A Dangerous Love

She was the kind of young lady that no one had ever presented to him—and no one ever would—because of his tainted blood. She was beautiful, wealthy, well-bred and undoubtedly accomplished. She was even, somehow, innocent, in spite of her passionate nature—and her nature was passionate, he had uncovered that. He was deemed worthy of the fat, the aged, the infirm, the ugly—those rejected by everyone else. A lady like Miss de Warenne would never be presented to a man who had Gypsy blood running in his veins, no matter his wealth, his title. One day, Miss de Warenne would be presented to a genuine Englishman, one as blue-blooded and properly English as she. Her suitor would take one look at her and be smitten. Any sane man would instantly conclude that the beautiful and genteel Miss de Warenne would make the perfect wife.

No other man had ever kissed her before.

It was unbelievable.

He had given her pleasure for the first time. Too well, he recalled her cries. Even now, his skin was abraded from her nails and teeth.

He had wanted her attentions when he had first seen her, in spite of the fact that he had surmised she wasn’t married. He never chased unmarried women, but she was beautiful, English and above him. Perhaps because of her father, he had deliberately looked at her with sexual interest. He hadn’t been surprised when she had come to him last night. She could claim that she had drifted to their camp to hear the music, but she had come because of him. But he had assumed she was a woman of experience, a woman with lovers.

Young unwed ladies were meant to lounge in the drawing rooms of their mansions, sipping tea in the latest London fashions, awaiting their callers and suitors. She claimed she was different. Obviously, she was clinging to propriety, and he wondered if she would manage to continue to do so until her wedding night. Suddenly he hated the idea of an Englishman being the one to fully show her passion.

He could have had her; why hadn’t he taken her?

Because he was more English than Rom. As a gentleman, he had a strong sense of honor. The English valued innocence, the Roma did not. He had never dallied with a virgin, not even during his traipse with the Romany across Scotland eight years ago. It was not just because he preferred experienced women in his bed. The Englishman he had become, the man who was Woodland’s viscount and Edmund’s son, could not take or destroy a woman’s innocence. It was that simple.

Just then, he did not feel particularly English.

And he hadn’t felt English at all last night.

He had reached the outermost wagons. A baby was crying; it might have been his newborn cousin. His head was pounding so badly he thought it might split in two. His body was pulsing as terribly, a combination of desire and rage. He wasn’t even certain that he wanted to be English anymore. He only knew that he wanted to avenge Raiza, and, if he was brutally honest, a part of him was now regretting not taking the gadji princess to his bed.

But he kept thinking about her wide blue eyes, not her face or her body. Her eyes disturbed him, because she had looked into his as if she might find some ancient truth about him there.

He shook himself free of the fanciful notion. She claimed she wanted to be his friend. He laughed out loud.

He had no friends. He had brothers—every Rom in the kumpa’nia was his brother. He had family—Stevan, his cousins, Jaelle. Even Robert, no matter how much he despised him and was despised by him, was family. He had enemies— almost every gadjo and gadji on the street could be thrust into that category. But he did not have friends. He wasn’t even sure what a friend really was or why anyone would want one.

What was wrong with her? He slept with women; he didn’t befriend them.

Maybe she was different from the gadjis he took to his bed. She claimed she did not judge him the way all the gadjos did. But she had sought him out for passion, just as his lovers did. Had she been married, he was certain she would have leaped into his bed. That made her no different, after all. And one day, he would turn his back and overhear her speaking of him with condescension and scorn. He had not a single doubt.

His fury escalated. He hated the gadjos, every single last one of them—even her.

“You look ready to break someone apart.”

Emilian breathed, hoping to relax his tight muscles, and turned to face Stevan. “Do I?”

“Before I ever told you about Raiza, I saw the dark clouds in your eyes. Do you want to tell me your troubles?” Stevan asked quietly.

“I have worries at Woodland,” he lied. “All gadjo nonsense, really.”

Stevan smiled, clearly not believing him.

