Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Never for love.

  Fane crossed the last paces to the doors. He yanked them open. Without a backward glance, he slammed them behind him.

  As the solar doors boomed closed, Rexana slid off the bed. She fell to her knees on the lush carpet. Her gown slithered into a pool around her, and she pressed her trembling hands over her face.

  Fane had accepted her refusal. He hadn’t forced her to couple with him. Relief rushed through her like a wave crashing upon a sandy stretch of beach.

  Tears filled her eyes. Part of her hadn’t expected him to honor her wishes. He was, after all, said to be a pitiless savage. A man whose morals had been sullied in desert lands far from England. A warrior who took what he wanted, simply because he wished to.

  Yet, Fane had been . . . chivalrous.

  The confusion that had pestered her earlier grew. She’d sensed his intense arousal and his desire. Why had he heeded her? Did he care what she thought of him?

  Muttering an oath, she dug her fingernails into the patterned carpet. She deluded herself. He’d stopped because he didn’t want to rouse nasty gossip. He didn’t want rumblings that he had foully treated his virgin wife, a distant cousin of the king, a claim that might win her sympathy amongst the nobles who distrusted him. Fane didn’t want to give them reason to take up arms against him or stir the brewing rebellion. If the nobles took their grievances to the king, and the king believed them justified, Fane might be stripped of his status and his lands.

  Her hope fizzled like a fire doused by water. Fane left her this eve because he was a master tactician, a man who understood power. He hadn’t left because he cared for her.

  Logs shifted in the hearth. The blaze popped, sending red embers scattering across the tiles. She dried her eyes, and weariness weighed upon her. Fane was a far more complex and cunning man than she’d imagined.

  Yet tonight, she had accomplished what she hoped. She had resisted and won.

  Fane is gone for now, her conscience warned, but he will be back. Soon.

  Rexana glanced at the mussed coverlet. Crushed violets marked the fabric. The stains might never wash out. Memories of Fane standing over her, his hands caressing and his mouth toying with hers, flitted through her mind. She couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  The fire’s warmth stretched out to her. It echoed the heat, invisible yet frighteningly potent, coursing in her blood. Fane was fire. He had only to touch her, whisper to her, and the flames inside her roared to life.

  He must never know how close she’d come to surrendering.

  His words slashed through her mind. I will not take you now. He’d told her to be asleep when he returned. What would happen if she were still awake?

  Did he infer that if she wasn’t sleeping, she must accept the consequences—and his lust?

  She must be sound asleep. Snoring, even, to prove her oblivion.

  With jerky movements, she dried her cheeks and stood. She searched the chamber for a night shift, but found none. A nervous laugh bubbled up inside her. The servants hadn’t expected her to need a sleeping garment. They’d expected her to be naked in bed with her husband, warmed by his body, heated by their lovemaking.

  Shivering in the ghost of a draft, Rexana crossed to the bed, unfastened her gown’s ties and let the garment fall to the floorboards. Only her linen shift, embroidered with tiny flowers, protected her from the chill. From him.

  She pulled back the sheets, swept aside the violets, and climbed in. Hands folded together atop the bedding, she lay staring at the ceiling. She prayed for sleep.

  I will not take you, Fane’s husky voice seemed to whisper from the shadows. Yet.

  His arms crossed over his tunic, Fane walked Tangston’s windswept battlements. He found the darkest shadows, leaned his shoulder against a squared merlon, and stared down into the fire-lit bailey. The cold stone numbed his arm, but he didn’t draw away.

  He watched the squires, musicians, and serving girls who had congregated around the huge fires. Bawdy jests accompanied by laughter drifted up to him. Ale mugs clinked. The merrymakers cheered him successfully bedding his wife, while he stood alone. Aroused beyond belief.

  Rejected.

  Anger surged through him. He remembered the guards’ shocked faces as he stormed out of the solar. He had ignored them. They would never know the marriage hadn’t been consummated with quiet efficiency. Only he and Rexana knew what had taken place. Only they knew she had denied him.

