My Lady's Honor

Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just an honest exchange of mutual passion that left each party satisfied. And if the parting was sometimes a bit…tempestuous, he mused, recalling the shrieks and breaking of glass that had accompanied his giving that delectable but fiery-tempered opera singer her congé, such uproar occurred infrequently.

Perhaps the gypsies also provided a straightforward bargain, he thought as he rode his skittish stallion behind the others. After all, if a man wished to throw away his coins listening to a pretty lass spout nonsense, that was his affair. In any event, observing the interplay should prove more amusing than the alternative—challenging himself to a solitary game of billiards while the rest of the party went off to the gypsy camp.

His doubts about the excursion returned after they arrived, however. Chase, Alden and their other friends turned their mounts over to some gypsy youths, who herded them into a brushwork enclosure already containing a number of other horses. His temperamental stallion Raven, however, could not be closeted with other beasts and would have to be kept separately.

While he hesitated, a tall gypsy lad approached. Before Gilen could warn him away, he came to Raven’s head, crooning softly. Instead of snorting, shying or baring his teeth at the intruder as Gilen expected, the stallion grew still, watching the boy, who continued to speak to him in a low, singsong voice. To Gilen’s surprise, Raven nickered and allowed the boy to stroke his velvet muzzle.

“He’ll come with me now, sir,” the boy said.

“You mustn’t put him in with the others,” Gilen advised as he dismounted.

“I won’t,” the lad replied. Then, while Gilen watched in astonishment, instead of leading the stallion by the bridle, the boy merely walked away, still murmuring, Raven following him docilely like a chick after its mother hen.

Shaking his head in wonderment at the spectacle, Gilen wandered into the encampment.

Brightly dressed gypsy girls rolled dice, or shuffled cards, or traced their fingers along the palms of eagerly waiting men. A large bonfire burned in the center of the circle of wagons, and at its edge the gypsy men stood looking on, one of them idly playing on a violin.

Gilen’s attention was drawn to the wagon closest to the bonfire, where a large crowd surrounded a slender figure seated in the wagon, dealing cards to three of the men.

A silky saffron scarf veiled all but the lady’s eyes, and silver bangles glittered at her wrists as she laid out the cards. “Stakes in the pool, gentlemen,” she said in a soft, lilting voice.

Not only was her accent oddly different from the tones of the other gypsies, she was the only lady veiled. Curious, he drew closer.

She looked up at his approach. A flash of something almost like…alarm registered briefly in her eyes before she lowered them back to the cards before her.

He stood frankly inspecting her. Perhaps the tallest girl he’d seen here, she was whipcord slender, just a hint of full breasts outlined beneath a woolen shawl that mostly obscured her narrow waist. She looked up again, as if conscious of his stare, and he realized with a start that her eyes were not brown, but an intriguing shade of violet. It must have been a trick of the firelight, but he would almost swear the pale sliver of cheek revealed above her veil had reddened at his survey.

As she met his gaze, an instantaneous and entirely physical energy surged between them. Her eyes widened, her hands stilled on the cards and for a moment she sat utterly motionless before once again dropping her eyes beneath a thick veil of lashes. Gilen inhaled sharply, his pulse racing, the rest of his anatomy stirring in turn.

No longer regretting his foray to the gypsy camp, with avid interest he watched her play out the hand. Silver loo was the game, he noted, enjoying the quick movements of her long fingers laying down cards and taking up wagers, the intimate gurgle of her laughter as she bantered in low tones with the men. Starlight flashing on her bangled wrist, she brushed off her forehead one errant lock from the wild tangle of black curls that cascaded out of her colorful kerchief and flowed down her back.

Thick hair a man could wrap his hands in while he drew that tempting body closer, crushed those teasingly camouflaged breasts to his chest and brought the saucy lips beneath that veil close enough to kiss, Gilen thought. Burgeoning desire and heightening anticipation broke a sweat out on his brow.

After the hand ended, Gilen pressed forward. “The next play must be mine, enchantress.”

Muttered complaints of “wait yer turn, gov,” and “I were next,” faded as the local youths, recognizing from his voice and attire his status as the Quality, grudgingly gave way.

