Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Misgiving tingled through her. Why didn’t the man turn to greet her? Hadn’t he heard her approach?

  Clearing her throat, she started toward him. He straightened. The elegant gesture, almost deadly in its smooth precision, shot warning through her body. The hair at her nape prickled with awareness. Stunned dismay. Fear.

  She stumbled to a halt. His leather boots creaked as he turned to reveal a firm, tanned profile. Curved mouth. Brown eyes that met her gaze with satisfaction and challenge.

  Linford.

  Fane watched her eyes widen with trepidation. They turned as green as the battle trappings hung alongside swords and shields on the wall behind her. Had she naively thought never to see him again? Foolish little fig.

  Her fair skin, scrubbed free of kohl and darkening powders, was as white as a fresh lily. Her lips pressed into an unsteady line before she seemed to realize her mistake and her mouth eased into a smile.

  “Good day, milord.” Admirably, her voice revealed only a slight quaver. Holding her head high, as though naught were amiss, she strolled toward him. Her shoes whispered on the rushes strewn over the floorboards, the sound of softly spoken secrets. Did she know he was exceptionally well versed in the art of exposing deceptions? Did she know he intended to unveil all of hers, every single one, before he’d finished with her?

  “Good day to you, Lady Rexana Villeaux.” Holding her gaze, he spoke her name slowly, rolling the last vowels over his tongue. She would know she hadn’t fooled him last eve.

  For an instant, shock gleamed in her eyes. Then, her brow furrowed into a frown. With a polite, puzzled smile, she said, “You know my name. One of the servants must have told you, for I do not believe we have met.”

  Laughter bubbled in Fane’s throat. What game did she play? Admiration stirred in his gut, tempering his smug satisfaction, as his right hand curled into the folds of his mantle. So, she wished to do a merry dance with his mind, did she? Pretend they were strangers? Pretend she hadn’t danced in front of him and tempted him with seduction?

  A smile tilted the corner of his mouth. She could initiate this little pretense. He would finish it.

  Playing to her, he dipped his head in a chivalrous bow. “Fane Linford. High Sheriff of Warringham.”

  “At last, we meet. I am honored.”

  His smile threatened to break into a grin. Ah, she was clever.

  As she neared, he allowed his gaze to drift over her face, to appreciate the features she’d disguised last night. To rattle the dignified, ladylike poise that surrounded her like an iron shield.

  Ah, God, she was beautiful. Her hair wasn’t black like Leila’s, but golden brown, the color of the sweet clover honey that in his childhood, he’d devoured by spoonfuls from the pot. Her tresses tumbled over her shoulders in an unfettered mass to brush the narrow indent of her waist. Her green silk bliaut, oddly creased with mud at the hem, skimmed her hips, then fell in folds to the floorboards. His mouth watered. He didn’t have to imagine the curve of her legs hidden beneath the fabric. He’d already seen them. He would never forget.

  She moved close enough that he saw dark smudges under her eyes. Fatigue? Worry for her traitorous brother? Fane’s eyes narrowed. Did she realize that her brother had revealed her identity last eve? Was this lovely creature an accomplice to her brother’s conspiracy?

  He would know. He must know.

  As she glided to a halt, she said, “I apologize for your wait, milord. I regret I was detained by an important matter.”

  She’d stopped several paces from him. Far enough away that she could whirl out of his reach if she so wished, yet near enough to taunt him with the perfume of violets. Another facet of their sensual game. How he loved a worthy chase.

  Chuckling, he stepped from the fire’s heat. Before she could move away, he pointed to the fuzzy green burrs clinging to her sleeve. “Detained? By a meadow sprite?”

  She stiffened, but made no effort to remove the burrs. Her smile wavered only a fraction. “I am sure you understand, milord, that as lady of Ickleton Keep, I have a great many responsibilities. More so now that my parents are dead.”

  He nodded. “I heard of your loss. My sincere condolences to you and your brother.”

  Beneath her wrinkled bodice, her luscious breasts rose and fell on a sharp breath. Her clasped hands tightened, yet she didn’t break his gaze. “I am told you bring word of Rudd.”

