Dance of Desire (3 page)

She glided toward him.

He resumed talking with Lord Darwell.

A scream burned for release. Stubborn, stubborn man. She had piqued his curiosity. Now, how did she keep him enticed? How did she hold the interest of a savage?

Heady anticipation shimmered through her. She must think like a barbarian. Act the part of an infidel courtesan. Play to his desires. Reveal the wildness trapped in her soul.

Dance, Rexana!

Closing her eyes to the faces around her, she focused on the tabor's rhythmic beat as well as the plaintive melody. Reminded herself that Rudd's life hinged upon this moment. Stretched her body and limbs farther than she ever had before.

The ankle bells tinkled.

Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

Fear, anxiety, and longing bloomed inside her, feelings she had known well since childhood. The schooling of a titled lady left little time for chasing beetles or butterflies, or for picking bouquets of stringy wild- flowers.

Her parents had expected her to accept her noble duty. She had done so. Bravely. Willingly. She had loved and trusted them. Now, they lay buried in the hard earth.

Dance, Rexana! Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

He was watching now.

The silk brushed against her legs, a sensation similar to the breeze wafting through the grasses near her secret pool.

There, surrounded by the quiet majesty of trees and weathered rocks, she allowed the stifled voice inside her to cry out.

There, lifting her hands to the sun, she absorbed the power of the vast blue sky and the soil beneath her feet.

Surrendering to the passionate howl inside her, she danced.

She reached her palms upward. Aye, just like that.

Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

Rexana dared another glance. Linford stared as though he could not look away. As though her dance seduced him.

She rolled her head and shoulders in a slow, sensual arc.

Exhilaration flooded her mind.

Her steps quickened.

The familiar cry hummed through her body. Heightened her senses. Infused her heart and soul with a heady blend of joy, confusion, and . . . yearning.

Her body arched.

Spun.

She danced as she dared near the pool, where no one could see, with only her reflection to laugh at her folly. In those moments, she felt more alive than at any other time in her life.

As she whirled in wild momentum, she heard the music slow. The dance was ending. Too soon!

She would summon the musicians to begin another song. She lowered her arms. Blinking away the haze of bittersweet memories, Rexana dipped her head, then extended her arms in an elegant finale.

The last strains of the music stopped.

The hall fell silent.

Utterly silent.

Her breaths, obscenely loud, rattled in her throat.

Why had the chatter and merriment halted?

She raised her head a fraction. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. Darwell sat alone at the lord's table, his cheeks flushed and his jaw gaping.

Not five paces to her right stood Linford, his arms crossed over the front of his tunic. Half masked by smoky shadow, his face revealed no emotion.

She rubbed her trembling hands over her belly. What had happened? Had Darwell recognized her? Had he told the sheriff her identity?

Fear shot through her. For herself. For Henry and the musicians. For Rudd.

Tugging her veil closer about her face she took two startled steps back.

"You will not run away." Linford's mouth tipped up in a half smile. He crooked a finger. "Come here, little dancer."

Fane scowled as the woman's eyes widened with panic. Why did she want to flee ? Because of the shocked murmurs spreading through the hall? Because of the rumors about him? Or because no man had dared to confront her after a performance?

Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm. Perspiration beaded on her throat and dotted her bronzed skin. He looked lower, at her breasts swelling against the embroidered silk bodice. Beautiful. A generous handful of warm flesh. Breasts as big as . . . oranges.

His hardened loins stirred.

With effort, Fane wrenched his gaze from the dancer's cleavage to meet her stare. She had not moved, but stood as still as a carved stone statue. He sensed her reticence, strong as the sensation that virtually hummed in the space between them. She would cross to him. Of that, he had no doubt. Whatever the rumors, he was
Warringham's
sheriff, appointed by the crown. By virtue of setting foot within his keep, she owed him that gesture of respect.

"I am waiting, love."

She swallowed and made a small sound of distress. His gaze narrowed on her face. Her nose, mouth, and chin were concealed by the veil. Were her lips full and red? Was her nose slim or angular? A woman of mystery. Mayhap deliberately so. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, heavily lashed but . . . emerald green. Unusual, for a wench of dark skin and eastern blood.

Frowning, he glanced at the cloth covering her head, but the fabric lay flat against her temples. He doubted her hair flowed thick, glossy, and black like Leila's.

