A Dangerous Love

Emilian stared after her.

“Do not worry,” Stevan said. “She is far more innocent than she appears. She is playing the woman, that is all. I sometimes think of her as being fifteen.”

“She isn’t fifteen,” he said tersely. Romany mores and ethics were entirely different from gadjo ones. It would be unusual if Jaelle was entirely innocent when it came to passion. “She should be married,” he said abruptly. He did not wish for her to be used and tossed aside like their mother.

Stevan laughed. “Spoken like a true brother—a full-blood brother!”

Emilian didn’t smile. He waited.

Stevan’s smile faded. “Walk with me.”

He did, with a terrible sense of dread. The night had settled with a thousand stars over them. The trees sighed as they walked by. “She’s not here.”

“No, she is not.”

“Is she dead?”

Stevan paused, placing both of his hands on his shoulders. “Raiza is dead. I am sorry.”

He wasn’t a boy of twelve and he had no right to tears, but they filled his eyes. His mother was dead. Raiza was dead—and he hadn’t been there with her. She was dead— and he’d last seen her eight long years ago. “Damn it,” he cursed. “What happened?”

“What always happens, in the end, to the Romany?” Stevan asked simply.

“She was telling fortunes at a fair in Edinburgh. A lady was very displeased with her fortune, and when she came back, she did so with her nobleman. She accused Raiza of deceit and demanded the shilling back. Raiza refused. A crowd had gathered, and soon everyone was shouting at Raiza, accusing her of cheating, of begging, of stealing their coin. By the time I learned of this and had gone to her stall, the mob was stoning her. Raiza was hiding behind her table, using it like a shield, otherwise, she would have died then.”

His world went still. He saw his mother, cowering behind a flimsy wood table, the kind used to play cards.

“I ran through the crowd and they began to stone me. I grabbed Raiza—she was hurt, Emilian, and bleeding from her head. I tried to protect her with my body and we started to run away. She tripped so hard I lost hold of her. I almost caught her—instead, she fell. She hit her head. She never woke up.”

He wanted to nod, but he couldn’t move. He saw her lying on a cobbled street, her eyes wide and sightless, her head bleeding.

Stevan embraced him. “She was a good woman and she loved you greatly. She was so proud of you! It was unjust, but God gave us cunning to make up for the gadjo ways. One day, the gadjo will pay. They always pay. We always make them pay. Fools.” He spit suddenly. “I am glad you used budjo to cheat the gadjos and make yourself rich!” He spit again, for emphasis.

Emilian realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried since that long-ago night when he’d first been torn from his Romany life. He’d been locked up by the Englishman who was sworn to take him south to his gadjo father. He’d been in chains like men he’d seen on their way to the gallows—some of them Rom. He’d cried in fear. He’d cried in loneliness. Ashamed, he’d managed to stop the tears before the ugly Englishman had returned. Now, his tears came from his broken heart. The grief felt as if it would rip him apart.

He hadn’t been there to protect her, save her. He wiped his eyes. “When?”

“A month ago.”

The grief made it impossible to breathe. She was gone. Guilt began.

A month ago he had been immersed in his gadjo affairs. A month ago he had been redesigning his gadjo gazebo. A month ago, he had been fucking his gadjo mistress night and day.

Because he had chosen to stay with Edmund, when he could have left him.

He had chosen his father over his mother—and now Raiza was dead.

“They always pay,” Stevan said savagely.

He wanted the murderers to pay. He hated them all. Every single last one of them. More tears streamed. But there was no single murderer to hunt. Why hadn’t he been there to save her? The guilt sickened him, the rage inflamed him. Damn the gadjos, he thought savagely. Damn them all.

And he thought of de Warenne and his daughter.

CHAPTER THREE

HE WANDERED along the perimeter of the encampment, head down, allowing the rage to build. He preferred the anger to the grief. Raiza’s fear must have known no bounds. But the rage did not erase the guilt. His mother had been murdered by gadjos while he lived like one, and he would never forgive himself for having visited her just once in the past eighteen years.

“Emilian.”

