The musicians laughed.
The drummer snorted. “I am glad ye were not tempted ta press yer sloppy charms on the guards at the gate’ouse. They would not ’ave let us pass so readily.”
More laughter. Henry scowled.
Rexana smothered a giggle behind her hand. She could hardly imagine a woman, let alone a grizzled warrior, puckering up to kiss either of the grim sentries who had watched all who rode through Tangston’s gates.
The breeze blew through trees along the roadside, a sound very different to the wind howling past Tangston’s walls. With a shiver, she recalled the agonizing moments when the guards had ordered them to stop. As the wagon had creaked to a halt, her anxious mind had whirled. Had Linford discovered her missing? Had he learned that she was Rudd’s sister? Had he ordered her detained? She’d drawn deeper into the folds of the scratchy cloak Henry had loaned her and tugged the hood over her face. After a few words from Henry, and a bawdy jest from the drummer, the guards had waved them over the drawbridge and onto the pitted road which wound its way toward Ickleton.
The horse settled into a steady clop, clop, while the men continued their banter about kissing. Rexana snuggled into the cushions and blankets provided for her comfort. The breeze, heavy with the scent of damp loam, fingered its way under the hood to brush her cheeks. A touch as light as Linford’s.
Uncertainty clenched her belly like a fist.
Had they escaped the sheriff? He and his men might be in pursuit. He might emerge from the night’s inky shadows, quirk an eyebrow, and demand to know what made her believe she could ever deceive him.
She buried deeper into the blankets. If Linford questioned Rudd about the brooch, would he answer, or would he realize he must protect her identity? A tiny thread of hope wound its way through her. If he didn’t divulge her, and she found a way to free him within the next day or two, Linford might never know that his veiled dancer was, in truth, a wealthy, titled lady. A virgin who had never experienced a lover’s kiss.
The memory of Linford’s hungry stare flickered through her mind. The skin across her breasts tightened. Heated. Her lips tingled, as though the cool night conspired against her and mimicked his kiss. What would it have been like to kiss him? Would he have tasted deliciously exotic?
A night bird flapped overhead with an eerie shriek, startling her from her thoughts. She blushed. How shameful to ponder her desires, when Rudd was Linford’s prisoner. She rubbed her lips together to squash the unwelcome tingling. Despite her efforts to swallow it, a moan bubbled in her throat.
One of the musicians touched her arm. “Are ye warm enough, milady? Are ye comfortable? ’Twill be a long journey.”
She forced a smile. “I am fine, thank you.”
Struggling to ignore her unease, she stared into the night. Fog wreathed the shadowed bushes and trees and swirled around the wagon. By the dawn’s light, the mist would disappear. As, too, must all evidence of her night as an exotic eastern dancer.
As soon as she reached Ickleton, she would give the mummer a bag of coins in thanks for the loan of the costume. She would also arrange for the woman to be far from Ickleton by daybreak.
Determination quickened Rexana’s pulse. First thing on the morrow, she and Henry would begin a plan. She would see Rudd exonerated. And freed.
Hands on his hips, Fane looked around the empty solar. Emotion seethed within him—anger, frustration, cursed desire—but he leashed the urge to throw back his head and roar like a furious beast.
Nervous shuffles echoed in the open doorway behind him. Idiot guards. He’d found one halfway down the passage, staggering to his knees while rubbing a bump on his head. When sharply questioned, the guard had babbled a tale about escorting the dancer to fetch wine, a man leaping out from behind a tapestry, and a blow to the head. When the guard had roused, he’d found himself lying on the floor. The assailant and the dancer were gone.
Fane muttered a foul Arabic curse, a memento from his Saracen captors. With the help of an accomplice—a trusted servant, no doubt—Lady Rexana had escaped.
For now.
He swung around to address the guards. “You.” He pointed to the taller man, whose face drained of color. “Go straight to the bailey. Tell the guards at the gatehouse what has happened. The dancer and her companion are not to leave the keep.”
The guard’s head bobbed. “Aye, milord.”
A menacing growl burned Fane’s throat. He glared at the wounded guard, who swayed on his feet as though a strong draft would send him toppling to the floor. “You will inform Kester. I want this keep searched, chamber by chamber. If she is within these walls, I want her found. Bring her to me.”
