Dance of Desire (13 page)

"First, we settle a matter between us."

"If you will not tell me of Rudd, we have naught to discuss." Her eyes flashed a clear warning. A moment more, and she would scream for her men-at-arms.

Caution gnawed at Fane. He could not risk hindering his carefully planned proposition. For now, he must concede to her.

And heighten the game.

With a dry laugh, Fane shook his head. Easing away from the wall, he reached into his mantle to withdraw a small, cloth-wrapped package. The familiar, distinctive eastern scent wafted to him. Flooded him with anticipation.

Holding her gaze, he tore aside the fabric and tossed the package's contents onto the table beside her. "You are mistaken, little dancer. We have a great deal to discuss."

With stunned dismay, Rexana watched the cake of soap slide toward her — identical to the one she had savored in his chamber. Her stomach did a slow, unsteady turn even as her mind raced for words. What did Linford intend now that he knew her deceit?

Her insides froze as he strode to the table. Closer. Closer. He came near enough that his male essence blended with the soap's lemony fragrance. Her nostrils filled with his scent. With the potent aura of man, danger, and temptation.

A tremor rippled through her. Curse her fickle heart. His clean, exotic scent should not be the least bit enticing.

His tanned fingers closed over the soap. As he moved, his mantle's fur cuff brushed her arm. A deliberate touch. She jerked back two steps.

"No more secrets, Lady Rexana," he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft.

Words grated from her lips. "How dare you?"

"Nay, milady. How dare you?"

Her gaze snapped to his. He smiled, the faintest crook of his mouth that implied a wealth of meaning. Recklessness and rebellion sped her pulse. She had not admitted to her deception. She could still feign ignorance of what he implied. Pretend the soap was only soap, and his insinuations as flawed as his barbaric tactics.

As she stared up into his face, hard yet unmistakably handsome, she saw the forewarning glittering in his eyes. He could be equally as stubborn as she. Moreover, he possessed one bargaining tool she did not: Rudd.

Yet, if he knew with certainty she was the dancer, and that she was Rudd's sister, Linford would have challenged her with the brooch.

Wariness undermined her defiance. He had journeyed to the keep for a specific reason. To confront her? Aye. Yet, mayhap he did not have proof she and the dancer were the same woman, but aimed to explore his suspicions. Mayhap he wanted her to betray herself. She must speak with care to learn his purpose.

Lowering her gaze to his hand cradling the cake, she quirked an eyebrow. "What is your meaning, milord? Why do you challenge me with simple soap?"

"More than soap, as well you know."

The caution within her intensified. "I fear I do not understand." The false words weighed heavy as stones on her tongue. "Mayhap you will plainly speak what it is you want, then tell me of my brother."

"Very well. I know your secret, Lady Rexana. I know you disguised yourself as a dancer last eve. I know you performed for me, and that you came to my solar."

She dried her moist palms on her skirt. "Indeed, Sheriff? What proof do you have 'tis so?"

He released the soap, then again reached into his mantle. Fabric whispered, the barest warning.

The brooch landed on the table between them.

The little arrow gleamed against the dark oak. She rubbed her lips together and smothered a choice, unladylike oath.

"Your brother told me this brooch is yours. He had it made for you. Gave it to you himself." Linford's shoulders raised in an indolent shrug. "Lord Darwell

also had suspicions —"

A sigh burst from her lips. "Loose-tongued, pompous old —"

"Do not speak ill of him." Linford's smile turned crooked. "He has an excellent eye for a woman's physique. He thinks your . . . attributes . . . are most exceptional." As Linford spoke his gaze heated and skimmed over her bodice, as though he, too, appreciated her generous proportions. Inwardly, Rexana cursed the wicked thrill of excitement that tingled through her to pool in her most private of places.

When he continued to ogle, she barely resisted the urge to slap his arrogant cheek. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Must you stare?"

His gaze, glowing with mischief, slid up to her face. "My apologies, but I cannot help myself. I agree with Darwell."

His words cooled her like icy river water. Flattery? Did he believe she would be influenced by such false words?

Panic flitted through her like a butterfly fighting to escape a rainstorm. Had he sensed the yearning trapped within her? Did he use his skills in seducing women to lure her into a trap of confession? "Why did you come here?" she demanded.

