Authors: Catherine Kean
A Knight's Reward (39 page)
The sheriff’s parting smile nipped through her mind. She fought a pang of disappointment, for she would not experience his skilled kiss, touch, or breath upon her belly, after all.
Rexana shook her head and dismissed the senseless emotion. She did not crave a barbarian’s attentions. Not now. Not ever.
Setting her hands on her hips, she glanced about the chamber. She gnawed her bottom lip. Could she outwit the guards at the solar doors? Mayhap. Yet, Henry had managed to slip out by an alternate route. ’Twould be wiser for her to leave that way too.
Her gaze fell upon the tall, elaborately carved screen which blocked a corner of the chamber. What did the wooden panels conceal? A hidden door? She stepped forward. Pain lanced through her foot. Cursed splinter. No time to remove it. Linford would soon come to his chamber, and she wished to be long gone before he arrived.
As though attuned to her dishonorable thoughts, the fire popped and hissed. Only burning pitch, Rexana reminded herself with a nervous laugh, as the flames flared and cast accusing fingers of light across the screen.
She hobbled across the floorboards. Her feet sank into the brightly patterned carpet near the bed. Ignoring the silkiness, the urge to pause and wiggle her toes in deeper, she approached the screen. Gripping one edge, she peered around.
The fire crackled. Logs shifted and thumped onto the hearth grate, while the blaze roared with a fierce heat.
Behind the screen, a bathing tub, wet from use earlier in the day, rested on the floorboards. Beside it was a small table holding a bowl of water, folded linen cloths, a towel, and a round cake of soap. No hidden door, only an intriguing scent.
Rexana wiggled her nose. What a fragrance. Unique. Exotic. Irresistible. Ignoring the fire’s loud snapping, as well as the warning buzz skittering through her mind, she picked up the cake, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply through the veil. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
“Mmm.” Lemon, cinnamon—
“Is it to your liking, love?”
With a startled squeak, Rexana dropped the soap. It bounced off the edge of the tub, banged the opposite side, then fell to the bottom with a
thud
. Hands pressed over her heart, she whirled around. Linford stood beside the screen. Close enough for her to recognize his spicy musk. He had used the soap when he bathed.
Vivid images flooded her imagination. Him sprawled in the tub, rubbing the soap between his palms. Lathering the cake into a frothy mass. Rubbing it, slowly, inch by wanton inch, over his broad, damp, naked chest.
She stifled another appreciative “Mmm.” Oh, mercy.
Their gazes met. He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge, as though awaiting an explanation.
“Milord.” She scarcely heard her voice over her hammering pulse. “I did not expect you so soon.”
“So I see.”
Her gaze shot past him to the closed doors. Too late, she recalled his cat-like stealth that she had witnessed in the hall. The noisy fire had disguised his entry.
Yet, she had only herself to blame for her curiosity.
She looked back at the tub. Laughing, she pointed to the soap which had slid far out of reach. “I hope you do not mind. I have never smelled that particular blend of scents.” Her voice quavered and she groaned inwardly. How effortlessly he rattled years of carefully tutored poise. She had not trembled this much when her father had presented her to King Richard.
As though noticing her discomfort, a smile tilted Linford’s mouth. “I bought that kind at a bazaar in Cyprus. Worth every bit of coin. English soap is simply not the same.”
Rexana swallowed. His enticing male scent, his closeness, and the assessing glint in his eyes sent chills rippling over her skin. Stifling a swell of worry, she focused her thoughts upon acting her role. She must not foolishly betray herself or endanger the others, or undermine her own plans for escape.
She must tempt. Seduce. Distract.
Linford’s gaze sharpened slightly. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. Though he did not touch her, she felt his gaze traveling over her face like a physical caress.
“Why do you look at me so?” he asked.
Forcing sultry warmth into her voice, she said, “Whatever do you mean, milord?”
He laughed softly, but his tone held a hint of derision. “As though I will throw you upon the bed and ravish you like a hot-blooded savage. I promise I will treat you with civility.”
“I do not doubt your skills.” By the saints, she hoped she sounded appropriately intrigued.
His teeth flashed white, a brazen promise. “Good. Yet, unfortunately, I came to tell you our pleasure must be delayed until later this eve. I have urgent matters to attend first.”
“Urgent matters?” Rexana sensed steel behind his words. Had he captured Henry? Did he know of the plan to steal the missive? Oh, God, she must know.
She smoothed her veil and schooled uncertainty from her tone. “What could possibly be more important than pleasure?”
“Traitors.”
“Here? In Warringham?” She cleared the catch from her voice. “Who would attempt treason with you as High Sheriff?”
“Indeed.” With a faint smile, he closed the distance between them. His gaze held hers with fierce intensity. Her stomach did an unsettling swoop, like a swallow plummeting to snatch a fat worm. Did he suspect her?
He moved so close, his breath warmed her brow. She took a step back. Bumped against the rough stone wall. The splinter bit deeper into her foot, and she winced, even as she forced a giggle. “Surely you do not believe—”
“—that I frighten you? I know I do. You will not fear me once we have coupled. Of that, I am certain.” He flattened one hand on the wall beside her head. His expression turned stark with sensual hunger, and he kissed her temple. “I will return to you as soon as I can. I vow, upon my honor, I would rather stay here with you than question the traitors, but I cannot ignore my duties to the king.” His voice softened, became a warm tingle against her cheek. “Do you understand, little dancer? Until the moment I return, I will be thinking of you, your beauty, and all the secrets we will share.”