  Lust still thundered in his blood and tightened his loins. A strong wind gusted. It pummeled his back, buttocks, and thighs, yet he welcomed the discomfort. It distracted him from images of tangled linens and Rexana’s nude body.

  A bitter laugh rumbled in his throat. She had surprised him with her temper. She’d stunned him with her reasons for wanting to remain pure. She had bested him, in a way no other woman would dare.

  The wind blew again. Hair snarled into his eyes, and he yanked it away. Giggles rose from the rowdy bunch gathered around the nearest blaze. Men and women sat together on the ground, their ruddy faces warmed by firelight. Others sang or danced to a randy folk tune, played on a lute.

  His gaze narrowed on one couple—servants, he guessed from their garments. As they turned, swaying to the music, the woman stared at the man. Sexual hunger etched her features.

  She swirled closer. Her body and eyes beckoned. Tempted.

  Fane’s hands clenched on his forearms. He wanted Rexana to look at him that way. With desire, passion, and the wild heat that he knew burned in her soul.

  The song soared. As though caught up in the music, the man grasped the woman’s hand. Spun her around. Pushed her out of the light and into the shadows beside a horseless wagon. His face plunged between her breasts. He yanked up her skirt.

  Fane watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as the woman leaned back against the cart, then curled her bare leg around the man’s waist. He fumbled with his clothing. His hips flexed. Her mouth parted on a gasp. With frantic urgency, she matched the man’s driving thrusts.

  A strangled groan broached Fane’s lips. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut against a rush of carnal images. Ah, what he would give to have Rexana pliant. Willing. Eager.

  ’Twould never be . . . Unless he undermined her reasons for refusing him.

  Unless he made it impossible for her to deny her needs.

  Or his.

  The faintest smile touched his lips. A worthy challenge. Rexana vowed she would never love him, but she desired him. She’d admitted so.

  Desire could grow into love.

  Aye, she must learn to love him, for their souls shared the same dance.

  She belonged to him. He would never let her go.

  Fane strode along the battlement into the wind. The breeze stung his face, yet his heart lightened. He would woo her. Tempt her. Sway her heart and soul until, of her own free will, she yielded.

  When at last she gave herself to him, she would hunger with the same fever pitch as he.

  A worthy challenge, indeed.

  The fire had burned low when Rexana heard murmured voices outside the solar. She tensed, instantly alert.

  Turning her head on the pillow, she squinted through the darkness at the chamber doors. She twisted her fingers into the coverlet. Waited.

  The doors opened, admitting a seam of light.

  Rexana shut her eyes.

  She sensed Fane’s bold presence even before the door clicked shut and his boots thudded on the floorboards. Tension seemed to reach across the shadowed chamber to touch her, like a prowling hand, where she lay on her side in the bed, facing the fire. She forced her breaths into a steady rhythm. Pretended she blissfully slept, when in truth she’d fidgeted, plumped the pillow twenty-two times, and rolled from one side of the bed to the other.

  Her mind still tormented her with memories of his sinful smile. The desirous glint of his eyes. The taste of his firm, sculpted lips.

  Her heart warned that she would regret the deception she had initiated
between them.

  His footfalls suddenly quieted. He’d stepped onto the carpet.

  With intense effort, she forced herself to stay still. She sensed him coming closer. Closer. Her nerves screamed with anticipation.

  He stopped beside the bed. Behind her. The heat from his body warmed her back. He smelled of night air.

  Rexana fought a shiver. What did he intend? Had he come to take her . . . now?

  For what seemed an eternity, he stood over her. She sensed his gaze traveling over her shoulder, down her arm lying atop the coverlet, along the curve of her body tucked beneath the bedding. She braced herself for his hand upon her shoulder, for his touch that she feared but also craved. Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Yet, by some miracle, she managed to remain still.

  A moment later, he moved away. He headed toward the fire.

  The air whooshed from her lungs.

  He halted.

  Had he heard? Her eyes still closed, she waited. Listened. She heard naught but the fire’s snap.

  The silence dragged. What was happening? Was he sneaking back to her? Ignoring an inner cry for caution, she raised her lashes.

