Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  He smiled, pulled on her hand, and drew her to him. Her fingers brushed over his tunic as she resisted, a slight, sinewy turn of her body. Before she could wriggle away, he leaned forward to cup the back of her head. Anchoring his fingers into her veiled hair, he kissed her soundly on the lips.

  The crowd murmured and clapped.

  As their lips met, she jumped. A startled rasp came from the back of her throat, as though the contact wasn’t at all what she’d anticipated.

  What did she feel? Astonishment? Pleasure?

  He drew back, and her shuddered breath rushed over his mouth. Her tongue darted between her reddened lips, as though to fully explore the taste of him. Or to savor it.

  He paused, his mouth close to hers. Her fragrance enveloped him, urged him to look into her eyes. She stared back at him, her breathing uneven. Her ringed hand fluttered between their bodies, even as her slightly glazed eyes looked up at him. In their depths, he read surprise. Confusion. Yearning.

  “Another?” he asked, the hand behind her head drawing her forward.

  Laughter rippled through the onlookers. The priest smiled. Shaking his head, he pulled open the church’s wooden door.

  As though snapping from a daze, Rexana slipped free of Fane’s hold. Her arms fell primly to her sides. “You are a man of many surprises, milord.”

  “There will be more to come,” he said easily.

  “Of that, you can be quite certain.”

  Raising his brows, Fane looked at her. Before he could ponder her words, or offer a witty reply, she caught up her skirts and climbed the steps to the open doorway.

  He laughed and followed her, his boots rapping on the stone stairs. Puzzlement and anticipation shot through him. Did she intend to surprise him? How? When? At tonight’s wedding feast?

  Later, when they were alone in their chamber?

  He couldn’t wait.

  Shutting out the wedding feast’s revelry, Rexana picked at the decorations on the marzipan pastry sitting before her on the lord’s table. Torchlight glittered on the sugared rose petals tumbling over the delicacy’s sides. A riot of sparkles, like sunlight dancing over pristine, newly fallen snow. Too pretty to eat, when her stomach churned with nerves.

  Laughter boomed from a trestle table below the dais. Raising her lashes, she glanced at the noisy hall. Fane stood beside a flushed-faced Lord Darwell amongst a crowd of other nobles. Fane was telling a tale, something about a huge spider in a crusader’s tent, to the obvious fascination of all the men.

  He gestured with one hand, while holding a goblet of wine in the other. Torchlight played over his angular face and fine tunic, and her stomach did an unsettling swoop. He was a very handsome man, Fane Linford, High Sheriff of Warringham.

  Her husband.

  She shivered, and a sugary petal crumbled in her fingers. After mass, she’d said goodbye to Henry. He’d promised to manage Ickleton until Rudd returned, and needed to get back before dark. Fighting tears, she watched him and the men-at-arms ride away. Then, with the musicians playing a jaunty tune, she, Fane, and the wedding guests had headed to Tangston Keep.

  As Fane elaborated on the spider, her gaze dropped to his mouth. Since their kiss outside the church, he’d been exceedingly courteous. He’d offered her first choice of the roasted meats and delicately spiced dishes. He’d offered her first taste of the wine—no cheap, watered down market fare, but a costly red. Moreover, he’d bestowed upon her compliments worthy of the most romantic chansons. He’d spoken as though they hadn’t wed for a purpose, but for love.

  Her throat tightened. She snapped her gaze back to the pastry. No matter how much his words had thrilled her, she must uphold her vow to remain virgin. She must deny him on their wedding night, and all the nights after that.

  Yet, after that amazing first kiss . . .

  Fane’s earthy chuckle echoed. She fought the strange warmth swirling through her body and tried to clear her thoughts. Her gaze fell to the circlet and veil she’d removed earlier and set on the table, then the roses, gillyflowers, and violets spilling from the oddly shaped gold bowl nearby.

  Flowers adorned every hall table. More dotted the rushes strewn across the floor. Even more blooms trailed from the wrought iron torch brackets, as though a pagan deity had cast a spell upon the hall, transforming it into a meadow. The extravagance was peculiar, but delightful.

