No matter how he tried, he could never completely win her.
I do not love you. I never will, she had said the day he had proposed marriage.
She had spoken true.
Painful words ground between his teeth. “After what you have done, I should imprison you.”
She wiped tears from her face. “I am no traitor. Yet, if I must be imprisoned for my actions, so be it.”
Fane glanced over his shoulder. “Guards.”
As the men-at-arms approached, she tensed. Yet, her head remained at a proud tilt.
“Escort Lady Linford to the solar. She is not to leave it. I also want guards posted under the window. From this moment on, no one enters or leaves the solar without my permission.”
Her gaze turned as cold as sleet. “Why not throw me in the dungeon and chain me to the wall, as you did to my brother?”
He looked at her, a deliberate stare that began at her mouth and traveled down the slender length of her body, then back up to her pursed lips. Ah, God. Even now, he wanted her. Even now, she stubbornly held his gaze, taunting his mangled patience. Even now, she radiated insolence and utter conviction in her wretched brother.
With cool purpose, Fane arched an eyebrow. “You are still my wife, Rexana. Have you forgotten that I may do with you as I please?”
Fighting a hurt she had never before known, Rexana walked with the guards to the solar. She stood in the silent chamber, her hands fisted by her sides, as the men pulled the door closed behind them.
She was alone. Her husband’s prisoner.
Fane’s words taunted her. Have you forgotten that I may do with you as I please?
A sob caught in her throat. She tried to swallow, but her throat refused. Her breath gasped between her lips and, clasping her hands, she pressed them over her heart. It hurt as though tearing in two. One half loyal to Rudd, the other to Fane.
Stumbling past the bed, she struggled to shut out memories of her and Fane together, naked, rolling, and kissing in their lovemaking. Despite his lust, he had always been gentle. She knew without a shred of doubt that he would never do her physical harm. Yet, his words stung.
Rage had roughened his voice, yet also anguish. He had taken her actions as a personal rejection. Like a trapped animal, he had lashed out. She had wounded him in a way no swords or arrows or physical scars could, though she had never meant to.
“Oh, Fane,” she half sobbed, half whispered.
A cold shiver snaked through her. She approached the fire, hugging her arms to her chest. How could she have avoided hurting him? She had been right to free her brother. He did not deserve to languish in the dungeon and face punishment for treason he did not commit.
She hoped Rudd used his freedom wisely. She hoped he stayed hidden until he could prove beyond doubt he was not guilty. Under her breath, she prayed for his safety and that of the hostage child. As soon as he reached a safe haven, Rudd would let the boy go. The child would not be parted from his mother for long. Of course he would not.
On the heels of that thought, Fane’s furious expression blazed into her thoughts. He had worried for the boy. He had feared for the child’s life, as well as that of the other wounded hostage. For those who still believed him a heartless barbarian, his honor and integrity was laid bare for all to see.
How proud he had made her in that moment.
Exhaling a tortured breath, she knelt by the fire. How could she choose between Rudd and Fane? Would she forever be torn by her loyalties? Chills ripped through her, colder and deeper than before. Sobs burned her throat. Tore from her. She clutched her belly and let the anguish weep from her soul.
The fire’s heat wrapped around her like an embrace. Her body ached for Fane’s touch. For his whispered words. For his kisses filled with love, that lightened her spirit and whisked her to a realm of wonder, joy, and pleasure.
Did he still want her? Would he ever make love to her again with the passion that touched her soul, or had she destroyed all chance of happiness? Would theirs become a marriage in name only, a legally binding union that became an invisible, loveless trap?
She squeezed her eyes shut. She loved her brother, but she could not bear to live without Fane’s love. She would not be wed to him, while he took a mistress to his bed. With a low moan, she sat on the warm hearth tiles and drew her knees up to her chin. She must find a way to resolve this dilemma. Oh, God, she must.
Or she might lose Fane forever.