“But I want to speak with you,” Emilian said. His chest throbbed with pain. “I must go to Raiza’s grave.”

“That is proper,” Stevan agreed. “She is buried at Trabbochburn, not far from where you were born. When will you go?”

There had been no time to grieve and no time to think. Just as he had learned of Raiza’s murder, the celebration over the birth of his cousin had begun. And then Ariella de Warenne had appeared, distracting him. There was no question of his duty—he must go to his mother’s grave and pay his respects. But now he regarded his uncle, thinking of his young sister, who needed a guardian and a brother. Raiza would want him to take care of Jaelle. “I think I would like to join you when you travel north,” he said slowly.

Stevan was surprised. “Your grief is speaking, is it not?”

“Maybe.” But the idea had so much appeal. By choosing to stay with Edmund when he was only twelve years old, he had forsaken the Roma people and their way of life. He had been so young to make such a choice. Shouldn’t he attempt to understand the Roma way—especially when the Rom part of him was burning with hatred of the English and the need for revenge?

And he could get to know his little sister, who needed him.

“You know you are always welcome. But Emilian, why not take your fine gadjo carriage and your many servants with you? Why travel like a Rom, when you left us so long ago to become English?”

Emilian spoke with care, trying to make sense of the urgings in his heart, his soul. “I have forgotten what it means to be Rom. I feel that I owe Raiza far more than I could ever have given her—and far more than paying my respects at her grave. Everything has changed, Stevan. I am enraged with the gadjos.”

“You are her son—you should be enraged. I do not think you know what you want. But you are merely speaking of a visit with us, are you not?”

Emilian stared. “I am as much Rom as I am English.”

“Really? Because I see an Englishman standing before me—even if you dance like a Rom.” Stevan smiled, but Emilian could not smile back. “My sister was proud of the man you have become. She wanted you to have a fine life, with a fine house filled with servants. She would not ask you, if she were alive, to give up your English life for the Roma way.”

“What am I giving up?” Emilian cried. “I know she wanted more for me than the life of the Rom. I remember very well that she wished for me to live with my father—but she grieved over my loss, as well. I made the choice to stay at Woodland when I was too young to understand it. Did I make the right choice? My neighbors scorn me, Stevan, just as fully as they scorn you.”

Stevan was thoughtful. “I think I begin to understand. For half your blood is Romany and nothing will ever change that. But I still think you will tire quickly of the life. There have been too many changes made over too many years.”

“Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. Maybe, after a month or two, I will spit upon the gadjos and their way and never wish to return home.” He trembled with his rage and his attention strayed back up the hill, toward the huge de Warenne mansion.

Stevan looked at him and Emilian flushed. He had just called Woodland home.

“I think we both know that the day the gadjo took you away from Raiza, your baxt was made.”

Emilian stiffened. “I do not believe in fate.”

“Then you are very much a gadjo, Emilian.”

Emilian thought about how he had surrendered far more than his body to the intense, evocative Roma music last night. Briefly, he had been so consumed with the fiery passion of the dance, it had been as if the gap of eighteen years had ceased to exist. It had been as if he had never left the Romany people. “Last night I was Rom.”

Stevan clasped his shoulder. “Yes, you were. When will you be ready to leave?”

“I need a week, maybe more,” Emilian said. The lure of the open road beckoned, not just in his mind’s eye, but in his heart. He could not wait—he felt as if the moment the caravan left Derbyshire, he would be free. “I must hire an estate manager, a man I can trust. Can you linger that long? The kumpa’nia will be welcome on my estate.”

“We will wait as long as is necessary,” Stevan said, smiling. “I am very pleased you will come with us.”

Emilian was suddenly certain that, this time, the choice he was making was the right one.

Because now, with the road lying in wait for him, he could look at his English life and question it. He was tired of the parade of gadji women who ogled him as if he was an exotic specimen of manhood, and who expected him to be insatiable because he was a Gypsy. If he became bored after an hour or two, his lovers were affronted. They all expected him to be hugely endowed, and couldn’t wait to see if Gypsies really were built unnaturally. He had even seen his lovers checking their jewelry in the morning, to see if he had stolen anything from them.

