She frowned. Worry gleamed in her eyes, along with curiosity. The old dog whined. Stepping over its shaggy tail, she walked toward him. "What do you have?"
"A marriage contract. It states that by mutual consent, we shall be wed in three days' time."
She laughed. "Three days! Impossible. What of the betrothal ceremony? What of the banns, which must be published three Sundays in a row —"
"I recently donated a pair of gold candlesticks to Tangston's village church. Penance for my time in the east." He gave a wry smile. "Father John will not be concerned with the banns."
Her cheeks turned an angry red. "You are a man of the law, yet you so readily break it?"
"I told Father John we knew each other before I went on crusade. Since you were not betrothed, we discussed marrying when I returned. I also showed him the king's writ."
"But —"
Fane leveled her with a stern gaze. "Deny my story, if you will, but 'tis your word against mine. Whom do you think Father John will believe?"
Her eyes huge, she stared at the parchment crushed between his fingers. The dog licked its lips and nuzzled her gown's hem. Her expression hardened with sadness and regret.
"Promise me you will help Rudd," she whispered.
"I do."
"Swear it!"
In her damp, glittering eyes, he glimpsed the fire he had sensed the night she danced for him. A fierce heat driven by determination, integrity, and love. If she gifted him with only a fraction of that passion, he would be a fortunate man.
First, she had to begin to trust him.
He pushed the parchment into her right hand. Bowing his head to her, a gesture of utmost respect, he dropped down on one knee. His cloak tumbled over his bent leg to spread behind him on the rush-strewn floor. Straw and dried herb stems poked through his hose into his skin, and the scent of mildewed food wafted to him, but he did not rise. He would not interrupt this important ritual.
Clasping her left hand in his, he looked up at her. "I swear, Lady Rexana. Before you and God."
Her breath trembled through her lips.
Squeezing her clammy fingers, he said, "Please. Sign."
In the distance, a door creaked open. A blast of cold air whipped over the floorboards. Voices echoed in the forebuilding — a man and woman arguing as they climbed the stairs to the hall. As though recognizing the voices, Rexana started and glanced toward the sound.
Fane rose. Her fingers stiffened in his grasp. She tried to pull free, but with his thumb, he caressed her knuckles. A reassurance. A promise to protect her, now and always.
An instant later, a man-at-arms emerged from the forebuilding. Henry, Fane recalled. The tough old warrior had very reluctantly admitted Fane and his men into Ickleton Keep.
A flustered looking maidservant, her apron askew, hurried at his side.
When Henry's gaze fell to Rexana's clasped hand, he stopped talking. He abruptly halted.
Holding back a grin, Fane met the older man's stare, which darkened with frustration, dislike, and protectiveness. Henry obviously cared a great deal for his lady. Fane guessed he had accompanied her to Tangston last eve.
"Henry," Rexana said.
Offering a polite smile to Henry, Fane said, "Good day to you, once again."
The warrior scowled. "Why do you hold Lady Rexana's hand?"
"I bid farewell to my intended bride."
The maidservant gasped.
Henry recoiled as though shot by an arrow. "What?"
"You are overbold, Sheriff," Rexana muttered, looking as though she would love to throttle him. "I have not agreed."
"You will."
Before she could pull away, before he thought twice and snuffed the mischief coiling inside him, Fane tightened his hold on her. He drew her fingers to his mouth. Her skin smelled of violets. Sweet. Inviting.
He felt her shiver. Her eyes spat warning sparks, but he merely smiled. With lazy intent, he kissed the back of her hand, leaving his impression upon her skin. Once. Twice. Then he nipped her with his teeth. To those watching, the tiny bite would appear no more than another gallant kiss.
Her lips parted on a shocked gasp. Outrage flared in her gaze, then embarrassment and confusion. Did he also see a hint of pleasure? She twisted her fingers free.
"Good day to you, little fig," he murmured.
He turned on his heel, nodded to Henry and the swooning maidservant, and strode from the hall.
