Two nights later, as she left the washhouse, the distant strains of gypsy music drifted on the night wind. She had no idea when the gypsies had arrived, but she felt an urge to follow the sound. The moon was bright so she had no trouble finding her way. Following a path leading in the direction of the music, she scurried ahead, only to come to an end where she found a stone pedestal that looked as if it had been the base for a statue...
...outstretched arms... blood-red arms.. blood-red eyes.. outstretched arms...
A portent of dark foreboding enveloped her. Was she going mad? There was nothing but a stone structure and a vacant pedestal... Blood-red...
She backed away, turned and fled. By the time she'd returned to the wash house to where she'd left another trail that led in the direction of the music, she couldn't remember what had frightened her. It was, after all, nothing but a small stone pedestal.
For now, the night was alive with music, and she felt an urge to dance, if only in the shadows. On her return, when Lekha and the others would be asleep, she'd search the upstairs drawing room. If she didn't find the opal there, her next course would be to steal into Mrs. Throckmorton's bedchamber while she slept and take the keys to the library and master study. One of those rooms would undoubtedly contain the opal.
***
Damon stepped onto the veranda, lured by the sounds of gypsy music. Corina, a maid who’d been with his staff for some time, stood gazing toward the jute fields. Damon walked over to stand beside her. "What the devil’s going on out there?" he asked.
"Gypsies, m'lord," Corine replied. "Runyon saw wagons and chattel out there, and goats and donkeys in the fields. I don't mind saying, I'm a bit anxious about them being so close."
"No worry," Damon said. "The gatekeeper won't let any of them pass."
"It's not just that, m'lord, it's about the new dhobi in the washhouse. Who knows what she'll be takin'. Me and t'others are thinking you'd best guard the silver."
"I'll keep that in mind," Damon said, wondering if Eliza was the reason the gypsies had camped so close. "Meanwhile, I'd better see what's going on." He mounted his horse and headed toward the jute fields. He hadn't gone for when, in a small glade where the woods met the jute fields, he spotted a lone figure dancing around a lantern. Reining in, he realized it was Eliza.
Bathed in the white witchery of moonlight, she moved to the lilting music of the gypsy violins, her body snaking with passionate intensity to the glissandos and plaintive melancholy. She was dressed in the garb of a gypsy, skirt swishing about her legs, décolleté blouse dipping low on her bosom. The music changed to the wildest fury, full of fire and impetuosity. She whirled and whirled, clapping her hands, smacking her ankles, scuffing her feet against the earth. Arms above her head, she snapped her fingers, her lithe body twisting like a palm in a gale to the insistent frenzy of the music. Her body trapped by silvern-blue light seemed more ethereal than mortal, and as Damon watched her, he knew he must have this beautiful exotic bird as his mistress, no matter what it would take to hold and keep her.
At once, the music stopped. Hands high, head back, she struck a dramatic pose.
He dismounted and stepped from the shadows. "Bravo," he said, clapping his hands. "Had I expected to find such sublime entertainment I would have brought rupees to toss at your feet," he said. "What else can you do, gypsy girl?"
Eliza gave him a playful smile. "Flee on silent feet," she said. With the agility of a deer, she moved out of the circle of moonlight and fled into the grove.
Damon rushed after her, lured by her moving form and fleeting footsteps. But he soon realized the form he was after was shadows cast by moonlight, the footsteps, the chatter of brush wrestling with the wind. The woods became still and he thought she'd evaded him. Then soft laughter drifted on the breeze. Capricious laughter. She was taking pleasure teasing and eluding him, the provocative little witch. Hands on his hips, he waited, but heard only the distant voices of gypsies. Then behind him came her voice. "Over here, my lord."
He turned and walked in the direction of her voice, only to stop short and turn back when she called from another direction. "No, my lord. Over here."
"I can think of better things to do than hide from each other," he called out.
She emerged from the shadows and started toward him. “What do you have in mind my lord?” she asked, walking up to him.
"This." He grabbed her low on her buttocks and lifted her, and she instinctively clasped her legs around his hips. “Turn that wild spirit loose, gypsy girl" he said. Cupping her buttocks, he pressed her tighter to him. “I'm on fire and I need you to douse the flames.”