The gypsy flashed him an annoyed look, then gestured toward the men. “Abandoning me, my lords?”

“Let them go, lovely one,” Gilen said. “Whatever stakes they offered, I will double.”

“Too rich fer me,” one said to her, while the others, after sidelong glances at Gilen, nodded reluctant agreement and drifted off.

The girl exhaled with exasperation, that slight movement lifting the breasts beneath her shawl. Gilen’s fingers itched to remove the woolen wrap so he might view the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, see fully revealed beneath the thin cotton of the low-cut gypsy blouse the shape of those lovely mounds as they rose and fell with each breath.

“If you deprive me of my game and my winnings, milord,” she said, “my master will likely beat me.”

He dragged his attention back to her face—wishing he could snatch away the fine cloth veiling her countenance as well. “Then I must see that your winnings are bountiful,” Gilen replied. “Shall we play piquet?”

“Your lordship has doubtless the superior skill. Better that I roll the dice.”

Gilen pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket and tossed them on the wagon bed. “Name your stakes, my beauty, and I will pay.”

Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the value of the gold and silver rolling across the scarred wood. “You must be drunk, milord.”

“Not yet, my enchantress, but I should like to be—on the honeyed mead of your lips.”

Her brows lifted in surprise at his boldness, the left one winging higher than the right. “My lord, where the honey-pot lies, lurk bees to guard their bounty. Take care you are not stung for your efforts.”

“To die in your arms, lady, would be worth the gravest sting,” he replied, grinning.

“You are bawdy, sir,” she reproved.

Surprised she’d apparently comprehended his Shakespearean allusion, he countered, “Nay, mistress, I do but give homage to your beauty.”

“I would rather you give gold to my purse. Now, do you play or go?”

“Oh, most definitely, I wish to…play.”

She arched again that delicate, high-flying brow. “Some games we do not entertain here, milord. I can offer but cards, or dice.”

The wench was not only lovely, but needle-witted, Gilen concluded with delight. “Could you not also read my fortune?” Smiling, he stripped off his riding glove and extended his hand.

Ah, yes, he wanted her to rest his hand in her smaller one, feel those fingers tracing patterns on his naked palm. And on every other part of his body, he thought as hunger surged, thick and potent through his veins.

She studied him without reply, as if uncertain whether she wished to proceed. Gilen dug another handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them atop the others. “Have all those and more, for the future you would pledge me.”

“I will read what the stars have written in your palm, milord, but pledge you nothing else,” she parried.

“Then we shall agree on that—for now.”

Once again he held out his hand, but at a slight distance, requiring her to move closer to the edge of the wagon if she meant to take his palm—closer to him. Her brows knitting as if she’d figured out his stratagem, she hesitated.

So intently was Gilen watching her, the sudden movement from behind startled him. A tall, powerfully built gypsy with an air of authority strode forward and swept up the coins. “Tell,” he commanded the girl.

She dropped her eyes before the gypsy lord’s glare. After he moved away, she reluctantly took Gilen’s hand.

Shivers of delight ran through him as, with barely perceptible pressure, she traced a fingertip across his palm. “This is your head line, milord—see, it is long and straight. You are a man of much ability, born to do great deeds.”

“My head tells me that you and I together would do great deeds,” he murmured.

Ignoring the comment, she continued, “This is the life line, milord. It, too, is deep and straight. You will live long, have many sons, and watch grandchildren grow to bring you honor.”

“Come with me and share that life,” he suggested, grinning as another exasperated exhalation briefly lifted the silken veil above her lips.

“And this,” she said, jabbing her fingernail into his flesh, “is the heart line. You will know many women—”

“All I desire is you, my princess—”

“Whom you will bewitch and bedevil,” she concluded with asperity. Dropping his palm, she jerked her hand away.

“Can you tell me nothing else, my Delilah?” he asked. “Surely you know more of my future than that.”

Before she could reply, the melancholy cry of several violins filled the night, followed by the jangle of bracelets and a shout of acclamation from the crowd. Beside the fire, the other gypsy women had gathered and begun to dance.

Gilen seized his gypsy girl’s hand. “Dance for me.”

