Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  The two guards exchanged glances.

  “Are you afraid I will run away?” she cooed. “Why would I wish to? His lordship has offered me riches if I please him this eve, and I intend to claim them all.”

  Shaking his greasy hair, the guard said, “Come. I will go with you.” He pointed down the passage. “That way.”

  Clutching the jug, she walked down the shadowed corridor. The guard clomped beside her. His unwashed body smelled as strong as the acrid smoke spewing from burning torches along the walls. Rexana gritted her teeth. She must elude this armed oaf at the earliest opportunity. How?

  She squinted through the smoke fogging the passage. Ahead, brightly colored tapestries depicting crusading knights winning a bloody battle against gruesome demons decorated one wall. With a shiver, she forced herself to block out the images and quickened her pace.

  “Milady.”

  The whisper came from the tapestry portraying a hideous, fanged, three-headed beast run through by a crusader’s sword. A shriek bubbled in her throat. Did her mind play tricks on her?

  “Zounds! Milady, do not scream.”

  The guard froze. His face crumpled into a wary scowl. “Did you speak?”

  Rexana halted. “Nay, good man. Mayhap ’twas a . . . monster?”

  The tapestry shifted, as though the beast writhed in its dying moments. The guard blanched. He reached for his sword. Before he unsheathed the weapon, Henry lunged out from behind the hanging and smashed his fist into the guard’s jaw. With a grunt, the guard staggered back, struggling to draw his weapon.

  Henry kicked him in the shin. The guard bent double. Lunged at Henry. Plowed him back into the tapestry. A cloud of dust poofed into the air around them.

  Rexana’s fingers tightened on the jug. Ignoring the panic quickening her breaths, she swung her arm high. Brought the jug arcing down. Smacked it into the guard’s head with a metallic clonk. The guard slumped to the floor.

  “Well done, milady.” Henry straightened, shoved aside the sleeve of his gray woolen cloak, and scrubbed his hand over his reddened nose. “Pah! Wretched dust.”

  Rexana hurried over and clasped his free hand. At the familiar feel of his rough, wrinkled skin, reassurance flowed through her. “I am glad to see you.”

  His eyes crinkled with a smile. “And I you.” His gaze softened with puzzlement. In hushed tones, he asked, “Why are you not dancing in the hall? Why do you carry a wine jug?”

  A blush heated her cheeks. “I will explain later. You had no trouble slipping past the sentries? You have the missive?”

  Henry’s smile vanished. “I do not.”

  The tapestry’s colors blurred before Rexana’s eyes. The breath rushed out of her lungs and she fought to keep her voice lowered. “Oh, God!”

  Thrusting up his hands, he said, “I could not find a way past the guards, or another entry into the solar. Nor could I subdue two armed men on my own without causing a commotion.” He shook his head. “When they questioned me, I pretended to be drunk. I asked directions to the garderobe. I hid behind these tapestries, waited for one of the guards to need a piss, but—”

  “Henry, Linford has arrested Rudd for treason.”

  The old warrior’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Rudd is imprisoned in Tangston’s dungeon. Linford is interrogating him now. The sheriff took my brooch, so I fear Rudd will tell—” Linking her fingers through Henry’s, Rexana stepped over the guard’s limp body. She tugged Henry back down the passage, heedless of his muffled protest. “We must return to the solar and find the missive. Then, find a way to free Rudd.”

  Henry pulled her to a halt. “Milady, nay.”

  She spun to face him, her skirt wafting to stillness about her legs. As she planted her hands on her hips, the jug thumped against her hip, releasing the tang of residual wine. “I do not fear Linford,” she said, grateful for a steady voice.

  “Mayhap not,”—Henry tapped his broad chest—“but I do. I worry for more than my cracked old bones. You must not risk your own capture, or your brother’s life, by attempting to free him when the dungeons are crawling with armed guards. Think, milady. What will Linford do when he discovers who you are?”

  Frustration swelled inside her. “Henry—”

  “I promised your parents as they lay dying that I would watch over you, protect you.” His tone roughened. “Please. The dangers this eve are too great.”

  As she held Henry’s beseeching gaze, a chill crawled down her spine. The draft, gusting over the floor, brushed over her toes and ankles like thin bone fingers. Was the air as cold in Tangston’s dungeon?