His hands tightened into fists, even as he snuffed a sting of anger. Foolish, to take offense. This woman was an entertainer, a wench of English blood acting a role. She did not understand the nuances of eastern dance. He had recognized that the moment he saw her move.

As though sensing his displeasure, the woman tipped up her chin. She started toward him, each step articulated by the chime of bells. Ah, but how she moved.

Torchlight skimmed over her slender shoulders and down the planes of her firm stomach. She glided toward him as though she approached King Richard himself. Head held high, she radiated the poise and elegance expected of the highest noble courts.

Who was this woman?

She paused before him. Almost in afterthought, with the barest hint of resentment, she lowered her gaze to stare at his tunic. He sensed the tumultuous emotions warring within her, threatening her self-control. The same fierce emotions had reverberated in her dance and touched a note deep inside him. Her heart had spoken.

It echoed the profound, primitive bellow of his own tormented heart. Before her dance had finished, before he could stop himself or consider the consequences, he had walked around the table, stepped off the dais, and crossed to her.

Steeling his wayward concentration, Fane drew in a breath. She smelled of violets. Sweet. Delicious.

"An interesting dance you performed this eve," he said.

"I hope it pleased you, milord." Her very English voice sounded slightly husky and breathless. The way a woman sounded after she had been kissed.
Focus, fool!

Shoving aside the distracting thought, Fane muttered, "I never saw a dance quite like yours in all my years in the east."

She stiffened. The bells at her wrists jingled as she clasped her hands over her stomach. "I was instructed in this fair country. I admit I have never danced before a sheriff of such . . . authority, milord. Your esteemed reputation —"

"Ah." With a firm hand, he reached up and touched the edge of her veil. As his fingers tried to drag down the shimmering fabric, she jerked away. He frowned. "You fear me, little dancer?"

Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her eyes sparked. "I do not."

"Yet, you turn your face away and refuse to look up at me. You are indeed frightened. Or you hide secrets from me."

Her green eyes glittered in the torchlight. Lovely eyes, darkened with anger, confusion and distrust. Eyes that revealed the passion within her.

"I am honored you wished to speak with me," she said with the barest quaver, stepping back, "but I must leave now."

His jaw hardened. "You cannot. I have not dismissed you."

"I do not need —" Her sharp voice faltered.

Fane's lip curled in anger. She did not need to finish. He heard her unspoken words.
I do not need your wretched dismissal, barbarian.
A treacherous thought for a peasant who fed herself through the coin earned from her dance.

As though sensing his displeasure, her gaze softened. So, she was wise enough to bite her tongue and try to pacify him. "I believe the jugglers are to perform next. I do not wish to delay the rest of the eve's celebrations," she said. Glancing at the musicians, who stood staring at her as though awaiting a superior's orders, she added, "Your guests will grow restless."

As I grow restless, woman, in your presence.
As
my blood stirs, and my pulse thickens, and my soul hungers for more of your dance.
"You will stay."

She gasped, a sound of utter indignation.

Before she could dart away, he caught her hands. Raising them to his lips, he kissed her fingers, feeling the tremor that coursed through her. As he released her, he drew the sapphire ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm.

"A token of my appreciation, and my interest." He trailed his thumb down over the veil to her lips. "You will stay, love, as I command. By the end of this eve, we will know each other very well. And I will know all of your secrets."

A
shudder ran down Rexana's spine
. How could she refuse Linford's gift and proposition without causing grave offense? At all costs, she must avoid creating a commotion as well as any disastrous consequences for herself, Rudd, and her loyal friends.

Turning the ring in her damp fingers, she looked down at the sapphire. A large stone, set in delicately etched gold. No doubt worth the equivalent of a wealthy lady's dowry. Did he favor all his women so generously? Did he pay for her body — or the secrets he expected her to reveal?

Fear tingled through her to the tips of her toes. She would never betray Rudd. Nor would she offer herself to a stranger. A barbarian. Yet, even as she steeled her
resolve, a strange excitement surged. Forbidden interest, coaxed to life by his hungry gaze. Wanton curiosity.

What would it be like to taste Linford's sinfully curved lips? To feel his fingers skimming over her skin? To sense his breath upon her belly?