She backed away. “N-nay, sir. Dice I play, or cards. I do not dance.”

He released her, pulled the purse from his pocket and tossed it on the wagon bed. “All this and more will I pledge, if you will but dance for me.”

“S-sir, I cannot—”

Once again, as if conjured from firelight, the gypsy leader appeared behind them. With one quick stride he seized the purse. “Dance,” he commanded the girl.

Her veil trembled as she swallowed hard, but her gypsy lord’s stare did not falter. At last she nodded, and only then did her master walk away.

She jumped down from the wagon and took a step toward the other women. Gilen grabbed her elbow. “Stay,” he said softly. “Dance here—just for me.”

For a long moment he held her gaze. Then, pulling away from him, she began to dance.

Hands above her head, arms arched and gracefully swirling, she dipped and swayed to the wild call of the fiddles, the clamor of the crowd clapping. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and she shrugged it off and kicked it free. Gilen caught his breath as, eyes closed, breasts straining against the cotton of her blouse, hips undulating in sinuous rhythm, she became one with the passionate beat of the music.

He scarcely heard the roars and cheers of the men, the clink of the coins they tossed at the gypsy girls by the fire. His entire being focused on the violet-eyed temptress dancing for him alone.

At last the music ended. The girl finished with a final flourish of outstretched arms, her neck arched and her head back. Without thought or conscious volition, Gilen pulled her pliant body in his arms, brushed the gossamer veil aside and kissed her.

No doubt shock immobilized her for an instant, and then for the briefest moment her clenched fists pushed at his chest. But as he moved his mouth over hers, just nuzzling at first, then adding the gentle entreaty of lips and tongue, her resistance dissolved and she swayed against him, opening to his persistent advance.

Exhilaration flooded him when he captured her tongue and she moaned deep in her throat, her slack fingers clenching at his shoulders and her nipples peaking against his chest. He pulled her closer still, voracious, starving to taste every surface of her tongue and every contour of her mouth, his ears throbbing to the hammer of her heartbeat against his own.

So lost to reality was he, there was no predicting how much further he might have gone had not a sudden jerk at his shoulder loosened his grip on her. Before he could reestablish his hold, strong arms seized him and dragged him away.

“No! Forbidden!” the outraged gypsy lord screamed in his face.

Thrown off balance, Gilen staggered a little before righting himself. The blast of cool air rushing into the void left by the loss of her passionate body and the cold fury of the man before him finally doused his overheated senses, making Gilen realize where he was and what he’d been doing. The girl stood where he’d been forced to release her, one trembling hand holding the veil to her face.

For a moment, Gilen thought the gypsy lord would strike him. However, apparently deciding that attempting to mill down an aristocrat would bring him more trouble than satisfaction, the leader stepped back.

“Go!” he shouted at Gilen, gesturing out of the camp. “All, go!” He motioned again, encompassing this time the entire crowd. “Evening is over.”

At a sweep of his arm, the gypsy women slipped back toward the wagons. A line of grim-faced gypsy men, hands poised over the knives at their waists, advanced to stand beside him.

With a few muttered oaths, the milling group retreated from the fire toward the enclosure that contained their horses. When Gilen turned from the leader to catch one last glimpse of his gypsy enchantress, she was gone.

He looked back at the gypsy lord, who stood with feet planted, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes radiating menace.

Obviously he had overstepped the bounds. Giving the man a deep bow by way of apology, Gilen turned and walked away with the others.

“Well done, brother,” Alden threw at him as Gilen caught up with their group.

“S-sorry if I put a premature end to the night’s activities,” Gilen replied, still rattled by the intensity of the reactions he had just experienced.

“’Twas the close of the evening anyway,” Chase replied. “They always finish it with the wenches dancing. Though I must say, you’re lucky you cut so commanding a figure. Had one of the farm lads touched a woman, I swear that heathen would have knocked him down and carved out his eyeballs.”

“You were right after all, Gil,” Alden said with a grin. “You nearly did end up with a gypsy’s knife in your ribs. Next time, I shall be more careful what I wish for.”

