by Sahara Kelly
The Gypsy Gentlemen
Book II
Control and Compassion
(The stories of Gyorgy and
Mat and Luk)
Sahara Kelly
Copyright © 2016 Sahara Kelly
Cover Art Copyright © 2016
Sahara Kelly, P and N Graphics, LLC
Author’s Note
This work was previously published as part of “The Gypsy Lovers”, and has been revised and re-edited for this edition. It is the second in a series of three novels, so Sahara recommends reading them in order to fully enjoy the adventures of these amazing men. Book I (Honor and Secrets) is available at Amazon.com and Book III (Endings and Beginnings) concludes the series – also at Amazon.com.
The Hungarian words used in this story are as accurate as I can make them, given the restrictions of a Western keyboard. They passed the careful scrutiny of my husband, who is Hungarian and speaks it fluently. Any errors or misspellings are, therefore, entirely my fault. I would appreciate you not mentioning any you might find, since if I get emails about it, he’ll never let me live it down.
Gyorgy
Chapter One
“Ooh, Georgie. Such a lovely cock you’ve got, love.”
Gyorgy winced. Jenny was certainly enthusiastic, but clearly her hearing wasn’t all it could be. He’d pronounced his name quite clearly, several times, but to no avail. He was “Georgie”.
He really disliked that.
For a second or two he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking, inviting her into the tub.
Then she slithered her breasts and the rest of her around him and without further ado sank down onto his cock.
Aaah. Yes. That’s what he’d been thinking.
Jenny moved and rubbed her ample body against his, squishing herself closer and riding him. Heedless of the sudsy tide swamping the sides of the tub, Gyorgy thrust upwards and accepted the nipple that was flying around his face.
He sucked hard and heard her gasp, enjoying her pleasure with her. He slid his hands behind her and helped her rise and fall on his cock, the water adding to their sensations.
Her breasts were pendulous and full, and her arse overflowed his grasp.
This was just how he liked his bedmates. Buxom, enthusiastic and hot. Jenny fulfilled all three requirements, and within moments she was shuddering around him and screaming out her orgasm.
“Geeeoooorrrggiiieeeeee…”
This time, Gyorgy’s expression was one of pleasure. What the fuck did it matter what she called him? As long as he could empty his balls into a willing woman, had money to burn, and no obligations, his life was good.
Gyorgy spent himself with a sigh of relief, feeling Jenny milk his seed with her body.
Yes, the simple life was good. Very good indeed. Even if he was with a woman who couldn’t manage the correct pronunciation of his name.
*~~*~~*
The small country fair was in full swing by the time Gyorgy wandered into the village square. Tables were groaning under the force of the local produce, pies and other delicacies were disappearing at a rapid rate, and children were running everywhere shrieking with laughter.
Gyorgy spared a moment to just enjoy the sight. Such happiness, such pleasure…no fear or terror lurking just beyond the next hill. He blinked as he realized that it had been a while since he’d actually felt this relaxed.
The time he’d spent in France with his fellows had scarred him. Not physically, like some of the others, but mentally. He’d become used to keeping his sixth sense alert for the presence of danger, to calculating the most effective escape route should one be needed within seconds, and to observe the eyes of everyone around him.
It was all in the eyes, he’d discovered. A slight shift, a dilation of the pupils…there was something in a person’s eyes that would give their thoughts away. To him, at least. It had helped him avoid disaster several times in the past.
But now, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, and the previous evening’s activities with his buxom bedmate, Gyorgy was content.
He was in England, where life was relatively tranquil. Where the people managed to eat and live and love without the horrors of war hanging over their heads. There were troubles, of course, but death and savagery seemed a long way away from this rural tableau.
He was making his leisurely way to London, where he knew he’d find his friends. There was no hurry. As if by mutual consent, they’d split up—each wandering where the wind blew them as they journeyed towards some inner peace. The green and pleasant countryside eased their troubled minds and the occasional nightmares that had accompanied them. Even while enthralling London society with their music, the tension had still possessed them, almost as if by being together they were still functioning as a unit.
Now—alone—it was time to let go.
Gyorgy breathed in the soft air, redolent with the scents of the fair, and turned as a loud cheer bellowed from a crowd at one end of the square. He strolled over, ignoring the sizeable number of female heads that turned and watched as he passed.
An impromptu archery contest had been set up on the village green. Gyorgy’s interest was sparked. Although no marksman with a bow, he had other talents. And a nearby table held a number of interesting looking items.
He stood quietly and watched as a local lad with a sharp eye notched his arrow into his bowstring, took aim, and plugged the bull’s-eye with quite amazing accuracy. Gyorgy joined in the applause with enthusiasm, laughing at the boy’s embarrassment as his mother hugged him with pride.
A couple of older men approached the table and picked up the dueling pistols, which lay ready. With much chaffing and teasing, they challenged each other, loaded the pieces and waited for the targets to be set up. Bets were placed, noisily and often quite rudely, to the amusement of the crowd.
