by Anne Gracie
Luke waited. Rustling sounds and murmurs came from the curtained cubicle.
“Now how do I look?” Isabella pulled back the curtain.
Luke stared. And swallowed. Instead of a loose neckline that hinted at gently shadowed curves beneath, two silky puffs of breast rose impudently above the neckline. A dress that was perfectly acceptable before now looked… mouthwatering.
His mouth was hanging open, he realized suddenly. He shut it with a snap that jarred his teeth.
“Well?” Isabella gave him a speculative look.
He ran his tongue over parched lips. “You don’t need it,” he told her. “It looks… ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” Her eyes narrowed to two gold slits. She glanced down at her neckline then let her gaze drift slowly over him, from head to toe, lingering at his groin for what felt like minutes. Luke felt her gaze like a slow, hot caress. He felt his body stir.
He raised one brow. “Playing with fire, wife?”
She met his gaze, blushed, tossed her head, and whisked herself back behind the curtain. “I’ll take two,” she said. “My husband will pay.”
Luke smiled to himself. He was not the only aroused person here, but he was the only one who recognized it. You are welcome to try, indeed. Come the night, she would discover the consequences of her reckless invitation.
Luke had never yet lost a challenge.
The stall keeper emerged from the cubicle with a knowing smile and, while Luke was waiting for Isabella to emerge, showed him another dress, the same size and style but in a patterned fabric in blue, white, and café au lait. “This would suit the señora perfectly,” she told him.
“Wrap it up as well.”
They wandered on through the market, investigating every stall thoroughly. They bought small custard-filled pastries made by nuns. They bought cinnamon-candied nuts, dried apricots, and fresh dates. Isabella found some scented soap that she said didn’t smell anything like the convent soap, and Luke bought her a pair of cat’s-eye earrings that exactly matched her eyes.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said as she happily inserted the earrings. “But it won’t work.”
“What am I doing?” He untangled a tendril of hair from one earring.
“Hah! So innocent. You think to seduce me with gifts.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need gifts to seduce you.”
She gave him a speculative look, laced with challenge. “What will you use, then?”
He gave her a slow smile. “Me.”
His utter confidence secretly thrilled Bella, even as she tried to toughen herself against it. However many dark, smoky looks he gave her, whatever words he used to try to entice her, she would not couple with him. Not tonight.
She needed more time. Time to prepare herself, arm herself, before she lay in his embrace again. Last night he’d hurt her, badly.
Not her body. She didn’t care about that small, transient hurt. All girls, all women experienced that when they first lay with a man. It was a rite of passage. If anything she was glad of it, glad to have gone to her marriage bed a virgin after all.
And the first part… the kissing, the touching…
In all her girlish imaginings, she’d never even dreamed anything so sweet. And yet so affecting.
Her insides quivered, just thinking about it. His hunger for her. His tender urgency, his slow, careful… worship. With my body I thee worship. It unraveled her, dissolved every doubt, revived every dream she’d ever had of this man, this marriage. She was filled… exalted… flooded with love.
And then…
She felt small and sick and cold, remembering.
His words, his response had cut so deep. The anger in him when he realized she’d been a virgin, the bitter realization he’d been trapped into an unwanted marriage. Deceived.
He’d managed to swallow the most hurtful words, but sensitized to him as she was, she’d felt his rage. It radiated off him, as tangible as heat, as scathing as ice.
She’d opened herself up to him, heart, body, and soul, and then, when she was at her most exposed and vulnerable—
“Would you like a cake?” Luke asked, pointing to a cake seller passing with a tray of wares.
Bella shook her head. “No, thank you.” They continued on through the market.
No sign of that rage now. He’d harnessed it, buried it, hidden it behind a layer of gentlemanly politeness. Putting the best face on it. Even his vow to seduce her was a way of making up for the previous night. Kind and thoughtful, despite everything—and that threatened to unravel her, too.