  Ah, the first glimmerings of a concession. “Indeed, I do.”

  Her knuckles whitened. As he stared at her slender fingers, he noted the stains under her nails. Curiosity gnawed at him. What had she been doing, before she came to him? She looked rumpled, flushed, and thoroughly desirable in her unruly state.

  Fane’s mouth tightened on a sudden, ridiculous sting of jealousy. Had she been rolling in meadow grass with a lover? A possibility. One that shouldn’t matter to him.

  One that did matter.

  “I regret I must be completely honest about your brother.” His tone was sharper than he intended. Behind him, the fire snapped, as though mimicking his words.

  “Honest? Whatever do you mean?”

  As her question hovered in the air between them, the tension thickened. Pulsed. He pursued his verbal advance. Step by step. “I mean”—he raised an eyebrow—“that I will speak naught but the truth.”

  Her gaze sparked with wariness. “Of course.”

  “I expect the same from you.”

  Her breath rushed between her parted lips. Her hands flew up, fingers splayed as though to ward off his advance. “Sheriff Linford, do you imply that I would try to . . . to deliberately deceive you?”

  The shrill womanly indignation in her voice roused the smile he’d smothered earlier. “Aye, little fig. I do.”

  “Little . . . Oh!” She bit down on her bottom lip, as though to quell a scathing curse. Clenching her hands into fists, she whirled away in a blur of honey-gold hair and blue silk and stomped across the hall. Over her footfalls, he heard her say, “I do not appreciate your boldness.”

  He laughed. “I know.” With noisy strides, he pursued.

  She quickened her pace. Caught up her skirts. Ran toward the forebuilding’s stairwell. Lunging past her, he reached it first. Planting his feet apart, he spun, rammed his hands flat on the walls, and blocked her path. Cool air blew up from the door at the bottom of the stone stairs and stirred his mantle.

  Breathing hard, he stared at her.

  Hands on hips, she halted well out of his reach. She sucked air between her teeth, then shot him a look that could freeze a lusty man’s blood. “Stand aside.”

  “First, we settle a matter between us.”

  “If you will not tell me of Rudd, we have naught to discuss.” Her eyes flashed a clear warning. A moment more, and she would scream for her men-at-arms.

  Caution gnawed at Fane. He couldn’t risk hindering his carefully planned proposition. For now, he must concede to her.

  And heighten the game.

  With a dry laugh, Fane shook his head. Easing away from the wall, he reached into his mantle to withdraw a small, cloth-wrapped package. The familiar, distinctive eastern scent wafted to him. Flooded him with anticipation.

  Holding her gaze, he tore aside the fabric and tossed the package’s contents onto the table beside her. “You are mistaken, little dancer. We have a great deal to discuss.”

  With stunned dismay, Rexana watched the cake of soap slide toward her—identical to the one she’d savored in his chamber. Her stomach did a slow, unsteady turn while her mind raced for words. What did Linford intend now that he knew her deceit?

  Her insides froze as he strode to the table. Closer. Closer. He came near enough that his male essence blended with the soap’s lemony fragrance. Her nostrils filled with his scent. With the potent aura of man, danger, and temptation.

  A tremor rippled through her. Curse her fickle heart. His clean, exotic scent shouldn’t be the least bit enticing.

  His tanned fingers closed over the soap. A
s he moved, his mantle’s fur cuff brushed her arm. A deliberate touch. She jerked back two steps.

  “No more secrets, Lady Rexana,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft.

  Words grated from her lips. “How dare you.”

  “Nay, milady. How dare you.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. He smiled, the faintest crook of his mouth that implied a wealth of meaning. Recklessness and rebellion sped her pulse. She hadn’t admitted to her deception. She could still feign ignorance of what he implied. Pretend that the soap was only soap, and that his insinuations were as flawed as his barbaric tactics.

  As she stared up into his face, hard yet unmistakably handsome, she saw the forewarning glittering in his eyes. He could be equally as stubborn as she. Moreover, he possessed one bargaining tool she did not: Rudd.

  Yet, if he knew with certainty she was the dancer, and that she was Rudd’s sister, Linford would have challenged her with the brooch.

