Dance of Desire (32 page)

"Your words are false," Fane said. "Rexana —"

"I saw." Garmonn's eyes narrowed to slits. "She pushed you away. She tried to flee. You would not let her. You forced her down beneath you, yanking up her skirts as though she were some cheap tavern slut. She would not willingly lie with you, so you forced her to rut with you."

Rexana gasped. How could he accuse Fane of such savagery?

A blush stung her face but, holding her place upon the rock, she met Garmonn's accusatory stare. She ignored the fear crushing her innards, and prayed that he heeded her. "Please, listen to me. Fane did not —"

"Our affairs are no concern of yours, Garmonn," Fane interrupted, "but I have never forced Rexana. I have no need."

Garmonn's hand tightened on the weapon. "Liar!"

In her mind's eye, Rexana saw Garmonn's arm thrust forward. Fane's face whiten with agony. Blood spatter, thick and red, on the stones.

Oh, God.
Ob, God!

As though from a distance, she heard Fane growl. "Lower your sword, Garmonn. Now."

"Go to hell."

The pebbles in Fane's hand clicked together, a grim sound. "You are on my lands. You disturb my privacy and make threats upon my life. You have frightened my wife. Do you wish to spend time in my dungeon?"

"You have suffered no harm. You have no reason to arrest me." Garmonn's mouth twisted into a sneer. "My father will convince you that your judgment is flawed."

"You cannot hide behind your sire's position, or his goodwill, for the rest of your life."

The thud of approaching
hoofbeats
underscored Fane's last words. Sucking in a painful breath, Rexana dared a glance. Lord Darwell drew his horse up beside the guards, tossed aside the reins, and dismounted in the grass with a loud grunt.

Hope flooded through her. Darwell was one of the few people who had influence on Garmonn. Mayhap he would be able to prevent bloodshed.

Mopping his forehead with the edge of his mantle, Darwell hurried down the bank. He slipped and skidded on the stones before halting beside Fane.

"Garmonn, what are you doing? Lower that sword before you cause injury."

"Lord Darwell," Fane muttered. "I did not expect to see you this day."

Darwell's gray head bobbed. "Good day, milord. Milady. We are on our way home."

Fane's brow arched. "Ah."

"I met up with Garmonn at a tavern last eve. We decided to stay the night, as my son was . . . ah . . . unfit to ride." Darwell cleared his throat, then glared at Garmonn. "Put the sword away. You are making an idiot of yourself."

Garmonn's mouth flattened, but he did not move. "Linford assaulted Rexana."

"Neither you nor I can be certain of what we saw."

Darwell adjusted the belt at his waist. "I am sure there is a reasonable explanation, if his lordship desires to tell us. Which, of course, he may not."

Fane shrugged. "Rexana fell into the water. I offered her comfort. I did what any civilized, warm blooded, newly wedded husband would do."

Darwell wiggled his eyebrows. "I see."

"Do not believe him, Father. He lies like a slippery tongued Saracen." Garmonn raised the tip of the sword. His gaze darkened with menace.

Rexana's belly roiled. She ignored Fane's earlier words, forced aside the warning cries within her, and stepped onto the next rock. "Fane did not harm me. I swear, he did not. There is no reason to draw blood on my behalf. None!"

"You speak true, Rexana?" Garmonn muttered. "Or do you try and protect his miserable life?"

"I speak true."

Fane's fingers closed over the pebbles. "I have told you twice to sheathe your weapon, Garmonn. Do it. If you refuse, my men will arrest you."

"Arrest my son?" For a moment, desperation gleamed in Darwell's gaze. Stretching his arm up in a plea, he strode closer to Garmonn's mount. "Do as Sheriff Linford commands, son. We do not want more trouble, do we?"

Garmonn's jaw tightened. He swore, lowered the sword, and rammed it back into its scabbard.

Catching his horse's reins, Garmonn looked at Rexana. Her pulse suspended for a painful beat. His stare reminded her of that winter day, and warned her anew of the threat he had made if she ever told what happened. She had told Rudd that poor Thomas was wounded in an accident. Rudd did not know the whole truth. He could not, or his life would be in terrible danger.