"Ah, the heart of the matter." Leaving the soap and brooch on the table, he crossed his arms, mirroring her defiant posture, then leaned his thigh against the table. "Let us begin with the most obvious question. Why?"

She stared at his hands, firm and bronzed against his mantle's black wool. Beautiful hands, which controlled and manipulated power. Yet, in his solar, he had touched her with gentleness. Fear pricked her. How did she stop herself from crumbling and falling right into his waiting fingers?

"You came for the missive, aye?" he pressed.

Shock jolted through her. When she raised her lashes to glance at him, he smiled like a barn cat which had devoured a plump robin.

Before she could reply, he said, "I was awake long into the early morn, considering your dance. I wondered what would make a lady of your position desperate enough to risk her reputation as well as the respect of her noble peers. Few things, I vow, except her brother's life."

A chill skittered across the nape of her neck. Too astute, this man, for her to reject his words with a simple "nay." Moistening her lips, she said, "If you guessed correctly?"

His soft laughter echoed. "So, my suspicions about the maidservant were correct. Did she ride to Ickleton, then, after fleeing Tangston, and reveal to you what she heard me say?"

His words plunged into Rexana's thoughts like falling rocks. "You . . . you
wanted
her to overhear your words? To learn of the missive?" As shock swept through Rexana's mind, her body numbed. She had just betrayed herself.

As though acknowledging her careless slip, Linford cast her a lazy wink. " 'Twas clear the day I rode into Tangston that she distrusted me and would never swear fealty to me. I discreetly investigated her past, and learned of her dead father's devotion to your family. When your brother's loyalty to the king became suspect. . ." Linford shrugged. "An ungracious plan, I admit, to feed her select information on the traitors, but necessary. I will not fail to root out those who undermine the crown's authority."

"Did you speak true about the list of traitors?" Rexana asked. "Do you possess a parchment that bears my brother's signature?"

"I do."

She rubbed her arms. Fear, outrage, then sickening frustration battled within her. "The missive is forged. My brother is guiltless."

Linford plucked a leaf from his mantle's cuff. "I fear not, milady. Last eve, my guards caught him in a clandestine meeting with a number of other lords."

Anger screamed inside her. "Rudd would never betray the king."

His tone cool, Linford said, "Lady Rexana —"

"I swear so. Upon my honor."

"Your honor," Linford repeated with dangerous softness. He uncrossed his arms. As he pressed his fingertips on the table, his fur-trimmed cuff whispered down over his wrist. "An interesting point. Might I note you recklessly risked your honor by performing before a crowded hall of nobles?" His mouth slanted into a half smile. "I am curious, love. How far would you have taken your deception?"

She swallowed. Hard. His intense gaze darkened. Demanded an answer. Unease poked at her, but she refused to heed it. She would not yield to Linford's barbarism.

Her chin tipped up. "As far as I felt necessary." Let him believe the worst of her. She did not care. She would never dance for him in his hall again.

"Would you have given me your virtue?"

He spoke softly, without criticism, yet his hushed tone only magnified the question's importance. She shrugged aside an inner cry for caution. "To save Rudd's life, I would risk a great many things."

Despite her resolve, her voice shook. Memories of a wintry day, of Garmonn laughing and aiming his bow into the woods, tore through her mind. Again, she heard poor Thomas Newland's agonized scream. Saw blood spattered on the snow. She closed her eyes against the anguish, horror, and revulsion that rattled her courage.

Rudd had saved her from certain death that day. He had risked his own life to come after her in the blizzard. Found her, half frozen, trying to drag Thomas to safety. She would have perished if Rudd had not come.

Now, she must save Rudd.

As she raised her damp lashes to meet Linford's gaze, his expression softened with admiration. "You must love your brother very much."

"I do." She cleared the rasp from her voice. "Do not mistake me, Sheriff. I will not allow you to persecute Rudd."

A velvety laugh rumbled from Linford. "Ah, love. I vow we can be of service to one another, after all."

His satisfied tone warned her that he danced nearer his true purpose. She spun away from the table. "I have no desire to help you."