Dance of Desire (28 page)

"You ride like a meadow sprite," Fane said, not looking at her. "I would be wise to remember that."

His hair, stirring in the breeze, lifted from his forehead in shiny strands. She resisted staring at his handsome profile. Resisted the glow of pleasure that his words sparked. "I ride as I please." She dropped the pink stone into the mud, then wiped her hands on her skirt. "You are not angry that I rode off?"

"Why would I be?" He looked at her. "My horse can easily outrun yours. I could have caught you, if I had wished."

The peculiar disappointment returned. "You had no wish to pursue me?"

"You did not wish to be caught." His voice lowered. "When you want me to capture you, little fig, I will."

His words shivered through her. She laughed, a harsh sound. "When will that be? Today? Tomorrow?"

His smile became a sensual grin. "I do not know, love. Yet, I vow 'twill be soon. Your body, heart, and soul cry for our union. Aye?"

Fie! How could he read her so clearly, as though she laid herself bare to his scrutiny? How did he spy upon her feelings?

Her face burning, she turned her back to him and tugged on the mare's reins. She led the animal out of the water and up to the grass where it began to graze.

Fane chuckled.

Refusing to look at him, she stomped back to the water's edge to glare down at her reflection. She wrenched up her
bliaut's
hem to keep it out of the mud, hunched down, and rinsed her shaking hands.

"Come, Rexana," he said, laughter in his voice. "Shall we call a truce and eat?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Fane lead his horse up alongside hers. After giving the beast a pat on the neck, he reached for the bulging sack tied to the saddle.

She stood, drying her hands on her skirts.

When he glanced at her, one eyebrow raised in expectation of an answer, a little voice inside her sighed. She could not easily forget his arrogant words. Yet, the morn's ride and fresh air had given her an appetite. She nodded.

Fane strode up to where the grass met the stream bank. She followed. He reached into the sack, withdrew a woolen blanket, then spread it on the grass. They could still see the guards, she realized, but also enjoy the beauty of the stream, the rocks, and the endless fields. She hugged her arms over her chest and squeezed. How lovely.

Fane dropped down onto the blanket. He stretched one muscled leg out and bent the other. Resting an elbow on his raised knee, he looked inside the bag. He whistled. "I hope you are hungry."

She knelt on the blanket's edge. "Cook would not tell me what he stuffed into the sack. He said he was forbidden."

A grin curved Fane's mouth. "I threatened him with a wretched punishment if he told you."

"Why would you wish harm upon that poor man?" She frowned. "What did you threaten him with?"

"Ten poisonous spiders in his bed."

She shrieked. "How could you?"

"Rexana, I tease you."

He patted her arm. Sensation buzzed across her skin. Swift. Undeniable.

"I did order him not to tell you, though," Fane said, as though she had not jumped at his touch. "I did not want him to ruin the surprise."

She busied her fingers with smoothing her skirts around her legs. "Surprise?"

"I asked him to prepare foods with more . . . bite than usual. I did not think you would mind a culinary challenge."

Mischief gleamed in Fane's eyes. He looked like a cheeky little boy with a sack full of naughty secrets. She could not keep from laughing.

"I do enjoy a challenge, milord." She grinned. "Let me see what you have."

"First, you must promise to have a taste."

Warning stirred inside her. She sensed he spoke of more than food. Yet, with the sun warming her back and the sweet whisper of wind through the long grass, she could not deny the wild urge to play along with him.

If she grew weary of his game, she could simply walk away to explore the stream, and leave him to his meal.

"I promise," she said.

He winked. "I hoped you would not disappoint me."

Reaching into the sack, he took out cloth-wrapped bundles. She lifted the fabric from the treasures inside. Honey-glazed dates sprinkled with cloves and ginger. Roasted chicken encrusted with fat lumps of garlic. Meat pies dusted with cinnamon and herbs. A loaf of rye bread. And figs.

She inhaled the heady aroma. "You woo me with spices?"

"Amongst other temptations."

