Dance of Desire (14 page)

"You have not heard my proposition."

Bitter laughter burned her throat. "If it concerns my honor —"

"Aye, yet more importantly, preserving it."

"I do not care what the gossips say." Even as she spoke, a shudder ran the length of her spine. Through one impulsive but necessary act, she had perhaps ruined years of tutoring and social acceptability. By now, Darwell might have told Garmonn and half of Warringham, in lurid detail, how she had danced for Linford in an attempt to seduce him and rescue her brother.

And how she had failed.

Fighting the despair slicing through her, she walked to the hearth and raised her hands to the roaring flames. At her feet, the dog raised its grayed head. It looked at her with filmy eyes, while its tail thumped on the tiles.

Her father had adored this faithful hound which had followed at his heels everywhere he went. Unconditional love. Unfailing loyalty. How could an animal feel what she felt for Rudd? She blinked away fresh tears.

Linford's hands, firm yet surprisingly gentle, came down upon her shoulders. She started. She had not even heard him walk up behind her. Where his palms pressed, a strange, glimmering heat seeped through her bliaut to her bare skin. Tingling sensations rippled across her back, like sparks from the wood popping in the hearth.

She tried to wrench free, but he did not release her.

"I respect your stubborn loyalty to your brother," Linford said from behind her, his breath stirring her hair, "but you should not bear responsibility for his treachery."

"Remove your hands."

As though he did not hear her protest, he murmured, "You are young. Beautiful. A lady of rare courage and intelligence." One of his fingers slid across the silk between her shoulder blades. "A woman of wild, wild passions."

She whirled around. Her skirts tangled with the heavy drape of his mantle and wound about her legs. She stumbled, but his arms caught her. As she fell against him with a shocked "oomph," his hands slid easily around her waist.

Her fingers plowed into the glossy fur trimming the front of his mantle. Her nose hovered a breath away from his
stubbled
chin. The smell of his warm, male body enveloped her. Taunted her. Enticed her to press her breasts, belly, and thighs even closer. To relish the forbidden physical contact.

Alarm shrilled within her. She must free herself from his hold, before he weakened her heart and mind.

She squirmed. "Let me go."

"I want you, Lady Rexana." Linford's dark eyes, so close to hers, gleamed in the firelight. His breath warmed her cheek, while his hands splayed over the small of her back. "Accept my proposition, love, and I will do all in my power to help your brother."

Trembling with indignant fury, she arched an eyebrow. "How, milord? Do you
dare
ask me to become your courtesan?"

"Nay, little fig. My wife."

 
"Wife? Never!"

As the words shot from Rexana's lips, Fane tensed. He had expected her to initially reject his proposal, yet her refusal still stung like lemon juice running into an open wound.

He must convince her. He would have her for his own.

He stared at her pursed lips, lush, red, and close enough to kiss. If he swept his mouth over hers, would her shocked cry become a moan of pleasure? Would she sigh, then soften in his arms? He imagined the keening sound she would make as he coaxed her to kiss him back, the way her aroused body would shift against his to encourage greater intimacy. Heat flooded his loins.

He had dreamed of such a kiss last eve.

As though attuned to the lust streaking through him with the force of a desert storm, she wriggled in his hold. His arms instinctively tightened around her. He smiled down into her flushed, mutinous face.

"We will wed, love. '
Tis
a wise decision for us both. My position will protect you from any scandal that might arise from last night."

Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her gaze turned frosty. "So gallantly you speak. Yet, I vow the greater scandal is for me to wed a barbarian."

He laughed softly. She hurled sharp verbal barbs. Though her words held some truth, he would not let her manipulate him, or sway his purpose. "A boon, then," he said lightly, "that I am not completely uncivilized, after all."

Her eyes flared before she abruptly shook her head. "Milord, I appreciate your . . . offer," she said between her neatly-formed teeth, "but I am not afraid to face the gossips' accusations. Alone."

"Are you certain?"