  “I cannot bear to be without Rudd,” she whispered.

  Henry patted her shoulder. “You must. For now. If luck is with us, we can meet up with the musicians and ride with them to Ickleton. ’Twill be safest to travel the road together.”

  A nearby torch spat. Over the smoky crackle, she caught the unmistakable tromp of footsteps.

  Had the other guard by the solar heard the scuffle?

  Had he decided to investigate?

  She glanced at Henry. “Run.”

  “Wait.” Reaching into the folds of his cloak, Henry withdrew the leather slippers she’d bought on a visit to the market with Rudd. Blinking back tears, she set the jug on the floor near the fallen guard and yanked on the shoes.

  As she straightened, Henry tossed his long cloak around her shoulders, then drew the hood over her face. The garment smelled of smoke and horses.

  The footfalls grew louder.

  Henry pulled her to a lope. “Keep your head down,” he said over her chiming bells. “I will find the bailey.”

  “How?” As she ran, she fumbled to unclasp the noisy bracelets. Stuffing one into the mantle’s pocket, she said, “Do you know the way?”

  Henry shot her a worried glance. “While I look, you pray.”

  His hands balled into fists, Fane stepped into the dank stairwell that led down to Tangston’s dungeon. In the shadows ahead, the man-at-arms massaged his bruised cheek, then disappeared around a curve in the passage.

  Fane shrugged the tightness from between his shoulders. After escaping General Gazir’s hellish eastern prison, he’d hoped never to set foot in a dungeon again. A foolish thought for a High Sheriff. ’Twas a necessary part of his duty.

  His boots clipped on the uneven stone stairs. The darkness thickened. Memories scuttled out of his mind’s farthest reaches, the place that hurt a thousand times worse than a scorpion’s poisoned sting. A tremor raked his body. Again, he felt chains biting into his wrists. A whip lashing his back. Knives, hooks, and other wicked instruments of torture, too horrible to envision, cutting his flesh. His stomach churned.

  Rough voices floated up from the dungeon and wove into his thoughts. He forced the memories aside. The past would forever haunt him, had irrevocably scarred him, but didn’t alter his immediate obligations to the crown. Leila had respected his loyalty to his English king, which had burned in Fane’s soul and sustained him through unspeakable torture. She’d told him so. He wouldn’t fail Leila’s memory. Or himself.

  A smile touched Fane’s mouth. The sooner he questioned the traitors, the sooner he returned to the dancer that fate had brought to his hall. A delicious thought.

  The brooch shifted in his grasp. Its warm surface touched his palm. A peculiar design, an arrow wrapped with a ribbon. What was its significance? Why had she looked so stricken when he asked her to remove it? What was her true relationship to Villeaux?

  She’d denied a love affair. Fane’s instincts told him that was true. Yet, he must understand the link between her and Villeaux, even if seduction was required to get the information.

  An even more delicious thought.

  He would enjoy unveiling the woman hidden behind the glittering façade. As he’d vividly imagined in the hall, he would slowly disrobe her, from veil to tinkling ankle bracelets. Afterward, he would explore her slender body. Taste her. Prove to her that he understood the wild cry of
her dance.

  Together, they would forge unforgettable, sensual memories.

  He hurried down the last stairs. His boots hit dirt. The stairwell opened into a vast chamber, patrolled by men-at-arms. The air smelled of damp stone and mold.

  Brushing aside a lingering memory, Fane strode into the cavernous room and assessed the three lords who sat in sullen silence within one of the cells. As he turned away, Kester, the stocky, seasoned captain of the guard, bowed his graying head, then offered a wax tablet scratched with notes.

  “We have their names, milord, as you ordered. None of the prisoners will discuss the tavern meeting.”

  After skimming the information on the tablet, Fane handed it back. “Where is Villeaux?”

  Kester pointed across the dungeon to the farthest cell.

  As though sensing a confrontation, the men in the other cell muttered amongst themselves. A guard grunted and banged on the bars. As Fane strode across the chamber, silence fell, broken only by the sputter of nearby torches.

