Long moments later, she passed through the postern gate and stepped into the bailey. The tension in her belly eased a notch. Mayhap by now, Henry and his men had come up with a plan. Shooing aside a goose which ventured near the open doorway, she secured the door's latch, waved to the boys taking kitchen scraps to the pigs, then strode toward the keep.
She had gone only a few steps when a maidservant ran to her. "Milady." The girl straightened her apron while dipping in a curtsey. "Henry is looking for you. A lord arrived a short while ago. He asked to speak with you."
Dread swooshed through Rexana. Had Darwell decided to visit and ask her about last eve?
Or, God help her, had Linford come?
She forced calmness into her voice. "Who is this lord?"
The maid shook her head. "I do not know, milady. Henry did not tell me, but caught my arm and told me to find you immediately. The visitor brings word of Lord Villeaux."
Rexana's stomach twisted. Linford would certainly have news of her brother. But by now, word of Rudd's arrest could have spread through
Warringham's
noble households. Could this lord possibly be an ally of her father's or Rudd's, offering assistance? Could this lord provide the answer she so desperately sought? "Where is our guest?"
"In the great hall, milady. Waiting."
"Thank you." Lifting her skirt's hem, Rexana crossed the bailey. Dust stirred at her feet, and, as she neared the stables, she smoothed her hands over her snarled hair. To properly greet her honored guest, she should change her garments and
rebraid
her tresses . . . but she must not delay such an important meeting. She would present herself in her disheveled state. Hopefully, her guest would accept a gracious apology.
As she passed the stable, a horse raised its dripping muzzle from a water trough. A huge, magnificent destrier with a shiny gray coat and black mane and tail, no doubt worth a sizable ransom. Who in this county could afford such a magnificent animal?
Armed guards, her guest's escort, sat with their backs against the stable's far wall, their horses tethered nearby. This lord was clearly a man of authority. Mayhap his powers even exceeded Linford's. Anticipation quickened her strides.
Upon reaching the forebuilding, she yanked open the door, then hurried into the stairwell. The door boomed shut behind her. Her footfalls tapped on the stone stairs, the rustle of her silk gown unnaturally loud. Strange. She heard naught from the hall ahead but the hearth's crackling blaze. No conversation. No booted footsteps approaching to greet her.
Only silence.
Sucking in a breath, she stepped into the hall.
Squinting in the room's smoky haze, she strode past a row of trestle tables and searched for the visitor. A tall man stood with his back to her, facing the fire, one foot scratching the belly of an old dog sprawled on the warm hearth tiles. A long black mantle, trimmed in fur, skimmed over his broad shoulders and draped down to the top of his black leather boots.
Misgiving tingled through her. Why did the man not turn to greet her? Had he not heard her approach?
Clearing her throat, she started toward him. He straightened. The elegant gesture, almost deadly in its smooth precision, shot warning through her body. The hair at her nape prickled with awareness. Stunned dismay. Fear.
She stumbled to a halt. His leather boots creaked as he turned to reveal a firm, tanned profile. Curved mouth. Brown eyes that met her gaze with satisfaction and challenge.
Oh, God. Linford.
Fane watched her eyes darken with trepidation. They turned as green as the battle trappings hung alongside swords and shields on the wall behind her. Had she naively thought never to see him again? Foolish little fig.
Her fair skin, scrubbed free of kohl and darkening powders, turned as white as a fresh lily. Her lips pressed into an unsteady line before she seemed to realize her mistake and her mouth eased into a smile.
"Good day, milord." Admirably, her voice revealed only a slight quaver. Holding her head high, as though naught were amiss, she strolled toward him. Her shoes whispered on the rushes strewn over the floorboards, the sound of softly spoken secrets. Did she know he was exceptionally well versed in the art of exposing deceptions? Did she know he intended to unveil all of hers, every single one, before he finished with her?
"Good day to you, Lady Rexana Villeaux." Holding her gaze, he spoke her name slowly, rolling the last vowels over his tongue. She would know she had not fooled him last eve.
For an instant, shock gleamed in her eyes. Then, her brow furrowed into a frown. With a polite, puzzled smile, she said, "You know my name. One of the servants must have told you, for I do not believe we have met."