She jerked in his arms and this time, trod hard on his foot. With a lazy grin, he let her go. She whirled away, halting at the other side of the prone dog to glare at him. "I do not fear you, Sheriff. Nor will you bully me into accepting your offer of marriage. Did you know my father had many friends in the king's court? If I write to ask for —"

"A different husband? The crown will deny your request."

Her eyes flashed like polished gems. "I do not think so."

He calmly straightened his cuff. "Before I left Acre, the king signed a writ awarding me the hand of any English maiden I desire. The king's ministers are aware of this writ." His gaze flicked to hers. "I will petition for the honor of your lovely hand. My request will be granted."

Her jaw clenched. "I shall also write and ask the ministers to intervene on Rudd's behalf."

"They will refuse. I have a missive bearing his signature, which proves he supports the traitors."

As though fighting the urge to lash out and scratch him, she clawed her fingers into her skirts. "Sheriff, your arrogance is most. . . unappealing."

He shrugged. "Yet, well founded. The king has made no secret that he and England are in my debt. He is determined to secure the crown's control of these lands. Here, I am the king's law."

The slender column of her throat moved on a swallow. Her skin looked soft. Flawless. His fingertips itched to explore the tender spot beneath her ear, the side of her neck, her throat's shadowed hollow. He would enjoy discovering her.

"Even if I wished to accept your offer, which I do not," she said, drawing his focus back to her fetching mouth, "I am already practically betrothed."

She spoke with effort, as though divulging privileged information. Anger flamed in his gut. He barely restrained a furious cry. She would not be taken from him. Not this woman, whose passionate heart was so kindred to his own.

"Betrothed? To whom?"

She shivered. "Garmonn."

"Darwell's son," Fane growled.

She nodded, yet she did not giggle or blush like a maiden smitten, and his heart warmed with wicked gladness.

"Marriage between us was discussed when we were children," she said. "You see, Sheriff, I cannot wed you."

Fane sensed her slipping from his grasp like a handful of sand. Yet, he had vowed to finish this game between them, and so he would. Quirking a brow, he said, "You are not formally betrothed. Darwell asked me last eve to support your betrothal to Garmonn. I cannot. I will not, for you will wed me."

In the flickering firelight, her eyes sparked pure fury. "You leave me no choice, then, but to marry you?"

Her stinging tone tempered his triumph. Yet, he managed a smile. She would come to see that they were an excellent match. He would be diligent, gentle and courteous in his persuasion. He would show her the joys and pleasures in the rituals of love. Together, they would create their own unique dance. A dance to last a lifetime.

Turning away from her, he walked to the other end of the hearth. He must give her the dignity of her own space, so she could reach the decision herself. Waving his hand in the air, he said, "Of course, you have a choice. You may refuse. You may tell me to eat my words and never set foot in your keep again. Yet, what I told you earlier stands. I have the power to help Rudd. I am willing to do so."

"To have me," she said, her voice barely audible over the hissing fire.

"Aye. To have you."

"I do not love you. I never will."

The admission, so coolly spoken, cut him like Saracen steel. The insecurities locked deep inside him stirred to life. Again, he heard his father's bellow.
Godforsaken idiot. Leave and never come back. What your mother saw worth loving in you, I do not know.

Fane bit back an oath. As he stared into the leaping fire, he remembered Leila's exquisite face, her bronzed skin a contrast to the white bedding upon which she lay.
Fane,
she whispered, reaching her naked arms up to him.
Lie with me, and together, like doves, we will both be free.

Dragging his fisted hand over his mouth, he forcibly blocked out the memories. He would not be devoured by his past. He would not waver from his desired course.

"I regret you find our marriage distasteful, Rexana," he said, turning to face her. "Yet, few ladies have a choice in their marriages. Yours would not be the first to be forged for reasons other than love. Or the last."

"How comforting."

He ignored her icy glare. He reached into his mantle, withdrew a rolled parchment, then held it out to her. "Your signature, milady, and our agreement will be complete."