Free Dance of Desire by Catherine Kean Page B

he spoke her name slowly, rolling the last vowels over his tongue. She would know she had not fooled him last eve.

For an instant, shock gleamed in her eyes. Then, her brow furrowed into a frown. With a polite, puzzled smile, she said, "You know my name. One of the servants must have told you, for I do not believe we have met."

Laughter bubbled in Fane's throat. What game did she play? Admiration stirred in his gut, tempering his smug satisfaction, as his right hand curled into the folds of his mantle. So, she wished to do a merry dance with his mind, did she? Pretend they were strangers? Pretend she had not danced in front of him last eve and tempted him with seduction?

A smile tilted the corner of his mouth. She could initiate this little pretense. He would finish it.

Playing to her, he dipped his head in a chivalrous bow. "Fane Linford. High Sheriff of Warringham."

"At last, we meet. I am honored."

His smile threatened to break into a grin. Ah, she was clever.

As she neared, he allowed his gaze to drift over her face, to appreciate the features she had disguised last eve. To rattle the dignified, ladylike poise which surrounded her like an iron shield.

Ah, God, she was beautiful. Her hair was not black like Leila's, but golden brown, the color of sweet clover honey which, as a boy, he had devoured by spoonfuls from the pot. Her tresses tumbled over her shoulders in an unfettered mass to brush the narrow indent of her waist. Her green silk bliaut, oddly creased with mud at the hem, skimmed her hips, then fell in folds to the floorboards. His mouth watered. He did not have to imagine the curve of her legs hidden beneath the fabric. He had already seen them. He would never forget.

She moved close enough that he saw dark smudges under her eyes. Fatigue? Worry for her traitorous brother? Fane's eyes narrowed. Did she realize that her brother had revealed her identity last eve? Was this lovely creature an accomplice to her brother's conspiracy?

He would know. He must know.

As she glided to a halt, she said, "I apologize for your wait, milord. I regret I was detained by an important matter."

She had stopped several paces from him. Far enough away that she could whirl out of his reach if she so wished, yet near enough to taunt him with the perfume of violets. Another facet of their sensual game. How he loved a worthy chase.

Chuckling, he stepped from the fire's heat. Before she could move away, he pointed to the fuzzy green burrs clinging to her sleeve. "Detained? By a meadow sprite?"

She stiffened, but made no effort to remove the burrs. Her smile wavered only a fraction. "I am sure you understand, milord, that as lady of Ickleton Keep, I have a great many responsibilities. More so now that my parents are dead."

He nodded. "I heard of your loss. My sincere condolences to you and your brother."

Beneath her wrinkled bodice, her luscious breasts rose and fell on a sharp breath. Her clasped hands tightened, yet she did not break his gaze.

"I am told you bring word of Rudd," she said.

Ah, the first glimmerings of a concession. "Indeed, I do."

Her knuckles whitened. As he stared at her slender fingers, he noted the stains under her nails. Curiosity gnawed at him. What had she been doing, before she came to him? Why did she look rumpled, flushed, and desirable in her unruly state?

Fane's mouth tightened on a sudden, ridiculous sting of jealousy. Had she been rolling in meadow grass with a lover? A possibility. One that should not matter to him.

One that did matter.

"I regret I must be completely honest about your brother." His tone was sharper than he intended. Behind him, the fire snapped, as though mimicking his words.

"Honest, milord? Whatever do you mean?"

As her question hovered in the air between them, the tension thickened. Pulsed. He pursued his verbal advance. Step by step. "I mean"—he raised an eyebrow—"that I will speak naught but the truth."

Her gaze sparked with wariness. "Of course."

"I expect