Dread whipped through her. If she did not free Rudd as well and escape with him, she would have to explain herself to Fane when he roused. Not a pleasant prospect.
She concentrated on pouring the drink. Still, when Fane's fingers trailed over her knuckles, her hand jerked.
"You look tired, love. Are you well?"
"Aye."
"Shall we retire to our chamber?"
Before she sloshed wine all over the tablecloth, she set the vessel down. She smiled brightly. "Not yet. I have finished with my pastry. Now, I wish to see our guests. I am eager to begin my duties as lady of the keep and your wife."
"Indeed." He grinned as though her words greatly pleased him.
Darwell bowed low, excused himself, then hurried away.
Pushing back her chair, Rexana stood. She held Fane's heated stare. His mouth still bore a crooked grin, and she frowned. Did he tease her? Surely he realized the importance of her mingling with the guests and playing the role of Lady Linford. This eve, she would be the cultured hostess and bride in love. Her mouth tightened. She would not neglect her part of the pretense to which she and Fane had agreed. Nor would she give Fane one reason to forget his promise to help Rudd.
She skirted around him, heading toward a crowded table where she recognized a few nobles.
The music swelled. The tempo quickened.
Her heart thumped faster. Oh, how she wanted to dance!
Several noblemen and women moved into the open space between the tables, then linked hands to form a circle. They began to dance. Longing swirled inside Rexana. She hesitated on the circle's outskirts. Her body swayed to the rhythm.
Fane came up behind her. His hands slid around her waist as he murmured against her ear, "Shall we join them?"
His body brushed against hers. Where his palms pressed, her skin burned. Sensual craving flamed inside her, and she trembled. Her feet itched to step to the side, step together, in time to the tabor's rhythm. She yearned to spin, like a bird feather falling down, down, down in a graceful spiral. Her blood hummed with the call of the dance.
Fane's breath warmed her cheek. "One dance, then you can chat with the guests. Aye?"
He moved to her side, holding out his hand. An invitation. A chivalric gesture, underscored by a sensual significance she was only beginning to understand. Was she wise to dance with him? She shrugged aside her unease. She could socialize with some of the guests. And Fane could not whisk her off to the solar.
She drew in a breath scented with flowers and wood smoke, then slid her hand into Fane's.
His sure, warm fingers closed around hers. Smiling, he drew her toward the ring of dancers. The circle parted, she moved into the line, and the gap closed.
Step to the side. Step together.
Rushes crunched beneath her feet. The scent of crushed herbs and petals rose around her, a smell that reminded her of the forest glade. She tried to ignore the brush of Fane's callused palm against hers. His hand's gentle clasp. The graceful way he moved. He stepped and swayed in perfect rhythm, as though he, too, felt the music in his soul. He was magnificent to watch.
With a cheer, the revelers broke apart. Rexana spun around, her skirts floating at her ankles. Excitement thrummed in her blood. Beside her, Fane grinned. He caught her hand again, and the circle resumed.
"Faster," he called, and the other dancers laughed. The musicians nodded.
The pace quickened. Around and around the circle went.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Perspiration beaded between Rexana's breasts. Wispy hair fell into her eyes. Freeing her hand from Fane's, she wiped her brow. The perfume of flowers seemed stronger than before. The hall's smoky darkness seemed more intense. The scene around her blurred.
She closed her eyes, and saw herself dancing near the gray-green pool. Mist cloaked the edges of the clearing. Beneath her feet, dewy flowers opened to the dawn.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Faster.
Step to the side. Step together. Turn.
Her breath rasped through her lips. The day's tension whirled through her like mist swirling in a gust of wind. She raised her hands, reached for the hint of daylight streaming through the mist.
Faster.
Turn. Turn—
She bumped into a solid object. Her eyes flew open. She reached out, halting her fall. Her hands met not a gnarled old tree but a trestle table. The forest vision dissipated, and again she discerned flowers and wood smoke.
She stood in the center of Tangston's great hall.
From the edge of the dance circle, Fane stared at her.
As he advanced toward her, Rexana's thoughts scattered like windblown apple blossoms. His eyes glittered. His broad chest rose and fell. His breathing sounded as ragged as her own.
His breath could be her own.
She heard titters and murmurs. The dancers looked at her, their expressions bemused. Awareness prickled. She had broken the circle. She had yielded to the maelstrom of emotion and yearning inside her. Oh, God, she had been foolish to dance.
Fane halted before her. As though no one watched, as though they were the only two people in the hall, he reached out to catch a strand of her hair. Her stomach did a sluggish turn. His body heat scorched her across the space separating them. For one reckless moment, she longed to press her body against his. To run her hands over him. To kiss him.
"Come, little fig."
His words shivered through her. "Why?" she whispered.
"You know why."
Her pulse drummed an erratic tempo, nothing like the music which had resumed. The table pressed against her, hard and immovable, while her body felt shimmery and weightless.
Dipping his head, he leaned his damp forehead against hers. His thumb stroked over her mouth. "I have waited all day for this moment. As have you." Before she could say a word, he cupped her chin and tilted her head back so she looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "I want all of you, Rexana. Body, heart, and soul. Tonight, at least in body, you will become my wife."
Exhilaration sang through her. As his husky words faded into the noise around them, she stared at his mouth. Wondrously formed. Close. Tempting.
Caution nipped at her.
Beware, Rexana! Do not yield to his seduction. If you do, you will be bound to him forever.
As though sensing her reticence, he nuzzled her cheek. His hair, soft and smelling faintly of cinnamon, brushed her flushed skin. "I know the passion in your soul," he purred. "Let me release it. Let me show you pleasure."
Yes,
her wicked body cried.
Oh, yes.
With effort, she stifled her wantonness. Shame! Too easily she thought of surrender, when she must focus on preserving her maidenhood and saving Rudd.
Rexana pressed her hands against his chest. "Milord—"
He winked. "Later, you may thank me."
Thank him
? Her jaw dropped and her hands fell away. Was there no end to his boldness?
Laughing, she said, "How arrogant, to speak highly of your prowess in the bed chamber." She pushed away from the table to slip past him.
His arm slid easily through hers, curtailing her escape. "I will prove my skill. This way."
Mercy! How would she keep him at arm's length when they were alone? She glanced at the tables nearby. "Wait. My duties. The guests —"
"— will understand. They expect us to leave early. We are, after all, newly wed."
Fane steered her past the nobles who had formed the circle again and resumed dancing. Slipping one arm around her waist, he guided her toward the landing's stairs.
The crowd parted around them. Bawdy whistles followed.
A scream burned inside Rexana.
"Milord, we will carry you to your chamber," a man called. Footsteps came up behind them, and a tremor shot through her.
"We will help you and your wife disrobe and get into bed," another yelled, as raucous laughter boomed. " '
Tis
tradition in this part of England."
Rexana cringed.
As though sensing her distress, Fane chuckled and shook his head. " '
Tis
a foolish custom. One I will not heed."
"You do not respect English customs, Sheriff?" a man cried.
The music and conversation faded to eerie silence. Every person in the hall seemed to be watching what happened next.
Rexana swallowed. Would Fane yield to nuptial tradition? Would he defer to his guests, and allow the marriage bed to be public spectacle? Would he choose his guests' wishes over hers? Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.
Fane's possessive arm tightened around her waist before he smiled down at her. "My apologies, sires, but I share my lovely wife with no one."