And every gadjo he did business with expected to be cheated. He had never cheated anyone but he toyed with the newcomers ruthlessly; those with whom he’d conducted his affairs for years understood that he was an honest man.

He had never been a hateful man. He expected bigotry, for he had grown up with it. He could not recall the last time the words “dirty Gypsy” had really hurt him—maybe when he was a young boy, or maybe when he had first been forced to Woodland. Long ago, his heart had turned to stone. He was different from them, and he had always known that and accepted it. He might sit at their supper tables, or even, once in a great while, dance at their balls, but he was an outsider. Their scorn meant little when he was richer and more powerful than most of them, when he needed no one but himself.

Their differences had now become glaring. His life was a pretense that was no longer tolerable. He would not accept the bigotry now.

Their scorn and hatred had killed Raiza.

There had to be revenge.

He was staring up at the de Warenne house. The de Warenne woman was innocent, but she was one of them. In fact, she epitomized English society, with her beauty, heritage and wealth. She had sent him a sexual invitation, even if she hadn’t known it. He remained English enough to have refused her, but the Rom part of him could not help but calculate the seduction and envision the conquest. To take a virgin like Ariella de Warenne, use her and return her used, sending her to her betrothed that way, was more than budjo— it was revenge.

It would be so easy….

The English part of him was horrified.

ARIELLA SAT in the window seat of the bay window. The lush lawns and blooming gardens extended below, but she saw neither. She stared instead at the Gypsy encampment, which she could see clearly from where she sat.

Their horses were loose, grazing at will. Colorful wagons remained where they had been left last night. There was no sign of preparations for their departure.

She hugged her knees to her chest. She hadn’t slept at all; she hadn’t even tried. She had changed her clothes and slipped into her current position, vibrating with tension. She was worried. Emilian was a stranger, but last night she had danced in his arms and he had given her a glimpse of passion. She had never been attracted to any man before, and now she was drawn, like a moth to the flame. Wasn’t he drawn, too?

He intended to leave with the Romany—to simply walk away, as if nothing had happened between them.

It hurt. Even if society thought her odd, her stature as a de Warenne heiress guaranteed her acceptance wherever she went. Proper gentlemen both desired and feared her, but Emilian had rejected her.

How could she convince him to change his mind and begin a friendship with her? Her heart raced at the thought. She was beyond distraction, really, and not just because of his kiss. Ariella was uncertain of many things regarding Emilian, but one thing she knew without question: she couldn’t walk away from him, not yet.

And she couldn’t let him walk out of her life as abruptly as he’d appeared in it, no matter what he intended.

What was happening to her? Could she have fallen in love at first sight? There were quite a few de Warenne men and women who had instantly fallen in love, or so family myth claimed. The de Warennes were notorious for falling wildly and absolutely in love—once and forever.

“Ariella!” Dianna pounded on her door. “Can I come in? Are you awake? Alexi is here. He came with Aunt Lizzie and Margery!”

Before she could respond, Dianna came inside. “Wake up, sleepy…” She stopped. “You are up! Oh, of course you are. You are usually the first one up in the house.” Her smile faded and she stared closely.

Ariella knew then that her tension and excitement showed. She forced a smile. All she could think was that Alexi would discover her new secret if she wasn’t careful.

He was her half brother and her elder by two years. His Russian mother, a countess, had handed him off to their father at birth, as neither she nor her husband cared to have her bastard son remain in their family. They had grown up together with their father on Jamaica Island, and he was far closer to her than any full sibling could be. He was her dearest friend, her brother, her protector. He would take one look at her and demand to know what was wrong.

Panic arose. If he ever learned of her tryst with Emilian, he would try to kill him. He was that protective of her.

“What is wrong? Are you ill?” Dianna asked, coming close and touching her cheek.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ariella said truthfully. “I doubt I slept at all last night.”