Though he’d gone back with Alden and his friends for a convivial evening of cards—winning yet more from his hapless host, as he took himself up to bed, Gilen still could not shake from his mind the image of the gypsy girl’s veiled face…or the feel of her in his arms, her honeyed lips yielding to his.

With so enchanting a body wedded to so keen a wit, what a mistress she would make! His blood heated anew at the thought. He’d give a king’s ransom indeed to claim her. Perhaps he should return to the gypsy encampment in the morning, make an attempt to discover the correct protocols so he might negotiate an agreement with the gypsy lord. Given the strength of the attraction between them, confirmed beyond doubt in her kiss, he felt sure if her leader approved, his gypsy enchantress would eagerly accept his offer.

Then he recalled something she’d said, something about being beaten by her master if he deprived her of her winnings. Had the gypsy leader been ready to turn the visitors out of camp, or had he thrown them out because of Gilen’s rash action? If the latter, would the loss of revenue that might have been earned during the remainder of the evening be blamed on the girl?

Remorse with an uneasy layer of worry stabbed at him. What if the leader chastised an innocent maid for his transgression? Although he could not imagine ever striking a woman, apparently beating was not an uncommon punishment among the gypsy clan. And if that slender wisp of a girl were punished, it would be his fault.

The very thought of it made him ill.

He sat straight up in bed, but a moment’s reflection was enough for him to realize he could do nothing further tonight. Tomorrow at first light, however, he would ride to the gypsy encampment to offer more gold, and his formal apologies.

Having made that resolve, he still found sleep elusive. What slumber he managed was disturbed alternately by heated dreams of a dark-haired vixen writhing under him and horrific images of her writhing under the lash. He awoke early and unrefreshed, his mind seized by a combination of eagerness and anxiety.

Gilen made short work of shaving and dressing, and after tossing down a mug of ale brought by his astonished valet, headed for the stable. The sleepy-eyed groom who wandered out goggled at him as he saddled Raven.

The stallion was happy enough to set off at a run. Gilen’s spirits rose too, the exhilaration of a gallop heightening his anticipation.

Slowing the stallion as he rounded the last bend, Gilen rode into the clearing where the gypsy lads had corralled the horses and reined in, looking toward the river.

Where a semicircle of wagons had stood last night, a blazing fire at their center, there now remained only a pile of barely smoking embers. Consternation slammed him in the chest.

During the night as he slept, dreaming of a violet-eyed vixen, the gypsy band had departed.

Chapter Four

Next day, dressed in their own clothes and delivered by Davi to the edge of town at about the hour the mail coach would be arriving, Gwennor and Parry found a hackney to take them to the home of her stepmother’s aunt, Lady Alice. After identifying themselves to her butler Mercer, they were led to a small back parlor to await the pleasure of their aunt, who, the butler frostily informed them, obviously skeptical of their unannounced arrival and suspicious lack of either baggage or retainers, had not yet left her chamber.

Although it had been more than ten years since Gwen had visited Harrogate, apparently Lady Alice’s cook remembered her, for a short time later, the butler returned bearing a heavily laden tray, his manner now all gracious condescension. “Forgive me for not immediately recalling you, Miss Southford!” he said as he hastened to pour them tea. “I did not recognize in your elegant self the child who came with her lady mother. Cook reminded me, and also remembered you were particularly fond of her jam tarts. Allow me to offer you some fresh from the oven.”

Knowing her aunt was not an early riser, Gwen feared they might spend most of the morning waiting in the parlor. However, the news that their mistress’s niece from distant Wales had turned up unexpectedly on their doorstep must have inspired her aunt’s no-doubt curious staff to risk rousing their mistress, for little more than an hour after they’d finished their refreshments, Mercer returned to escort them into their aunt’s presence.

Doubt nibbled at Gwen’s certainty and she found herself holding her breath as they entered Lady Alice’s sitting room. If her assumptions were incorrect and that lady refused to shelter them, their situation would become difficult indeed, for she could not hope to attract a respectable suitor without a genteel sponsor, and her limited funds would not be sufficient to support them for more than a few months at most.

Though the lady reclining on the brocade sofa, her elegant morning gown draped with a fine shawl, was plumper and the lines about her bright blue eyes more pronounced than Gwen remembered, the warm smile and the delighted tone of her voice were as welcoming as Gwen had hoped.