  He stood at the end of the bed. His dark, deliberate gaze locked with hers. “You are not asleep, after all.”

  She swallowed. “I was asleep, milord,” she said, coloring her words with a hint of resentment, “until you woke me.”

  His laughter rang out in the darkness. “Ah, Rexana. Have you not yet learned I can tell when you speak false?” His smile became a white slash in the shadows.

  “Very well. I did not sleep. How could I, wondering where you had vanished to?”

  His grin faded. “You refused me, wife. You denied me my right. Why would you worry where I had gone?”

  His gritty voice pricked her. What did he imply? Clutching the coverlet, she pushed herself up to sitting. His gaze wavered, fell to her lips, then drifted down the scooped neckline of her shift to her cleavage only just hidden by the sheets. Slowly, so slowly, his attention returned to her face.

  His jaw hardened. Anger? Disapproval? Did he find her lacking in her state of undress?

  Rexana refused to let his blatant inspection distract her from her purpose. “Where did you go?”

  “Where do you think I went?”

  A horrible thought shot into her mind. “Did you harm my brother? I swear to God, if you hurt Rudd because I ref—”

  The coverlet slipped. Fane’s gaze instantly riveted to her breasts. With a shaking hand, she caught the bedding and secured it under her arms.

  Fane half groaned, half cursed. As though resisting another oath, he looked away and dragged a hand over his mouth. “Trust me, your brother is the last person I wish to see.”

  “Then where—”

  “It does not matter.” Fane turned his back to her. He crossed the chamber, then dropped down on one knee near the hearth to rekindle the fire. He focused on the simple task as though it took extreme willpower to complete.

  She stared at the tousled hair brushing his shoulders. His back’s rigid line. His well-formed thighs, visible only when he reached for the wood. His tunic shifted. Revealed fascinating bulges of muscles and sinew. Accentuated his masculine power.

  Rexana’s throat tightened. Any woman with a whit of sense would appreciate his physical beauty.

  Maybe another woman had.

  The thought clouded her mind like a suffocating fog. It transformed her worry about his intentions into a shock that robbed her breath. Had Fane bedded someone else? She dared not ask. But she must. “Did you lie with another woman?”

  He stilled. He laughed, an astonished sound, before tossing a last log into the blaze. Brushing his hands on his hose, he stood and faced her. “Would it matter if I did?”

  The answer rang in her heart. “I would never forgive you.”

  Her response seemed to please him. His grin returned, marked with lazy intent. “I am glad ’tis so, love. I swear to you, upon my cursed soul, that I did not take another woman this night. I have no interest in another.” His tone roughened. “I want only you.”

  He walked toward the bed. Toward her.

  Rexana’s fingers tightened on the bedding. Her nails scratched on the fabric. “Milord—”

  “No more pleading this night, little fig. No more harsh words. No more refusals.”

  His words numbed her cold. He intended to have her.

  Now.

  She scrambled back against the pillow. She stared down at the rumpled bedding and her hands curled like wilted flowers. Words of protest refused to come. A traitorous excitement unfurled within her. Tempted her. Urged her to lie back and accept what in secret she wanted.

  Trembling, she looked up. He reached for the hem of his tunic. Holy saints above, she could think of naught to say to delay him. Naught to save her virginity. Naught to keep him from making their marriage binding under law and God.

  He yanked the tunic over his head in one fluid motion and tossed the garment to the floor. Her gaze dropped to his chest.

  All thoughts of self-preservation shattered.

  His bronzed skin bore scars. Small, ugly red pocks. The lines of a whip. A ragged, pitted slash rippled down his ribs.

  Bile rushed into her mouth to drown the pang of excitement and worry. What had happened to him? Who had beaten him? How had he endured such terrible physical torture?

  He caught her watching. His eyes narrowed, darkened with unease. Yet, he didn’t look away. As though daring her to shrink in horror, to swoon with maidenly distress, he reached for the points of his hose. And smiled.