The twilight breeze stirred the destrier’s mane as Fane rode into the bailey. His men-at-arms followed several yards behind, and the clatter of armor and horses’ hooves rang in the open courtyard. His gaze shot to the guards standing by the keep’s wall, as he had ordered earlier, then up to the shuttered solar window. What new betrayal had Rexana plotted in his absence?
Hurt welled up inside Fane in a violent storm. He still could not believe what she had done—and that he had been foolish enough to trust her so completely.
All afternoon, his heart had throbbed with a terrible pain. It had devoured him. Robbed him of concentration. Corrupted his logic.
Was that why he had failed to find Villeaux and his cohorts?
Fane swore into the breeze and stared at the solar window. He would not allow distractions to undermine his responsibilities. Somehow, he would smother the inconvenient angst. He had survived worse torment in Gazir’s dungeon. As he had vowed then, his crown duty took priority.
It still did.
He would recapture the traitors.
He would not fail his king.
Fane guided his horse to the stable, and, without waiting for a mounting block, slid from its back. He tossed the reins to a waiting stable hand.
“You caught the traitors, milord?” The lad’s question seemed to be what all the folk lingering around the shadowed stables wanted to hear.
Fane shook his head. “Not this day. We will search again on the morrow.” Managing a smile, he added, “We did find the boy. The traitors let him go.”
A woman moved out of the throng. The hostage boy’s mother. She gasped and, with a curtsey, bolted past. She hurried to Kester who was assisting the boy down from his horse.
“Mama!” The child ran forward and threw his arms around his mother’s waist. She hugged him.
Fane tore his gaze from the joyous scene. He shut out the mother’s laughter, the celebratory cheers, as well as his own sense of relief. Too many questions remained unanswered. Why had Villeaux released his hostage? Did Villeaux fear being held responsible for the boy’s death? Or, now Villeaux was free, had he set into motion a treacherous plan for which he did not need a hostage?
Mayhap he aimed to plunge Warringham into rebellion.
Fane groaned, brushed through the crowd, and headed for the keep. His head pounded, the discomfort as intense as the torment eating at his soul. He struggled to maintain focus.
Duty was more important than his happiness.
Duty would sustain him when his heart shriveled to dust.
He strode through the great hall, growled a greeting to Winton, then loped up the stairs to the solar. His hand hovered over the doors’ handles. Bracing himself to face Rexana’s anger along with demands for word on her brother, he depressed the handles and strode in.
She lay with her back to him, stretched out on the hearth tiles. Her head rested on her bent arm. Her hair spilled over her shoulder in a tangled swath. Firelight danced over her slender figure, gilding her silk gown in light and shadow. Her rib cage rose and fell on the gentle rhythm of sleep.
She looked incredibly lovely.
He paused, yet his jaw hardened with resolve. He quieted his boots’ tread, crossed the chamber, and knelt beside his wooden chest. Opening it, he withdrew parchment, ink, and a quill, then lowered the lid, being careful not to make a sound.
Fane returned to the solar doors and glanced back at Rexana. She slept on, oblivious to his deeds. His fingers curled tighter around the blank parchment. At dawn’s first light, the missive
she had danced so bravely to get would be on its way to the king’s ministers, along with an official report. In wretched detail, her brother’s treachery would be revealed to the crown.
Rudd Villeaux’s fate was sealed.
Through the muzzy haze of slumber, Rexana heard the solar doors open and close. Footfalls approached.
“Rexana.”
Fane. Her mind shot instantly alert. Her pulse quickened with a rush of joy, anticipation, and dread. She raised her head from her numbed, bent arm. Through a snarl of hair, she blinked up at him.
Firelight limned his scuffed boots, muscled legs encased in snug hose, and tunic hazed with dust. He looked tousled. Tired. Desirable.
His gaze sparked with irritation. “Why do you lie on the floor? I have not banished you from our bed.”
Concern rang in his voice. Pressing her palms to the floorboards, she pushed to sitting, then pulled her hair from her face. “I do not remember falling asleep.”