Her heart fluttered. She cast him a quick glance, but he had turned his attentions to the wine flask at the bottom of the sack. With a snap, the flask opened.

He offered it to her. "Drink?"

She shook her head. "I will eat first." The voice inside her applauded her restraint. She would be wise to get fare in her belly, so the wine did not addle her senses.

Or sway her reason.

Rexana took a meat pie and bit into the flaky crust. Fane's gaze fixed upon her mouth. He stared as though he, too, tasted the light, buttery pastry, chicken and spicy gravy flooding her tongue. Disquiet tingled through her. She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. Caught a stray bit of pastry.

"Allow me."

Before she could wipe her finger on a cloth, Fane caught her hand. Drew it to his mouth. His breath warmed her fingertips. She tensed . . . yet somehow could not pull away. He smiled before he licked her finger clean. "Delicious," he murmured, then released her hand.

Her breath shivered from her lips. Awareness whooshed through her, from the tips of her fingers to the secret place between her thighs. She could scarce keep her eyelids from sweeping shut. Saints above, did he know he had this effect upon her? Did he woo her with his tongue, as well as the fare?

With effort, she finished chewing the mouthful of pie. She struggled to control her rampant imagination, which had leapt from him suckling her fingers to pressing her down in the grass and kissing her witless.

Shame on her foolishness. Fane might have licked her fingers because, in the east, this was considered a courtesy between husband and wife.

Or, he tried to seduce her.

She did not understand him well enough to know for certain.

Rexana dared another bite of the delicious pie, careful this time not to miss a bit. He smiled, dragged hair from his eyes, then studied the unwrapped bundles.

"What shall I eat first?" he said, as though to himself. "Chicken? Dates? Mayhap a little fig?"

His sensuous voice resonated through her. An icy tingle pooled in her belly as she fought a delicious shudder. Did he woo her with clever words too? Did he infer he wished to taste more than her fingers, or did her imagination again cloud her judgment? "Since the figs are sweet," she said, proud of her unwavering voice, "mayhap you should eat those last?"

"My thoughts exactly." With a brazen grin, he picked up a chicken leg and tore off a strip of meat with his teeth.

Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. The devilment in his gaze had sharpened. He had a definite purpose to his teasing. Why did he look at her as though he found her more tempting than all of the delicacies spread out before him? Did he?

His lips moved as he chewed. Sensual, firm lips, shiny from the moist chicken. He bit down again on the meat, his bite deft. Elegant. Restrained. Not at all the way she imagined an uncivilized barbarian ate. Uncertainty swept through her. She forced her gaze from his tantalizing mouth that tempted her to lean over and kiss him, and nibbled the pie.

She had dined with many nobles of rank, including Garmonn, at her parents' feasts. Few had eaten with the courtesy Fane showed at this simple picnic. And Garmonn . . . She closed her eyes against a memory. He had delighted in playing with the fare while boasting to Rudd how much he could stuff into his mouth all at once.

Once, Garmonn had choked on an enormous mouthful of stewed cabbage and had turned a violent purple color before he spewed the mangled shreds all over the table. Rudd had laughed. Her parents — a blessing upon their departed souls — had ordered fresh table linens and dismissed the incident as the unfortunate result of poorly cooked cabbage.

Raising her lashes, she cast Fane a glance. How little she knew of him. Yet, she could not imagine him gorging himself or making a public spectacle of retching.

As though sensing her gaze, he tossed aside the gnawed chicken bone and looked up. He gestured to the blanket. "You like the fare?"

"Aye, milord."

"Why do you not eat, then?" He pushed the bread toward her. "We cannot let Cook's work go to waste."

She laughed. "I doubt you will allow that to happen."

"True." His eyes softened with a hint of admiration. "I am glad that this meal pleases you, as it does me."

"Indeed, I enjoy learning what pleases my husband." As soon the words left her lips, she gasped. She had not meant to sound so provocative. As though she tried to woo him.

His brows raised in unquestionable interest.

"I mean," she added, unable to defray a blush, "what
fare
pleases you. Spicy. Not spicy. Sweet. As lady of