Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Her fingers plowed into the glossy fur trimming the front of his mantle. Her nose hovered a breath away from his stubbled chin. The smell of his warm, male body enveloped her. Taunted her. Enticed her to press her breasts, belly, and thighs even closer. To relish the forbidden physical contact.

  Alarm shrilled within her. She must free herself from his hold, before he weakened her heart and mind.

  She squirmed. “Let me go.”

  “I want you, Lady Rexana.” Linford’s dark eyes, so close to hers, gleamed in the firelight. His breath warmed her cheek, while his hands splayed over the small of her back. “Accept my proposition, love, and I will do all in my power to help your brother.”

  Trembling with indignant fury, she arched an eyebrow. “How, milord? Do you dare ask me to become your courtesan?”

  “Nay, little fig. My wife.”

  “Wife? Never!”

  As the words shot from Rexana’s lips, Fane tensed. He’d expected her to initially reject his proposal, but her refusal still stung like lemon juice running into an open wound.

  He must convince her. He would have her for his own.

  Fane stared at her pursed lips, lush, red, and close enough to kiss. If he swept his mouth over hers, would her shocked cry become a moan of pleasure? Would she sigh, then soften in his arms?

  He imagined the keening sound she would make as he coaxed her to kiss him back, the way her aroused body would shift against his to encourage greater intimacy. Heat flooded his loins. He’d dreamed of such a kiss last eve.

  As though attuned to the lust streaking through him with the force of a desert storm, she wriggled in his hold. His arms instinctively tightened around her. He smiled down into her flushed, mutinous face.

  “We will wed, love. ’Tis a wise decision for us both. My position will protect you from any scandal that might arise from last night.”

  Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her gaze turned frosty. “So gallantly you speak. Yet, I vow the greater scandal is for me to wed a barbarian.”

  He laughed softly. She hurled sharp verbal barbs. Though her words held some truth, he wouldn’t let her manipulate him, or sway his purpose. “A boon, then,” he said lightly, “that I am not completely uncivilized, after all.”

  Her eyes flared before she abruptly shook her head. “Milord, I appreciate your . . . offer,” she said between her neatly-formed teeth, “but I am not afraid to face the gossips’ accusations. Alone.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She jerked in his arms and this time, trod hard on his foot. With a lazy grin, he let her go. She whirled away, halting at the other side of the prone dog to glare at him. “I do not fear you, Sheriff. Nor will you bully me into accepting your offer of marriage. Did you know my father had many friends in the king’s court? If I write to ask for—”

  “A different husband? The crown will deny your request.”

  Her eyes flashed like polished gems. “I do not think so.”

  He calmly straightened his cuff. “Before I left Acre, the king signed a writ awarding me the hand of any English maiden I desire. The king’s ministers are aware of this writ.” His gaze flicked to hers. “I will petition for the honor of your lovely hand. My request will be granted.”

  Her jaw clenched. “I shall also write and ask the ministers to intervene on Rudd’s behalf.”

  “They will refuse. I have a missive bearing his signature. It proves that he supports the traitors.”

  As though fighting the urge to lash out and scratch him, she clawed her fingers into her skirts. “Sheriff, your arrogance is most . . . unappealing.”

  He shrugged. “Yet, well founded. The king has made no secret that he and England are in my debt. He is determined to secure the crown’s control of these lands. Here, I am the king’s law.”

  The slender column of her throat moved on a swallow. Her skin looked soft. Flawless. His fingertips itched to explore the tender spot beneath her ear, the side of her neck, her throat’s shadowed hollow. He would enjoy discovering her.

  “Even if I wished to accept your offer, which I do not,” she said, drawing his focus back to her fetching mouth, “I am already practically betrothed.”

  She spoke with effort, as though divulging privileged information. Anger flamed in his gut. He barely restrained a furious cry. She wouldn’t be taken from him. Not this woman, whose passionate heart was so kindred to his own.

  “Betrothed? To whom?”

  She shivered. “Garmonn.”

  “Darwell’s son,” Fane growled.

  She nodded, but she didn’t giggle or blush like a maiden smitten. His heart warmed with wicked gladness.