“Oh!” she gasped when he began rotating against her. “It’s happening again, that strange feeling. You mustn't do that… umm…” she let out a moan of pleasure and curved her hands around his neck. He lowered her to the ground and rolled her onto her back and straddled her, propping his knees on either side of her hips and she made no move to send him toppling off her. Instead, she gazed up at him as he slipped her blouse off her shoulders, lowered her camisole to expose her breasts, and captured one ripe nipple with his lips, flicking his tongue over the tight bud, nipping playfully with his teeth.
"My lord! You bit me." She giggled, making no attempt to stop what he was doing.
"Umm, I did indeed." As he began to suckle, moans of pleasure reverberated in her throat. "You taste like nectar," he said, moving to the other breast, "sweet ambrosial nectar." Little short moans of ecstasy burst from her lips, and when he glided his hand up her bare leg, dragging her skirt up with it to touch her intimately, she let out a long, slow sigh of pleasure…
From the direction of the encampment, shouts erupted and dogs started barking.
"Oh hell," Damon said. He moved from atop Eliza, and she sat up and pulled her camisole up to cover herself. "We are not through," he said. "We will continue later." He stood and looked toward the encampment. "Are those your people?" he asked.
Eliza stood. "I don't know," she replied.
"They're gypsies. You must know."
"I only came to dance to their music."
"Not to run off with them?" Damon asked.
"If I planned to run off, I would not be with you," Eliza snapped.
"I suppose," Damon said. "Meanwhile, I need to make sure my jute isn't getting trampled." Heaving a sigh, he added, "Soon, you and I are going to alleviate a problem I'm having." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly, then mounted his horse and left.
As he cantered off, Eliza stared after him. Perhaps she was more gorgio than gypsy. A gypsy girl would not have let a man not wed to her kiss her breasts. Nor would she have this nameless yearning for something more...
The crackle of brush came from behind, and when she turned, she looked into the malevolent eyes of Januz Kazinczy. "You moan like whore, baring breasts for gorgio earl to suckle. Where you think opal is post rat? In gorgio earl's breeches?”
Refusing to be intimidated, Eliza said, "What do you want?"
"To tell you to get Kalkhi-Avatar tonight," Januz said. "Word from kris Romani. You find it in box under desk in library."
Eliza eyed him, dubiously. "How do you know where it is?"
"You not ask questions," Januz said. "Get opal. Come to gate at midnight. I have horse for you there. Tonight, posh-rat, or you banished."
***
A sharp creak resounded like a shot in the silent room. Poised motionless between footsteps, in the pitch-blackness of Mrs. Throckmorton's bedchamber, Eliza dared not move, dared not breathe. She hadn't anticipated the creaking floor. Nor had she expected the room to be so hot, or so utterly dark. She remained immobile for what seemed like an eternity. Beads of sweat crept down her face. Gradually, dusky objects began to take form. Mrs. Throckmorton turned in bed, fluffed her pillow and let out a sigh. The room became quiet again. Quiet as a tomb. After a while Eliza heard a low burr and knew Mrs. Throckmorton was asleep.
Edging toward the bedside table, Eliza' hand nudged
a glass, almost toppling it. Grabbing the glass, she paused and waited, relieved that the snoring remained steady. Padding her palm over the table, she felt a ring of keys. Curling her fingers around them, she lifted them from the table and crept to the door, closing it silently behind.
Keys in hand, she ascended the stairs while considering what Januz said. She didn't doubt the opal was in the library. That was one of the rooms that remained locked. She was puzzled though, how Januz knew where it was, and why he was helping her. But she didn't have the luxury of time to find out. So regardless of his motives, she'd get the opal tonight.
After letting herself into the library, she lit a lamp and immediately spotted the strongbox on the desk. To her surprise, it was laying open. Inside she found papers, but the opal was not there. But as she sorted through the papers, the penscript of a letter addressed to Damon caught her attention. Lifting it, she read the name, Lord William Sheffield, Holly Lodge, Campden Hill, London, England. She stared at the writing. Her father's writing. Opening the letter, she read her father's terms for selling land to Damon, then tucked the letter with her father’s address into her pocket. While searching for more letters from her father, a yellowed newspaper clipping caught her eye. A note attached to the clipping, and dated October 17, 1865, read: Well, old chap, I thought you would enjoy reading about the notorious Lord Carlisle. You have created quite a stir here in London. I will keep you posted. The signature was unreadable.