  He halted outside the cell and stared at the lad fettered to the wall. The guards had removed his fine leather boots, which lay in a heap near the bars, and chained his ankles and wrists. They had put Villeaux by himself to prevent him from causing further mischief. Or so they hoped.

  A futile wish, Fane mused, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. He studied the lad’s taut features. This boy was trouble.

  Fane’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. He narrowed his gaze in deliberate challenge. To his surprise, Villeaux didn’t attempt to speak, or plead his innocence, or bow his head, or sob, or shiver. His green eyes, remarkably like the dancer’s, blazed with defiance.

  Aye, this one was definitely trouble.

  In the shadowed darkness, Villeaux looked no more than fifteen. His freckled face held a boyish innocence, yet his quick gaze proved him older than a boy. As Fane curled his fingers around a horizontal bar, Villeaux’s manacled wrists, barely visible below his soiled tunic sleeves, jerked, and his hands fisted. His spine went rigid. Fane smothered a chuckle. So. The boy had plenty of pride to accompany his foolishness.

  The cold metal chilled Fane’s hands. He waited. He wouldn’t be the first to look away. Uncertainty crept into Villeaux’s intelligent eyes before his face contorted into a scowl. Blowing matted brown hair from his brow, he took a step forward. Then another. Iron links dragged on the dirt floor. He reached his fetters’ limits, and the chains snapped taut.

  A memory shot into Fane’s mind. Once, he’d been a chained prisoner facing his Saracen captors from the other side of the bars. He shoved away the unsettling thought. He wouldn’t draw flawed parallels between his imprisonment and Villeaux’s. He wouldn’t sympathize with a traitor.

  The boy hissed through his teeth. “Are you Linford?”

  “I am High Sheriff Linford,” Fane said in a brusque voice. “You will address me with respect, Lord Villeaux.”

  The lad snorted in disgust. “Release me.”

  Annoyance pricked, but Fane stifled the emotion. For now. “I cannot let you go. You were caught in a clandestine meeting conspiring with fellow traitors.”

  “I am no traitor.”

  “Is that so?” Reaching under the hem of his tunic, Fane withdrew a thin, rolled parchment that had been tucked into the belt of his hose. He unfurled the skin. Trapping opposite corners between his fingers, he held it against the bars. “Recognize this document? It lists men who have pledged to overthrow the crown. Here, near the bottom. Your signature.”

  Sweat glistened on Villeaux’s forehead. Beneath a tangle of hair, his eyes turned cold. “How did you find—”

  “I have my sources.”

  Villeaux’s mouth tightened. “What do you want from me?”

  Ah. The crux of the matter. “For a start, I expect you to cooperate with the guards. I expect you to answer my questions to the full extent of your knowledge, and to provide the names of every other traitor participating in these plots against the crown.”

  “Then you will free me?”

  “Then we will discuss your punishment.”

  The boy’s eyes flared, as though he found the statement insulting. Then, tipping back his head, he laughed. The insolent sound grated down Fane’s spine.

  “I see naught amusing in your predicament.”

  Villeaux’s lips eased into a mocking grin. “Do you know the full extent of my late father’s influence, Sheriff? He belonged to King Richard’s innermost circle of loyal friends and advisors. He personally knew the king’s ministers—”

  “Your father is dead. A most unfortunate loss.”

  Anguish clouded the lad’s gaze. Jerking his head to one side, he stared at the mildewed wall.

  “You are unwise to provoke me, and foolish to waste your young life.” Drawing away from the bars, Fane returned the missive to his belt. Anger charged his words. “Do you wish to stand trial in the King’s Courts? To be beheaded? Tell me what I wish to know, and I may plead for leniency.”

  “Burn in hell, bastard.”

  Fane laughed and smoothed the front of his tunic. “Very well. Do as you will, but I urge you to at least consider the consequences.” Dropping his voice to a rasp, he added, “Not just for yourself.”

  Villeaux’s head whipped around. “What do you mean?”

  Moisture glinted in his eyes. Tears of humiliation? Regret? Mayhap he wasn’t as immune to persuasion as Fane had first thought. ’Twould be a pity for one so bright and full of potential to be condemned to death.

  Choosing his words with care, Fane said, “I am told you recently inherited a large estate. Many villeins and lords depend upon you for leadership. You are also responsible for the welfare of your unwed sister.”