At the sound of Jaelle’s voice, he halted, realizing how selfish his grief was. Stevan cared for his sister, but that was no substitute for her mother. Jaelle’s father was a Scot who hadn’t cared about his bastard Gypsy daughter, for he had a Scottish wife and a Scottish family. “Come here, edra,” he said, forcing a smile.

Her expression was uncertain as she approached. She touched his arm. “I am sad, too. I am sad every day. But it is done.” She shrugged. “One day, I will make the gadjos pay.”

He stiffened. “You will do no such thing. You may leave vengeance to me. It is my right.”

“It is my right, as well, even more!” She flared. “You hardly knew Raiza!”

“She was my mother. I did not ask to be taken from her.”

She softened. “I am sorry, Emilian. Of course you didn’t.” She hesitated, her amber gaze searching. “When I was small, you came to us. Do you remember? It was a happy time.”

“I remember,” he said, aware of what she wished him to recall.

But she simply stared and he knew she was thinking about how he had come for a month—and abruptly left.

“What is it that you wish to know?”

“You are as rich as a king. You have no master. Why? Why haven’t you come to us since that time? Why haven’t you come to me? Do you prefer the gadjo to the Romany people? Do you prefer the gadjo life to our own? You came when I was a small child. But you did not stay!”

She was intense, and tears shimmered in her eyes. He understood how important this was to her—he understood that he had this small woman’s loyalty and love. He took her hand. It was awkward to do so, but he did not release her palm. A few days ago, his answer would have been different, he realized. But their mother’s death hovered over them, a dark, terrible shroud. The grief remained, bursting in his heart, overshadowed by guilt. The anger threatened to explode. “I left because I received word of my father’s death,” he said truthfully. “But I didn’t join the kumpa’nia intending to stay. I had dreamed of traveling with the Rom, and I was young, so I came. It was an adventure, jel’enedra.”

He recalled the boredom that had quickly arisen after the first few days of aimless travel. In the ensuing years, he had forgotten how disappointing the journey had been, for his memory had been tainted by the news of Edmund’s death. But while on the road, he had wondered about the duties and responsibilities he’d eventually return to at Woodland. He hadn’t really appreciated the journey, not then, but perhaps it was because he had been so young. And everything was different now.

“I don’t know what I prefer now, or what I want,” he said slowly. “I have lived as an Englishman for a very long time, but we both know I am didikoi.” His heart thundered as he spoke. He was an outsider; he would always be an outsider. Yet he had always known that—he had simply ignored it. “I do know I am gladdened to have such a sister.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know what you want? Everyone knows their heart!”

He laughed roughly. “Growing up, I dreamed of the kumpa’nia. Sometimes, in my bedroom, I played our songs on the guitar. Even though I chose to become a gadjo, as my father had asked me to do, I knew my people—our people— were out there somewhere, perhaps even waiting for me. But I had duties at Woodland. I accepted those duties. I know you cannot understand this confusion. I have never understood it, either. At times, I have felt like two completely different people.”

“So you are confused now?” she asked uncertainly.

“No. Today, I knew you were near. Today, I yearned to come. Today, I am Rom. Today, this is what I want.” He gestured at the camp. “Yesterday I sat in the library at Woodland with my steward and the mayor of the nearby village, discussing local affairs.” He shook his head. It became hard to speak. “They call me Gypsy behind my back, but they wish for me to lead them anyway. There was a matter of law to be solved. They wished for my advice—no one in Derbyshire has the education I have received.” It was so ironic. “I am not truly one of them, but long ago, I made my life Woodland. The estate is mine. It is a good place. I have no desire to wed, but if I ever have a son, it will be his. Can you understand that?” In that moment, he wasn’t sure he understood it.

“How can I understand such affection for land? I do not care about land and I never will. The Romany who have homes are not true blood. You are more English than Rom.” She wiped at her tears. “But I have known that for a long time. And our mother knew it, too.” She turned away.

He seized her. “There is no place I would rather be than right here, right now. That is the truth, Jaelle.”

She searched his eyes. “But for how long? And when we leave, you won’t come with us, will you?”

