Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Ahead, a wide-eyed Winton moved out of his path. “Milord.”

  “See that the wine flows,” Fane said. “Make sure none of the guests get into the dungeon. The guards on duty have been forewarned, but if there are problems, I expect to be informed.”

  Winton’s gaze darted to Rexana’s wriggling legs. “On your wedding night, milord?”

  Fane gritted his teeth. “Especially on my wedding night.”

  Ignoring Winton’s elegant bow, Fane climbed the stairs. His boots thudded on the dry wood, as anticipation thundered in his veins. His mouth flooded with the remembered taste of Rexana. Tonight, he would taste more than her lush red lips. He would savor her breasts. Her hips. Her thighs . . .

  He strode into the shadowed passage off the landing. The guards on duty quickly opened the solar doors. Fane relayed instructions, then strode inside. He kicked the chamber doors closed with his heel.

  Soft candlelight flickered on the whitewashed stone walls. The fire glowing in the hearth cast its yellow-orange light over the tiles. The bedding had been turned down, the lion skin folded and set on his wooden chest. He walked farther into the chamber and smiled. As per his orders, violets scattered over the floorboards.

  He halted and set Rexana on her feet. She stumbled back several steps, putting distance between them. She righted her mussed gown, then glanced about the chamber.

  Stooping, he picked up a violet, small yet perfectly formed.

  “They are everywhere,” she said, “even on the bed linens.”

  She’d retreated to the window. The night breeze stirred her loosely braided hair and set the candle flames fluttering. The chamber’s shadows swayed, danced.

  Drawn by her shaky voice, he walked closer. “I know you like violets.”

  She nodded. The hair across her brow shifted, and she swept it back with her hand. Her bodice stretched taut with the movement. The taste of her thickened in his mouth.

  “You try to seduce me.”

  “You are my wife. I will do all in my power to please you.”

  Wariness shadowed her eyes. Pausing beside her, he braced one hand on the wall. Moonlight shimmered on her face and brushed her throat and breasts with light and shadow. Desire coiled up from his belly. She was his. Now. Forever.

  His fingers curled against the rough stone. He burned to touch her, to glide his hand over her milky skin. To make her arch against him, sighing with pleasure. By the thinnest thread of restraint, he resisted. He’d never forced a woman into his bed. He wouldn’t start now.

  He would be careful. Clever. Oh, so clever. He would overcome her virgin apprehensions, little by little, until she yielded to her passion. In the great hall, he’d sensed how close she’d come to acquiescing. He’d seen it in her glazed eyes, heard it in her breath’s uneven tempo.

  Soon, of her own free will, he would taste violets on her naked belly.

  Soon, they would create their sensual dance.

  Easing closer, he tried to slide his arms around her.

  She bolted like a spooked horse.

  “Rexana.”

  “Milord.” She stood beside the bed, her hand fisted into her skirts. Ready to flee.

  A wry laugh burned his throat. Mayhap he’d misjudged the ease of this seduction.

  Shifting his weight to one leg, he casually leaned his shoulder against the wall. He softened his voice. “Come back. I will not devour you.”

  “You will kiss me,” she said, sounding out of breath.

  “Is that so terrible?”

  Her mouth quivered. Her shoulders thrust back in clear rebellion. “I am not ready to . . . I cannot kiss just yet.” Her gaze darted to the bowl of figs on the nearby table. “Are you not hungry? After all that dancing, I am ravenous.”

  Ravenous. If only she knew. A grin curved Fane’s lips. “I am starved.”

  “Excellent.” Her skirts rustled as she approached the table. She picked over the mound of fruit. “Fig, milord?”

  “A little one. Only it can satisfy my craving.”

  “Little—” Her right hand, clasping a plump fig, froze. She blushed. “Oh.”

  “Rexana, let me kiss you. I crave you, as a dying man craves life. I hunger for your glorious taste. Your lips pressed to mine. Your soft body curved against me.”

  As he spoke, her eyelids fluttered down. Then, as though catching herself surrendering, her eyes flew open.

