Dance of Desire (23 page)

Her nerves screamed with anticipation.

He stopped beside the bed. Behind her. The heat from his body warmed her back. He smelled of night air.

Rexana fought a shiver. What did he intend? Had he come to take her . . . now?

For what seemed an eternity, he stood over her. She sensed his gaze traveling over her shoulder, down her arm lying atop the coverlet, along the curve of her body tucked beneath the bedding. She braced herself for his hand upon her shoulder, for his touch which she feared yet also craved. Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Yet, by some miracle, she managed to remain still.

A moment later, he moved away. He headed toward the fire.

The air whooshed from her lungs.

He halted.

Had he heard? Her eyes still closed, she waited. Listened. She heard naught but the fire's snap.

The silence dragged. By the saints! What was happening? Was he sneaking back to her? Ignoring an inner cry for caution, she raised her lashes.

He stood at the end of the bed. His dark, deliberate gaze locked with hers. "You are not asleep, after all."

She swallowed. "I
was
asleep, milord," she said, coloring her words with a hint of resentment, "until you woke me."

His laughter rang out in the darkness. "Ah, Rexana. Have you not yet learned I can tell when you speak false?" His smile became a white slash in the shadows.

"Very well. I did not sleep. How could I, wondering where you had vanished to?"

His grin faded. "You refused me, wife. You denied me my right. Why would you worry where I had gone?"

His gritty voice pricked her. What did he imply? Clutching the coverlet, she pushed herself up to sitting. His gaze wavered, fell to her lips, then drifted down the scooped neckline of her shift to her cleavage only just hidden by the sheets. Slowly, so slowly, his attention returned to her face.

His jaw hardened. Anger? Disapproval? Did he find her lacking in her state of undress?

Rexana refused to let his blatant inspection distract her from her purpose. "Where did you go?"

"Where do you think I went?"

A horrible thought shot into her mind. "Did you harm my brother? I swear to God, if you hurt Rudd because I ref —"

The coverlet slipped. Fane's gaze instantly riveted to her breasts. With a shaking hand, she caught the bedding and secured it under her arms.

Fane half groaned, half cursed. As though resisting another oath, he looked away and dragged a hand over his mouth. "Trust me, your brother is the last person I wish to see."

"Then where —"

"It does not matter." Fane turned his back to her. He crossed the chamber, then dropped down on one knee near the hearth to rekindle the fire. He focused on the simple task as though it took extreme willpower to complete.

She stared at the tousled hair brushing his shoulders. His back's rigid line. His well-formed thighs, visible only when he reached for the wood. His tunic shifted. Revealed fascinating bulges of muscles and sinew. Accentuated his masculine power.

Rexana's throat tightened. Any woman with a whit of sense would appreciate his physical beauty.

Maybe another woman had.

The thought clouded her mind like a suffocating fog. It transformed her worry about his intentions into a shock that robbed her breath. Had Fane bedded someone else? She dared not ask. But she must. "Did you lie with another woman?"

He stilled. He laughed, an astonished sound, before tossing a last log into the blaze. Brushing his hands on his hose, he stood and faced her. "Would it matter if I did?"

The answer rang in her heart, loud as a church bell. "I would never forgive you."

Her answer seemed to please him. His grin returned, marked with lazy intent. "I am glad 'tis so, love. I swear to you, upon my cursed soul, that I did not take another woman this night. I have no interest in another." His tone roughened. "I want only you."

He walked toward the bed. Toward her.

Rexana's fingers tightened on the bedding. Her nails scratched on the fabric. "Milord —"

"No more pleading this night, little fig. No more harsh words. No more refusals."

His words numbed her cold. He intended to have her. Now.

She scrambled back against the pillow. She stared down at the rumpled bedding and her hands curled like wilted flowers. Words of protest refused to come. A traitorous excitement unfurled within her. Tempted her. Urged her to lie back and accept what in secret she wanted.