Unfolding the clipping from the London Times, dated June 3, 1865, she read: LORD WINSTON CARLISLE SHOT AND KILLED BY BROTHER. An inquest held by the coroner of Middlesex in the White Horse Inn at Kensington disclosed today that Lord Winston Carlisle, Earl of Westwendham, died as a result of wounds suffered at the hands of his brother, Edmund Damon Carlisle, who left the scene. Authorities have issued a warrant for his arrest..."
Eliza stared at the clipping. Certainly the man who’d held her in his arms and teased her with his kisses could not have shot his brother in cold blood and fled. But then, she knew little about Lord Damon Ravencroft. Or, was it Lord Edmund Damon Carlisle?
Heart thrumming, she reread the article. Why would he do such a thing? How could he do such a thing? Returning the papers to the box, she left on silent feet, anxious to be away from this room, away from Damon. But she had not found the opal. There was only one other place to look. The master study. Another locked chamber. And she'd go there now.
***
Damon sealed his letter to the Queen, informing Her Majesty of the existence, and availability, of the Burning of Troy opal. He hadn't planned to sit at his desk in the middle of the night and compose the missive, but it was impossible to sleep. A beautiful face kept invading his mind. He slipped the opal from his pocket and held it in his fingers. Turning it in the lamplight, the stone blazed with scintillating flashes, reminding him of the fire in Eliza's eyes after he'd kissed her. "My friend, I'm a sad sap," he said aloud, because the opal seemed to be a living, breathing thing, "falling for a woman who's as aimless as an autumn leaf, as vagrant as the wind, and as illusive as a dream." The opal, absorbing the heat from his hand, grew brighter, blazed redder. "So you agree? But what am I to do?"
Until Eliza whirled into his life and made him yearn with a desire he'd never known, Damon hadn't realized how much he dreaded an existence without her. He wanted her beyond all reason... wanted to hear her melodious voice, laugh at her quick wit, taste her sweet lips and feel her warm naked body beneath him. Her image hovered in his mind by day and haunted his dreams by night. What he couldn't imagine was letting her slip out of his life. And that was the crux of it. After the sale of the opal and Shanti Bhavan he'd be returning to England. And he sure as hell couldn't arrive with a gypsy hoyden for a wife. But for the time he had left, he'd do everything in his power to have her as his mistress…
Hearing footsteps, he turned. And stared in shocked surprised.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway. She'd changed into her black working dress, and wore her loose around her shoulders. Damon dropped the opal into his coat pocket and waited for her reason for being there. Struggling to find her voice, Eliza's mind still visualizing the opal in Damon's coat pocket, she said, while walking toward him, "I couldn't sleep, my lord. All I wanted was to be with you. So, I thought I'd come find you. I hope you don't mind."
Damon walked up to her and kissed her. "You look like an elegant lady," he said, "not the gypsy hoyden I captured at the fair."
Eliza felt awkward, knowing what she must do. Still, she had to do it. Curving her arms around his neck, she said, "So, you think I look like a lady?"
Damon clasped his hands behind her waist. "I venture to say, if you dressed in gowns of silks and satins you'd look the proper memsahib."
"Where would I get these gowns of silks and satins, my lord?" Eliza asked, gazing into dark intense eyes that burned with a fire of their own.
"From me," Damon replied.
Eliza laughed lightly. "And do you plan to keep me on as your laundry maid and pay me in gowns?" she asked, her voice playful, though her heart was beating frantically with the thought of what she had to do next.
"Not as my laundry maid," Damon said. "As my mistress."
"Your mistress?" His proposal caught Eliza up short, pointing out her station in life. A half-blood, someone to become a man's mistress, never his wife. Then she realized it didn’t matter. Soon she’d be away from Lord Damon Ravencroft and the effect he had on her.