He stared at her, seeing not Jaelle but Raiza, lying dead in a cobbled street, bleeding from the head, the crowd thronging her, viciously satisfied. His pulse exploded. Did he want to go back to his life at Woodland? He had so many duties there! But what about the life he had forsaken?

He owed Raiza far more than his respects, and he owed Jaelle.

The rich and melodious chords of a guitar strummed, slow and haunting. And suddenly the guitarist changed the beat, the tempo lively, joyous—celebratory. No sound could be more incongruous with his anger and despair—or with his profound confusion.

“We have a new cousin,” Jaelle said softly. “And it is time to celebrate.”

It was the Romany way. As she pulled him back toward the center of the camp, more guitars were played, as were a violin and cymbals. Laughter sounded, and he heard the men clapping in a strong rhythm to the music. His heart lurched and his body stirred.

Jaelle released him and ran into the center of the clearing, where four young Rom were dancing, arms folded, their heels pounding the ground in rhythm with the instruments. Jaelle lifted her skirts and whirled, legs flashing, hair streaming. He felt himself soften and smile as she raised her arms and began dancing in the midst of the men.

Everyone had gathered—men, women and children—and he saw Stevan with his wife, who reclined on blankets, nursing their newborn. Now he recalled her name—Simcha. The gathered crowd was clapping in tandem with the beating heels of the male dancers. The music began to fill his hollow, grieving body. He felt his veins pulse with each stomped foot. He felt his blood heat and race. This was the Rom life and it was simple and good.

It had been so long.

Raiza had been murdered and he would not allow the gadjos to simply walk away unscarred from her death. Sooner or later, he would have his revenge. This promise he made now. But the revenge would not come tonight.

Tonight they would celebrate a new life.

More men and women had joined the original dancers. A woman with ebony hair, her skirts purple and gold, twirled by him. Her stare was sultry and direct.

She was a handsome woman, full figured, close to his age, and there was no mistaking the invitation he had just received. He looked at her thighs as she lifted her skirts dangerously high. There was no lover like a Romni.

She dropped her skirts, sensually raised her arms high, and began to gyrate, her rhythm far slower than the music’s rapid beat. She turned seductively away, but cast a glance over her shoulder at him. He smiled and stepped into the clearing.

The guitars, the violin, the cymbals, a tambourine and the beating of the earth washed through him. His heels found the ground, right, left, right, left, and he lifted his face to the moon, his arms to the stars. Fingers snapped. His hips thrust and undulated. He remained aware of the woman, who danced on his right, but in that moment, his body needed nothing but the music and the night.

The moon smiled. The stars gleamed. The trees stood sentinel, and the fires blazed. It was a night for celebration; it was a night for lovers.

He returned the woman’s bold stare.

THE LAST OF THEIR GUESTS were gone. Ariella stood in the front hall, watching the Montgomery carriage leave as the family went upstairs to their rooms. A touch on her shoulder made her jump.

Cliff smiled at her. “I see you have survived our supper party.”

“Was I so transparent?”

He laughed. “You were daydreaming, and it was obvious.”

Gray eyes assailed her and she prayed her father would not guess at the subject of her musings. “I guess everyone is excited about Amanda’s ball.”

“Yes, they are, as it has been some time since there has been a lavish event at Rose Hill. Ariella, did you like Montgomery at all?”

She stiffened, incredulous. “I thought a match was Dianna’s idea.”

“It is. But she confided in her mother, who told me. You have no interest in him.” It was not a question.

“I am sorry, I do not.”

He sighed. “Ariella, when you were a small child, I worried about your future. At the time, I decided I would make certain to arrange the perfect marriage for you, when you came of age.”

Ariella was in disbelief. “I had no idea!”

He smiled. “That was a long time ago. I realized when you became an independent young woman, of whom I am so extremely proud, that I would do no such thing. In many ways, you remind me of myself before I met Amanda.”

Her relief knew no bounds. “Thank you. But Father, you were a privateer, not a bluestocking.”

“I treasured my freedom, darling, as you do. However, I believe that one day you will come to me with stars shining in your eyes. You will tell me you wish to wed—and that you are madly in love.”

