Children darted toward her, clutching bouquets of wilting daisies and meadowsweet. Leaning down, she took the flowers from their sticky fingers. One day, her womb would bear a babe, but not Linford’s child. The thought left her feeling strangely empty. How ridiculous. She felt naught for Linford. Certainly not love.
The men-at-arms moved closer to contain the crush of people. Tucking the flowers in front of her saddle, Rexana followed the musicians through the town gates. More people crowded the streets. The noise, the narrow wattle and daub buildings reaching upward toward the sky, the sea of anonymous, staring faces melted into a blur around her and she kicked her mare forward.
“Rexana.” The familiar voice cut above the din. “Here. By the tavern.”
A man staggered out of the building’s crooked doorway. His handsome face was unshaven, his shock of red hair unkempt, his rust brown tunic stained and creased. She hardly recognized the young lord: Garmonn.
Her mouth went dry. The last thing she needed was a confrontation with him. Not when she’d done her best to avoid him the past few days. She waved, then coaxed her mare onward.
“You refused to receive me,” Garmonn called in an overloud, petulant voice. He elbowed his way through the throng. When he reached her side, he stumbled along beside her moving horse. “Why did you refuse me? What have I done to deserve your disfavor?”
He set his hand on her leg. Memories flooded her mind, sending panic rushing through her in a harrowing deluge. He’d won her disfavor months ago, but ’twas not wise to remind him now. Forcing a gentle tone, she said, “With only days to prepare for the wedding, I had no time for visits. I am sorry.”
“You are heartless.” His bloodshot eyes hardened. “Rudd rots in the sheriff’s dungeon. You do naught to help him. Instead, you wed that crusading bastard. You should be marrying me.”
The noise around her quieted. Warning buzzed in her veins, as well as anger. Didn’t he see how mortifying this was for himself, and for her? Did he intend to cause a scene? “Garmonn—”
“Do not marry Linford.” His fingers tightened on her, crushing her mantle and gown. The mare flailed her head, and with a gasp, Rexana struggled to keep control of the animal. “Listen to me.” He leaned closer, his lips wet with spit. “’Tis dangerous—”
“To mistreat my bride,” boomed a deep voice. “Unhand her, or you will find yourself in my dungeon.”
Her breath caught. The crowd parted as Fane strode toward her, flanked by men-at-arms, one hand on his sword’s grip. Sunlight gleamed on his silky hair and embroidered blue tunic, crafted from the most beautiful fabric she’d ever seen. The lavish garment denoted wealth and authority.
She swallowed. “Sheriff Linford.”
“Milady.”
Her horse snorted, sidestepped. Fane reached up, caught the jingling bridle, and steadied the animal. His gaze slid to Garmonn. “Lord Darwell’s son, I believe?”
Garmonn’s face reddened. He managed an unsteady bow.
“Your father is looking for you. He hoped you would honor Rexana and myself by attending the wedding ceremony.” Fane shook his head. “I vow you should go sleep off your drink.”
With an awkward gesture, Garmonn smoothed his tunic. “I am not besotted.”
“You reek of tavern smoke and ale.” Fane’s eyes narrowed. “You have already embarrassed my bride with your foolishness. Leave, before I choose to take exception to your crudity.”
“You dare to call me crude, you bast—”
“Leave,” Fane snapped. “Now.” His hand closed on his broadsword’s hilt.
Garmonn reached for the dagger at his hip.
A hush fell over the crowd.
A sickening tightness clawed at Rexana’s chest. She stared down at Garmonn, his face a ghastly shade of purple. If she didn’t intervene, he would attack Fane. She knew well of Garmonn’s twisted cruelty.
“Please.” She softened her words to remove any hint of insult. “Do as he says. Rudd would wish it, as do I.”
Garmonn’s gaze held hers. His eyes scorned her, condemned her. Called her a liar. Fear stormed through her.
“When Rudd is proven innocent and freed from the dungeon,” she soothed, “I will tell him to come see you.”
As though her words eased an internal dilemma, Garmonn smiled, then spat out of the side of his mouth. He sheathed his knife. After casting Fane a last, disparaging glance, he turned and staggered through the crowd.
