Dance of Desire (17 page)

Pushing aside his hand, which glided up her
arn
she said, "You wish to kiss on the mouth?"

His eyes gleamed with surprise and obvious plea sure. "Aye."

As though caught up in the clandestine excitement her traitorous pulse quickened. The heady scents o crushed flowers and potent male teased her, tempted her. What would it feel like, to kiss mouth to mouth Would he taste of exotic spices and wine? Would he —

Mercy! How could she think such things?

She adjusted her hold on the reins as he leaned for ward, his gaze hungry and expectant.

"I regret, milord," she murmured, "you will have to wait."

Kicking her heels into the mare's sides, she urged the horse to a brisk walk.

His bold laughter chased her. "Rexana, you vixen You will make me a happy man." His footfalls echoed in the alley.

He pursued.

She whistled between her teeth. The mare broke into a fast trot. Smiling, Rexana rode out into the market square.

Fane caught up with Rexana near the church. He halted at the edge of the milling crowd. More people than he had expected had gathered to witness the public ceremony held on the church portico, before the wedding party moved inside for the private, nuptial mass.

Breathing hard, he set his hands on his hips and stared at Rexana, still seated upon her mount. The wind had pulled strands of hair from her braid, once smoothly coiled around her head. Her mantle hung askew, and her cheeks glowed from her defiant flight.

He had never seen a woman look more beautiful.

Meeting his gaze, she quirked an eyebrow. He grinned. They were well matched. If she proved equally feisty in the privacy of his solar —

"Ready, milord?"

"What?" Fane dragged his gaze from Rexana, being assisted from her horse by Henry. Clad in full ceremonial robes, and holding a leather-bound book, the priest stood at Fane's side. Shoving aside his lustful thoughts, Fane nodded. "Aye, Father." He withdrew the sapphire ring from his finger and handed it to the priest.

As Rexana removed her mantle and smoothed her exquisite silk gown, Fane walked to her. Henry withdrew a wrapped bundle from her saddlebag. With a hint of reluctance, she shook out the sheer veil and draped it over her hair, then secured it with a gold circlet. Her gaze sharpened as he approached, as though she expected him to follow through with his threat of a kiss, but she did not step away.

He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms and pleasure her with a thorough, soul-wrenching kiss that would sap the rebellion out of her. That particular pleasure must wait.

Capturing her elbow, he propelled her toward the church's carved stone portico. He ignored her squeak of protest.

"I am quite capable of walking on my own." She tugged, unsuccessfully, to free her arm.

"You might try to run away again," Fane said. "We cannot have that, can we?" As he walked, he nodded to Lord Darwell, who stood at the front of the crowd, surrounded by other prominent nobles Fane recognized from the celebration at Tangston. Darwell smiled broadly and waved, yet looked on the verge of tears.

Rexana sighed. "I will not run. I signed the writ and agreed to wed you. I will not relinquish my vow."

"Nor shall I, little fig."

Fane glanced at her. Beneath the veil's gauzy edge, determination glittered in her eyes. Remorse chilled his innards to icy stone. She wanted this marriage, would see the ceremony done, though not for her own pleasure or personal reward. Only for her damned traitorous brother.

Anger soured his heady anticipation. She gave herself to save Rudd, as Fane had known she would. Did she truly expect to receive naught in return? Was she unaware of the profound union awaiting them when she willingly gave herself to him? Together, they would write their dance into the night sky and pinpoint each exquisite step with stars.

He would show her he was no compassionless barbarian, regardless of her brother's fate.

Father John stood in front of the church's massive carved wooden door, chatting to a lady with her young son. Fane drew Rexana to the bottom of the stone steps. Head held high, her bliaut drifting in the breeze, she stopped beside him. He released her elbow. Taking her hand, he linked his fingers through hers. She stiffened, but did not push him away.

Leaning close to her, Fane whispered, "Smile, Rexana." Her veiled hair smelled of sunshine and violets.

As Rexana stared straight ahead, her mouth eased into a ghost of a smile. "I am, milord."

Shaking his head, Fane murmured, "Mayhap if I kissed you, there, on your cheek that is the color of desert sand blushed by dawn, you would not have difficulty smiling."

