Dance of Desire (9 page)

 
His
hands balled into fists
, Fane stepped into the dank stairwell that led down to Tangston's dungeon. In the shadows ahead, the man-at-arms massaged his bruised cheek, then disappeared around a curve in the passage.

Fane shrugged the tightness from between his shoulders. After escaping General
Gazir's
hellish eastern prison, he had hoped never to set foot in a dungeon again. A foolish thought for a High Sheriff. 'Twas a necessary part of his duty.

His boots clipped on the uneven stone stairs. The darkness thickened. Memories scuttled out of his mind's farthest reaches, the place that hurt a thousand times worse than a scorpion's poisoned sting. A tremor raked his body. Again, he felt chains biting into his wrists. A whip lashing his back. Knives, hooks, and other wicked instruments of torture, too horrible to envision, cutting his flesh. His stomach churned.

Rough voices floated up from the dungeon and wove into his thoughts. He forced the memories aside. The past would forever haunt him, had irrevocably scarred him, but did not alter his immediate obligations to the crown. Leila had respected his loyalty to his English king, which had burned in Fane's soul and sustained him through unspeakable torture. She had told him so. He would not fail Leila's memory. Or himself.

A smile touched Fane's mouth. The sooner he questioned the traitors, the sooner he returned to the dancer that fate had brought to his hall. A delicious thought.

The brooch shifted in his grasp. Its warm surface touched his palm. A peculiar design, an arrow wrapped with a ribbon. What was its significance? Why had she looked so stricken when he asked her to remove it? What was her true relationship to Villeaux?

She had denied a love affair. Fane's instincts told him that was true. Yet, he must understand the link between her and Villeaux, even if seduction was required to get the information.

An even more delicious thought.

He would enjoy unveiling the woman hidden behind the glittering facade. As he had vividly imagined in the hall, he would slowly disrobe her, from veil to tinkling ankle bracelets. Afterward, he would explore her slender body. Taste her. Prove to her that he understood the wild cry of her dance.

Together, they would forge unforgettable, sensual memories.

He hurried down the last stairs. His boots hit dirt. The stairwell opened into a vast chamber, patrolled by men-at-arms. The air smelled of damp stone and mold. Brushing aside a lingering memory, Fane strode into the cavernous room and assessed the three lords who sat in sullen silence within one of the cells. As he turned away, Kester, the stocky, seasoned captain of the guard, bowed his graying head, then offered a wax tablet scratched with notes.

"We have their names, milord, as you ordered. None of the prisoners will discuss the tavern meeting."

After skimming the information on the tablet, Fane handed it back. "Where is Villeaux?"

Kester pointed across the dungeon to the farthest cell.

As though sensing a confrontation, the men in the other cell muttered amongst themselves. A guard grunted and banged on the bars. As Fane strode across the chamber, silence fell, broken only by the sputter of nearby torches.

He halted outside the cell and stared at the lad fettered to the wall. The guards had removed his fine leather boots, which lay in a heap near the bars, and chained his ankles and wrists. They had put Villeaux by himself to prevent him from causing further mischief. Or so they hoped.

A futile wish, Fane mused, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. He studied the lad's taut features. This boy was trouble.

Fane's mouth twisted into a faint smile. He narrowed his gaze in deliberate challenge. To his surprise, Villeaux did not attempt to speak, or plead his innocence, or bow his head, or sob, or shiver. His green eyes, remarkably like the dancer's, blazed with defiance.

Aye, this one was definitely trouble.

In the shadowed darkness, Villeaux looked no more than fifteen. His freckled face held a boyish innocence, yet his quick gaze proved him older than a boy. As Fane curled his fingers around a horizontal bar,
Villeaux's
manacled wrists, barely visible below his soiled tunic sleeves, jerked, and his hands fisted. His spine went rigid. Fane smothered a chuckle. So. The boy had plenty of pride to accompany his foolishness.

The cold metal chilled Fane's hands. He waited. He would not be the first to look away. Uncertainty crept into
Villeaux's
intelligent eyes before his face contorted into a scowl. Blowing matted brown hair from his brow, he took a step forward. Then another. Iron links dragged on the dirt floor. He reached his fetters' limits, and the chains snapped taut.