  Satisfaction curled through him. So, she wasn’t immune to his gilded words, the flowery romance of a noble courtier. She wanted a civilized seduction. Slowly, carefully, he shoved away from the wall. “Did you know, love, that you taste of violets?”

  “Violets?” Her gaze widened, even as her fingers flitted up to her mouth.

  “Aye.” He stepped closer. “Sweet, ambrosial, like the finest nectar. When we kiss, your taste floods my tongue. I am the honeybee, drunk on your essence. I taste . . . bliss.”

  “Bliss?” Her fingertips brushed over her lips.

  “Exquisite bliss,” he amended on a whisper. “The sweet passion consumes me. Torments me. Devours my sense of reason. I roar inside with wanting you.”

  She half moaned, half sighed. Her eyelids slipped closed. She swayed slightly against the table, and he quietly crossed the space between them. He halted before her. Close enough to catch her in his arms. Close enough to claim his prized kiss.

  Her lashes fluttered. “Milord—”

  “Kiss me, Rexana.”

  Her eyes opened and clouded with doubt. Longing. Resistance.

  He touched her sleeve’s embroidered cuff. Slowly, gently, he trailed his fingers up her arm. She shivered, stepped back two paces, and stumbled over her gown’s hem.

  “You want my kiss.” Frustration darkened his tone. “Do not deny it.”

  “I want it,” she agreed in a tight voice. At least she didn’t foolishly try to refute what they both knew to be true.

  “Then take what you want.” He spread his arms wide in invitation. “I am yours.”

  Her eyes were as bright as the sapphire on her finger. She didn’t move toward him or attempt to speak, and his frustration swelled to anger.

  “Love.”

  “I cannot.” Her fingers wrapped tighter around the fig, as though the sweet fruit could sap the poison from her refusal.

  “You are my wife.” The words, as hard as stones, ground between his teeth. As he looked at her face, etched with rejection and misery, a thought cleaved him like the blow of a Saracen sword. The luscious taste of her soured in his mouth. “I see now. You find me repulsive,” he said coldly, “because of my past.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Of course not.”

  His hand thumped on the table. Oranges and figs bounced from the fruit bowl to roll across the table. “You think me barbaric. Unclean. Unfit to despoil your pure, unsullied English body.”

  Her face reddened. “Cease!”

  Fury and disappointment snapped inside him. Had he really thought her his soul mate? Had he thought her different from all the others? He couldn’t school the bitterness from his words. “We are man and wife now, Rexana. You belong to me. By law, I own your kiss, as well as your maidenhood.”

  Her eyes hardened to the green of polished glass. Her jaw set, and he heard the pop as her nails pierced the fig’s flesh.

  Had he really spoken such callous words? Would he prove himself to be the barbarian the rumors claimed him to be? He would never win her trust, or her heart.

  Cursing under his breath, he moved toward her. “Rexana—”

  Her arm swung back. Before he could step aside, the fig thudded against his chest. The earthy smell of ripe fruit exploded in the air around him. The fig dropped onto the toe of his boot, then rolled onto the floor.

  Stunned by the force behind her blow, he halted.

  Another fig slammed into his shoulder, then an orange. He grunted, annoyance smothering a flare of amusement. “God’s teeth.”

  “How dare you speak cruelly to me?” She grabbed more fruit f
rom the table. “You mean, insolent—”

  An orange smacked into his belly, shocking the breath from his lungs. “Ouch. Stop.” He strode toward her.

  “I think not.” A fig whizzed past his ear, narrowly missing his head. Did she try to injure him? With fruit?

  Incredulous laughter rose in his throat.

  She scowled. As she darted past the end of the table, she caught a fat orange. “You smile. You find my anger amusing? Unwise.” Her gaze dropped to the hem of his tunic. His groin. She held the orange as though it were a dangerous weapon, a determined smile curving her lips. “Beware. I am an excellent shot. I used to shoot targets with Rudd.”

  Before she took aim, he lunged. He caught her wrist and pried the orange from her fingers. She shrieked. Cursed. Fought like a wild creature while her free hand pummeled his chest. With a growl, he grabbed her other wrist. Raised both arms above her head. Propelled her backward.