  Rexana inhaled the fragrance of the nearby arrangement. Reaching out, she caught a violet, half fallen on the linen tablecloth, and her heart flooded with emotion. How her body yearned to dance. If she did, would she conquer her nagging physical cravings? Would she smother the voice inside her that whispered she would betray her brother if she succumbed to Fane’s temptations?

  As though drawn by a silent cry, she looked up. Fane met her gaze. His lips curved in a brazen smile as he raised his goblet to her.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Her breasts tingled as though tiny, icy raindrops peppered her skin. The warmth within her quickened, spread, and resurrected the taste of him on her lips. Spicy. Bold. Wonderful.

  Traitor!

  She looked away. Heat skimmed down her spine to her arm braced on the table. The fragile violet lay crushed in her clenched fingers. When had she closed her hand? She didn’t remember.

  She wiped her fingers on the tablecloth. She would not be seduced by Linford’s charm. She would not forget that her only reason for going through with the nuptials was to free Rudd. Right now, as Tangston celebrated, he sat in a dungeon cell, alone and—

  “Lady Linford?”

  Rexana groaned silently. Would she ever grow used to her new title?

  Darwell stood on the opposite side of the table.

  “Good eve,” she said.

  “May I congratulate you on your wedding.” He spoke politely but an odd light glinted in his eyes. “I wish you and the sheriff a prosperous future.”

  “Thank you.”

  He leaned closer, his breath smelling of wine. He grinned like a boy who’d been handed a bag of sweets. “I have vowed not to speak of your secret”—he winked—“and I shall not. But I wanted you to be certain. ’Tis absolutely safe with me.”

  Secret? “Milord?”

  He patted her hand, clenched again on the linens. “Worry not. A score of trained knights could not beat it out of me.”

  Panic pounded at her temple. Did he know she intended to get an annulment? Had her intentions been obvious? Surely not. Darwell likely spoke of her veiled dance, and not revealing her identity.

  As she mulled her next words, his expression sobered. “You are a courageous woman. I regret you will not be Garmonn’s wife. He loves you, you know. He would have fought for your hand in marriage and championed you, if you had let him.”

  She exhaled a held breath. Thank God Darwell had changed the subject. Yet, relief could never smother the chilling memory of Garmonn’s foolishness in the market, or his past cruelty. “Mayhap ’tis better that I wed Sheriff Linford,” she said. “Garmonn and I may not have suited one another, after all.”

  Darwell shook his graying head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fane move away from the table below. Nearby, musicians began a lively song on lute and tabor.

  She glanced back at Darwell, who now stared at her with open curiosity. He caught her hand. “Forgive my boldness, but I must ask. Did you really seduce Linford and demand that he marry you? Do you really prefer him to Garm—”

  “I have left you alone too long, love.”

  Fane approached the table and set his goblet down with a thud. Darwell released her hand.

  Rexana pressed her lips together. Had Fane heard Darwell’s words? Not likely, over the music and chatter. Yet, she would be wise to diffuse any suspicion, before she cast unwanted attention upon herself. She picked up the wine jug and held it over Fane’s goblet. “More, milord?”

  “Please.” As though displeased by what he’d seen, he turned to Darwell, who hastily brushed a crease from his burgundy tunic. “I hope you were not fri
ghtening my wife with tales of the marriage bed. She looks as pale as an old sheet.”

  Darwell chuckled. “I did not speak of such matters. I congratulated her on the wedding. An excellent day for Warringham, I vow.”

  “Ah.”

  As Fane’s gaze once again settled on her, Rexana gulped. She’d tried not to think of the physical encounter to come, the intimacy she must prevent. As she poured, light gleamed on the jug. A memory flashed through her mind. Fane kept wine in his solar. Tonight, would she have to bash him on the head to snuff his ardor?

  Dread whipped through her. If she didn’t free Rudd as well and escape with him, she would have to explain herself to Fane when he roused. Not a pleasant prospect.

  She concentrated on pouring the drink. Still, when Fane’s fingers trailed over her knuckles, her hand jerked.

  “You look tired, love. Are you well?”

  “Aye.”

  “Shall we retire to our chamber?”

