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Authors: Catherine Kean
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guards. He had found one half way down the passage, staggering to his knees while rubbing a bump on his head. When sharply questioned, the guard babbled a tale about escorting the dancer to fetch wine, a man leaping out from behind a tapestry, and a blow to the head. When the guard roused, he found himself lying on the floor. The assailant and the dancer were gone.
Fane muttered a foul Arabic curse, a memento from his Saracen captors. With the help of an accomplice — a trusted servant, no doubt — Lady Rexana had escaped. For now.
He swung around to address the guards. "You." He pointed to the taller man, whose face drained of color. "Go straight to the bailey. Tell the guards at the gatehouse what has occurred. The dancer and her companion are not to leave the keep."
The guard's head bobbed. "Aye, milord."
A menacing growl burned Fane's throat. He glared at the wounded guard, who swayed on his feet as though a strong draft would send him toppling to the floor. "You will inform Kester. I want this keep searched, chamber by chamber. If she is within these walls, I want her found. Bring her to me."
The guards bowed and turned away.
"Later, we will discuss your punishment for disobeying my orders."
Fane slammed the solar door. He sucked air into his lungs. Anger pulsed at his temple, stiffened his fingers until it seemed his bones would snap. When he found her . . .
As he strode toward the hearth, where he had last seen her, his gaze fell to the lion skin stretched over the bed. A blue object glinted on the tawny fur. Ignoring the bitterness burning in his belly, the repressed lust still heating his blood, Fane strode toward the pelt.
The sapphire ring. She had not kept it.
His hand shaking, he slid the heavy ring onto his finger. The sapphire glowed as though lit by a vibrant inner spirit. Lady Rexana's kohl-rimmed eyes had gleamed as brightly.
His jaw hardened. Why had she not robbed him of the jewel, as she had stolen his dreams of a night of sensual pleasure? Did she believe that by leaving the ring, one honorable decision in her ploy of deception, she might save herself from his wrath, or his right to demand an explanation from her own lips?
Fane's eyes squeezed shut. He still saw her beautiful, supple body kissed by firelight. Still felt her skin's warm softness against his palm. Her scent lingered in the air.
Footfalls sounded in the outer corridor. His eyelids flicked open. Did one of the guards return with her? Fane strode to the doorway.
As he wrenched the wooden panels open, Darwell staggered to a halt, his hand raised to knock. "Milord!"
Silently, Fane bellowed. He steeled his voice into firm politeness. "Lord Darwell."
Wheezing, Darwell braced one hand on the doorframe and wiped his brow. "I came to say good eve. My squires are in the bailey, readying my horse for the journey."
The urge to snarl and send Darwell scurrying back down the corridor burned hot in Fane's blood, but he smothered the rash impulse. Darwell's political influence extended to many noble courts. Very foolish, to strain an important and necessary alliance over a woman.
A woman Darwell knew well.
An idea sparked at the back of Fane's mind. The plan rapidly flared with potential.
He smiled. "Must you leave so soon?" Standing to one side, he gestured into the solar. "Would you care to come in? Mayhap for one last goblet of wine?"
Darwell beamed. "My squires will wait. I thank you, milord." Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he stepped into the chamber, his gaze bright with interest. As though in awe of Fane's collected wealth, he stopped and stared.
Fane closed the doors. Mulling his next words, he motioned Darwell toward the fire. "Did I tell you I have discovered the dancer's identity?"
Mopping his cheeks with his sleeve, Darwell giggled like an excited little boy. "Tell me. Who is the vixen?"
Fane's smile hardened. "Lady Rexana Villeaux."
Darwell gasped. "Lady —" He slapped his chest. " Tsk , Tsk . I should have
Fane muttered a foul Arabic curse, a memento from his Saracen captors. With the help of an accomplice — a trusted servant, no doubt — Lady Rexana had escaped. For now.
He swung around to address the guards. "You." He pointed to the taller man, whose face drained of color. "Go straight to the bailey. Tell the guards at the gatehouse what has occurred. The dancer and her companion are not to leave the keep."
The guard's head bobbed. "Aye, milord."
A menacing growl burned Fane's throat. He glared at the wounded guard, who swayed on his feet as though a strong draft would send him toppling to the floor. "You will inform Kester. I want this keep searched, chamber by chamber. If she is within these walls, I want her found. Bring her to me."
The guards bowed and turned away.
"Later, we will discuss your punishment for disobeying my orders."
Fane slammed the solar door. He sucked air into his lungs. Anger pulsed at his temple, stiffened his fingers until it seemed his bones would snap. When he found her . . .
As he strode toward the hearth, where he had last seen her, his gaze fell to the lion skin stretched over the bed. A blue object glinted on the tawny fur. Ignoring the bitterness burning in his belly, the repressed lust still heating his blood, Fane strode toward the pelt.
The sapphire ring. She had not kept it.
His hand shaking, he slid the heavy ring onto his finger. The sapphire glowed as though lit by a vibrant inner spirit. Lady Rexana's kohl-rimmed eyes had gleamed as brightly.
His jaw hardened. Why had she not robbed him of the jewel, as she had stolen his dreams of a night of sensual pleasure? Did she believe that by leaving the ring, one honorable decision in her ploy of deception, she might save herself from his wrath, or his right to demand an explanation from her own lips?
Fane's eyes squeezed shut. He still saw her beautiful, supple body kissed by firelight. Still felt her skin's warm softness against his palm. Her scent lingered in the air.
Footfalls sounded in the outer corridor. His eyelids flicked open. Did one of the guards return with her? Fane strode to the doorway.
As he wrenched the wooden panels open, Darwell staggered to a halt, his hand raised to knock. "Milord!"
Silently, Fane bellowed. He steeled his voice into firm politeness. "Lord Darwell."
Wheezing, Darwell braced one hand on the doorframe and wiped his brow. "I came to say good eve. My squires are in the bailey, readying my horse for the journey."
The urge to snarl and send Darwell scurrying back down the corridor burned hot in Fane's blood, but he smothered the rash impulse. Darwell's political influence extended to many noble courts. Very foolish, to strain an important and necessary alliance over a woman.
A woman Darwell knew well.
An idea sparked at the back of Fane's mind. The plan rapidly flared with potential.
He smiled. "Must you leave so soon?" Standing to one side, he gestured into the solar. "Would you care to come in? Mayhap for one last goblet of wine?"
Darwell beamed. "My squires will wait. I thank you, milord." Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he stepped into the chamber, his gaze bright with interest. As though in awe of Fane's collected wealth, he stopped and stared.
Fane closed the doors. Mulling his next words, he motioned Darwell toward the fire. "Did I tell you I have discovered the dancer's identity?"
Mopping his cheeks with his sleeve, Darwell giggled like an excited little boy. "Tell me. Who is the vixen?"
Fane's smile hardened. "Lady Rexana Villeaux."
Darwell gasped. "Lady —" He slapped his chest. " Tsk , Tsk . I should have
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