  Wariness undermined her defiance. He’d journeyed to the keep for a specific reason. To confront her? Aye. Yet, mayhap he didn’t have proof she and the dancer were the same woman, but aimed to explore his suspicions. Mayhap he wanted her to betray herself. She must speak with care to learn his purpose.

  Lowering her gaze to his hand cradling the cake, she quirked an eyebrow. “What is your meaning, milord? Why do you challenge me with simple soap?”

  “More than soap, as well you know.”

  The caution within her intensified. “I fear I do not understand.” The false words were as heavy as stones on her tongue. “Mayhap you will plainly speak what it is you want, then tell me of my brother.”

  “Very well. I know your secret, Lady Rexana. I know you disguised yourself as a dancer last eve. I know you performed for me, and that you came to my solar.”

  She dried her moist palms on her skirt. “Indeed, Sheriff? What proof do you have ’tis so?”

  He released the soap, then again reached into his mantle. Fabric whispered, the barest warning.

  The brooch landed on the table between them.

  The little arrow gleamed against the dark oak. She rubbed her lips together and smothered a choice, unladylike oath.

  “Your brother told me this brooch is yours. He had it made for you. Gave it to you himself.” Linford’s shoulders raised in an indolent shrug. “Lord Darwell also had suspicions—”

  A sigh burst from her lips. “Loose-tongued, pompous old—”

  “Do not speak ill of him.” Linford’s smile turned crooked. “He has an excellent eye for a woman’s physique. He thinks your . . . attributes . . . are most exceptional.” As Linford spoke his gaze heated and skimmed over her bodice, as though he, too, appreciated her generous proportions. Inwardly, Rexana cursed the wicked thrill of excitement that tingled through her to pool in her most private of places.

  When he continued to ogle, she barely resisted the urge to slap his arrogant cheek. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Must you stare?”

  His gaze, glowing with mischief, slid up to her face. “My apologies, but I cannot help myself. I agree with Darwell.”

  His words cooled her like icy river water. Flattery? Did he believe she would be influenced by such false words?

  Panic flitted through her like a butterfly fighting to escape a rainstorm. Had he sensed the yearning trapped within her? Did he use his skills in seducing women to lure her into a trap of confession? “Why did you come here?” she demanded.

  “Ah, the heart of the matter.” Leaving the soap and brooch on the table, he crossed his arms, mirroring her defiant posture, then leaned his thigh against the table. “Let us begin with the most obvious question. Why?”

  She stared at his hands, firm and bronzed against his mantle’s black wool. Beautiful hands, which controlled and manipulated power. Yet, in his solar, he’d touched her with gentleness.

  Fear pricked her. How did she stop herself from crumbling and falling right into his waiting fingers?

  “You came for the missive, aye?” he pressed.

  Shock jolted through her. When she raised her lashes to glance at him, he smiled like a barn cat that had devoured a plump robin.

  Before she could reply, he said, “I was awake long into the early morn, considering your dance. I wondered what would make a lady of your position desperate enough to risk her reputation as well as the respect of her noble peers. Few things, I vow, except her brother’s life.”

  A chill skittered across the nape of her neck. Too astute, this man, for her to reject his words with a simple “nay.” In answer, she said, “If you guessed correctly?”

  His soft laughter echoed. “So, my suspicions about the maidservant who fled Tangston were correct. Did she ride to Ickleton, then, after leaving here, and reveal to you what she had heard me say?”

  His words plunged into Rexana’s thoughts like falling rocks. “You . . . you wanted her to overhear your words? To learn of the missive?” As shock swept through Rexana’s mind, her body numbed. She’d just betrayed herself.

  As though acknowledging her careless slip, Linford cast her a lazy wink. “’Twas clear the day I rode into Tangston that she distrusted me and would never swear fealty to me. I discreetly investigated her past, and learned of her dead father’s devotion to your family. When your brother’s loyalty to the king became suspect . . .” Linford shrugged. “An ungracious plan, I admit, to feed her select information on the traitors, but necessary. I will not fail to root out those who undermine the crown’s authority.”

  “Did you speak true about the list of traitors?” Rexana asked. “Do you possess a parchment that bears my brother’s signature?”