She should be grateful for it. She was. It was just…
Bella Ripton, building castles in the air again. And if he happened to knock this one down—which of course he would—fool that she was, she would probably start building another.
But it was time to grow up, time to stop dreaming impossible dreams.
A crate of puppies caught her eye. Three soft, caramel fluffy ones and a small brindle mutt with a squashed-in face, lopsided ears, and a patch over one eye. “Hello, little pirate,” she said and bent to pat him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Luke told her. “You can’t take a puppy to England with you. Besides it’s an ugly little mutt.”
“I know, but so sweet-natured.” The puppy blissfully wiggled his soft little body, wagging his tail and licking her fingers with frantic excitement. So loving; so eager to be loved. She gave him one last pat. “Good luck, little fellow. I hope you find someone to love you.” They moved on through the market.
Most marriages had nothing to do with love. They were practical arrangements, alliances of family, a consolidation of wealth. And for children.
Bella needed to do what her husband had done; accept an unsatisfactory situation and make the best of it. And she would. She had every intention of making this a good marriage, to make him—and herself—happy.
She stepped back to let a couple with three children pass, two little girls and a boy. The children were dressed in their Sunday best, their hair newly washed and shining. The father carried the littlest girl on his shoulders, not seeming to mind the small fists clenched in his thinning hair.
Yes, she would build a family with Luke Ripton, and they would be happy, like that family, and would love their children. And that would be enough. She would make it be enough.
But first she needed to find a way to go on, to give herself to him night after night, and somehow protect her reckless, tender heart from the knowledge of his indifference. She’d be a fool to keep opening herself to that kind of hurt, and there was no denying the man had the power to hurt her.
It wasn’t Luke’s fault, she acknowledged. He’d never pretended to love her, never suggested there was even a possibility. It was all her own doing. Spinning dreams out of straw.
She bent to look at a crate of chickens, brown and glossy, clucking vigorously.
She’d read too much significance into him coming after her, worrying about her safety. Imagining he cared. It was obedience he cared about. He’d been an officer. A wife could not be allowed to disobey.
And that lesson in front of the looking glass… For the first time in her life she felt special, feminine, almost pretty. She’d misread that, too. It was obedience again. She was not to wear breeches.
And the lovemaking… The man kissed like a dream… made her feel things she never imagined were possible. But it was just something she had to get used to. She had to learn to give herself without craving more, to enjoy what was offered—his body, not his heart. And not feel shattered and empty afterward.
She could do it, she was sure. It was simply a matter of becoming accustomed to him, to his shaved-to-the-bone good looks, to that slow, glinting smile that caused her heart to flutter. Every single time.
“Watch out,” he murmured in her ear and held her back as a donkey piled high with rolled-up carpets was led through the crowd.
She would get used to the dark rumble of his deep voice,
she told herself. Eventually it would not send a warm, delicious shiver through to her bones. And his protectiveness was his husbandly duty. Just because it made her feel warm and safe and… cherished didn’t mean he loved her. It was the novelty of it, that was all, she told herself firmly.
She watched him cleave a path through the crowd, tall, unconsciously arrogant, oblivious of all the looks and sighs he was getting from the women and girls he passed. Bella was far from unaware. It would be her lot in life, to watch other women desiring her husband. And he wasn’t even trying.
He even fascinated the little ones. In front of them a woman carried a tiny girl with dark curls and huge brown eyes. The child watched Luke solemnly over her mother’s shoulder. Bella glanced at him to see if he’d noticed.
His expression was as stern and graven-angel as ever, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t noticed the child, but then she saw one dark blue eye drop in a slow, deliberate wink. The little girl stared. And then tried to wink back. She blinked both eyes. Luke winked the other eye. The little girl’s face screwed up as she tried to copy him. She squeezed both eyes shut then pushed one eye open with her fingers.