  “Marriage between us was discussed when we were children,” she said. “You see, Sheriff, I cannot wed you.”

  Fane sensed her slipping from his grasp like a handful of sand. Yet, he’d vowed to finish this game between them, and so he would.

  Quirking a brow, he said, “You are not formally betrothed. Darwell asked me last eve to support your betrothal to Garmonn. I cannot. I will not, for you will wed me.”

  In the flickering firelight, her eyes sparked pure fury. “You leave me no choice, then, but to marry you?”

  Her stinging tone tempered his triumph. Still, he managed a smile. She would come to see that they were an excellent match. He would be diligent, gentle, and courteous in his persuasion. He would show her the joys and pleasures in the rituals of love. Together, they would create their own unique dance. A dance to last a lifetime.

  Turning away from her, he walked to the other end of the hearth. He must give her the dignity of her own space, so she could reach the decision herself. Waving his hand in the air, he said, “Of course, you have a choice. You may refuse. You may tell me to eat my words and never set foot in your keep again. Yet, what I told you earlier stands. I have the power to help Rudd. I am willing to do so.”

  “To have me,” she said, her voice barely audible over the hissing fire.

  “Aye. To have you.”

  “I do not love you. I never will.”

  The admission, so coolly spoken, cut him like Saracen steel. The insecurities locked deep inside him stirred to life. Again, he heard his father’s bellow. Godforsaken idiot. Leave and never come back. What your mother saw worth loving in you, I do not know.

  Fane bit back an oath. As he stared into the leaping fire, he remembered Leila’s exquisite face, her bronzed skin a contrast to the white bedding upon which she lay. Fane, she whispered, reaching her naked arms up to him. Lie with me, and together, like doves, we will both be free.

  Dragging his fisted hand over his mouth, he forcibly blocked out the memories. He wouldn’t be devoured by his past. He would not waver from his desired course.

  “I regret you find our marriage distasteful, Rexana,” he said, facing her. “Yet, few ladies have a choice in their marriages. Yours would not be the first to be forged for reasons other than love. Or the last.”

  “How comforting.”

  He ignored her icy glare. He reached into his mantle, withdrew a rolled parchment, then held it out to her. “Your signature, milady, and our agreement will be complete.”

  She frowned. Worry gleamed in her eyes, along with curiosity. The old dog whined. Stepping over its shaggy tail, she walked toward him. “What do you have?”

  “A marriage contract. It states that by mutual consent, we shall be wed in three days’ time.”

  She laughed. “Three days! Impossible. What of the betrothal ceremony? What of the banns, which must be published three Sundays in a row—”

  “I recently donated a pair of gold candlesticks to Tangston’s village church. Penance for my time in the east.” He gave a wry smile. “Father John will not be concerned with the banns.”

  Her cheeks turned an angry red. “You are a man of the law, but you so readily break it?”

  “I told Father John that you and I knew each other before I went on crusade. Since you were not betrothed, we discussed marrying when I returned. I al
so showed him the king’s writ.”

  “But—”

  Fane leveled her with a stern gaze. “Deny my story, if you will, but ’tis your word against mine. Whom do you think Father John will believe?”

  Her eyes huge, she stared at the parchment crushed between his fingers. The dog licked its lips and nuzzled her gown’s hem. Her expression hardened with sadness and regret.

  “Promise me you will help Rudd,” she whispered.

  “I will.”

  “Swear it!”

  In her damp, glittering eyes, he glimpsed the fire he’d sensed the night she danced for him. A fierce heat driven by determination, integrity, and love. If she gifted him with only a fraction of that passion, he would be a fortunate man.

  First, she had to begin to trust him.

  He pushed the parchment into her right hand. Bowing his head to her, a gesture of utmost respect, he dropped down on one knee. His cloak tumbled over his bent leg to spread behind him on the rush-strewn floor. Straw and dried herb stems poked through his hose into his skin, and the scent of mildewed food wafted to him, but he didn’t rise. He wouldn’t interrupt this important ritual.