He carried a small pot, a quill, and rolled parchment. Black ink stained his fingers. When her gaze fell to his hands, he crossed to his linen chest, tossed the items inside, and slammed the lid.
Confusion swirled inside her. Had he fetched the quill and parchment from the solar? When? She drew a breath, yet before she could ask, he spoke.
“I expected the wooden stool against the door this eve. Mayhap even the trestle table.”
“I am sorry I disappointed you.” As soon as she spoke, she realized her words’ double meaning.
His hands, plowing through his hair, stilled. “As am I.”
Anguish stabbed through her again. Rebellion surged inside her in a boiling wave. She may have disappointed him by helping Rudd escape, but she had just cause for her actions. When Rudd proved himself guiltless, would Fane at last accept what she did was right? Mayhap not. Fane’s disdain for Rudd seemed complete.
Defiant words filled her mouth, yet she could not voice them. The bond between her and Fane seemed so fragile. Rising to her feet, she smoothed her wrinkled gown and fought to hold together her shattering heart.
He, too, seemed eager to avoid an argument. Looking away, he unbuckled his sword belt. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
He frowned, tossed the weapon onto the bed and crossed to the table. He looked at the untouched plate of bread and cheese. “You did not drink the wine either. Why?”
“I was not thirsty.”
Wine pattered into two silver goblets. “You will achieve naught by denying yourself sustenance.” He strode back to her and pressed a goblet into her hands. “Drink. You look terrible.” When she frowned, the faintest grin touched his lips. “Ah. I see your spirit is unharmed.”
“You are unwise to insult me, milord,” she said with biting heat. “You look wretched yourself.”
“I pursued your brother for many miles.”
Halfway down, the wine lodged in her throat. She forced herself to swallow. “Did you capture him?”
“I regret we did not. We found the boy, though, huddled under an oak on the outskirts of Tangston village.”
“Unharmed?”
Fane nodded. “He wore your brother’s tunic. It seems he was given it to stay warm.”
She cheered. “I told you! Rudd—”
“The boy likely became a burden. Your brother did not want the extra weight on his horse to hinder his escape.”
Scowling, she said, “I vow he intended to let the boy go.”
“Think what you will. The truth remains. With your help, your brother broke out of my dungeon, took hostages, and escaped. For those crimes and all his others, he will be captured, tried, and punished.”
Fane’s steely voice grated on her nerves like rough stone. He spoke as though Rudd’s fate was predetermined. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “What if he is innocent of treason?”
Fane turned his back to her and pulled off his tunic. He tossed it onto the floor by his side of the bed. She watched, unable to look away, as he yanked off his ivory lawn shirt. The muscles across his back flexed, rippled. With her fingers, lips and tongue, she had memorized every one of his scars. She had come to love his unique physical beauty.
Yet, their intimacy seemed years ago.
When he did not answer her, she said in a tight voice, “Well? Will you answer my question?”
“He is guilty, therefore you know my answer.” When she shook her head, Fane sighed, a sound of torment, and swept his sword off the bed. It thumped onto the carpet. “’Tis a senseless debate, and I am weary. Go to bed, Rexana.”
“Fane—”
A groan tore from him. “God help me, I cannot stop loving you. But I am angry.”
Her belly did a painful somersault. She stared at his rigid back, her eyes dampening with tears. “I had no choice.”
His hands stilled on the belt of his hose. He looked at her, before his rough laughter raked over her like an icy draft. “You had every choice. You made the wrong one.”
“We shall see.”
Muttering a curse, he yanked off his hose. Naked, beautiful, he climbed into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chest. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, one tanned arm draped over his brow.
She moved to the bedside. Silence stretched taut as a length of silk cord. She sensed his gaze upon her, studying her, as she untied and removed her bliaut.
Desperate hope sparked within her.
Despite his fury, he still wanted her.
