Dance of Desire (11 page)

Fane's eyes squeezed shut. He still saw her beautiful, supple body kissed by firelight. Still felt her skin's warm softness against his palm. Her scent lingered in the air.

Footfalls sounded in the outer corridor. His eyelids flicked open. Did one of the guards return with her? Fane strode to the doorway.

As he wrenched the wooden panels open, Darwell staggered to a halt, his hand raised to knock. "Milord!"

Silently, Fane bellowed. He steeled his voice into firm politeness. "Lord Darwell."

Wheezing, Darwell braced one hand on the doorframe and wiped his brow. "I came to say good eve. My squires are in the bailey, readying my horse for the journey."

The urge to snarl and send Darwell scurrying back down the corridor burned hot in Fane's blood, but he smothered the rash impulse. Darwell's political influence extended to many noble courts. Very foolish, to strain an important and necessary alliance over a woman.

A woman Darwell knew well.

An idea sparked at the back of Fane's mind. The plan rapidly flared with potential.

He smiled. "Must you leave so soon?" Standing to one side, he gestured into the solar. "Would you care to come in? Mayhap for one last goblet of wine?"

Darwell beamed. "My squires will wait. I thank you, milord." Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he stepped into the chamber, his gaze bright with interest. As though in awe of Fane's collected wealth, he stopped and stared.

Fane closed the doors. Mulling his next words, he motioned Darwell toward the fire. "Did I tell you I have discovered the dancer's identity?"

Mopping his cheeks with his sleeve, Darwell giggled like an excited little boy. "Tell me. Who is the vixen?"

Fane's smile hardened. "Lady Rexana Villeaux."

Darwell gasped. "Lady —" He slapped his chest. "
Tsk
,
Tsk
. I should have guessed." Cupping his hand, he bobbed it up and down. "Oranges! I am a complete fool not to have recognized her earlier."

Darwell was not the only fool.

As the older lord rattled on about his lack of perception, rage blasted through Fane. His fist tightened around the precious jewel until the gold band bit into his palm.
Why
had she concocted such an elaborate ruse? Did she know of her brother's treachery? Did she support it? Had she aimed to distract Fane and his guards while Rudd attended the tavern meeting with the other conspirators?

A sour taste, as sickening as rotten dates, filled Fane's mouth. Through her highly provocative dance, had she intended to prove the High Sheriff of Warringham to be a barbaric misfit, ruled by lust instead of reason?

By God, he would have answers!

He would not allow Lady Rexana Villeaux to play him for a fool. If word of her deception became known throughout the county, his capabilities as High Sheriff would be in question. One woman — a traitor's sister — would not undermine his efforts to secure Warringham for the crown and to establish peace.

He forced his anger aside, focusing on his plan to snare the lady. He looked at Darwell, who now hummed an off-key tune while wiggling his hips in an appalling imitation of her dance.

Fane cleared his throat. "Milord."

Darwell straightened with a snap and pop of bones. He laughed sheepishly. "My apologies, Sheriff. I did not mean to . . . ah . . . become lost in my thoughts."

"Lord Darwell," Fane said, easing his painful grip on the ring. "You seem a man of integrity. I vow I can trust you?"

Darwell smoothed his skewed tunic. "Aye."

"Before I say more, I must have your solemn vow you will not reveal Lady Rexana's secret."

Darwell's grin wavered. "Secret?"

"That she performed here this eve."

"Ah." With a sly wink, the older lord said, "There is a reason for her disguise, and for dancing half nu — . . . For her enthralling performance." Darwell leaned sideways, as though the crackling flames might suddenly grow ears. "You can confide in me. I swear, I will not tell anyone."

Dragging his hand over his mouth, as though he pondered a matter of grave importance, Fane said, "The crown forbids me to reveal Lady Rexana's role. However, 'tis vital that no one" — his tone hardened — "I repeat,
no one,
learns she performed at tonight's feast."

Darwell's eyes bulged. "A crown secret? O - Of course I shall not speak of it."

"If you do," Fane said with quiet menace, "I must report your indiscretion to the king's ministers. Without question, this would not bode well for you or your sons." He paused for dramatic effect. " '
Twould
destroy Garmonn's chances of a lucrative marriage."