For one moment, Dianna stared as if she knew the truth. “It was their music, wasn’t it?” she said, low. “I heard it, too. It took me a while to fall asleep. There must have been dancing.”

Ariella thought there was innuendo in her sister’s words, but surely that was not the case. “I don’t know.”

Dianna sat down on a blue-and-white-striped ottoman. “They say that is what they do—dance and sing all night long.”

“I don’t think we should accept rumors as fact,” Ariella said. The moment she spoke, she heard how cross she sounded. She stood, hoping Dianna had not noticed her harsh tone.

“My, you are a grouch today. Are you coming downstairs to see Alexi?”

Ariella prayed she could pretend that all was as it should be now. “Of course.” But as she followed Dianna down the wide, central staircase, the steps covered with a red and gold Persian runner, she heard her brother’s voice. His tone was hard.

“I cannot believe Father would allow them to stay on our property.”

Ariella tensed. Alexi was obviously speaking about the Romany. He traveled the world extensively, as he had global shipping interests, and he spoke often about cultures different from their own with interest, not suspicion or prejudice. She was taken aback by his words and tone.

He whirled, smiling. “There she is!” His white teeth flashed in his handsome, swarthy face. Tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes were the brilliant blue shared by so many de Warenne men. Like his male cousins, he had been a notorious rakehell before his marriage—unlike his male cousins, he remained a notorious rakehell even after marriage. Five years ago, he had wed their childhood friend, Elysse O’Neil, to save her from scandal—and had abandoned her at the altar immediately after taking his vows. Needless to say, that had caused an even greater scandal. As far as Ariella knew, neither husband nor wife had set eyes upon each other since.

He strode to her, but before he could embrace her, his smile faded and his stare became searching. “What is wrong?” he asked instantly.

“Is Elysse with you?” she queried, hoping to distract him. Besides, she loved Elysse as a sister and wished she were happily married to Alexi.

His face hardened. “Do not start.”

Nothing had changed. Whatever had happened, Alexi would never forgive Elysse and never forget. She sighed and hugged him, standing on tiptoe to do so. “You are such an impossible man. I love you, anyway.” She finally smiled, and it was almost genuine. “You promised to be in London for my birthday, but instead, you sent that impossible gift!” He’d sent her a music box inlaid with semiprecious stones and filigreed with gold from Istanbul. It must have cost him a small fortune.

He set her at arm’s length. “I am sorry I missed your birthday, but I explained in my note that we were becalmed. You look unhappy.”

Ariella moved past him. She glimpsed her Aunt Lizzie, the Countess of Adare, in an adjacent room, chatting happily with Amanda. Her cousin, Margery, smiled at her and they hugged. “I am so happy to see you,” Margery said. Like her mother, she was a pretty, buxom strawberry blonde. “Even though it’s only been a few weeks, there is so much to catch up on.”

Margery spent a great deal of the year in London, too. “How was your trip? You have arrived so early!” Ariella said.

“We had an easy journey, thanks to the new rail,” she replied. “You do look a bit peaked, Ariella. Are you all right?”

“I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” Ariella said. She was afraid to look at Alexi. He was scrutinizing her far too closely.

“The Gypsy music kept her awake,” Dianna said. “I had a bit of a problem falling asleep, as well.”

Ariella felt her cheeks warm. She stole a glance at her brother, but he had strode to the terrace doors. He stared across the lawns toward the brightly painted wagons of the caravan.

“A Gypsy woman came to the door at Harmon House a year or so ago,” Margery said. “I was the only one at home and I happened to notice how shabbily she was dressed before our doorman could send her away. She begged to tell my fortune. I only wanted to give her a meal, but she read my palm.”

“And did her fortune come true?” Dianna asked.

“Well, as she predicted a terribly handsome man as dark as the night riding in on a white charger, no.” Margery laughed. “How unfortunate.”

Alexi turned. “She was hustling you, obviously.”