Trembling, she looked up. He reached for his tunic's hem. Holy saints above, she could think of naught to say to delay him. Naught to save her virginity. Naught to keep him from making their marriage binding under law and God.

He yanked the tunic over his head in one fluid motion, then tossed it to the floor. Her gaze dropped to his chest.

All thoughts of self-preservation shattered.

His bronzed skin bore scars. Small, ugly red pocks. The lines of a whip. A ragged, pitted slash rippled down his ribs. Bile rushed into her mouth to drown the pang of excitement and worry. What had happened to him? Who had beaten him? How had he endured such terrible physical torture?

He caught her watching. His eyes narrowed, darkened with unease. Yet, he did not look away. As though daring her to shrink in horror, to swoon with maidenly distress, he reached for the points of his hose. And smiled.

Rexana gulped. She had seen a man's bare chest many times, but none quite as broad or impressive as Fane's. She had swum with Rudd on hot summer days. Never had she doubted her actions. Yet here, in Fane's bed, with him standing over her, those days seemed years ago and desperately naive.

His fingers worked the points. She stared. She caught her mouth gaping, and snapped it shut. She must look away. Resurrect the ladylike modesty ingrained into her by years of boring tutelage. She must not ogle Fane like a lusty courtesan.

Yet, she could not avert her eyes.

A burning curiosity spread through her. What masculine mysteries hid under the woolen fabric? What made the fascinating bulge between his legs?

She wet her lips with her tongue. He saw. His gaze heated. A strangled moan burst from him. He sucked in a breath, then swore. Violently.

Embarrassment drowned her delicious curiosity, so she shut her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. He had not liked her staring. He had taken exception to her wantonness, thus felt bound to curtail her inappropriate behavior. Her barbarian husband had more honor than she thought.

"Lie back, Rexana. Keep your eyes closed."

Her heart jolted. "Why?"

His mouth tightened. Fury, no doubt, that she did not immediately do as he commanded. "Obey me. 'Twill be easier for you this way."

"But —"

"Do it, Rexana."

His fierce tone shredded the last of her bravado. She fell back. She drew the sheets up to her neck but, on a last swell of defiance, opened her eyes the tiniest bit. Shifting her head on the pillow, she peeked at the hearth. At him.

He had turned his back to her. Firelight and shadows defined the muscled planes of his shoulders, ribs, and his spine's shadowed dip. He was beautiful.

And brutally scarred.

As her gaze skimmed over him, she fought anger and regret. Slashes marred his back, scars far deeper and crueler than those on his chest. These wounds were inflicted not only to cause physical agony, but to break his spirit. Barbaric wounds.

Tears hurt her eyes. She wanted to run her hands over his scars. Soothe them. Tell him, with tender caresses, that she did not consider him any less a man.

Tell him, with words as gentle as her touch, that she hated what had been done to him.

That she . . . cared.

A shiver ran through her. A foolish thought. He did not want her compassion. He wanted her body. He wanted to consummate their marriage and their arrangement. He had told her to shut her eyes so she would not see his imperfections before they coupled. Did he believe she would more easily accept him after the act, because once he had taken her virginity, she was irrevocably bound to him? Did he believe that once he had deflowered her, the physical scars would no longer matter?

A soft pop warned he had pulled free the points of his hose. Her pulse lurched into a faster rhythm. Wariness and curiosity returned, stronger this time. She tried to keep her eyes closed — oh, how she tried — but fascination consumed her. His hands moved to his hips. Fabric slid down over his buttocks. Revealed smooth skin sprinkled with dark hairs. Exposed a scar the size of her fist on his thigh.

Oh, God.

He stepped out of the hose. Straightened. As though sensing her gaze, he said, "Your eyes are still closed, love?"

"A - Aye."

"Good."

As he turned in profile, she snapped her eyelids shut.

A last image, of a flat stomach, a mass of black hair, and bold, hard flesh flared before her eyelids.