  “Release me,” she spat, twisting in his hold.

  “Not until you listen to me.” Meeting her furious glare, he tightened his grip on her wrists, enough to secure them but not enough to hurt. She swore again, planted her feet firmly on the floorboards, and resisted the backward momentum. He leaned his body full against her. His legs tangled with her skirts. His belly pressed against her stomach. Her breasts crushed against his tunic until her spine arched. With a frustrated cry, she stumbled back.

  One step. Two. She bumped against the wall.

  Panting, Fane slid his palms up her wrists to lock his fingers through hers. He pinned her hands above her head, against the stone, and stared down into her face.

  Her hair snarled over her flushed cheeks and was snagged in the stone. Her braid hung in a tangled mess. Her lashes flicked up, and she returned his gaze with icy resolve. Her blazing eyes told him what she wanted him to believe—she would never yield.

  She lied.

  As he flattened his body against her, she quivered. Her lips parted on a ragged gasp. Her eyelids drifted closed. He slowly shifted against her. Chest to chest. Belly to belly. Steel against womanly softness.

  Her breath caught. “Fane—”

  He covered her mouth with his own. Tasted her, as he’d wanted. Ah, God. Naught compared to her velvety sweetness. To the essence of proud, fierce, desirable woman.

  She sighed against his lips. As though the leashed passion inside her broke free, her mouth opened beneath his. Seeking. Hungry. He slid his tongue between her teeth. She nipped him, and he started with the unexpected pleasure. With the blinding surge of lust.

  With a muffled cry, she strained against his imprisoning hold. He loosened his fingers. Her hands slid free and plowed into his hair. She held his head firm, kissing him back.

  He met her kiss, thrust for thrust, gasp for gasp. She molded against him as though wanting more. Needing more. She smelled incredibly, arousingly good.

  A possessive groan tore from his lips. Heat seared through him. Tore at his loins. Devoured his thoughts.

  He wanted her. Now.

  Why deny what they both desired?

  With a gentle shove, he pushed her back against the wall. Here, his mind screamed. Lift her skirts. Take her as she begs to be taken.

  He mentally shut out the nagging voice. Later, he would show her the exciting and creative variations on lovemaking. The first time as his wife, she would have the tender seduction he’d planned.

  Sliding one arm behind her shoulders, the other under her trembling knees, he lifted her into his arms. She fitted easily. Perfectly. Careful not to stumble on her gown’s flowing drape, he strode toward the bed. His body tightened with anticipation of their joining. He could scarcely wait to see her naked body. To slide into her softness. To feel her arching and moaning against him.

  “Fane,” she said thickly. Through the haze of lust, he sensed her hand pressed against his chest. Resistance. Again.

  He stifled the groan rising in his throat. Tenderness mingled with his frustration. Of course. She was virgin. She had uncertainties.

  As he approached the violet-strewn bed, he pressed a kiss to her brow. “Hush, love. ’Twill be all right.”

  She pushed more firmly, then kicked her legs. He could hardly see past the froth of pale skin and silk.

  “Zounds, woman.” His knees hit the oak bed frame. Before he could regain his balance, he dropped her onto the edge of the mattress. The bed ropes creaked in protest.

  Scooting sideways, she tried to rise. He braced his hands on the coverlet, either side of her hips, curtailing her progress. As her eyes glinted with warning, he pressed a bold, open kiss to her mouth. With a low moan, she melted into his touch, and his right hand fumbled for the ties securing her gown.

  Before he’d unfastened the first one, she caught his wrist. “Fane, stop.”

  “I am sorry for my bitter words,” he said against her lips, his words punctuated by kisses and nibbles. “I would never take you in anger. Please, believe me.”

  She drew back, her mouth swollen and red. Tears glistened along her lashes.

  “I love you, Rexana.”

  Confusion and disbelief darkened her eyes. “How can you? We have known one another but a few days.”

  “My heart and soul belong to you. They have from the moment you first danced for me.”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  His fingers curled into the embroidered coverlet, the silk as soft as a woman’s bare thigh. “Make love with me, Rexana. Let us share our passion.”