Luke chuckled. The little girl kicked off her shoe, and before Bella could move, Luke picked it up and fitted it matter-of-factly on the child’s foot. Her mother thanked him effusively, as charmed by him as her daughter was.
Bella watched, her heart awash with love. That was the trouble. There was no resisting the man.
A fist closed around her heart. How could she bear it, loving him so much and receiving only kindness in return?
Just like Mama, only Papa hadn’t even been kind.
“Just what I was hoping for.” Luke’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He steered her to where a pile of cloaks lay draped over a trestle table. He lifted one up. Made from warm merino wool and dyed a bright scarlet, it was lined for extra warmth and had a hood edged with soft black fur. Bella let the silky fur trail through her fingers.
“Mink,” the stall keeper told her.
“Rabbit,” Luke and Bella said in unison. They exchanged looks and laughed.
“Try it on,” Luke told her and draped the cloak around her.
It was soft and warm and buttoned down the front to hang in elegant folds around her ankles. He stepped back and inspected it, then adjusted the hood. His fingers brushed cool against her skin. Warmth pooled in her stomach.
Luke gave a brisk nod and, without waiting for her response, began to bargain with the stall keeper.
The chill of the evening was whispering down from the mountains, so Bella kept the cloak on. She loved it, loved all the gifts she’d received. Loved the man who’d given them.
I don’t need gifts to seduce you. He was right.
She enjoyed the shopping so much, but no amount of gifts could endanger her heart. It was the man himself.
But the happiness bubbling up inside her was a warning, and when he turned and gave her a slanting white grin, her heart gave such a leap, it hardened her resolve.
She would not make love with him. Not tonight. Not until her feelings were more under control. Or until they reached England.
Night fell, and while some parts of the market closed, others opened. Lanterns and burning brands spilled pools of golden light across the cobblestones, turning the market square into a place of warmth and shadows. The smell of cooking spiced the chill night air.
Luke and Bella ate smoky grilled chicken from one of the stalls, almost burning their fingers on the crispy-skinned, tender pieces. They nibbled on salty roasted nuts and sweet pastries and drank dark and mellow wine from grapes grown in the valleys below.
A fight broke out near a tavern. The burning brands were fading. One by one they started to smoke. Bella struggled to hide her yawns.
“I think that’s our signal to retire,” Luke murmured in her ear.
Bella nodded. She was very tired. She’d been spinning the evening out as long as she could, delaying the moment when she’d face him across the bed and tell him no. And then try to resist him.
They left the market area and strolled down quiet, dark streets. Passing a shadowy alley, Bella heard the sound of music and the rapid staccato steps of boot heels. At the end of the alley, light flickered, beckoning.
“Someone’s dancing. Let’s see,” she said and tugged Luke toward the music.
“You’re just putting off the inevitable.” His voice was dark, smoky chocolate. It lapped enticingly at the barrier of her willpower. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Isabella.”
He had no idea. “I want to see this,” she said, stubbornly.
He gave a lazy shrug and allowed her to lead him down the alley, the tiger indulging the tethered goat.
In a derelict courtyard a ragged band of gypsies was gathered around a fire. The light of the leaping flames caught in the bright, tawdry finery of the gypsies. Silence fell. One or two gypsies glanced their way, but nobody moved.
“It’s finished—” Luke began. At the same instant, a guitar sobbed a single, imperative chord, and the silence took on a new quality. A woman began to sing, a throaty, mournful song in a language Bella did not know. She sang alone, unaccompanied but for the occasional guitar notes, lifting her blind, impassioned face to the night sky, singing of love and of pain and of death.
The hairs stood up at the back of Bella’s neck as she listened. She might not know the words, but she could feel the emotion. The woman’s voice throbbed as it rose and fell in a wailing, hypnotic rhythm, pouring out her tale of passion and betrayal.
She finished on a long, sobbing note that scraped across Bella’s nerves, it was so full of raw pain.