She sighed. Her shoulders sagged. Past the rushing sound in her ears, she scarcely heard Fane’s command to his men-at-arms. “Find Garmonn’s horse. Make sure he leaves and does not return.”
Guards thundered past. The chatter and music resumed.
Rexana unwound the reins that had somehow become twisted tight around her fingers. Bits of meadowsweet, dislodged from the saddle during the fray, tumbled to the ground.
The mare suddenly eased into a walk. Rexana looked up, to see Fane leading the horse off the main street into an alley cluttered with broken wine barrels and crates. The crowd moved back to allow them room to pass. As men-at-arms stepped forward to control the throng, Fane said, “Do not let anyone follow.”
He strode farther into the alley. His tunic glittered and outlined the muscled swell of his shoulders. Lower down, the fabric shifted against his buttocks, suggesting taut muscles and curves. Rexana quickly averted her gaze. She shouldn’t notice such things.
“Where are you taking me?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “To the church, love, to make you my wife.”
Frowning, she pointed to her right. “The church is in that direction.”
“I thought you might need a moment to calm yourself and right your garments.” He kicked broken crockery out of the horse’s path. “Father John might think I could not wait to sample you.”
Her hand froze in the midst of straightening her skirt. Her heart lurched into a steady thump, thump and she glared at the back of Linford’s head. “You are a rogue to suggest such a misdeed.”
Again, he looked back at her. His smoldering gaze skimmed over her mantle before he grinned crookedly. “I am tempted.”
A thrill skittered through her. She ignored the sensation. “You would not dare.”
“You misjudge me.” He chuckled, a sound of wicked intent. “Then again, mayhap not. ’Tis rumored, after all, that I have few morals.”
The horse slowed, then halted. The trill of a flute, laughter, and voices drifted from the distant street. As the sunlight slanted over the buildings and lit Linford’s eyes, Rexana’s heart slid down into her belly.
Releasing the horse’s bridle, he strode to her side. Her embroidered shoe touched the front of his tunic.
Oh, God. What did he intend?
“Have you forgotten the way to the church, milord?” She stared at him. The leather reins bit into her palms—just as Linford had bitten her hand. With shocking vividness, she remembered the moist heat of his mouth, and his teeth grazing her skin.
“I remember the way,” he said. “So, too, do I recall your skin’s warmth. You smell like violets. You taste like a sweet, ripe fig. Irresistible.” His fingers brushed her sleeve. “I want to kiss you, Rexana.”
She twisted away. “Stop.”
“Am I that fearsome? Come. I am to be your husband. Grant me one little kiss. For luck.”
Luck? Oh, aye, she needed plenty. His sinful smile promised he knew all the ways to kiss a woman and make her beg for more. Did he know she’d never been kissed on the lips by a man? Did he know that if she kissed him here, now, she might not want to stop?
Pushing aside his hand, which was gliding up her arm, she said, “You wish to kiss on the mouth?”
His eyes gleamed with surprise and obvious pleasure. “Aye.”
As though caught up in the clandestine excitement, her traitorous pulse quickened. The heady scents of crushed flowers and potent male teased her, tempted her. What would it feel like, to kiss mouth to mouth? Would he taste of exotic spices and
wine? Would he—
Mercy! How could she think such things?
She adjusted her hold on the reins as he leaned forward, his gaze hungry and expectant.
“I regret, milord,” she murmured, “you will have to wait.”
Kicking her heels into the mare’s sides, she urged the horse to a brisk walk.
His bold laughter chased her. “Rexana, you vixen. You will make me a happy man.” His footfalls echoed in the alley.
He pursued.
She whistled between her teeth. The mare broke into a fast trot. Smiling, Rexana rode out into the market square.
Fane caught up with Rexana near the church. He halted at the edge of the milling crowd. More people than he’d expected had gathered to witness the public ceremony to be held on the church portico, before the wedding party moved inside for the private, nuptial mass.
Breathing hard, he set his hands on his hips and stared at Rexana, still seated upon her mount. The wind had pulled strands of hair from her braid, once smoothly coiled around her head. Her mantle hung askew, and her cheeks glowed from her defiant flight.