  Closing her eyes, she shook her head. Misery lined her beautiful face. “I cannot.”

  “You mean, will not.” The wilting violets strewn on the linens mocked him, as did her scent. She didn’t want his seduction. She didn’t want him.

  As though sensing his thoughts, she shivered a sigh. “From the time I was a young girl, I studied to be a wife and chatelaine.” She returned his stare with one of fierce intensity, while her voice roughened. “My father told me I would wed a nobleman of compassion and honor. A man who would trust me. A man who would love me, and whom I would trust and love in return. Into our loving home, we would bring children.”

  “What are you saying? I am not noble enough for you?” Fane bit out the words. “Have I not treated you with compassion and honor?”

  He leaned forward to brush his cheek against hers. He crowded her with his body. A shameless coaxing, but he couldn’t resist. He needed her. Desperately.

  Her fingers knotted in her lap. Her hands almost touched his loins, the hard place that throbbed for her. The place that consumed his focus. He groaned inwardly. If she touched him there . . . Barely able to leash his lust, he forced himself to inhale slowly.

  “You ask me to couple with you, to commit an act of love and trust.” Her voice quavered. “Yet, I do not trust you. I do not love you.”

  How can I? You will persecute my brother, his mind finished for her. Her earlier words rang in his mind. I cannot love you. I never will.

  He snorted. “You believe all men and women fornicate for love? Some want only the pleasure.” He forced the urgency from his tone, fought the sensation of falling into a deep pool with no way out. “I can give you pleasure. I am not unskilled in the arts of pleasuring a woman.” As he spoke, he slid his fingers up into her hair to tip her head back for his kiss.

  “To lie with you this way mocks all I have been taught, all that I believe.” She turned her face away so that his kiss landed on her cheek. “Will you ask it of me?”

  He growled against her skin. “Once you have experienced pleasure, you will feel differently.” He set his hand on her shoulder, and began to press her back on the bed.

  “If you believe so, then you do not love me after all.”

  He stared at her pale face and the proud line of her jaw. As her words infiltrated his lust-hazed brain, shock and crushing disappointment followed. “You expect me to refrain from my marital rights.”

  She swallowed, then looked away. “Aye.”

  The enormity of her demand blas
ted through him. His blood cried with the injustice. His mind howled. His loins cooled slowly. Painfully.

  He released her shoulder and dropped his head. He stared down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Her knuckles were white. She sat in stiff silence, as though she were a bow drawn tight and at the slightest provocation she would snap.

  Shaking with need, he breathed in the tantalizing scent of violets and woman. He could continue his seduction, woo her passion-drugged senses until she was too aroused to stop him. He could overpower her and force her to spread her thighs, as was his right by law. Yet, the pleasure would be temporary. Afterward, she would hate him.

  His eyes closed on a groan. He could never, ever disrespect or force her. He would not mistreat her, as General Gazir had mistreated all the pretty virgins sold into his bed.

  Spitting an oath, Fane straightened. He righted his tunic and turned from the bed. Away from her, before the last thread of his control frayed.

  Behind him, the mattress groaned. Silk whispered. He imagined Rexana smoothing her bliaut over her shapely legs. He tried to squash the lascivious images romping through his mind. Her naked, laughing, and rolling beneath him. Him suckling one of her incredible, pink-tipped breasts while his hand—

  He cursed and strode toward the door.

  “Milord?”

  Her unsteady voice made him pause. Fane sensed her relief, yet also uncertainty. He dared not turn around. He dared not glance back to see her kiss-reddened lips and tousled hair. He dared not give himself one reason to walk back to the bed, especially to reassure her. If he did, all his honorable intentions would be lost.

  “I will not take you now,” he muttered, the words painful. I will think of you though, luscious little fig, his mind seethed. I will imagine my hands on your soft white skin. I will envision my body sweating and straining above yours.

  “You are leaving?”

  He managed a sharp nod. “Get into bed. If you are wise, you will be asleep when I return.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Hellfire! Why did she ask? She didn’t care. She only wanted the marriage to save her brother. She hadn’t wed for pleasure or love.