  Clasping her left hand in his, he looked up at her. “I swear, Lady Rexana. Before you and God.”

  Her breath trembled through her lips.

  Squeezing her clammy fingers, he said, “Please. Sign.”

  In the distance, a door creaked open. A blast of cold air whipped over the floorboards. Voices echoed in the forebuilding—a man and woman arguing as they climbed the stairs to the hall. As though recognizing the voices, Rexana started and glanced toward the sound.

  Fane rose. Her fingers stiffened in his grasp. She tried to pull free, but with his thumb, he caressed her knuckles. A reassurance. A promise to protect her, now and always.

  An instant later, a man-at-arms emerged from the forebuilding. Henry, Fane recalled. The tough old warrior had very reluctantly admitted Fane and his men into Ickleton Keep.

  A flustered looking maidservant, her apron askew, hurried at his side.

  When Henry’s gaze fell to Rexana’s clasped hand, he stopped talking. He abruptly halted.

  Holding back a grin, Fane met the older man’s stare, which darkened with dislike and protectiveness. Henry obviously cared a great deal for his lady. Fane guessed he’d accompanied her to Tangston.

  “Henry,” Rexana said.

  Offering a polite smile to Henry, Fane said, “Good day to you, once again.”

  The warrior scowled. “Why do you hold Lady Rexana’s hand?”

  “I bid farewell to my intended bride.”

  The maidservant gasped.

  Henry recoiled as though shot by an arrow. “What?”

  “You are overbold, Sheriff,” Rexana muttered, looking as though she would love to throttle him. “I have not agreed.”

  “You will.”

  Before she could pull away, before he thought twice and snuffed the mischief coiling inside him, Fane tightened his hold on her. He drew her fingers to his mouth. Her skin smelled of violets. Sweet. Inviting.

  He felt her shiver. Her eyes spat warning sparks, but he merely smiled. With lazy intent, he kissed the back of her hand, leaving his impression upon her skin. Once. Twice. Then he nipped her with his teeth. To those watching, the tiny bite would appear no more than another gallant kiss.

  Her lips parted on a shocked gasp. Outrage flared in her gaze, then embarrassment and confusion. Did he also see a hint of pleasure? She twisted her fingers free.

  “Good day to you, little fig,” he murmured.

  He turned on his heel, nodded to Henry and the swooning maidservant, and strode from the hall.

  “You cannot sign!”

  Her palms pressed to the trestle table, head between her arms, Rexana shut her eyes and waited for Henry’s shout to fade. Oh, God, how could she have told Linford she was practically betrothed to Garmonn? Loathing shuddered through her to the core of her soul. She would die before she ever committed herself to that merciless oaf.

  Weariness pressed upon her. Despite her best efforts, she’d failed to thwart Linford. Now, she must do what had to be done.

  “’Tis the only option, Henry,” she said quietly. “You know it, as well as I.”

  “Surely there is another. If you spoke to Lord Darwell—”

  “Whatever opinion he has of the sheriff, Darwell will not act against a high-ranking crown official. He would be foolish to do so. He could lose his lands, his keep, his fortune.” She sighed and felt the morning’s frustrations settle deeper into her bones. “Since Darwell is the one who revealed me to Linford, I would rather eat pig slop than ask him for a favor.”

  Henry exhaled on a growl. “How could he?”

  “I know.” Nudging aside skeins of hair, she stared at the parchment pinned down with ale mugs and the fragrant soap. Her brooch glinted nearby. She inhaled a calming breath, but then, as Linford’s essence drifted up to her, dearly wished she hadn’t.

  The memory of his kiss shuddered through her. The back of her hand warmed, as though once again his lips caressed and nibbled her flesh. An indecent heat roused within her.

  She blinked hard. Focus, Rexana! She mustn’t let Linford’s flirtations rule her body or ruin her concentration. Narrowing her gaze, she focused on the missive’s lines of black ink.

  Behind her, Henry paced. “Why not contact Garmonn?”

  With effort, she steeled the disgust from her tone. “He is of a temper to charge into Tangston and challenge the sheriff to a bloody tourney. I do not wish any deaths on my conscience.”