  Before she sloshed wine all over the tablecloth, she set the vessel down. She smiled brightly. “Not yet. I have finished with my pastry. Now, I wish to see our guests. I am eager to begin my duties as lady of the keep and your wife.”

  “Indeed.” He grinned as though her words greatly pleased him.

  Darwell bowed low, excused himself, and hurried away.

  Pushing back her chair, Rexana stood. She held Fane’s heated stare. His mouth still bore a crooked grin, and she frowned. Did he tease her? Surely he realized the importance of her mingling with the guests and playing the role of Lady Linford.

  This eve, she would be the cultured hostess and bride in love. She wouldn’t neglect her part of the pretense to which she and Fane had agreed. Nor would she give Fane one reason to forget his promise to help Rudd.

  She skirted around him, heading toward a crowded table where she recognized a few nobles.

  The music swelled. The tempo quickened.

  Her heart thumped faster. Oh, how she wanted to dance!

  Several noblemen and women moved into the open space between the tables, then linked hands to form a circle. They began to dance. Longing swirled inside Rexana. She hesitated on the outskirts of the circle. Her body swayed to the rhythm.

  Fane came up behind her. His hands slid around her waist as he murmured against her ear, “Shall we join them?”

  His body brushed against hers. Where his palms pressed, her skin burned. Sensual craving flamed inside her, and she trembled. Her feet itched to step to the side, step together, in time to the tabor’s rhythm. She yearned to spin, like a bird feather falling down, down, down in a graceful spiral. Her blood hummed with the call of the dance.

  Fane’s breath warmed her cheek. “One dance, then you can chat with the guests. Aye?”

  He moved to her side, holding out his hand. An invitation. A chivalric gesture, underscored by a sensual significance she was only beginning to understand. Was she wise to dance with him? She shrugged aside her unease. She could socialize with some of the guests. And Fane couldn’t whisk her off to the solar.

  She drew in a breath scented with flowers and wood smoke, then slid her hand into Fane’s.

  His sure, warm fingers closed around hers. Smiling, he drew her toward the ring of dancers. The circle parted, she moved into the line, and the gap closed.

  Step to the side. Step together.

  Rushes crunched beneath her feet. The scent of crushed herbs and petals rose around her, a smell that reminded her of the forest glade. She tried to ignore the brush of Fane’s callused palm against hers. His hand’s gentle clasp. The graceful way he moved. He stepped and swayed in perfect rhythm, as though he, too, felt the music in his soul. He was magnificent to watch.

  With a cheer, the revelers broke apart. Rexana spun around, her skirts floating at her ankles. Excitement thrummed in her blood. Beside her, Fane grinned. He caught her hand again, and the circle resumed.

  “Faster,” he called, and the other dancers laughed. The musicians nodded.

  The pace quickened. Around and around the circle went.

  Step to the side. Step together. Turn.

  Sweat beaded between Rexana’s breasts. Wispy hair fell into her eyes. Freeing her hand from Fane’s, she wiped her brow. The perfume of flowers seemed stronger than before. The hall’s smoky darkness seemed more intense. The scene around her blurred.

  She closed her eyes, and saw herself dancing near the gray-green pool. Mist cloaked the edges of the clearing. Beneath her feet, dewy flowers opened to the dawn.

  Step to the side. Step together. Turn.

  Faster.

  Step to the side. Step together. Turn.

  Her breath rasped through her lips. The day’s tension whirled through her like mist swirling in a gust of wind. She raised her hands, reached for the hint of daylight streaming through the mist.

  Faster.

  Turn. Turn—

  She bumped into a solid object. Her eyes flew open. She reached out, halting her fall. Her hands met not a gnarled old tree but a trestle table. The forest vision dissipated, and again she discerned flowers and wood smoke.

  She stood in the center of Tangston’s great hall.

  From the edge of the dance circle, Fane stared at her.

  As he advanced toward her, Rexana’s thoughts scattered like windblown apple blossoms. His eyes glittered. His broad chest rose and fell. His breathing sounded as ragged as her own.

  His breath could be her own.