The guards bowed and turned away.
“Later, we will discuss your punishment for disobeying my orders.”
Fane slammed the solar door. He sucked air into his lungs. Anger pulsed at his temple, stiffened his fingers until it seemed his bones would snap. When he found her . . .
As he strode toward the hearth, where he’d last seen her, his gaze fell to the lion skin stretched over the bed. A blue object glinted on the tawny fur. Ignoring the bitterness burning in his belly, the repressed lust still heating his blood, Fane strode toward the pelt.
The sapphire ring. She hadn’t kept it.
His hand shaking, he slid the heavy ring onto his finger. The sapphire glowed as though lit by a vibrant inner spirit. Lady Rexana’s kohl-rimmed eyes had gleamed as brightly.
His jaw hardened. Why hadn’t she robbed him of the jewel, as she’d stolen his dreams of a night of sensual pleasure? Did she believe that by leaving the ring, one honorable decision in her ploy of deception, she might save herself from his wrath, or his right to demand an explanation from her own lips?
Fane’s eyes squeezed shut. He still saw her beautiful, supple body kissed by firelight. Still felt her skin’s warm softness against his palm. Her scent lingered in the air.
Footfalls sounded in the outer corridor. His eyelids flicked open. Did one of the guards return with her? Fane strode to the doorway.
As he wrenched the wooden panels open, Darwell staggered to a halt, his hand raised to knock. “Milord!”
Silently, Fane bellowed. He steeled his voice into firm politeness. “Lord Darwell.”
Wheezing, Darwell braced one hand on the doorframe and wiped his brow. “I came to say good eve. My squires are in the bailey, readying my horse for the journey.”
The urge to snarl and send Darwell scurrying back down the corridor burned hot in Fane’s blood, but he smothered the rash impulse. Darwell’s political influence extended to many noble courts. Very foolish, to strain an important and necessary alliance over a woman.
A woman Darwell knew well.
An idea sparked at the back of Fane’s mind. The plan rapidly flared with potential.
He smiled. “Must you leave so soon?” Standing to one side, he gestured into the solar. “Would you care to come in? Mayhap for one last goblet of wine?”
Darwell beamed. “My squires will wait. I thank you, milord.” Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he stepped into the chamber, his gaze bright with interest. As though in awe of Fane’s collected wealth, he stopped and stared.
Fane closed the doors. Mulling his next words, he motioned Darwell toward the fire. “Did I tell you I have discovered the dancer’s identity?”
Mopping his cheeks with his sleeve, Darwell giggled like an excited little boy. “Tell me. Who is the vixen?”
Fane’s smile hardened. “Lady Rexana Villeaux.”
Darwell gasped. “Lady—” He slapped his chest. “Tsk, Tsk. I should have guessed.” Cupping his hand, he bobbed it up and down. “Oranges! I am a complete fool not to have recognized her earlier.”
Darwell wasn’t the only fool.
As the older lord rattled on about his lack of perception, rage blasted through Fane. His fist tightened around the precious jewel until the gold band bit into his palm. Why had she concocted such an elaborate ruse? Did she know of her
brother’s treachery? Did she support it? Her aim tonight could have been to distract Fane and his guards while Rudd attended the tavern meeting with the other conspirators.
A sour taste, as sickening as rotten dates, filled Fane’s mouth. Through her highly provocative dance, she could well have intended to prove the High Sheriff of Warringham to be a barbaric misfit, ruled by lust instead of reason.
By God, he would have answers!
He wouldn’t allow Lady Rexana Villeaux to play him for a fool. If word of her deception became known throughout the county, his capabilities as High Sheriff would be in question. One woman—a traitor’s sister—would not undermine his efforts to secure Warringham for the crown and to establish peace.
He forced his anger aside to focus on his plan to snare the lady. He looked at Darwell, who now hummed an off-key tune while wiggling his hips in an appalling imitation of her dance.
Fane cleared his throat. “Milord.”
Darwell straightened with a snap and pop of bones. He laughed sheepishly. “My apologies, Sheriff. I did not mean to . . . ah . . . become lost in my thoughts.”