“She was too proud to accept a meal without offering a service,” Ariella refuted. Her tone must have been strong, because everyone stared.

Alexi’s interest had become intense. Ariella said, “I went to their camp with Father. I haven’t seen Romany people since I was a child. That was in Ireland, Alexi, do you recall?”

“Yes, I do. Father’s stallion was stolen and he was furious for a week.”

She crossed her arms and stiffened. “It was unfortunate,” she began.

“It was a felony,” he said grimly.

She walked over to him, her temper flaring dangerously. She knew she should control it—she never lost her temper and everyone would know something was afoot. But she couldn’t hold it at bay. “So all Gypsies are horse thieves, fortune-tellers, hustlers and criminals?”

He towered over her. “I did not say any such thing. I have encountered Romany all over the world. They are great musicians —in Russia, the Crown has a Romany choir, as do many of the great nobles. In Hungary, Romany musicians are the rage and they play in the greatest homes, and on the stage. Many of them earn an honest living. They are tinkers, smiths, basket makers, chair menders. But,” he said very emphatically, “they are nomadic, and a disproportionate number prefer any activity other than one that brings in an honest wage.”

She knew she must back down. “I cannot believe that there are more thieves amongst the Romany than amongst the English.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Their music is strange, but very enjoyable,” Dianna said swiftly, clearly wanting to intervene. She smiled anxiously at them both. “It is exotic but filled with passion, like an opera might be.”

Ariella ignored her, as did Alexi. He said softly, “Since when have you become the defender of the Romany tribes?”

Ariella debated several placating answers. “Since I went with Father to their camp and saw mothers caring for their children and preparing supper for their families, just as we do!”

“Their culture is vastly different from ours.” He was firm. “I do not like them camping here.”

“Why not?” she cried.

His gaze shot to hers. “There will be trouble.”

She could not believe he had become so bigoted. “Their leader swore that there would be no horse stealing or cattle rustling.”

“Really? How odd. Theirs is more of a brotherhood than anything else. I doubt their vaida could speak honestly for his brothers. You have become enamored of the Romany!”

Ariella’s heart had stopped. For one moment, she had thought he had been about to say she was enamored of their leader. She breathed, trembling. “Yes, I have. I want to study their ways and learn all I can about them.”

“Last night you were going on and on about the Mongols,” Dianna exclaimed.

She had the perfect excuse to seek Emilian out now, she realized, but her anxiety did not ease. “I have had enough of the Mongols. When I saw the Romany camp with Father, I became fascinated with them. I want to know what is folklore and what is fact.” She glanced at Alexi to see if he believed her.

He groaned, but then he smiled. “I should have known! So it has been the Mongols…until now? Well, look at the bright side. You have a kumpa’nia right at Rose Hill. You can do research in the field.” He pulled her close and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. “You, my dear, shall be well swindled before this day is done.” He laughed and walked out.

Ariella felt her knees buckle. She moved to the closest chair and sat.

“What did he mean?” Dianna asked.

Ariella could barely believe her turn of good luck. Her family would now think her interest in Emilian no different from her recent passion for Genghis Khan.

“He meant, dear, that your older sister is very naive, too much so her for age and intelligence, and she is about to be hustled.” Margery smiled. “Unless, of course, we can dissuade her from her newest obsession.”

“That will never happen,” Dianna said, smiling, as well. “Ariella is not dissuadable, not when she is smitten with a new subject.”

“I, for one, think their wagons are works of art. Do you want to take a stroll down to their camp? We can admire their craftsmanship and decoration firsthand.” Margery’s eyes twinkled.

Ariella shot to her feet. “That is a wonderful idea.”

“I thought you might like it.” Margery winked at Dianna. “Maybe we can save her from a dangerous Gypsy.”

CHAPTER FIVE

WHILE MARGERY AND DIANNA paused to exclaim over a wagon painted fantastically red, green and blue and decorated with a carved horse head in a wreatelh, Arila stood on tiptoe and searched the entire camp for Emilian.

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