The pistols were old and had clearly seen better days, but Gyorgy was pleased to see that both men were accurate marksmen, taking their time with their aim and enjoying the cries from the ladies as their guns exploded loudly into the sunshine.
Here were two men who probably could provide plenty of meat for the winters ahead. Fuck. He was still having thoughts like that, even surrounded by merrymakers in rural England.
A soft murmur in the crowd caught his sharp ears. Nothing more than the swish of skirts—perhaps a greeting or two—but it was enough.
Senses on alert, Gyorgy turned.
A woman was approaching the crowd, which respectfully gave way before her. She was not tall, but carried herself like a queen, elegantly and proudly, with a slight smile curving her beautiful lips.
Her gown was simple, blue silk possibly, trimmed with a little lace. It wasn’t ostentatious, but she wore it like it was a robe of ermine.
Gyorgy couldn’t see her eyes since they were shaded by the brim of her large straw bonnet. He leaned to a man by his side. “Excuse me, friend. Can you tell me…who is she?”
The man glanced over. “Ah. She’s come then. Didn’t know if she would.”
The man’s words made Gyorgy’s mind veer off into surprising paths. I could make her come. He blinked, astonished at the bolt of lust spreading even now from his crotch through his body.
He hadn’t even gotten a good look at her face.
“That’s the Dowager Duchess.”
“Doesn’t look like any Dowager I’ve ever seen,” said Gyorgy quietly.
“Oh she’s…” The man paused and took a closer look at Gyorgy. Reassured by his gentle smile, he continued. “She’s the widow of the old
Duke. Real old he were when he married her. They say she broke hearts right and left in Lunnon after the old coot kicked the bucket. Had to come down here after some scandal or other. Dunno what. Never did hear much more ‘bout it. They called her the ‘Meddy-something-or-t’other’.”
“Medici?”
“Nah. One of them goddess folks. The one with snaky hair or summat.”
“Medusa?” Gyorgy raised an eyebrow.
“Yep. That’s it. You got it. Smart lad.” The old man grinned and treated Gyorgy to a flash of the one remaining tooth in his gums. “Don’t care what they called her. Down here she’s been right nice to us all, helping them as needs it, quietly going ‘bout her business. We takes folks as we find ‘em round these parts.”
Gyorgy thought about this as the woman moved through the crowd, nodding and exchanging a few words here and there. A tilt of her head brought the sunshine onto her face and Gyorgy’s breath caught in his throat.
This was why they called her “Medusa”.
Limpid blue eyes swept his. Not a lick of any other color marred their depths. The purest blue he could ever remember seeing. Eyes so clear they could have been painted on a china doll. Her pupils were dark, but they only served to heighten the impact of the delicate tint to her irises. Her gaze passed on, veiled once more by her eyelashes and the shadows of her bonnet.
They were completely expressionless.
For once, Gyorgy found himself at a loss. His much-vaunted sixth sense was useless. He couldn’t read this woman. Couldn’t tell from that one glance if she was friend or foe. She could have been either. Or more.
She could have fucked him to the edge of madness or stuck a knife in his throat. He had a feeling her eyes would not have changed whichever course of action she followed.
Gyorgy was intrigued.
“She likes them contests.” The old man nudged Gyorgy with a sharp elbow. “Last year we had a couple of gents fencing with swords. Real good at it they were. She gave a prize to the winner.”
“Really.” He kept his eyes on the Dowager Duchess.
“Yup. An’ the year before that it was wrestling. That was summat to see, lad.” He grinned. “Them lads stripped to their breeches, gruntin’ and sweatin’—seemed to like it a lot, she did.”
“Hmmm.” Gyorgy glanced at the table. “And this year?”
“Dunno yet. Although by the looks of it…”
Both men stared at the long whips coiled neatly and resting alone now on the scarred wood.
A wicked little grin curved Gyorgy’s lips. Perhaps it was time for him to play a game. And perhaps win himself a prize.
*~~*~~*
The object was simple. Strike as close to the target with the end of the whip as possible.
The target, in this case, had been fixed to a bale of hay, at a distance paced out by the knowledgeable and cheered by the onlookers. A brightly colored ribbon now fluttered a little in the summer breeze, and several men were waiting to try their luck.
One was a farmer, two were coachmen, one a local lad who claimed to be able to take a fly off the ear of a pig without a second thought, and at the end of the line—Gyorgy.
The Dowager had taken up a position off to one side, flanked by her servant and maid. She’d refused the offer of a chair with a smile, and simply stood enjoying the day with the rest of the crowd.
But she was definitely not one of the crowd. Not to Gyorgy anyway. He found himself aware of her every move. Without staring at her, he could detect the smallest flutter of her gown or gesture of her hand. As if some small window in his mind had opened and a portion of his brain was leaning out. Watching her.
The contestants slowly dwindled down, doing their best to flick the long leather thong at the ribbon. The farmer came close, but did no better than a puff of hay. One of the coachmen achieved a respectable crack before aiming, to the delight of the crowd, but could come no closer than the first entrant.
