bailey."
"How?" As she ran, she fumbled to unclasp the noisy bracelets. Stuffing the first into the mantle's pocket, she said, "Do you know the way?"
Henry shot her a worried glance. "While I look, you pray."
Chapter Four
His hands balled into fists , Fane stepped into the dank stairwell that led down to Tangston's dungeon. In the shadows ahead, the man-at-arms massaged his bruised cheek, then disappeared around a curve in the passage.
Fane shrugged the tightness from between his shoulders. After escaping General Gazir's hellish eastern prison, he had hoped never to set foot in a dungeon again. A foolish thought for a High Sheriff. 'Twas a necessary part of his duty.
His boots clipped on the uneven stone stairs. The darkness thickened. Memories scuttled out of his mind's farthest reaches, the place that hurt a thousand times worse than a scorpion's poisoned sting. A tremor raked his body. Again, he felt chains biting into his wrists. A whip lashing his back. Knives, hooks, and other wicked instruments of torture, too horrible to envision, cutting his flesh. His stomach churned.
Rough voices floated up from the dungeon and wove into his thoughts. He forced the memories aside. The past would forever haunt him, had irrevocably scarred him, but did not alter his immediate obligations to the crown. Leila had respected his loyalty to his English king, which had burned in Fane's soul and sustained him through unspeakable torture. She had told him so. He would not fail Leila's memory. Or himself.
A smile touched Fane's mouth. The sooner he questioned the traitors, the sooner he returned to the dancer that fate had brought to his hall. A delicious thought.
The brooch shifted in his grasp. Its warm surface touched his palm. A peculiar design, an arrow wrapped with a ribbon. What was its significance? Why had she looked so stricken when he asked her to remove it? What was her true relationship to Villeaux?
She had denied a love affair. Fane's instincts told him that was true. Yet, he must understand the link between her and Villeaux, even if seduction was required to get the information.
An even more delicious thought.
He would enjoy unveiling the woman hidden behind the glittering facade. As he had vividly imagined in the hall, he would slowly disrobe her, from veil to tinkling ankle bracelets. Afterward, he would explore her slender body. Taste her. Prove to her that he understood the wild cry of her dance.
Together, they would forge unforgettable, sensual memories.
He hurried down the last stairs. His boots hit dirt. The stairwell opened into a vast chamber, patrolled by men-at-arms. The air smelled of damp stone and mold. Brushing aside a lingering memory, Fane strode into the cavernous room and assessed the three lords who sat in sullen silence within one of the cells. As he turned away, Kester, the stocky, seasoned captain of the guard, bowed his graying head, then offered a wax tablet scratched with notes.
"We have their names, milord, as you ordered. None of the prisoners will discuss the tavern meeting."
After skimming the information on the tablet, Fane handed it back. "Where is Villeaux?"
Kester pointed across the dungeon to the farthest cell.
As though sensing a confrontation, the men in the other cell muttered amongst themselves. A guard grunted and banged on the bars. As Fane strode across the chamber, silence fell, broken only by the sputter of nearby torches.
He halted outside the cell and stared at the lad fettered to the wall. The guards had removed his fine leather boots, which lay in a heap near the bars, and chained his ankles and wrists. They had put Villeaux by himself to prevent him from causing further mischief. Or so they hoped.
A futile wish, Fane mused, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. He studied the lad's taut features. This boy was trouble.
Fane's mouth twisted into a faint smile. He narrowed his gaze in deliberate challenge. To his surprise, Villeaux did not
"How?" As she ran, she fumbled to unclasp the noisy bracelets. Stuffing the first into the mantle's pocket, she said, "Do you know the way?"
Henry shot her a worried glance. "While I look, you pray."
Chapter Four
His hands balled into fists , Fane stepped into the dank stairwell that led down to Tangston's dungeon. In the shadows ahead, the man-at-arms massaged his bruised cheek, then disappeared around a curve in the passage.
Fane shrugged the tightness from between his shoulders. After escaping General Gazir's hellish eastern prison, he had hoped never to set foot in a dungeon again. A foolish thought for a High Sheriff. 'Twas a necessary part of his duty.
His boots clipped on the uneven stone stairs. The darkness thickened. Memories scuttled out of his mind's farthest reaches, the place that hurt a thousand times worse than a scorpion's poisoned sting. A tremor raked his body. Again, he felt chains biting into his wrists. A whip lashing his back. Knives, hooks, and other wicked instruments of torture, too horrible to envision, cutting his flesh. His stomach churned.
Rough voices floated up from the dungeon and wove into his thoughts. He forced the memories aside. The past would forever haunt him, had irrevocably scarred him, but did not alter his immediate obligations to the crown. Leila had respected his loyalty to his English king, which had burned in Fane's soul and sustained him through unspeakable torture. She had told him so. He would not fail Leila's memory. Or himself.
A smile touched Fane's mouth. The sooner he questioned the traitors, the sooner he returned to the dancer that fate had brought to his hall. A delicious thought.
The brooch shifted in his grasp. Its warm surface touched his palm. A peculiar design, an arrow wrapped with a ribbon. What was its significance? Why had she looked so stricken when he asked her to remove it? What was her true relationship to Villeaux?
She had denied a love affair. Fane's instincts told him that was true. Yet, he must understand the link between her and Villeaux, even if seduction was required to get the information.
An even more delicious thought.
He would enjoy unveiling the woman hidden behind the glittering facade. As he had vividly imagined in the hall, he would slowly disrobe her, from veil to tinkling ankle bracelets. Afterward, he would explore her slender body. Taste her. Prove to her that he understood the wild cry of her dance.
Together, they would forge unforgettable, sensual memories.
He hurried down the last stairs. His boots hit dirt. The stairwell opened into a vast chamber, patrolled by men-at-arms. The air smelled of damp stone and mold. Brushing aside a lingering memory, Fane strode into the cavernous room and assessed the three lords who sat in sullen silence within one of the cells. As he turned away, Kester, the stocky, seasoned captain of the guard, bowed his graying head, then offered a wax tablet scratched with notes.
"We have their names, milord, as you ordered. None of the prisoners will discuss the tavern meeting."
After skimming the information on the tablet, Fane handed it back. "Where is Villeaux?"
Kester pointed across the dungeon to the farthest cell.
As though sensing a confrontation, the men in the other cell muttered amongst themselves. A guard grunted and banged on the bars. As Fane strode across the chamber, silence fell, broken only by the sputter of nearby torches.
He halted outside the cell and stared at the lad fettered to the wall. The guards had removed his fine leather boots, which lay in a heap near the bars, and chained his ankles and wrists. They had put Villeaux by himself to prevent him from causing further mischief. Or so they hoped.
A futile wish, Fane mused, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. He studied the lad's taut features. This boy was trouble.
Fane's mouth twisted into a faint smile. He narrowed his gaze in deliberate challenge. To his surprise, Villeaux did not
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