A memory shot into Fane's mind. Once, he had been a chained prisoner facing his Saracen captors from the other side of the bars. He shoved away the unsettling thought. He would not draw flawed parallels between his imprisonment and
Villeaux's
. He would not sympathize with a traitor.

The boy hissed through his teeth. "Are you Linford?"

"I am High Sheriff Linford," Fane said in a brusque voice. "You will address me with respect, Lord Villeaux."

The lad snorted in disgust. "Release me."

Annoyance pricked, yet Fane stifled the emotion. For now. "I cannot let you go. You were caught in a clandestine meeting conspiring with fellow traitors."

"I am no traitor."

"Is that so?" Reaching under his tunic's hem, Fane withdrew a thin, rolled parchment tucked into the belt of his hose. He unfurled the skin. Trapping opposite corners between his fingers, he held it against the bars. "Recognize this document? It lists men who have pledged to overthrow the crown. Here, near the bottom. Your signature."

Sweat glistened on
Villeaux's
forehead. Beneath a tangle of hair, his eyes turned cold. "How did you find —"

"I have my sources."

Villeaux's
mouth tightened. "What do you want from me?"

Ah. The crux of the matter. "For a start, I expect you to cooperate with the guards. I expect you to answer my questions to the full extent of your knowledge, and to provide the names of every other traitor participating in these plots against the crown."

"Then you will free me?"

"Then we will discuss your punishment."

The boy's eyes flared, as though he found the statement insulting. Then, tipping back his head, he laughed. The insolent sound grated down Fane's spine.

"I see naught amusing in your predicament."

Villeaux's
lips eased into a mocking grin. "Do you know the full extent of my late father's influence, Sheriff? He belonged to King Richard's innermost circle of loyal friends and advisors. He personally knew the king's ministers —"

"Your father is dead. A most unfortunate loss."

Anguish clouded the lad's gaze. Jerking his head to one side, he stared at the mildewed wall.

"You are unwise to provoke me, and foolish to waste your young life." Drawing away from the bars, Fane returned the missive to his belt. Anger charged his words. "Do you wish to stand trial in the King's Courts? To be beheaded? Tell me what I wish to know, and I may plead for leniency."

"Burn in hell, bastard."

Fane laughed and smoothed the front of his tunic. "Very well. Do as you will, but I urge you to at least consider the consequences." Dropping his voice to a rasp, he added, "Not just for yourself."

Villeaux's
head whipped around. "What do you mean?"

Moisture glinted in his eyes. Tears of humiliation? Regret? Mayhap he was not as immune to persuasion as Fane had first thought. '
Twould
be a pity for one so bright and full of potential to be condemned to death.

Choosing his words with care, Fane said, "I am told you recently inherited a large estate. Many
villeins
and lords depend upon you for leadership. You are also responsible for the welfare of your unwed sister."

"Rexana," the lad said.

"Aye, the Lady Rexana." An image of Darwell's hand, fondling the plump orange, flitted through Fane's thoughts. Mayhap one day soon, he would meet the lovely lady for himself.

Villeaux's
gaze sharpened. "If you dare hurt her —"

"I have no intentions of harming her," Fane said easily. "Yet, her fate depends on yours, does it not? If you die a traitor, you stain not only your honor, but hers. The crown will seize your holdings and grant them to another lord. What will happen to Rexana?"

The lad's mouth trembled. His gaze darted past Fane to the other conspirators' cell. "What do you care?"

Fane shrugged. "I have not even met her, yet I vow she is important to you. You would be wise to think of her, if you have not already done so, before you make a final decision on whether to cooperate."

The brooch tilted in Fane's curled hand. A reminder. The warm metal represented a promise. Before this meeting ended, he would have an answer to the question that chewed at him like an annoying camel.

His thoughts turned to the dancer awaiting his return, and desire stirred his blood. He fought to keep his voice controlled. "There is another woman, as well, you must consider." Fane shifted his hold on the brooch, caught the little arrow from pointed tip to feathered fletching, then raised it between his fingers. He held it to the bars.

In the shadowed, smoky light, Rudd's face paled. "Where did you —"

"A fetching wench, aye? Exquisite breasts. Long legs-"

"Wench
?" Chains clanked, a violent sound. "How dare you speak so of her? God's teeth! Where is she?"