Garmonn's gaze slid to Fane. Brutal promise shone in Garmonn's eyes. "We will meet again, Sheriff."

After wheeling his horse around, he spurred it back toward the road.

Rexana's legs threatened to buckle. Before she collapsed upon the rock like a spent flower, she wobbled across the remaining stones and stepped down to the muddy bank.

Darwell shook his head. His mouth pursed in disapproval. "I apologize for Garmonn's behavior. Since his return from Crusade, he has been . . . unmanageable."

As though he noticed she had left the rocks without his permission, Fane drew himself up to his full height. "He and I have crossed twice. I respect he is your son, but I will not tolerate his rudeness or his threats. Next time, I shall have him arrested."

"I will tell him." Darwell's smile held sadness. "Thank you, milord, for your generous warning. He will not bother you again."

Fane signaled his guards to ride with Darwell back to the road, where Darwell's men-at-arms waited. As the men cantered through the meadow, Fane glanced at Rexana. She walked the flattened grass path back to the blanket. With each step, her drying skirts hugged her body and reminded him, with potent urgency, of all he had touched, tasted, and almost had.

Lust swiftly melted into the anger still burning in his blood. She had disobeyed his order to stay upon the rock. Why? Did she not realize he wanted her out of the fray? Did she not realize he tried to protect her from harm? Her safety meant more to him than his own.

His gaze narrowed on the set of her shoulders and her rigid back. Her movements were stiff, deliberate, not at all carefree, as they had been when she strolled to the water.

An unwelcome sting flared in his gut. She moved like a woman plagued by her conscience. What could weigh upon her that she would react so, after Garmonn's insolent bravado?

Fane's brow furrowed into a frown, and he shifted the pebbles in his fingers. His mind shot back to the feast at Tangston, to his conversation with Darwell before Rexana's dance. Darwell had practically begged for approval of Garmonn's marriage to her.

He wondered what Rexana had thought of wedding Garmonn. Women of her station oft had little say in marriage, but had she pined for him? When she listened to the minstrels'
chansons
, had she dreamed of

Garmonn's kiss? Of his embrace? Of his making slow, sweet, sweaty love to her?

Jealousy lashed through Fane. Her fear for him moments ago had seemed very real. Yet, mayhap she had not worried so much for his well-being, but for what he might do to hot-headed Garmonn.

Fane's throat tightened, as though a snake had somehow coiled around his neck and begun to constrict. He had thought, after her disagreement with Garmonn before the wedding, that she disliked him. Had she acted her disdain?

Mayhap, at last, he had found the reason why she hesitated to consummate their marriage.

Ah, God. Nay.

His fingers curled so tightly around the pebbles, his knuckles snapped. He forced himself to loosen his grip. Turning, he swore and hurled the rocks into the pond. They landed with a hollow
plonk
,
plonk
,
plonk
.

He spun back, to find her watching him. Her face shuttered with an odd blend of longing and wariness, before she resumed clearing away the fare.

Frustration ran hot in Fane's blood. He would have an answer from her. She would not secretly crave another man.

He stomped across the bank, through the grass, and dropped to his knees in front of her on the blanket.

Rexana glanced at him. As though sensing his volatile emotions, she averted her gaze and pushed a wrapped package into the sack.

She would not evade him. Not now. Not ever.

As she withdrew her hand, he caught her wrist. Her pale skin reminded him of her soft, silky thighs. With effort, he stifled the urge to press her fingers to his cheek and kiss her palm. "You have not been honest with me, Rexana."

Her bones jerked in his grasp. "Milord?"

"Tell me what is between you and Garmonn."

Panic shone in her eyes, before her gaze turned cool, cooler even than the water at the bottom of the pool. The invisible serpent around his throat squeezed tighter.

"There is naught between Garmonn and me," she said at last. "Why do you ask?"

"I do not believe you."

She stiffened. Her fingers splayed, like a cat baring its claws. "Release my hand, Fane. You hinder my work. After what happened moments ago, I do not wish to speak of Garmonn."