Ariella smiled. “You do know that you are far more romantic than I am?”

Cliff laughed. “Am I?”

“I fear I am not like you, Father. My passion is for knowledge. I did try to explain earlier to Dianna that being unwed doesn’t bother me at all. I do not think about handsome men or moon over them like other women my age.” The moment she spoke, she quickly looked away, because she had been doing exactly that since meeting the Rom with the gray eyes.

“That’s only because you have not yet met the man who is unique enough to stir your interest.”

She continued hastily, afraid he might sense her distraction. “The men I meet are scholars and historians, and very few of them are noblemen.”

He laughed. “And if you bring me a radical lawyer without means, I will approve—as long as he loves you in return.”

Ariella did not reply. She had been thinking about Emilian throughout the evening, almost against her own will. There was something provocative and unsettling about him, although she couldn’t quite identify what disturbed her.

“It may take you some time to realize that your heart has been captured, but the day will come, I have no doubts. You are too beautiful and intriguing to escape love. And when you ask me for my blessing, I will be pleased to give it, no matter whom you have chosen.”

She smiled. “I hope you are not in the rush that Dianna seems to be in. I cannot settle, Father. I have no interest in a traditional marriage. Dianna should marry before I do.”

“I won’t allow you to settle for anything less than what you deserve.” Cliff kissed her cheek. “I will never rush you. Now, I fear I must leave you stargazing by yourself. Good night.”

Ariella watched him hurry upstairs. She became aware of an odd tension within her. Emilian’s gray eyes seemed to be engraved permanently in her thoughts. She hadn’t ever been so preoccupied with a man, not in her entire twenty-four years. She wasn’t sure what her strange distraction meant, but their brief interaction had haunted her throughout the evening.

We are Rom.

She remained haunted, she realized, for she was standing alone in the front hall, in the night-darkened, eerily silent house, wondering about him. He was proud and hostile, and she couldn’t comprehend why he was so defensive, or why he had seemed to dislike her and her father so much. But he had found her attractive. She was woman enough to understand the kind of look he’d given her. Gentlemen had been looking at her with some admiration since she had turned sixteen, but it had never made her think twice—until now.

Her heart was racing.

There was no reason to linger in the front hall, but Ariella stepped closer to the window and pressed her face to the cool glass pane. She thought she heard music.

Ariella realized she should not be surprised. The Romany Gypsies were renowned all over the world for their music.

She was swept with curiosity and excitement. She swiftly crossed the hall, stepping into the parlor, and then she opened the terrace doors. The moment she did, she heard the unfamiliar, exotic music.

She went still. She had heard similar melodies in the Middle East, but she had never heard music with so much passion and joy. And did she hear laughter, as well?

She realized she had crossed the terrace and stood by the railing, staring down the hill. It was a bright night, with a million stars overhead and a waxing moon, but she could see only the light of their fires and the ghostly shapes of the covered wagons. There was no doubt in her mind that the Roma Gypsies were having a celebration.

She wanted to go down the hill. She told herself she did not dare. It was highly improper—and even imprudent. A woman could not wander about the countryside after dark alone. She didn’t care about the scandal, but it could be dangerous.

But no one need know. If she kept hidden, the Romany Gypsies wouldn’t see her, and her family was soundly asleep for the night. If she was careful to avoid any encounters, there wouldn’t be any danger to her person.

She trembled with excitement. When would she ever have this opportunity again? She hadn’t seen Gypsies since she was a child. She might never come across such an encampment again. How could she ignore the music, the festivities? Stories abounded about the Gypsies, about nights filled with music, dance and love.

And what about their charismatic leader?

Ariella breathed hard, her pulse pounding. She knew she found him highly attractive, as well as enigmatic. She was curious about him, too. He seemed so well-spoken, as if educated. He was clearly used to giving commands, and he hadn’t deferred to her father. What kind of man was he? Where had he come from?

The Roma would be gone in the morning.

He would be gone in the morning, too.

Her decision was made. She lifted her pale skirts and stepped down from the terrace onto the lawn. A moment later, she hurried across the drive, her pace increasing along with her excitement. She could identify more than guitars now, for she also heard at least one violin, and the rich song was punctuated with cymbals and clapping hands.