And then there was silence. The firelight danced with shadows. The cold air pressed around her. She could feel Luke standing at her back, a solid masculine warmth down the length of her body.
For a long time nobody seemed to move. Then a single loud clap sounded. Then another. One pair of hands. One man. A slow, emphatic clap! Clap! Clap!
Bella was about to join in the applause when Luke’s hands came over hers. “Wait,” he murmured. He drew her back against him.
The guitar strummed a chord. Clap! Clap!
The man who was clapping stalked slowly, dramatically, into the pool of firelight. His hair was long, untamed, and streaked with silver. It rippled down his back like a lion’s mane. Clap! Clap! His clothing was ragged, but he bore himself as proudly as a king. Clap! Clap!
The music started. The man flung his arms up in an imperious gesture—clap! clap!—stamping his heels slowly in a tense, deliberate rhythm. A hypnotic beat. Bella found herself breathing in time.
He danced for himself alone, this man, tossing his head, his lean body arched like a drawn bow, tense, graceful, and controlled. His boot heels drummed a primeval rhythm. Explosive. Intensely masculine. It caught the beat of Bella’s heart.
The music grew faster and faster. The dancer turned and twirled, like the sparks from the fire whirling in a spiral toward the darkness, building to a crescendo. He arched, his face raised to the sky, his arms braced, erect. His mane of silvered hair rippled down his back as his heels thundered, his hard, powerful thighs pounding like a machine. Bella’s blood pounded, too.
Then a gypsy woman stepped into the pool of light. Dressed in a low-cut red dress, a black bodice tightly laced over it to frame generous breasts, she wore a fringed black embroidered shawl tied tightly around her hips.
She raised her arms high above her head and stamped her feet, twice. Imperiously.
The male dancer flung back his head and stared at her down his long, proud nose.
The woman lifted her skirt coquettishly, rapped a provocative tattoo with her heels, and flung the male dancer a look of pure defiance. Then she, too, started to dance.
The man gave her a long, brooding look, then stalked around her as she continued to dance. His heels stamped out an implacable rhythm. Dominant. Possessive. I am your master.
She sent him provocative looks over he
r shoulder but continued her defiance. Suddenly he snaked out an arrogant arm and seized her, jerking her against his chest. For an instant, she gazed up at him from under her lashes, then she flung his arm off and twirled away, her heels tapping out a counterpoint to his. He followed, surrounding her.
Bella watched breathlessly.
He seized the woman around the waist and pulled her hard against him. She arched gracefully backward, her head almost touching the ground, her fingers trailing the cobblestones. The guitar moaned and throbbed.
The woman pouted at the man, silently daring him to do more. He bent and brought his lips to her throat, but she wrenched herself out of his grip in a swirl of skirts. But she did not run away, Bella saw. She danced around him, proudly, teasingly, daring him to take her if he could. She was willing to be conquered. But she wouldn’t come easily.
He watched, brooding, following her every movement, his heels drumming in an almost unbearable intensity. How could anyone resist him?
In a sudden movement he seized her again and hurled her to the ground. Bella gasped, but he had the girl safe in his grip. It was a lesson.
The gypsy girl lay sprawled in a pool of light, sultry eyed and proud, but she was his; anyone could see it. Slowly, sensuously, in utter masculine command, he drew her up his body, showing her who was master, promising her ecstasy. She rose as sinuous as a snake, twining around him, possessive, proud. Claimed, but not conquered.
The guitar strummed a long vibrating chord, and it was over. The dancers stood like statues, sweat pouring off them despite the chill of the night. The crowd began to applaud. But it wasn’t over, Bella saw. The two dancers stood motionless, their gazes locked, chests heaving. Then the man threw the woman over his shoulder and they disappeared into the night.
Someone else started singing. Bella barely noticed; she was still entranced by what she had seen. She’d heard about these gypsy dances, but she’d never seen one, never seen anything like it. She felt hot, breathless, liquid, and hollow inside.