  Rexana gulped. She’d seen a man’s bare chest many times, but none quite as broad or impressive as Fane’s. She’d swum with Rudd on hot summer days. Never had she doubted her actions. Yet here, in Fane’s bed, with him standing over her, those days seemed years ago and desperately naïve.

  His fingers worked the points. She stared. She caught her mouth gaping, and snapped it shut. She must look away. Resurrect the ladylike modesty ingrained into her by years of boring tutelage. She must not ogle Fane like a lusty courtesan.

  Yet, she couldn’t avert her eyes.

  A burning curiosity spread through her. What masculine mysteries hid under the woolen fabric? What made the fascinating bulge between his legs?

  She wet her lips with her tongue. He saw. His gaze heated. A strangled moan burst from him. He sucked in a breath, then swore. Violently.

  Embarrassment drowned her delicious curiosity, so she shut her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. He hadn’t liked her staring. He’d taken exception to her wantonness, and thus felt bound to curtail her inappropriate behavior. Her barbarian husband had more honor than she thought.

  “Lie back, Rexana. Keep your eyes closed.”

  Her heart jolted. “Why?”

  His mouth tightened. Fury, no doubt, that she didn’t immediately do as he’d commanded. “Obey me. ’Twill be easier for you this way.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Rexana.”

  His fierce tone shredded the last of her bravado. She fell back. She drew the sheets up to her neck but, on a last swell of defiance, opened her eyes the tiniest bit. Shifting her head on the pillow, she peeked at the hearth. At him.

  He had turned his back to her. Firelight and shadows defined the muscled planes of his shoulders, ribs, and his spine’s shadowed dip. He was beautiful.

  And brutally scarred.

  As her gaze skimmed over him, she fought anger and regret. Slashes marred his back, scars far deeper and crueler than those on his chest. These wounds were inflicted not only to cause physical agony, but to break his spirit. Barbaric wounds.

  Tears hurt her eyes. She wanted to run her hands over his scars. Soothe them. Tell him, with tender caresses, that she didn’t consider him any less a man. Tell him, with words as gentle as her touch, that she hated what had been done to him.

  That she . . . cared.

  A shiver ran through her. What foolish thoughts. He didn’t want
her compassion. He wanted her body. He wanted to consummate their marriage and their arrangement. He had told her to shut her eyes so she wouldn’t see his imperfections before they coupled. Did he believe she would more easily accept him after the act, because once he’d taken her virginity, she was irrevocably bound to him? Did he believe that once he’d deflowered her, the physical scars would no longer matter?

  A soft pop warned that he’d pulled free the points of his hose. Her pulse lurched into a faster rhythm. Wariness and curiosity returned, stronger this time. She tried to keep her eyes closed—oh, how she tried—but fascination consumed her.

  His hands moved to his hips. Fabric slid down over his buttocks. Revealed smooth skin sprinkled with dark hairs. Exposed a scar the size of her fist that blemished his thigh.

  Oh, God.

  He stepped out of the hose. Straightened. As though sensing her gaze, he said, “Your eyes are still closed, love?”

  “A–aye.”

  “Good.”

  As he turned in profile, she snapped her eyelids shut. A last image, of a flat stomach, a mass of black hair, and bold, hard flesh flared before her eyelids.

  Before Rexana could ponder what she’d seen, the sheets pulled back. The bed ropes sagged. She tipped toward Fane. She squeaked, ramming her palm into the mattress to prevent her from rolling against him. Flat on her belly, she raised her lashes, pushed up on her forearm, and struggled for balance.

  “You disobey me. You do not close your eyes.”

  He lay on his side, the sheets pulled up to his waist, his head supported by one hand. Partly hidden by a snarl of hair, his eyes glittered with promise. Intent. Desire.

  “I wish to see what you are about, milord,” she said.

  He chuckled. Without the slightest attempt at subtlety, his gaze moved to her shift, and her breasts crushed into the mattress. “Ah, Rexana. You are brave, yet I still hear fear in your voice. You will not be so frightened of me on the morrow.”

  A tremor raked through her, from her neck to the tip of her toes. “Bold words, milord.”