“My dearest Gwennor!” Lady Alice cried. “A delightful surprise! And Parry here, too!” She held out her hands. “Come now, don’t be shy. When last you were here, you embraced me readily enough!”

A little dizzy with relief, Gwen urged Parry forward. After fond hugs all around, Lady Alice motioned them to adjoining chairs. “Now sit and tell me all your news!”

“I’m sorry we did not send a note, Aunt Alice,” Gwen said, taking the chair indicted. “Our departure came about…rather abruptly.”

“With Nigel Hartwell taking over Southford, I don’t wonder at it,” Lady Alice said with a sniff. “Detestable man! Oh, but you must forgive me—I’ve yet not expressed my regrets about your recent loss. Oh, Gwen, I am sorry! I know how close you were to your papa.”

Lady Alice leaned over to squeeze her hand. Gwen returned the pressure, her throat tight. “Thank you.”

“So, did Nigel send you to me for the Season? Of course he must have! He ought to have dispatched you to London, but that odious nipcheese doubtless believes it will be cheaper to maintain you here. Though our small assemblies cannot claim nearly the quantity of elevated society to be found in the capital, I staunchly maintain the quality of our residents compares quite favorably to the city! Still, were my own resources not so limited I should insist we relocate to London. That is, now that your dear papa is no longer here to protect you, I expect you are looking for a husband, aren’t you? Ah, but whatever the reason, I am ecstatic to have you here—and Parry too, of course, dear boy! I was telling my friend Colonel Haversham just the other day how bored and lonely I’d been of late, and now—here you are!”

While her aunt rattled on, Gwen considered how much of their circumstances she need convey to Lady Alice. A discreetly edited account which warned of her cousin’s possible ire but omitted their exact means of transport would be best, she decided.

So when her aunt paused for breath, Gwen said, “Although you are correct in assuming cousin Nigel wished to be speedily rid of me, aunt, h-he didn’t precisely send us. In fact, he was planning to marry me off to Baron Edgerton at Southford within the week.”

“So soon after your beloved father’s demise—and without even allowing you time to purchase bride clothes?” her aunt replied, clearly appalled. “And Edgerton! Why, he must be twice your age or more, and not at all a stylish gentleman. Indeed, I understand he never leaves hunt country. Definitely not the proper sort of husband for a lovely young lady! I’ve always thought Nigel an unfeeling monster, and so I told your dear stepmama times out of mind!”

Gwen smiled. “As my opinion of him matches yours, Parry and I decided rather hastily to…depart. To put it quite bluntly, we ran away! I expect Nigel is quite angry with me for flouting his authority. Although I’m of age and he has no legal power over me, he might be incensed enough to pursue us and try to order me back home. So…if you would rather not become involved, I will understand.”

“Fetch you back?” Lady Alice said a little nervously. “Do you believe he will?”

“I trust that once his anger cools, the distance and expense of coming after me will convince him to leave me in your care instead.”

“Doubtless you are right,” Lady Alice returned, her sunny good humor restored. “’Twould be the most sensible thing to do. In any event, I hope I am not such a pudding-heart as to send you back to that unfeeling wretch. Of course you may stay, as long as you like!”

Gwen leaned over to give Lady Alice a hug. “Thank you, dear, brave Aunt Alice!”

“Doubtless I understand better than Nigel the duty I owe a kinswoman. Edgerton indeed!” Lady Alice repeated with a shudder. “Even in Harrogate, I should be able to contrive better for you than him.”

“Such is certainly my hope! But I did bring funds of my own, so we shall not have to be an encumbrance on you.”

“Nonsense, you shall stay as my guest. And dear Parry too, of course. Such a gentle boy.”

Her brother, as usual when obligated to remain for social conversation in which he had little interest, had drifted into reverie, but at the mention of his name, he straightened and gave his aunt one of his sweet-tempered smiles. “I brought you a present, Aunt Alice.” He rummaged for a moment in his pocket, then produced a smooth, symmetrical stone of clear pale hue. “I polished it until it was round and pretty.”