Laughter bubbled in Fane's throat. What game did she play? Admiration stirred in his gut, tempering his smug satisfaction, as his right hand curled into the folds of his mantle. So, she wished to do a merry dance with his mind, did she? Pretend they were strangers? Pretend she had not danced in front of him last eve and tempted him with seduction?
A smile tilted the corner of his mouth. She could initiate this little pretense. He would finish it.
Playing to her, he dipped his head in a chivalrous bow. "Fane Linford. High Sheriff of Warringham."
"At last, we meet. I am honored."
His smile threatened to break into a grin. Ah, she was clever.
As she neared, he allowed his gaze to drift over her face, to appreciate the features she had disguised last eve. To rattle the dignified, ladylike poise which surrounded her like an iron shield.
Ah, God, she was beautiful. Her hair was not black like Leila's, but golden brown, the color of sweet clover honey which, as a boy, he had devoured by spoonfuls from the pot. Her tresses tumbled over her shoulders in an unfettered mass to brush the narrow indent of her waist. Her green silk bliaut, oddly creased with mud at the hem, skimmed her hips, then fell in folds to the floorboards. His mouth watered. He did not have to imagine the curve of her legs hidden beneath the fabric. He had already seen them. He would never forget.
She moved close enough that he saw dark smudges under her eyes. Fatigue? Worry for her traitorous brother? Fane's eyes narrowed. Did she realize that her brother had revealed her identity last eve? Was this lovely creature an accomplice to her brother's conspiracy?
He would know. He
must
know.
As she glided to a halt, she said, "I apologize for your wait, milord. I regret I was detained by an important matter."
She had stopped several paces from him. Far enough away that she could whirl out of his reach if she so wished, yet near enough to taunt him with the perfume of violets. Another facet of their sensual game. How he loved a worthy chase.
Chuckling, he stepped from the fire's heat. Before she could move away, he pointed to the fuzzy green burrs clinging to her sleeve. "Detained? By a meadow sprite?"
She stiffened, but made no effort to remove the burrs. Her smile wavered only a fraction. "I am sure you understand, milord, that as lady of Ickleton Keep, I have a great many responsibilities. More so now that my parents are dead."
He nodded. "I heard of your loss. My sincere condolences to you and your brother."
Beneath her wrinkled bodice, her luscious breasts rose and fell on a sharp breath. Her clasped hands tightened, yet she did not break his gaze.
"I am told you bring word of Rudd," she said.
Ah, the first glimmerings of a concession. "Indeed, I do."
Her knuckles whitened. As he stared at her slender fingers, he noted the stains under her nails. Curiosity gnawed at him. What had she been doing, before she came to him? Why did she look rumpled, flushed, and desirable in her unruly state?
Fane's mouth tightened on a sudden, ridiculous sting of jealousy. Had she been rolling in meadow grass with a lover? A possibility. One that should not matter to him.
One that
did
matter.
"I regret I must be completely honest about your brother." His tone was sharper than he intended. Behind him, the fire snapped, as though mimicking his words.
"Honest, milord? Whatever do you mean?"
As her question hovered in the air between them, the tension thickened. Pulsed. He pursued his verbal advance. Step by step. "I mean"—he raised an eyebrow—"that I will speak naught but the truth."
Her gaze sparked with wariness. "Of course."
"I expect the same from you."
Her breath rushed between her parted lips. Her hands flew up, fingers splayed as though to ward off his advance. "Sheriff Linford, do you imply that I would try to . . . to deliberately deceive you?"
The shrill womanly indignation in her voice roused the smile he had smothered earlier. "Aye, little fig. I do."
"Little . . . Oh!" She bit down on her bottom lip, as though to quell a scathing curse. Clenching her hands into fists, she whirled away in a blur of honey-gold hair and blue silk and stomped across the hall. Over her footfalls, he heard her say, "I do not appreciate your boldness."
He laughed. "I know." With noisy strides, he pursued.
She quickened her pace. Caught up her skirts. Ran toward the
forebuilding's
stairwell. Lunging past her, he reached it first. Planting his feet apart, he spun, rammed his hands flat on the walls, and blocked her path. Cool air blew up from the door at the bottom of the stone stairs and stirred his mantle.
Breathing hard, he stared at her.
Hands on hips, she halted well out of his reach. She sucked air between her teeth, then shot him a look that could freeze a lusty man's blood. "Stand aside."