Free Dance of Desire by Catherine Kean

Darwell telling Linford that he had guessed her identity. Of Rudd, blurting out her name. Of the sheriff, his face taut with anger, as he confronted her.

She had awakened at every creak of her bed, every gust of wind past the chamber's shutters. Yet, Linford had not come thundering into Ickleton in the dead of night, bent on finding her. He had not arrived at the gates at dawn.

Mayhap Darwell had not guessed the truth, after all.

Mayhap Rudd remained defiantly silent.

She withdrew her fingers from the murky water. "Oh, Rudd," she whispered.

At first light, she had met with Henry and a few trusted men-at-arms, yet they had not found a way to win Rudd's freedom — apart from battering down Tangston's portcullis and whisking him from the dungeon. Her stomach churned, for lives would be lost in such a rash attempt. She had no desire for bloodshed or battle, most of all against a skilled crusader like Linford.

Moreover, the sheriff still had the missive. Naught prevented him from hunting down, arresting and imprisoning Rudd again.

If Linford ever discovered she had deceived him, he might arrest and imprison her, too.

She tightened her fingers into fists, burrowed them into the silk crushed under her breasts, and tipped her face into the breeze. She must not drain her strength by worrying about herself. How did Rudd fare? Did he wonder if she missed him? Did he have faith she would help him?

The breeze skimmed over her cheeks, tender as a caress. Gentle as Linford's touch. She fought to suppress the sensations his memory aroused: anxiety, curiosity, longing.

Aye, shameful longing.

Overhead, the tree boughs stirred. Whispered. She forced herself to listen. Breathed in the scents of wet earth, marsh plants, and crushed grass. Let the serenity of the pool flow through her soles into her. The ancient rhythms of this place understood. Her tears for her parents had dripped into the clear water. In return, her soul's burden had been lightened. Here, she had danced until she could face the next day. Here, she would think of a way to help Rudd.

Rising to her feet, she untied the ribbon binding her hair, then loosened her braid. She strode up the bank to the grass and, in the familiar ritual, stretched her arms up to the sun. Fingers spread wide, she turned like a dandelion spore drifting in the breeze. Swayed to and fro, like the grass' seed pods. Bowed like the violets quivering in the oaks' shade.

Grasses swished against her skirts. She stretched. Arched. Turned.

Her hair tangled about her throat. Her breathing quickened. Her mind cleared to accept the glade's nurturing wisdom.

She spun, dipped, and whirled until her chest tightened with her gasped breaths.

Enlightenment eluded her.

Despair cried out inside her like a lost child. Pressing a hand against her ribs, she stumbled to the patch of violets. She knelt and, with shaking fingers, plucked the fragrant purple heads and stuffed them into the cloth purse slung at her hip. Later, she would press the essence from the blooms for scented water, a task to busy her mind and quell the frustration drowning her heart.

She would not lose hope. The answer would reveal itself. She must return to the keep, find Henry, and begin their planning anew. She must not rest until she had a solution.

Wiping her fingers on her bliaut's skirts, Rexana rose, then donned her shoes. Mud stained her gown's hem. A trivial concern, compared to Rudd's fate. With a last glance about the pool, she slipped into the surrounding woods to make her way back to the keep.

Long moments later, she passed through the postern gate and stepped into the bailey. The tension in her belly eased a notch. Mayhap by now, Henry and his men had come up with a plan. Shooing aside a goose which ventured near the open doorway, she secured the door's latch, waved to the boys taking kitchen scraps to the pigs, then strode toward the keep.

She had gone only a few steps when a maidservant ran to her. "Milady." The girl