Dance of Desire Read Free

confusion, and . . . yearning.

Her body arched.

Spun.

She danced as she dared near the pool, where no one could see, with only her reflection to laugh at her folly. In those moments, she felt more alive than at any other time in her life.

As she whirled in wild momentum, she heard the music slow. The dance was ending. Too soon!

She would summon the musicians to begin another song. She lowered her arms. Blinking away the haze of bittersweet memories, Rexana dipped her head, then extended her arms in an elegant finale.

The last strains of the music stopped.

The hall fell silent.

Utterly silent.

Her breaths, obscenely loud, rattled in her throat.

Why had the chatter and merriment halted?

She raised her head a fraction. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. Darwell sat alone at the lord's table, his cheeks flushed and his jaw gaping.

Not five paces to her right stood Linford, his arms crossed over the front of his tunic. Half masked by smoky shadow, his face revealed no emotion.

She rubbed her trembling hands over her belly. What had happened? Had Darwell recognized her? Had he told the sheriff her identity?

Fear shot through her. For herself. For Henry and the musicians. For Rudd.

Tugging her veil closer about her face she took two startled steps back.

"You will not run away." Linford's mouth tipped up in a half smile. He crooked a finger. "Come here, little dancer."

Fane scowled as the woman's eyes widened with panic. Why did she want to flee ? Because of the shocked murmurs spreading through the hall? Because of the rumors about him? Or because no man had dared to confront her after a performance?

Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm. Perspiration beaded on her throat and dotted her bronzed skin. He looked lower, at her breasts swelling against the embroidered silk bodice. Beautiful. A generous handful of warm flesh. Breasts as big as . . . oranges.

His hardened loins stirred.

With effort, Fane wrenched his gaze from the dancer's cleavage to meet her stare. She had not moved, but stood as still as a carved stone statue. He sensed her reticence, strong as the sensation that virtually hummed in the space between them. She would cross to him. Of that, he had no doubt. Whatever the rumors, he was Warringham's sheriff, appointed by the crown. By virtue of setting foot within his keep, she owed him that gesture of respect.

"I am waiting, love."

She swallowed and made a small sound of distress. His gaze narrowed on her face. Her nose, mouth, and chin were concealed by the veil. Were her lips full and red? Was her nose slim or angular? A woman of mystery. Mayhap deliberately so. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, heavily lashed but . . . emerald green. Unusual, for a wench of dark skin and eastern blood.

Frowning, he glanced at the cloth covering her head, but the fabric lay flat against her temples. He doubted her hair flowed thick, glossy, and black like Leila's.

His hands tightened into fists, even as he snuffed a sting of anger. Foolish, to take offense. This woman was an entertainer, a wench of English blood acting a role. She did not understand the nuances of eastern dance. He had recognized that the moment he saw her move.

As though sensing his displeasure, the woman tipped up her chin. She started toward him, each step articulated by the chime of bells. Ah, but how she moved.

Torchlight skimmed over her slender shoulders and down the planes of her firm stomach. She glided toward him as though she approached King Richard himself. Head held high, she radiated the poise and elegance expected of the highest noble courts.

Who was this woman?

She paused before him. Almost in afterthought, with the barest hint of resentment, she lowered her gaze to stare at his tunic. He sensed the tumultuous emotions warring within her, threatening her self-control. The same fierce emotions had reverberated in her dance and touched a note deep inside him. Her heart had spoken.

It echoed the profound, primitive bellow of