He’d never seen a woman look more beautiful.
Meeting his gaze, she quirked an eyebrow. He grinned. They were well matched. If she proved equally feisty in the privacy of his solar—
“Ready, milord?”
“What?” Fane dragged his gaze from Rexana, being assisted from her horse by Henry. Clad in full ceremonial robes, and holding a leather-bound book, the priest stood at Fane’s side. Shoving aside his lustful thoughts, Fane nodded. “Aye, Father.” He withdrew the sapphire ring from his finger and handed it to the priest.
As Rexana removed her mantle and smoothed her exquisite silk gown, Fane walked to her. Henry withdrew a wrapped bundle from her saddlebag. With a hint of reluctance, she shook out the sheer veil and draped it over her hair, then secured it with a gold circlet. Her gaze sharpened as he approached, as though she expected him to follow through with his threat of a kiss, but she didn’t step away.
Fane resisted the urge to draw her into his arms and pleasure her with a thorough, soul-wrenching kiss that would sap the rebellion out of her. That particular pleasure must wait.
Capturing her elbow, he propelled her toward the church’s carved stone portico. He ignored her squeak of protest.
“I am quite capable of walking on my own.” She tugged, unsuccessfully, to free her arm.
“You might try to run away again,” Fane said. “We cannot have that, can we?” As he walked, he nodded to Lord Darwell, who stood at the front of the crowd, surrounded by other prominent nobles Fane recognized from the celebration at Tangston. Darwell smiled broadly and waved, yet looked on the verge of tears.
Rexana sighed. “I will not run. I signed the writ and agreed to wed you. I will not relinquish my vow.”
“Nor shall I, little fig.”
Fane glanced at her. Beneath the veil’s gauzy edge, determination glittered in her eyes. Remorse chilled his innards to icy stone. She wanted this marriage, would see the ceremony done, though not for her own pleasure or personal reward. Only for her damned traitorous brother.
Anger soured his heady anticipation. She gave herself to save Rudd, as Fane had known she would. Did she truly expect to receive naught in return? Was she unaware of the profound union awaiting them when she willingly gave herself to him? Together, they would write their dance into the night sky and pinpoint each exquisite step with stars.
He would show her he was no compassionless barbarian, regardless of her brother’s fate.
Father John stood in front of the carved wooden door of the church, chatting to a lady with her young son. Fane drew Rexana to the bottom of the stone steps. Head held high, her bliaut drifting in the breeze, she stopped beside him. He released her elbow. Taking her hand, he linked his fingers through hers. She stiffened, but didn’t push him away.
Leaning close to her, Fane whispered, “Smile, Rexana.” Her veiled hair smelled of sunshine and violets.
As Rexana stared straight ahead, her mouth eased into a ghost of a smile. “I am, milord.”
Shaking his head, Fane murmured, “Mayhap if I kissed you, there, on your cheek that is the color of desert sand blushed by dawn, you would not have difficulty smiling.”
Her lips twitched.
“Ah. I knew you had a smile hidden away with your dancing bells.”
Her fingernails bit into the palm of his hand, a reprimand. “You are not the only one in strange spirits. Whatever is the matter with Lord Darwell? I cannot decide if he is bursting with a secret, or about to bawl like a babe.”
“He is disappointed, no doubt, that you will not be wedding Garmonn.” Mischief warmed Fane’s heart. “I also told him you pursued me. Tempted me. Seduced me into proposing marriage.”
“What?”
Fane winked, fighting to hold back a chuckle. “A necessary tale. How else could I explain your dance and our quick nuptials without arousing suspicion?”
She cast Darwell a sidelong glance. “He believed you?”
Fane licked his lips. He really shouldn’t tease Rexana any further . . . but shame on him, he couldn’t help himself. Not when for the first time in days, he tested the hot well of passion inside of her. “After a few elaborations.” When her eyes widened, Fane shrugged. “I told him you found my eastern allure irresistible.”
“Devil’s spawn!”