His words became a throaty murmur, a sound like a cat’s purr. Unable to resist, she looked up into his eyes. This close, they were a decadent brown shade, the color of a mélange of costly spices. Cinnamon. Cumin. Coriander. His lashes dropped on a blink. In that gesture, he promised her a multitude of sinful pleasures. Her skin prickled with delight.
Nay!
She should not be tempted by what he offered.
Henry and the others could be in danger.
Linford’s fingers skimmed up her forearm in a feather-light caress. Skilled. Sure. A lover’s touch. Her flesh throbbed with the contact, even as sudden heat swirled down to her belly. Her breath puffed against the veil.
Disquiet and yearning pulled at her heart, even as his fingers glided up past her elbow. How could one touch elicit such a multitude of sensations? As she willed the muzzy haze from her mind, his fingers snagged the veil’s edge. Tugged.
He intended to see her face!
She swatted aside his hand and whirled away, her skirt swirling about her legs. Forcing a petulant tone, she said, “You should not tease me when you cannot stay. Shame, milord.”
Chuckling, he started toward her. “Little dancer—”
Her frantic gaze fell to the wine goblets. “A drink, before you leave?” She limped to the trestle table and picked up the jug. Wine splashed over the goblet’s rim. Spattered on the table. Dripped onto the floor with a steady
pat, pat
. Under her breath, she cursed her trembling hands.
Hearing him stride up behind her, she turned and pressed the goblet into his palm. He raised the vessel to his lips.
“To your pleasure,” she said in a bright tone.
His lazy smile returned. “To
our
pleasure, love.” He took a sip, then frowned. “Why do you not drink?”
Her fingers fluttered to the veil. “I am not thirsty.” As she shifted her weight to ease pressure on the splinter, pain shot through her sole. She smothered a gasp. “Later, when you return, we can drink tog—”
His goblet clanged down beside her. He crowded her against the table. The hard edge pressed against the back of her thighs. As his masculine smell enveloped her, and his legs bumped against hers, she wilted to half sitting on the table’s edge. She barely resisted bolting for the door.
“You find fault with the wine?” Her fingers clutched the table’s edge so hard, she vowed the wood would snap.
“The wine is delicious. I must keep a clear head for the interrogation.” He smiled. “Now, before I go . . .”
His hands landed upon her hips. A firm, deliberate touch. His fingers splayed upon her skirt. Then, with agonizing slowness, they slid down the curve of her hips, bare legs, and calves. A thorough, appreciative touch, as though he relished the feel of silk and flesh. A silent, answering cry of pleasure warbled inside her.
He groaned, dropping to his knees before her. She stared down at his unruly hair, the crown of his head scarcely a hand’s reach away from her.
His fingers brushed her skirt’s hem.
She drew a sharp breath. Was he fulfilling some kind of eastern mating ritual? “W-what are you doing?”
He touched her right ankle. “This one, is it not?”
With effort, she forced herself to exhale. “Pardon?”
“You limp. This foot hurts you. Aye?”
She nodded. With gentle pressure, he tilted her grubby foot to inspect it, and she squirmed with embarrassment. “’Tis naught. Only a splinter.”
“It causes you pain. I would be barbaric, indeed, to leave you in discomfort.”
She ceased struggling. Odd tenderness blossomed within her. As his face furrowed in concentration and his fingers skimmed between her toes and over her sole, the ache grew.
In the past, young lords had courted her, but she had never permitted them to touch her. Above all, Garmonn. He had begged for her kisses, crudely demanded them once when he had walked with her in Ickleton’s garden, but she had refused. No man kissed or touched a lady, except her wedded husband. Now, with Linford’s deft hands probing her skin and her flesh shimmering with strange sensations, she appreciated the wisdom of her parents’ strict tutelage.
His light touch tickled. She squirmed.
He chuckled, then moved to the heel of her foot. “Ah,” he said, “There.”
“Is it . . . large?”
“Enormous.” When she groaned, he added, “Half a tree.”
Rexana laughed. She could not resist.
He grinned. With his thumb and forefinger, he plucked at her sole. A quick pinch. Then, arching an eyebrow in triumph, he held up the splinter.
“Thank you. It feels much better.”
Smiling, he tossed the bit of wood aside. With utmost care, he placed her foot on the floor and then rose, smoothing the creases from his tunic. She stared at his tanned fingers, so strong, capable and careful. Her stomach did a strange turn. Was he truly the unprincipled barbarian the gossips claimed him to be? Had they misjudged him?
He caught her staring. His smile changed and, from one heartbeat to the next, sharpened with determination and desire. “I regret I must leave now.” Lowering his face to hers, he murmured, “But first, I will have a kiss.”
She froze, numbed by a rush of alarm. “Kiss?”
“Kiss. Remove the veil, love.”
Catherine Kean
Award-winning author Catherine Kean has always loved tales of heroic knights and stubborn damsels. Her debut medieval historical romance,
Dance of Desire
, was the launch title of Medallion Press’s Sapphire Jewel Imprint.
Dance of Desire
won two Reviewer’s Choice Awards, Best Medieval in industry review magazine
Affaire de Coeur
’s 2006 Reader-Writers’ Poll, and finaled in four contests for published romance novelists.
Her other medieval romances have also garnered accolades. Among them,
My Lady’s Treasure
won the historical category of the 2008 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest and finaled in the 2008 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.
A Knight’s Reward
was a 2008 National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist.
Catherine also writes contemporary romances under the pseudonym Cate Lord.
When not writing, Catherine enjoys cooking, baking, browsing antique shops, shopping trips with her daughter, and gardening. She lives in Florida with her husband, daughter, and a very spoiled cat. For the latest news on her books and author appearances, please visit her website:
www.catherinekean.com
.
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