairwell, yelling your name. Took three men to subdue him enough to get him inside a cell and chained.” Rubbing his jaw, the guard added, “Would have been easier to hit him back, but you ordered us not to use unnecessary force.”

  “So I did.” Fane looked at the dancer. She stared into the fire as though she pondered a difficult dilemma. Light danced over her figure, and his gaze skimmed down to her bottom’s curve beneath the clinging costume. Hunger and disappointment flooded through him. His duties might keep them apart longer than he’d anticipated. How unfortunate.

  Scooping up his wine goblet, he took a final sip. The spicy wine, simultaneously sharp and sweet, drenched his tongue. She would taste as exquisite when, at last, he kissed her.

  Setting down his goblet, Fane turned to the guard. “This traitor,” he said, starting for the door. “What is his name?”

  “He is the late earl’s son. Rudd Villeaux.”

  A cry broke from Rexana before she could smother it. She had feared for Henry and the musicians. But her brother, imprisoned in Tangston’s dungeon? Arrested as a traitor?

  Horror and disbelief tightened her stomach into a painful knot. Gasping, she clutched the wall. How could fate be so cruel? Rudd would never turn against the crown. He wasn’t that foolish. Young and impulsive, aye, but still loyal.

  “Love?”

  Linford's voice sliced into her thoughts. Beware, Rexana. Be
ware! Dragging together the strength to respond, she straightened and offered an apologetic wave. “I did not mean to interrupt. I stepped on my sore heel.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Ah.”

  She faced the hearth again. Did he not believe her? Aware of his intent gaze, she softened her body’s sway, pressing one hand against the wall and lazily resting the other on her hip. She wiggled her injured foot as though easing discomfort.

  Linford resumed speaking with the guard. Thank the saints!

  The fire blazed with fierce heat, yet Rexana’s blood ran as cold as a frozen pond. She prayed Henry had found the missive. She must burn it as soon as she returned to Ickleton, before Rudd’s life was destroyed by this horrible misunderstanding.

  As she partly listened to the men’s conversation, wispy smoke drifted up from the flames. Tears stung her eyes. Unable to resist, she lifted her hand from her hip, parted her bodice’s fringe, and touched the arrow brooch.

  Earlier that day, Rudd had told her he couldn’t attend Linford’s feast, despite making prior arrangements to go, because of a matter in a nearby village that would delay his return until late eve. Part of her had been glad, for he wouldn’t be able to stop her leaving for Tangston or know of her dance. Part of her had worried that he missed such an important event, especially the opportunity to meet the sheriff. Yet, with all her tasks to complete around the keep before she left, along with the additional ones Rudd had delegated to her, she hadn’t paused to question his commitment. She should have.

  The rough wall dug into her palm. What had he done to cause his arrest? Had he accepted another reckless dare from Garmonn? The knot in her belly twisted. She would have to smother her pride and plead forgiveness for Rudd’s misdeeds, as she had only last month when he’d taunted then set loose a neighboring lord’s prized bull. The beast had caused untold damage before being recaptured.

  This time, she would have to face Linford, not a cantankerous old lord with poor hearing. She would have to prove beyond doubt that Rudd didn’t conspire against the crown. That someone else had penned his signature on the missive. That he deserved his freedom.

  She brushed her fingers over the brooch’s hammered gold one last time. She shoved away from the wall, wiping her eyes before kohl and tears ran black lines down her veil.

  Whatever she must do to save her brother, she would do it. Rudd was all she had left. She wouldn’t lose him.

  A touch on her shoulder snapped her from her thoughts. A familiar, spicy musk blended with the tang of burning oak. Linford stood behind her. He’d moved silently, like a shadow.

  “What ails you, little dancer? ’Tis more than a tender foot.” With firm hands, he turned her around and stared down into her face.

  Rexana urged herself to relax. Her right arm settled over her belly in a futile attempt to curb her queasiness. “You are wise, milord. My foot’s pain is naught compared to my troubled thoughts. I could not help but overhear. I do not like word of treason, especially in this peaceful county.”

  He nodded gravely. His gaze dropped to the fringe covering her brooch. She prayed the ornament stayed hidden from view.

  “I, too, despise treachery,” he said.

  Behind the veil, she sucked her lip between her teeth. I deceive you, a voice within her cried, but I have good reason. My brother is not a traitor. He should not be imprisoned in your dungeon.

  A questioning smile touched Linford’s mouth. “You cried out with such . . . passion. Do you know Villeaux?”

  Denial flew to her lips, but her frayed nerves hummed with warning. She would only further pique Linford’s suspicions if she tried to speak false. “I am an . . . acquaintance of his.”

  Linford’s eyebrow arched in cool disbelief. Before she guessed his intentions, he reached out. Flicked aside the fringe. Exposed the little arrow bound with ribbon. “Acquaintance?” he demanded. “Or lover?”

  Rexana’s breath wedged in her throat. “Not lover,” she managed to say. As he tilted the ornament to examine it, his fingers grazed her bare skin. Her body trembled.

  “Did he give you this brooch?”

  Her pulse thundered at a dangerous pace. She forced a shrug. “He gave me the trinket, aye, but he is not my lover.”

  “Why, then, did he gift you with this? ’Tis a favor? A token of his passionate intent?”