In mid-sentence, the priest halted. Turning away from the noblewoman and her son, he peered down at Rexana. “Milady?”
Rexana’s face turned scarlet. Murmurs and chuckles rippled through the crowd. It seemed onlookers were already nudging elbows and placing bets on their wedded happiness.
Fane’s conscience pricked and he squeezed her fingers. He didn’t care what the others believed. Neither should she. They were destined for one another. He countered her glare with a genial smile.
She looked away. “My apologies, Father, for the interruption.”
As the priest resumed his conversation, Fane leaned close to her again. Her hand shook in his grasp, as though she was sorely temped to slap him. “Do not be angry, love. Word spread quickly of our wedding. I had to give an explanation.” Fane brushed his thumb over her wrist’s soft curve. “You believe I have been unfair, depicting you as a lusty vixen?”
“You misjudge me,” she said, her tone cool.
“Nay. I look forward to proving it.”
She blinked in a gust of wind, and reached up to smooth her veil. He stared at her profile. She was so lovely. Proud. Independent. Yet, she would come to realize they were two halves of the same soul.
The priest cleared his throat, then tapped his book, a clear signal he wished to begin. Fane met his gaze and nodded.
A hush fell over the onlookers, broken only by birdcalls and the wind whistling around the church’s walls. The sapphire glittered between the tome’s crisp parchment pages. As the priest began to speak in formal Latin, the surrounding world became a blur. Fane knew only the press of Rexana’s fingers against his, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her breath was his breath. She belonged to him, as he belonged to her.
Rexana’s elbow jabbed into his side, bringing him back to the present.
“Take her right hand, milord,” the priest said, obviously for the second time, “to say your vows.”
“Gladly, Father.” Fane clasped her clammy fingers in his, held her gaze, and repeated the words that would make them man and wife. He listened as she tonelessly repeated her vows.
The smiling priest blessed the ring. Rexana looked at it, and her throat moved. Fane’s mouth flooded with a bitter taste. Did she think he mocked her with the sapphire, which he’d given her before under different circumstances? One day, he would tell her how the ring had helped win the battle at Acre and saved thousands of Christian lives. It represented all that was honorable in his past, as well as his future.
On the priest’s instruction, Fane repeated a blessing and slipped the ring onto each of t
he three fingers of her left hand, then settled it on her ring finger. “With this ring,” he murmured, “I thee wed.”
Her bottom lip quivered. He willed her to glance up, to see the truth of his gift to her, but she did not.
It didn’t matter. He would prove the truth to her.
“You are husband and wife,” the priest said. When the crowd clapped and cheered, his face broke into a ruddy grin. “Come inside, now, for mass.”
“First, Father, I will kiss my bride.”
The crowd tittered. The priest’s mouth flapped. “Milord,” he said quietly, “that comes later in the proceedings. After I bestow upon you the Kiss of Peace.”
Fane gestured to the throng. “Surely these good people wish to see how deeply we are in love, and that our marriage is one of mutual consent.”
Rexana gasped. Her gaze shot to Henry, who stood nearby, as though she sought reassurance. Then her expression hardened.
“Rexana—” Fane began.
She wrenched her hand from his. Her eyes blazed with shock and indignation. He’d expected to see maidenly trepidation, mayhap even embarrassment, but not willfulness.
Did she resent having to kiss him before a crowd? Or did she disagree that their marriage was one of consent?
Her gaze darkened with challenge, and he grinned. Clever little fig. She dared him to kiss her with all the passion simmering inside him. Dared him to show himself as a lusty, boorish oaf with no morals. Dared him, before the priest and hundreds of witnesses, to show himself as a fool.
She dared the wrong man.
He slowly raised her hand to his lips. He felt the tremor run down her arm, heard her quick inhalation. She watched him through half lowered lashes. With the grace he’d learned from watching the king’s courtiers, with the civilized restraint he’d learned years ago, he pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. Once. Twice.
As though pulled by an invisible string, she tensed. Expectation flared in her eyes. Laughter bubbled inside Fane. She thought he would bite her again? This time, he deserved more than a cursory taste. This time, he wanted more.
Daring Damsels Page 43
