Dance of Desire (20 page)

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. He 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.

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. As he walked farther into the chamber, he 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."

He straightened. She had retreated to the window. The night breeze stirred her loosely braided hair and set the candle flames fluttering. The chamber's shadows shifted, 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 had never forced a woman into his bed. He would not 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 had sensed how close she came to acquiescing. He had 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 had 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, before 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 was not 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 did not 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 did not 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, 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 could not 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.