  The words grated between Linford’s teeth. A thrill rippled through her. Saints above, was he jealous? Her tutors had never instructed her how to deal with a jealous suitor. Nor had the mummer advised her on such a predicament. Yet, somehow, she must ease his volatile emotions.

  “’Tis a token of his friendship,” she soothed. “Naught more.”

  To her dismay, the suspicion in the sheriff’s gaze didn’t ease, but intensified. She must be more persuasive. Bolder. She ignored a prickle of fear and caught his fingers touching the brooch. Covered his big, rough hand with hers. His dark lashes lowered a fraction, as though he acknowledged her caress.

  “Milord, I have never danced for Lord Villeaux as I danced for you. Nor do I wish to.”

  Heat seeped from his hand into hers. Sensation flooded through her fingers and swept up her arm. A hot, bittersweet curl of desire. Potent. Undeniable. Wanton.

  She should never have dared to touch him.

  Before she could pull away, Linford half sighed, half growled. “Your words please me. I have no wish to compete with Villeaux for your heart.”

  “He and I could never be lovers. After all, he is a nobleman. I am a common peasant.”

  A crooked smile curved Linford’s mouth. “You are far from common, love. Villeaux believes this as well, or he would not have given you gold.”

  Dread hummed through her in a single, shattering scream. Did the sheriff toy with her? Had he guessed her identity? Her hand flew to her throat. She tried to giggle, to dismiss his statement, but sounds and words refused to warm her lips.

  “’Twould please me to have a closer look at your brooch. The unique design intrigues me.” Linford’s fingers skimmed up and down her arm in an insistent touch. “Remove it, love.”

  Protest burned within her. Her eyes stung. Blinking away fresh tears, she said, “I cannot part with my brooch.”

  His smile thinned. “Fear not. I shall return it to you this eve. You have my word.”

  Her hand dropped from her throat to fist into her skirt. Numbness swept through her, chased by frustration. If she declined, would she further arouse his suspicions about the relationship between her and Rudd?

  She scrambled to hone her thoughts. What would a peasant dancer do? One whose livelihood depended upon the generosity of the man standing before her. Watching. Waiting.

  She wasn’t in any position to refuse.

  Fighting bitter regret, Rexana reached up and unfastened the brooch’s clasp. She dropped the ornament into his palm. The little arrow glinted, a flash of light, before his bronzed fingers closed over it.

  Across the chamber, the man-at-arms cleared his throat.

  Fane dropped a light kiss on her cheek. “I must leave you now, but I will return as soon as I can.”

  The brooch! “Milord—”

  “I will take good care of your jewel, I promise. Think of me, as I shall think of you,” he whispered. “I look forward to the pleasures to come.”

  He bowed to her in farewell, then turned and crossed to the waiting man-at-arms. The door closed behind them.

  Rexana crossed her arms over her bodice. Already she missed the brooch’s delicate weight. What did Linford intend to do with it? Show it to Rudd during the interrogation? Demand to know why he gave it to her, as well as his feelings for her?

  The solar’s silence pressed down upon her. She paced the floorboards. Fie! Rudd would recognize the brooch. He didn’t know of her dance this eve or the mission to save his honor, so he had no reason to deny knowledge of the brooch. What might Linford do, when he learned the truth? To her? To Rudd?

  She pivoted sharply. She could do naught shut away in Linfor
d’s chamber. She must think of a way to deceive the solar’s guards and escape. Now.

  As Rexana started back across the chamber, she caught metal shining on the table. The wine jug.

  She hurried to the table, scooped up the heavy vessel, then tossed the remaining wine into the fire. The blaze hissed and belched a cloud of smoke. A shame to waste good drink, but that couldn’t be helped.

  As she adjusted her grip on the curved handle, the sapphire ring weighed upon her knuckle. Anger stirred. Why should she not keep the ring, in payment for Linford confiscating her brooch? With a furious sigh, she slipped it off and tossed it onto the animal skin. She had no desire to keep Linford’s gift, or to be in any way indebted to him.

  After reviewing her plan one last time, she crossed the chamber to yank open the door. Rowdy cheers and music echoed in from the corridor outside. A boon, that the revelry in the hall continued. She’d hoped as much.

  The nearest guard, a stout man with greasy brown hair, frowned. “What do ye want, wench?”

  Rexana bit back an indignant retort. She must remain in character, at least for a while longer. “Sheriff Linford finished the wine before he left.” With a sensuous turn of her wrist, she held the vessel out for the man’s inspection. “’Twould be discourteous of me not to get more.”

  The guard grunted. “I will summon a kitchen maid.”

  A brazen laugh rumbled in Rexana’s throat as she flattened one hand against the door’s embrasure. Leaning forward to display more cleavage, she tilted her head toward the merriment. “All of the servants are tending the lord’s guests. They are far too busy to see to this little errand. Direct me to the kitchens, good man, and I will fetch the wine myself.” Brushing a finger down her veil, she winked at him. “No one will ever know.”

  The guard licked his lips and glanced at his fellow sentry, who snapped a reprimand. The brown-haired man’s grin vanished. “Ye cannot leave. Our strict orders—”

  She clucked her tongue. “His lordship will have great thirst when he returns from his important duties. Imagine his fury, when I tell him you prevented me from fetching more wine.”