  “I do.”

  She rubbed her arms. Fear, outrage, and sickening frustration battled within her. “The missive is forged. My brother is guiltless.”

  Linford plucked a leaf from his mantle’s cuff. “I fear not, milady. Last eve, my guards caught him in a clandestine meeting with a number of other lords.”

  “Rudd would never betray the king!”

  “Lady Rexana—”

  “I swear so. Upon my honor.”

  “Your honor,” Linford repeated with dangerous softness. He uncrossed his arms. As he pressed his fingertips on the table, his fur-trimmed cuff whispered down over his wrist. “An interesting point. Might I note you recklessly risked your honor by performing before a crowded hall of nobles?” His mouth slanted into a half smile. “I am curious, love. How far would you have taken your deception?”

  She swallowed. Hard. His intense gaze darkened. Demanded an answer. Unease poked at her, but she refused to heed it. She wouldn’t yield to Linford’s barbarism.

  Her chin tipped up. “As far as I felt necessary.” Let him believe the worst of her. She didn’t care. She would never dance for him in his hall again.

  “Would you have given me your virtue?”

  He spoke softly, without criticism, yet his hushed tone only magnified the question’s importance. She shrugged aside an inner cry for caution. “To save Rudd’s life, I would risk a great many things.”

  Despite her resolve, her voice shook. Memories of a wintry day, of Garmonn laughing and aiming his bow into the woods, tore through her mind. Again, she heard poor Thomas Newland’s agonized scream. Saw blood spattered on the snow. She closed her eyes against the anguish, horror, and revulsion that rattled her courage.

  Rudd had saved her from certain death that day. He’d risked his own life to come after her in the blizzard. Found her, half frozen, trying to drag Thomas to safety. She would have perished if Rudd hadn’t come.

  Now, she must save Rudd.

  As she raised her damp lashes to meet Linford’s gaze, his expression softened with admiration. “You must love your brother very much.”

  “I do.” She cleared the rasp from her voice. “Do not mistake me, Sheriff. I will not allow you to persecute Rudd.”

  A velvety laugh rumbled from Linford. “Ah, love. I vow we can be of service to one another, after all.”

&n
bsp; His satisfied tone warned her that he danced nearer his true purpose. She spun away from the table. “I have no desire to help you.”

  “You have not heard my proposition.”

  Bitter laughter burned her throat. “If it should concern my honor—”

  “Aye. More importantly, preserving it.”

  “I do not care what the gossips say.” Even as she spoke, a shudder ran the length of her spine. Through one impulsive but necessary act, she’d likely ruined years of tutoring and social acceptability. By now, Darwell might have told Garmonn and half of Warringham, in lurid detail, how she’d danced for Linford in an attempt to seduce him and rescue her brother.

  And how she’d failed.

  Fighting the despair slicing through her, she walked to the hearth and raised her hands to the roaring flames. At her feet, the dog raised its grayed head. It looked at her with filmy eyes, while its tail thumped on the tiles.

  Her father had adored this faithful hound. It had followed at his heels everywhere he went. Unconditional love. Unfailing loyalty. How could an animal feel what she felt for Rudd? She blinked away fresh tears.

  Linford’s hands, firm yet surprisingly gentle, came down upon her shoulders. Rexana started. She hadn’t even heard him walk up behind her.

  Where his palms pressed, a strange, glimmering heat seeped through her bliaut to her bare skin. Tingling sensations, akin to the light burn of sparks from the wood popping in the hearth, rippled across her back.

  She tried to wrench free, but he didn’t release her.

  “I respect your stubborn loyalty to your brother,” Linford said from behind her, his breath stirring her hair, “but you should not bear responsibility for his treachery.”

  “Remove your hands.”

  As though he hadn’t heard her protest, he murmured, “You are young. Beautiful. A lady of rare courage and intelligence.” One of his fingers slid across the silk between her shoulder blades. “A woman of wild, wild passions.”

  She whirled around. Her skirts tangled with the heavy drape of his mantle and wound about her legs. She stumbled, but his arms caught her. As she fell against him with a shocked “oomph,” his hands slid easily around her waist.