“Lord Darwell,” Fane said, easing his painful grip on the ring. “You seem a man of integrity. I vow I can trust you?”
Darwell smoothed his skewed tunic. “Aye.”
“Before I say more, I must have your solemn vow you will not reveal Lady Rexana’s secret.”
Darwell’s grin wavered. “Secret?”
“That she performed here this eve.”
“Ah.” With a sly wink, the older lord said, “There is a reason for her disguise, and for dancing half nu— . . . For her enthralling performance.” Darwell leaned sideways, as though the crackling flames might suddenly grow ears. “You can confide in me. I swear, I will not tell anyone.”
Dragging his hand over his mouth, as though he pondered a matter of grave importance, Fane said, “The crown forbids me to reveal Lady Rexana’s role. However, ’tis vital that no one”—his tone hardened—“I repeat, no one, learns she performed at tonight’s feast.”
Darwell’s eyes bulged. “A crown secret? O-of course I shall not speak of it.”
“If you do,” Fane said with quiet menace, “I must report your indiscretion to the king’s ministers. Without question, this would not bode well for you or your sons.” He paused for dramatic effect. “’Twould destroy Garmonn’s chances of a lucrative marriage.”
Darwell’s face whitened. “I swear, upon my honor. Lady Rexana’s secret is safe with me.”
“Good.” Fane blew a sigh and smiled. “May this eve be the start of a long and valuable friendship. I will send for wine, so we may toast our agreement.” As he headed toward the solar doors, he said: “While you are here, you must share with me all you know of Lady Villeaux.”
Shaking his head in obvious bewilderment, Darwell wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Whatever you wish to know, Sheriff, I shall be glad to tell you.”
Swinging her shoes in one hand, Rexana walked through the shadowed glade. As birds twittered and flitted from tree to tree, she willed her weary mind to snap fully awake. Willed her anxious thoughts to clear. Willed her worry to evaporate like the morning mist rising from the deep, gray-green pool.
She dropped her shoes into the grass, then walked down to the water, drew her skirts up about her knees, and hunched down in the mud. As she stared at her reflection, she trailed a finger through the shallows. Her features blurred in a cloud of brown silt. An omen of the uncertain future?
A breeze stirred the pond’s surface. She shivered. Her body ached from a fitful night’s rest. Snatches of sleep were haunted by nightmares of a gleeful Darwell telling Linford that he’d guessed her identity. Of Rudd, blurting out her name. Of the sheriff, his face taut with anger, as he confronted her.
She’d awakened at every creak of her bed, every gust of wind past the chamber’s shutters. Yet, Linford hadn’t come thundering into Ickleton in the dead of night, bent on finding her. He hadn’t arrived at the gates at dawn.
Mayhap Darwell hadn’t guessed the truth, after all.
Mayhap Rudd had remained defiantly silent.
She withdrew her fingers from the murky water. “Oh, Rudd,” she whispered.
At first light, she’d met with Henry and a few trusted men-at-arms, yet they hadn’t found a way to win Rudd’s freedom—apart from battering down Tangston’s portcullis and whisking him from the dungeon. Her stomach churned, for lives would be lost in such a rash attempt. She had no desire for bloodshed or battle, most of all against a skilled crusader like Linford.
Moreover, the sheriff still had the missive. Naught prevented him from hunting down, arresting, and imprisoning Rudd again.
If Linford ever discovered she’d deceived him, he might arrest and imprison her, too.
She tightened her fingers into fists, burrowed them into the silk crushed under her breasts, and tipped her face into the breeze. She mustn’t drain her strength by worrying about herself. How did Rudd fare? Did he wonder if she missed him? Did he have faith she would help him?
The breeze skimmed over her cheeks, as tender as a caress. As gentle as Linford’s touch. She fought to suppress the sensations his memory aroused: anxiety, curiosity, longing.
Aye, shameful longing.
Overhead, the tree boughs stirred. Whispered. She forced herself to listen. Breathed in the scents of wet earth, marsh plants, and crushed grass. Let the serenity of the pool flow through her soles into her. The ancient rhythms of this place understood. Her tears for her parents had dripped into the clear water. In return, her soul’s burden had been lightened.