  “Rexana,” the lad said.

  “Aye, the Lady Rexana.” An image of Darwell’s hand, fondling the plump orange, flitted through Fane’s thoughts. Mayhap one day soon, he would meet the lovely lady for himself.

  Villeaux’s gaze sharpened. “If you dare hurt her—”

  “I have no intentions of harming her,” Fane said easily. “Yet, her fate depends on yours, does it not? If you die a traitor, you stain not only your honor, but hers. The crown will seize your holdings and grant them to another lord. What will happen to Rexana?”

  The lad’s mouth trembled. His gaze darted past Fane to the other conspirators’ cell. “What do you care?”

  Fane shrugged. “I have not even met her, yet I vow she is important to you. You would be wise to think of her, if you have not already done so, before you make a final decision on whether to cooperate.”

  The brooch tilted in Fane’s curled hand. A reminder. The warm metal represented a promise. Before this meeting ended, he would have an answer to the question that chewed at him like an annoying camel.

  His thoughts turned to the dancer awaiting his return, and desire stirred his blood. He fought to keep his voice controlled. “There is another woman, as well, you must consider.” Fane shifted his hold on the brooch, caught the little arrow from pointed tip to feathered fletching, then raised it between his fingers. He held it to the bars.

  In the shadowed, smoky light, Rudd’s face paled. “Where did you—”

  “A fetching wench, aye? Exquisite breasts. Long legs—”

  “Wench?” Chains clanked, a violent sound. “How dare you speak so of her? God’s teeth! Where is she?”

  Triumph coiled through Fane. At last, he’d found leverage with the boy. Though, he noted with dismay, Villeaux seemed to care more for the dancer than his own sister. “She awaits me in my private solar,” Fane said, holding the lad’s shocked gaze. “I look forward to seducing her.”

  Villeaux lunged to the end of his chains. His breathing turned ragged. Furious. Desperate. “Do not touch her, Linford, or I swear to God, I will kill you.”

  Fane laughed. Leaning one shoulder against the cell’s bars, he dismissed the threat with a flick of his wrist. “The dancer told me you gave her this bauble. What, exactly, was she
to you? You see, I have claimed her for my own.”

  The lad’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Dancer? Your mind is addled. That brooch belongs to my sister. I paid a goldsmith to design it, and gave it to her myself.”

  Warning buzzed at the back of Fane’s mind like a noisy, blood-sucking horsefly. Stunned fury crashed through him, even as he bit out the word: “Sister.”

  The lad nodded. “Rexana.”

  Anger roared through Fane, hotter and fiercer than the lust in his veins. His fingers tightened around the brooch. The dancer’s exotic mysteries vanished. Evaporated, like the thin smoke from a stick of burning incense.

  Cursed fool! He’d sensed many contradictions in her, yet he had ignored them. He’d allowed lust to rule his head—a mistake that, months ago, would have cost him his life.

  Villeaux’s voice slashed into Fane’s thoughts. “How did you get her brooch? What have you done with Rexana?”

  A harsh laugh exploded from Fane. “Naught yet.” He turned and stalked across the dungeon. The darkened chamber blurred in a haze of angry red.

  “Linford!”

  Fane ignored the lad’s urgent cry, the guards’ startled mutters, and the frigid draft that swept over him as he lunged up the stairwell. He thundered toward the solar.

  Lady Rexana owed him an explanation.

  She owed him far more than that.

  “See, milady? I told you we would safely leave Tangston.”

  Huddled in a corner of the moving wagon, jostled from side to side, Rexana glanced at Henry through the foggy night air. She ignored a prick of disquiet. How foolish to doubt their success. Each grinding turn of the wagon’s wheels took them further from Linford’s keep. She smiled. “You did. Thank you, kind sir, for your escort as well as your gallantry.”

  Seated at the front of the wagon, beside the drummer who guided the horse, Henry grinned. “My pleasure, milady.” His chest puffed out like a proud cockerel’s. “I do not regret asking the kitchen maid the way to the bailey. She was besotted, therefore unlikely to remember a word of our chatter.” He wagged his eyebrows. “She kissed most sweetly, as well.”