Her need flared, along with a desire to make him yearn as intensely as she. To seduce him beyond anger to raw, undeniable lust. To bridge the vast chasm between them with sensual pleasure.
She removed her shift and let it slide with a whisper to the floor. Her skin cooled. Tingled. Raising her arms over her head, she stretched her nude body in slow, sinewy movements that echoed her brazen dance. She coaxed him to touch her, kiss her, and love her as he craved.
He drew a breath. Then, as though battling his self-control, he rolled onto his side to face the fire.
Her body trembled with unfulfilled desire. Fresh tears stung her eyes, yet with a calm she did not fully understand, Rexana drew back the sheets and lay down. As the darkness soothed her burning eyes, she understood.
It was not calm inside her, after all, but emptiness.
Three days later, Fane sat at the lord’s table in the great hall, swirling the dregs of his ale. He pushed aside the pile of parchments he had been reviewing—complaints of thefts in the market, disputes between villagers over livestock and crops, and other matters of law that required his scrutiny—and stared at the wax tablets Kester had set out before him, fresh reports from the men-at-arms who continued to search roads, towns, and taverns for Villeaux.
“Well?” Fane muttered.
Dropping into the chair beside him, Kester shook his head. “Villeaux has disappeared.”
“A man cannot simply vanish.”
“Agreed.” Kester’s mouth pursed in thought. “Mayhap we should extend the search beyond Warringham county.”
Fane’s fingers tightened around the earthenware mug trapped between his palms. Lord Darwell’s lands were the closest to border his own. Fane smothered a groan. If he contacted Darwell and asked permission to send men onto his estates, Darwell would want to know why. Despite past loyalty to the Villeaux family, Darwell might offer his own forces to assist in the hunt, and would want to be involved in all the decisions.
Yet, involving him was a risk. Word of the traitors’ escape was not yet common knowledge, and Darwell’s loose tongue could not be trusted. In no time, half of England would know that High Sheriff Linford, crusading spy hero, had failed to capture escaped prisoners on his own lands. That did not speak well of his abilities as sheriff. It bode far worse for his efforts to win his noble peers’ respect.
Most galling of all, Garmonn would know. He would no doubt use the opportunity to his advantage. If he had ties to the traitors, as Fane strongly suspected, this could prove disastrous. Fane did not fear for h
is own life, but if the traitorous bastards got to Rexana—
Kester shifted in his chair. “Milord?”
Fane snapped his attention back to the tablets. A ruthless pain pounded at his brow. “Villeaux may be well hidden, but he cannot remain so for long. If he is not sighted in two days, I will order the search extended.”
“Very well, milord.” Kester rose. Then, as though reconsidering, he sat again. He cleared his throat. “I mean no disrespect, milord, but I must ask. Might Lady Linford know of her brother’s whereabouts?”
With effort, Fane eased his crushing grip on the mug. “I have asked her. She refuses to cooperate.”
“Still?” Kester said.
“Aye, still.”
Fane rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He remembered her frosty gaze as he quit the solar that morn. Her defiance gleamed as bright as the sunlight flashing off her brooch, which she had pinned to her fitted gown of blue wool. She looked ravishingly beautiful standing at the window, her hands clasped on the stone ledge.
Three days of confinement had not softened her resolve. Yet, after long, lonely nights of watching her sleep, burning for her body’s sweetness, he had barely leashed his desire to cross to her, sink his hands into her hair, and seduce her. Despite the ache in his loins, he had resisted. Just as she, with infuriating stubbornness, resisted giving him any useful insights into her brother’s character or favorite haunts.
He drained his mug and banged it down on the table. Why did the crux of his thoughts always return to her?
He froze. Why, indeed?
Kester stood, his chair scraping on the floorboards. “Have you finished with the tablets, milord?”
Fane nodded and waved a dismissive hand. The idea drifting through his thoughts gathered momentum like a spinning whirlwind. Why had he not realized such an option before now?
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