Here, she’d danced until she could face the next day. Here, she would think of a way to help Rudd.
Rising to her feet, she untied the ribbon binding her hair, then loosened her braid. She strode up the bank to the grass and, in the familiar ritual, stretched her arms up to the sun. Fingers spread wide, she turned like a dandelion spore drifting in the breeze. Swayed to and fro, like the grass’ seed pods. Bowed like the violets quivering in the oaks’ shade.
Grasses swished against her skirts. She stretched. Arched. Turned.
Her hair tangled about her throat. Her breathing quickened. Her mind cleared to accept the glade’s nurturing wisdom.
She spun, dipped, and whirled until her chest tightened with her gasped breaths.
Enlightenment eluded her.
Despair cried out inside her like a lost child. Pressing a hand against her ribs, she stumbled to the patch of violets. She knelt and, with shaking fingers, plucked the fragrant purple heads and stuffed them into the cloth purse slung at her hip. Later, she would press the essence from the blooms for scented water, a task to busy her mind and quell the frustration drowning her heart.
She wouldn’t lose hope. The answer would reveal itself. She must return to the keep, find Henry, and begin their planning anew. She mustn’t rest until she had a solution.
Wiping her fingers on her bliaut’s skirts, Rexana rose, then donned her shoes. Mud stained her gown’s hem. A trivial concern, compared to Rudd’s fate. With a last glance about the pool, she slipped into the surrounding woods to make her way back to the keep.
Long moments later, she passed through the postern gate and stepped into the bailey. The tension in her belly eased a notch. Mayhap by now, Henry and his men had come up with a plan. Shooing aside a goose which ventured near the open doorway, she secured the door’s latch, waved to the boys taking kitchen scraps to the pigs, then strode toward the keep.
She’d gone only a few steps when a maidservant ran to her. “Milady.” The girl straightened her apron while dipping in a curtsey. “Henry is looking for you. A lord arrived a short while ago. He asked to speak with you.”
Dread swooshed through Rexana. Had Darwell decided to visit and ask her about last eve?
Or, God help her, had Linford come?
She forced calmness into her voice. “Who is this lord?”
The maid shook her head. “I do not know, milady. Hen
ry did not tell me, but caught my arm and told me to find you immediately. The visitor brings word of Lord Villeaux.”
Linford would certainly have news of Rudd. But by now, word of her brother’s arrest could have spread through Warringham’s noble households. Could this lord possibly be an ally of her father’s or Rudd’s, offering assistance? Could this lord provide the answer she so desperately sought? “Where is our guest?”
“In the great hall. Waiting.”
“Thank you.” Lifting her skirt’s hem, Rexana crossed the bailey. Dust stirred at her feet, and as she neared the stables, she smoothed her hands over her snarled hair. To properly greet her honored guest, she should change her garments and rebraid her tresses . . . but she mustn’t delay such an important meeting. She would present herself in her disheveled state. Hopefully, her guest would accept a gracious apology.
As she passed the stable, a horse raised its dripping muzzle from a water trough. A huge, magnificent destrier with a shiny gray coat and black mane and tail, no doubt worth a sizable ransom. Who in this county could afford such a magnificent animal?
Armed guards, her guest’s escort, sat with their backs against the stable’s far wall, their horses tethered nearby. This lord was clearly a man of authority. Mayhap his powers even exceeded Linford’s. Anticipation quickened her strides.
Upon reaching the forebuilding, she yanked open the door, then hurried into the stairwell. The door boomed shut behind her. Her footfalls tapped on the stone stairs, the rustle of her silk gown unnaturally loud.
Strange. She heard naught from the hall ahead but the hearth’s crackling blaze. No conversation. No booted footsteps approaching to greet her.
Only silence.
Sucking in a breath, she stepped into the hall.
Squinting in the room’s smoky haze, she strode past a row of trestle tables and searched for the visitor. A tall man stood with his back to her, facing the fire, one foot scratching the belly of an old dog sprawled on the warm hearth tiles. A long black mantle, trimmed in fur, skimmed over his broad shoulders and draped down to the top of his black leather boots.
Daring Damsels Page 40