Damon peered down at her. “Why so serious, gypsy girl? Surely you like the idea of gowns and jewels and silk against your skin? I’d have you dressed like a queen and riding in a fine coach, and all you’d have to do is warm my bed."
Eliza put her hands on his chest. “I’ll think on it and let you know tomorrow,” she said, knowing there would be no tomorrow for them. Only the next few minutes. Nothing more.
Damon planted a kiss beneath her ear, and said, “Is it so hard for you to choose between working in a wash house, or wearing silk gowns and sleeping in my bed?”
Eliza tipped her head back, allowing him access to her throat. “I’ve never been a man’s mistress before… umm," she moaned, as his lips moved down the column of her throat. "Perhaps I would not meet your expectations."
"You already have. You're everything I want in my bed." Damon kissed her chin and her jaw and teased her lips apart, caressing her tongue with his, sucking it deeply into his mouth and allowing her to slowly retrieve it before sucking it into his mouth again in a pre-mating ritual as old as time. As the kiss deepened, his hands began to seek those places that gave her pleasure, until she was almost overcome by the need that was building again.
But she would not be distracted. Not this time.
While the kiss deepened, she glided her hands up his back and threaded her fingers into his hair, then moved her palms down his sides and up his back again, then every so slowly down his sides, and into his pocket, where her hand closed around a smooth round object the size of a hen's egg. Heart thumping, adrenaline rushing through her, she whispered against his ear, “Yes I’ll be your mistress,” while feeling a flush of remorse that she would never know the delights his intimate caresses promised. Although she'd been distracted by his kiss and the path of his hands, she'd obtained her objective.
Anxious to flee before he discovered the opal missing, she gave him a kiss, and said, "Goodnight, my lord. Until tomorrow then..." And turned left the room.
The opal clutched in her hand, she scurried down the hallway and left the house. Crouching low and staying in the moonlit shadows, she crept toward the gates where she could see Januz's shadowy figure. But as she approached, she caught sight of something laying in the path... A body. She recognized at once Damon's gateman, with her ivory-handled knife in his heart. She'd found her knife missing from the sheath on her leg when she'd changed into the black dress. Now she knew where she'd lost it. In the spot where she lay with Damon, and where Januz had found her. She reached for the knife, but Januz grabbed her arm, dr
agging her to where the horse stood waiting. "Let me go," she cried.
Januz tightened his grip on her arm. "They find gateman with ivory-handled knife in heart... knife belonging to gypsy girl who steal opal. You in big trouble, posh-rat."
Eliza looked toward the dead gateman. Damon would recognize the knife as hers and blame her for the murder of his gateman, as well as for stealing his opal. And she had been betrayed by gypsies who used her to recover their talisman, yet had no intention of allowing her to return to the tribe. "The opal," Januz said. "I take it. Now!"
"No!" Eliza tightened her fist.
Januz grabbed her wrist. Iron-like fingers pried her hand open and he took the opal.
From the direction of the house came excited voices. With no time to recapture the opal or retrieve her ivory-handled knife, Eliza launched herself onto the horse, kicked it in the flanks, and sent the animal racing down the moonlit road…
CHAPTER FOUR
London, England – Two Years Later
Lord William Sheffield offered his hand to the elegantly-clad gentleman in the silk brocade tunic, fitted black breeches, and gold silk turban. “Prince Rao Singh, I presume,” he said, clasping the man’s hand while patting him on the shoulder. “Welcome to London, my friend. You’re looking well. I trust your ocean crossing was uneventful?”
Damon let out a short guffaw. “As uneventful as it could be for a Rajput prince from the Punjab." He stroked his moustache and smoothed his neatly-cropped beard. "It seems the ladies have a fondness for whiskered princes garbed like harem dancers. I look forward to my return voyage when I can be my depraved self again.”
Lord Sheffield smiled in amusement. “The moustache and whiskers do you justice, Damon. They hide your perennial scowl.”
Damon lifted a cynical brow. “The scowl will go, along with the bloody whiskers and the dandified Indian garb, when I clear my name and claim my birthright.”
“And you expect to accomplish that while here in London?” Lord Sheffield asked.
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