The second coachman was more accurate, making the ribbon shake and shudder as he caught one flying tail.
The local lad was also very close, bringing a gasp and a shout of encouragement to the lips of his supporters.
Then it was Gyorgy’s turn.
He picked up the whip and turned it in his hand, feeling for its balance and weight. The braided leather was smooth beneath his fingers and the tail bore marks of years of use. It was a fine whip and would serve his purpose well. Not as well as his own would have done, but no matter.
He smiled as the judge butchered his name. “Mr. Georgie Varguss.” His Vargas ancestors were probably rolling in their graves.
With a slight movement he flicked the whip and tested it, allowing the tip to crack softly. It was a trick he’d perfected as a boy…letting those watching know he was familiar with the instrument, and yet revealing nothing of his skill.
The crowd had fallen quiet, struck perhaps by the tall stranger in their midst, handling the whip so comfortably.
Gyorgy focused on the ribbon, knowing all the while that a pair of blue eyes were now focused on him.
One side of his mouth curved up as he drew his arm back, and with a deft move swept it unerringly towards its target.
The ribbon fluttered free and fell to the ground.
There was dead silence for a second, and then a lusty cheer broke free.
“Did you see that?”
“Gor blimey, the man’s good with that thing…”
“Well, I never…”
The judge slapped Gyorgy on the back with a hand the size of a ham and nearly knocked him over. “Well done, lad, well done.” He turned to the crowd. “We have our winner,” he shouted.
Applause followed his words and Gyorgy was surrounded by smiling faces, complimenting him on his skill.
He demurred. “A simple trick, no more. Your lads were equally skilled.”
“A trick, sir?”
The voice was cool, the tone polite. She stood a short distance away, a little smile playing around her lips. “’T’would seem you excel at such tricks.”
Gyorgy bowed. “Gyorgy Vargas at your service, Ma’am.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. “I would like to see some more of your…tricks.”
I’d love to show you. But you’ll have to strip off that gown.
Hushing his inner thoughts, Gyorgy raised an eyebrow at her. “What would you have me do, Ma’am?”
She allowed her smile to widen. “Perhaps…”
She strolled towards the hay bale under the watchful gaze of the crowd, and pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve. She waved it to one side of her body.
“Perhaps you could hit this, sir?”
The crowd gasped. “Your Grace, you should not…” said one woman.
“Oh, I think Mr. Vargas can accomplish such a simple…trick?”
Gyorgy rose to the challenge. Other parts of Gyorgy threatened to rise as well at the sight of her standing with an arm outstretched and breasts thrusting against the blue silk gown.
He quenched the inner demons and nodded. “Please extend your arm, Ma’am, and remain still.”
Without a second glance, she did as she was bid.
Even the birds held their breath, and not a sound came from the assembled villagers.
Gyorgy sighted on the fluttering cloth and flicked his whip. With a small crack it connected with her handkerchief and tugged it free of her hand. With a touch of showmanship, Gyorgy allowed the thong to circle upwards after his stroke, releasing the lace and dropping it into his outstretched hand.
He caught it, and casually strolled towards her. “Your handkerchief, Ma’am.”
The crowd roared.
For a split second, Gyorgy saw something flicker behind those tranquil blue eyes. And it shot right to his groin.
Then the expression was gone, and the polite smile had taken its place. “My congratulations, sir. You are indeed most skilled.”
And you may think you have ice blood in your veins, but I know better.
&n
bsp; Without thinking, Gyorgy looped the whip and tucked it into his pocket. It was an action so natural to him that it passed unnoticed.
“I am the Dowager Duchess Kirkwood, as you may have been informed. Should you ever be passing, you may be assured of a welcome at my home.” She nodded at a house barely visible over the treetops. “I thank you for an interesting afternoon’s entertainment.”
Within seconds she was gone, surrounded by villagers, children and her servants. Gyorgy was the immediate recipient of a great many compliments, slaps on the back and laughter.
The chaos and confusion separated them, and Gyorgy bit down hard on the urge to go after the Dowager.
There was unfinished business between them. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life.
Chapter Two
The shadows were lengthening as the fair wound to a close, and the country folk began the tedious process of clearing away the remaining mess.
Gyorgy had watched the Duchess throughout the afternoon, but had been unable to get near enough to exchange any conversation with her, and now his teeth were aching with the need to pursue this intriguing woman.
He’d carefully observed her release her servants to enjoy themselves at the fair, he’d seen her retie a bow in a small girl’s hair, and he’d enjoyed a quiet laugh as she’d sampled the local cider and found it a little harsh for her tastes.
It was plain to see that she’d found a home in the hearts of these simple country folk, and Gyorgy wondered yet again what had driven such a beauty away from the gaieties of London and into this rural tranquility. She was a puzzle, a conundrum, and one that was slowly driving him insane.
Gyorgy was suffering from a major case of lust. It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. But something about this smoothly unattainable woman had lodged itself into his balls and was irritating them. Of course he wanted her. He wouldn’t be any kind of a man at all if he didn’t.