Her lips twitched.

"Ah. I knew you had a smile hidden away with your dancing bells."

Her fingernails bit into the palm of his hand, a reprimand. "You are not the only one in strange spirits. Whatever is the matter with Lord Darwell? I cannot decide if he is bursting with a secret, or about to bawl like a babe."

"He is disappointed, no doubt, that you will not be wedding Garmonn." Mischief warmed Fane's heart. "I also told him you pursued me. Tempted me. Seduced me into proposing marriage."

"What""

Fane winked, fighting to hold back a chuckle. "A necessary tale. How else could I explain your dance and our quick nuptials without arousing suspicion?"

She cast Darwell a sidelong glance. "He believed you?"

Fane licked his lips. He should not tease Rexana any further . . . but shame on him, he could not help himself. Not when for the first time in days, he tested the hot well of passion inside of her. "After a few elaborations." When her eyes widened, Fane shrugged. "I told him you found my eastern allure irresistible."

"Devil's spawn!"

In mid-sentence, the priest halted. Turning away from the noblewoman and her son, he peered down at Rexana. "Milady?"

Rexana's face turned scarlet. Murmurs and chuckles rippled through the crowd. It seemed onlookers were already nudging elbows and placing bets on their wedded happiness.

Fane's conscience pricked and he squeezed her fingers. He did not care what the others believed. Neither should she. They were destined for one another. He countered her glare with a genial smile.

She looked away. "My apologies, Father, for the interruption."

As the priest resumed his conversation, Fane leaned close to her again. Her hand shook in his grasp, as though she was sorely temped to slap him. "Do not be angry, love. Word spread quickly of our wedding. I had to give an explanation." Fane brushed his thumb over her wrist's soft curve. "You believe I have been unfair, depicting you as a lusty vixen?"

"You misjudge me," she said, her tone cool.

"Nay. I look forward to proving it."

She blinked in a gust of wind, and reached up to smooth her veil. He stared at her profile. She was so lovely. Proud. Independent. Yet, she would come to realize they were two halves of the same soul.

The priest cleared his throat, then tapped his book, a clear signal he wished to begin. Fane met his gaze and nodded. A hush fell over the onlookers, broken only by birdcalls and the wind whistling around the church's walls. The sapphire glittered between the tome's crisp parchment pages. As the priest began to speak in formal Latin, the surrounding world became a blur. Fane knew only the press of Rexana's fingers against his, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her breath was his breath. She belonged to him, as he belonged to her.

Rexana's elbow jabbed into his side, bringing him back to the present.

"Take her right hand, milord," the priest said, obviously for the second time, "to say your vows."

"Gladly, Father." Fane clasped her clammy fingers in his, held her gaze, and repeated the words that would make them man and wife. He listened as she tonelessly repeated her vows.

The smiling priest blessed the ring. Rexana looked at it, and her throat moved. Fane's mouth flooded with a bitter taste. Did she think he mocked her with the sapphire, which he had given her before under different circumstances? One day, he would tell her how the ring helped win the battle at Acre and saved thousands of Christian lives. It represented all that was honorable in his past, as well as his future.

On the priest's instruction, Fane repeated a blessing and slipped the ring onto each of the three fingers of her left hand, then settled it on her ring finger. "With this ring," he murmured, "I thee wed."

Her bottom lip quivered. He willed her to look up, to see the truth of his gift to her, but she did not.

It did not matter. He would prove the truth to her.

"You are husband and wife," the priest said. When the crowd clapped and cheered, his face broke into a ruddy grin. "Come inside, now, for mass."

"First, Father, I will kiss my bride."

The crowd tittered. The priest's mouth flapped. "Milord," he said quietly, "that comes later in the proceedings. After I bestow upon you the Kiss of Peace."

Fane gestured to the throng. "Surely these good people wish to see how deeply we are in love, and that our marriage is one of mutual consent."

Rexana gasped. Her gaze shot to Henry, who stood nearby, as though seeking reassurance. Then her expression hardened.

"Rexana—" Fane began.

She wrenched her hand from his. Her eyes blazed with shock and indignation. He had expected to see maidenly trepidation, mayhap even embarrassment, but not willfulness.