  “Wait! If Garmonn weds you on the morrow . . . a secret ceremony—”

  Beneath her hands, the wooden table felt as cold as sheeted ice. “Then Rudd will be at Linford’s mercy. Rudd will have no one to help him win his freedom. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  Henry snorted. “You place a great deal of faith in Linford’s vow. Can you guarantee he will follow through with his offer to help Rudd? Nay. Since your brother is no doubt innocent of treason—as Linford will discover—you will have bound yourself to that . . . that barbarian for naught.”

  She squeezed her lips together. Dear Henry. Ever loyal to the Villeaux. For his support, she would always be grateful. Yet, she had no other course but to tread the path Linford had set for her. Rudd had risked his life to save her from certain doom months ago, and now she must risk hers.

  “Linford will keep his word. I will make certain he does, by becoming his wife.” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she traced the parchment’s rough edge and skimmed the formal Latin script that committed her in mind and body to Linford.

  Her breath caught. “In written word . . . only?”

  Hope bloomed inside her. Could the answer be so simple?

  Her finger skimmed the neatly penned text, the parchment slightly abrasive against her fingertip.

  Henry stopped his furtive pacing. “Milady?”

  Excitement thrummed inside her. “What if the marriage is not consummated? Linford and I will not lawfully be man and wife. Correct?” She looked up at Henry, sweet hope pulsing through her. “I can say I stayed pure because I did not truly consent to the marriage. I can petition for an annulment.”

  With a hearty roar, Henry clapped his hands together. “Aha! In the meanwhile, being inside Linford’s keep, you will find a way to save Rudd. Rudd escapes, he is proven innocent, you demand an annulment, and the sheriff is left in a very foul mood.”

  Rexana laughed. “Exactly.”

  Hands on his hips, Henry grinned at her. “A clever plan, milady.” The warmth in his eyes faded. “But dangerous.”

  She straightened away from the table. “I am willing to face the danger.”

  “You are prepared to tempt Linford’s appetites?”

  The spot on her hand where he’d bitten her tingled. In his own crude way, he’d marked her as his own.

  She covered the back of her hand with her other palm, smothered the tingling sensation, and smiled.
What delicious irony, that he would never have her as he desired.

  “Henry, please fetch me a quill and ink.”

  Three days later, the morn dawned clear and bright. A perfect day for a wedding. Or, at least, it would be, Rexana thought moodily, if she were to marry a man she loved.

  She adjusted her hold on her plodding mare’s reins and struggled to calm her jittery nerves. As she’d often reminded herself since signing the marriage contract, she had good reasons for wedding the sheriff. She wouldn’t lose sight of her purpose. Not now. Not in the coming days.

  The morning breeze carried many sounds: the hoofbeats of the horses bearing her wooden chests of clothes and personal effects; the snap of the banner displaying her family crest; and the merry tune played by the musicians who walked ahead of the procession to herald her arrival. A few paces in front of her, Henry spoke to one of the men-at-arms who escorted her to Tangston’s village church. There, the wedding ceremonies would be performed.

  There, in name only, she would become Lady Rexana Linford.

  The town gates loomed ahead. The fortress rose on the grassy hill beyond, tall and imposing like Linford himself.

  ’Tis the right choice, she told herself firmly. Believe it, and you will not fail.

  Henry dropped back so that his horse walked alongside hers. “Not far now, milady.” He frowned, as he had earlier when he’d helped her onto her mare and smoothed her mantle so her bliaut wouldn’t gather dust on the journey.

  “I shall be fine, Henry.”

  “Still, I worry.” He swatted away a bee that had shot up from the wildflowers growing along the roadside. “If you need help, no matter what ’tis—”

  Tears clogged her throat. “I will ask you. Thank you.”

  Shouts came from the gates ahead. Rexana straightened and looked at the peasants gathered on either side of the gates and peering over the stone wall. Curiosity and excitement warmed the faces of the men, women, and children who watched her approach. The enormity of her decision flooded through her, yet she managed a smile. No matter how fearsome her decision seemed, she would persevere. She would win Rudd’s freedom.