"You cannot sign!"
Her palms pressed to the trestle table, head between her arms, Rexana shut her eyes and waited for Henry's shout to fade. Oh, God, how could she have told Linford she was practically betrothed to Garmonn? Loathing shuddered through her to the core of her soul. She would die before she ever committed herself to that merciless oaf.
Weariness pressed upon her heart. Despite her best efforts, she had failed to thwart Linford. Now, she must do what had to be done.
"'
Tis
the only option, Henry," she said quietly. "You know it, as well as I."
"Surely there is another. If you spoke to Lord Darwell —"
"Whatever opinion he has of the sheriff, Darwell will not act against a high-ranking crown official. He would be foolish to do so. He could lose his lands, his keep, his fortune." She sighed and felt the morning's frustrations settle deeper into her bones. "Since Darwell is the one who revealed me to Linford, I would rather eat pig slop than ask him for a favor."
Henry exhaled on a growl. "How could he?"
"I know." Nudging aside skeins of hair, she stared at the parchment pinned down with ale mugs and the fragrant soap. Her brooch glinted nearby. She inhaled a calming breath, then, as Linford's essence drifted up to her, dearly wished she had not.
The memory of his kiss shuddered through her. The back of her hand warmed, as though once again his lips caressed and nibbled her flesh. An indecent heat roused within her.
She blinked hard.
Focus, Rexana!
She must not let Linford's flirtations rule her body or ruin her concentration. Narrowing her gaze, she focused on the missive's lines of black ink.
Behind her, Henry paced. "Why not contact Garmonn?"
Her stomach tightened. With effort, she steeled the disgust from her tone. "He is of a temper to charge into Tangston and challenge the sheriff to a bloody tourney. I do not wish any deaths on my conscience."
"Wait! If Garmonn weds you on the morrow . . . a secret ceremony —"
Beneath her hands, the wood felt cold as a sheeted ice. "Then Rudd will be at Linford's mercy. Rudd will have no one to help him win his freedom. I cannot allow that to happen."
Henry snorted. "You place a great deal of faith in Linford's vow. Can you guarantee he will follow through with his offer to help Rudd? Nay. Since your brother is no doubt innocent of treason — as Linford will discover — you will have bound yourself to that. .. that
barbarian
for naught."
She squeezed her lips together. Dear Henry. Ever loyal to the Villeaux. For his support, she would always be grateful. Yet, she had no other course but to tread the path Linford had set for her. Rudd had risked his life to save her from certain doom months ago, and now she must risk hers.
"Linford will keep his word. I will make certain he does, by becoming his wife." Swallowing the lump in her throat, she traced the parchment's rough edge and skimmed the formal Latin script that committed her in mind and body to Linford.
Her breath caught. "In written word . . . only?"
Hope bloomed inside her. Could the answer be so simple?
Her finger skimmed the neatly penned text, the parchment slightly abrasive against her fingertip.
Henry stopped his furtive pacing. "Milady?"
Excitement thrummed inside her. "What if the marriage is not consummated? Linford and I will not lawfully be man and wife. Correct?" She looked up at Henry, sweet hope pulsing through her. "I can say I stayed pure because I did not truly consent to the marriage. I can petition for an annulment."
With a hearty roar, Henry clapped his hands together. "Aha! In the meanwhile, being inside Linford's keep, you will find a way to save Rudd. Rudd escapes, he is proven innocent, you demand an annulment, and the sheriff is left in a very foul mood."
Rexana laughed. "Exactly."
Hands on his hips, Henry grinned at her. "A clever plan, milady." The warmth in his eyes faded. "But dangerous."
She straightened away from the table. "I am willing to face the danger."
"You are prepared to tempt Linford's appetites?"
The spot on her hand where he had bitten her tingled. In his own crude way, he had marked her as his own. She covered the back of her hand with her other palm, smothered the tingling sensation, and smiled. What delicious irony, that he would never have her as he desired.
"Henry, please fetch me a quill and ink."