  She heard titters and murmurs. The dancers looked at her, their expressions bemused. Awareness prickled. She’d broken the circle. She’d yielded to the maelstrom of emotion and yearning inside her. Oh, God, she’d been foolish to dance.

  Fane halted before her. As though no one watched, as though they were the only two people in the hall, he reached out to catch a strand of her hair.

  Her stomach did a sluggish turn. His body heat scorched her across the space separating them. For one reckless moment, she longed to press her body against his. To run her hands over him. To kiss him.

  “Come, little fig.”

  His words shivered through her. “Why?” she whispered.

  “You know why.”

  Her pulse drummed an erratic tempo, nothing like the music which had resumed. The table pressed against her, hard and immovable, while her body felt shimmery and weightless.

  Dipping his head, he leaned his damp forehead against hers. His thumb stroked over her mouth. “I have waited all day for this moment. As have you.” Before she could say a word, he cupped her chin and tilted her head back so she looked into his mesmerizing eyes. “I want all of you, Rexana. Body, heart, and soul. Tonight, at least in body, you will become my wife.”

  Exhilaration sang through her. As his husky words faded into the noise around them, she stared at his mouth. Wondrously formed. Close. Tempting.

  Caution nipped at her. Beware, Rexana! Do not yield to his seduction. If you do, you will be bound to him forever.

  As though sensing her reticence, he nuzzled her cheek. His hair, soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon, brushed her flushed skin. “I know the passion in your soul,” he purred. “Let me release it. Let me show you pleasure.”

  Yes, her wicked body cried. Oh, yes.

  With effort, she stifled her wantonness. Shame! Too easily she thought of surrender, when she must focus on preserving her maidenhood and saving Rudd.

  Rexana pressed her hands against his chest. “Milord—”

  He winked. “Later, you may thank me.”

  Thank him? Her jaw dropped and her hands fell away. Was there no end to his boldness?

  Laughing, she said, “How arrogant, to speak highly of your prowess in the bed chamber.” She pushed away from the table to slip past him.

  His arm slid easily through hers, curtailing her escape. “I will prove my skill. This way.”

  Mercy! How would she keep him at arm’s length when they were alone? She glanced at the tables nearby. “Wait. My duties. The guests—”

  “—wil
l understand. They expect us to leave early. We are, after all, newly wed.”

  Fane steered her past the nobles who had formed the circle again and resumed dancing. Slipping one arm around her waist, he guided her toward the landing’s stairs.

  The crowd parted around them. Bawdy whistles followed.

  A scream burned inside Rexana.

  “Milord, we will carry you to your chamber,” a man called. Footsteps came up behind them, and a tremor shot through her.

  “We will help you and your wife disrobe and get into bed,” another yelled, as raucous laughter boomed. “’Tis tradition in this part of England.”

  Rexana cringed.

  As though sensing her distress, Fane chuckled and shook his head. “’Tis a foolish custom. One I will not heed.”

  “You do not respect English customs, Sheriff?” a man cried.

  The music and conversation faded to eerie silence. Every person in the hall seemed to be watching what happened next.

  Rexana swallowed. Would Fane yield to nuptial tradition? Would he defer to his guests, and allow the marriage bed to be public spectacle? Would he choose his guests’ wishes over hers? Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

  Fane’s possessive arm tightened around her waist before he smiled down at her. “My apologies, sires, but I share my lovely wife with no one.”

  A relieved sigh whooshed out of her lungs . . . until Fane slapped her bottom.

  Laughter echoed through the hall.

  She jerked out of his hold to glare at him. “Cease.”

  His teeth flashed. “Soon, you may scold me properly.”

  Before she could utter one word, he bent and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of onions.

  “Put me down!”

  The laughter swelled. Rexana’s face burned.

  Fane walked toward the stairs. She shook hair out of her face. Pummeled her fists against his back. Kicked her legs. Twisted.

  His laughter rumbled beneath her. “Go on, little fig. Scream. ’Twill give the guests plenty to talk about. Aye?”

  Rexana continued to struggle as Fane neared the stairs. He tightened his hold on her silk covered legs. He would never forgive himself if he dropped her head first on the landing. The gossips would never forgive him, either.