And she could finally see the wagons ahead. The blazing fires within their midst illuminated them. She heard more laughter and conversation, and she glimpsed the dancers, a flurry of movement and jewel tones.

She paused behind the closest wagon, breathing hard. The music was fierce and demanding now. It almost beat inside her, causing her stomach to churn. The tempo had escalated, as had her pulse. Gray eyes dominated her mind’s eye.

Ariella crouched low beside the wagon, slipping around the front. Seeing the dancers, she stiffened in amazement.

In the center of the clearing, he danced alone. He held his arms high, fingers snapping, his white shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His chest gleamed in the firelight as he danced. The fabric of his breeches strained over his thighs and hips, and each step was impossibly seductive and sensual. Each step brought him a bit closer to where she stood. Her mouth became dry.

His eyes were closed. His dark lashes were fanned out on his high, flushed cheekbones. His expression was tight, one of sheer pleasure. A sheen of perspiration covered his face, too, and as he gyrated, she could see his navel. Ariella tugged at her bodice. Every solid inch of his anatomy was visible in that open shirt and those doeskin breeches and she was terribly, uncomfortably hot.

She swallowed. She could not look away and she did not care. She knew her thoughts had become more than improper. She was thinking about his masculinity, his virility and his barely leashed power. He was dancing alone, but somehow, it was terribly suggestive—as if he would soon take a lover to his bed.

She did not know what was happening to her. She had never thought about a man this way. What he might or might not do after dancing was not her concern.

His eyes suddenly opened. Although there were many people dancing now, and a few exotic women had surrounded him, his gaze swung directly across the dancers at her.

Had he known she was there? Her heart exploded in her chest. She knew she should duck, but somehow, she had risen to fully stand. She knew she should tear her attention away from his beautiful face, his bare chest, but that was impossible. She realized she no longer stood by the traces; somehow she had actually stepped forward.

His gray eyes caught hers and blazed.

Ariella could not look away.

His eyes were so fierce, she forgot to breathe. Their gazes locked, his arms lifted and he turned slowly for her. His arms swept toward her, and his hips slowed. Ariella felt as if his hands had just drifted down her body, as if his loins had just brushed across her belly. She did not have to be a woman of experience to know that he was dancing for her.

As if under a spell, all she could think of was his embrace and being pressed against his hard body.

He smiled seductively and his thick black lashes lowered, just as the music ceased.

Trembling, Ariella wondered if he would hear her slamming heartbeat.

He stood still, except for his chest, which rose and fell rapidly. His eyes lifted, male and intense, searing hers.

She should run away. If she stayed, something would happen—if she stayed, he was going to touch her, pull her close, against his hard body…somehow, she knew.

A hand seized her from behind. “Kon nos? Gadje romense? Nay!”

Ariella cried out.

A young man, perhaps sixteen, stared furiously at her. He shook her and spoke angrily in his language again. There was no music now, no laughter or conversation.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

The youth dragged her forward. Ariella stumbled and paused. The dancers surrounded them. Emilian strode forward, his eyes flashing, his body hot and wet. “Dosta!”

Ariella was released. Trembling, she hugged herself. Her savior was as angry as the young man. She looked at the crowd. Hostile stares were trained upon her. No one moved. Stances were belligerent. She wanted to vanish into the ground.

He spoke again, rapidly and firmly.

The young man looked at her. “I am sorry,” he said in a heavy accent. He turned and walked away.

Ariella was incredulous. She looked at Emilian and he stared back at her, while the bearlike man from earlier that afternoon clapped his hands and spoke to the crowd. Someone began playing a guitar. Conversation resumed, but in lower tones and whispers, as everyone walked away. And they were alone.

Ariella was so dry she had to wet her lips. Worse, her focus had precipitously dropped to his bare, sweat-slickened chest. She couldn’t help it; she stole a glance at the tight lines of his abdomen. She knew she did not dare look lower; she knew what she would see there. “What…” She wet her lips again. She sounded horribly breathless. “I wasn’t spying.”