Darwell's face whitened. "I swear, upon my honor. Lady Rexana's secret is safe with me."

"Good." Fane blew a sigh and smiled. "May this eve be the start of a long and valuable friendship. I will send for wine, so we may toast our agreement." As he headed toward the solar doors, he said: "While you are here, you must share with me all you know of Lady Villeaux."

Shaking his head in obvious bewilderment, Darwell wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Whatever you wish to know, Sheriff, I shall be glad to tell you."

 
Swinging her shoes in one hand
, Rexana walked through the shadowed glade. As birds twittered and flitted from tree to tree, she willed her weary mind to snap fully awake. Willed her anxious thoughts to clear. Willed her worry to evaporate like the morning mist rising from the deep, gray-green pool.

She dropped her shoes into the grass, then walked down to the water, drew her skirts up about her knees, and hunched down in the mud. As she stared at her reflection, she trailed a finger through the shallows. Her features blurred in a cloud of brown silt. An omen of the uncertain future?

A breeze stirred the pond's surface. She shivered. Her body ached from a fitful night's rest. Snatches of sleep were haunted by nightmares of a gleeful Darwell telling Linford that he had guessed her identity. Of Rudd, blurting out her name. Of the sheriff, his face taut with anger, as he confronted her.

She had awakened at every creak of her bed, every gust of wind past the chamber's shutters. Yet, Linford had not come thundering into Ickleton in the dead of night, bent on finding her. He had not arrived at the gates at dawn.

Mayhap Darwell had not guessed the truth, after all.

Mayhap Rudd remained defiantly silent.

She withdrew her fingers from the murky water. "Oh, Rudd," she whispered.

At first light, she had met with Henry and a few trusted men-at-arms, yet they had not found a way to win Rudd's freedom — apart from battering down Tangston's portcullis and whisking him from the dungeon. Her stomach churned, for lives would be lost in such a rash attempt. She had no desire for bloodshed or battle, most of all against a skilled crusader like Linford.

Moreover, the sheriff still had the missive. Naught prevented him from hunting down, arresting and imprisoning Rudd again.

If Linford ever discovered she had deceived him, he might arrest and imprison her, too.

She tightened her fingers into fists, burrowed them into the silk crushed under her breasts, and tipped her face into the breeze. She must not drain her strength by worrying about herself. How did Rudd fare? Did he wonder if she missed him? Did he have faith she would help him?

The breeze skimmed over her cheeks, tender as a caress. Gentle as Linford's touch. She fought to suppress the sensations his memory aroused: anxiety, curiosity, longing.

Aye, shameful longing.

Overhead, the tree boughs stirred. Whispered. She forced herself to listen. Breathed in the scents of wet earth, marsh plants, and crushed grass. Let the serenity of the pool flow through her soles into her. The ancient rhythms of this place understood. Her tears for her parents had dripped into the clear water. In return, her soul's burden had been lightened. Here, she had danced until she could face the next day. Here, she would think of a way to help Rudd.

Rising to her feet, she untied the ribbon binding her hair, then loosened her braid. She strode up the bank to the grass and, in the familiar ritual, stretched her arms up to the sun. Fingers spread wide, she turned like a dandelion spore drifting in the breeze. Swayed to and fro, like the grass' seed pods. Bowed like the violets quivering in the oaks' shade.

Grasses swished against her skirts. She stretched. Arched. Turned.

Her hair tangled about her throat. Her breathing quickened. Her mind cleared to accept the glade's nurturing wisdom.

She spun, dipped, and whirled until her chest tightened with her gasped breaths.

Enlightenment eluded her.

Despair cried out inside her like a lost child. Pressing a hand against her ribs, she stumbled to the patch of violets. She knelt and, with shaking fingers, plucked the fragrant purple heads and stuffed them into the cloth purse slung at her hip. Later, she would press the essence from the blooms for scented water, a task to busy her mind and quell the frustration drowning her heart.

She would not lose hope. The answer would reveal itself. She must return to the keep, find Henry, and begin their planning anew. She must not rest until she had a solution.

Wiping her fingers on her
bliaut's
skirts, Rexana rose, then donned her shoes. Mud stained her gown's hem. A trivial concern, compared to Rudd's fate. With a last glance about the pool, she slipped into the surrounding woods to make her way back to the keep.