But Marc had made no mention of a knife wound. Or the thin line of silver at the base of Stephano’s throat where someone had cut him. Tracing back over his torso, she found a map of his past, the injuries smaller and not so fresh, the scars fading except for the burn on his hip. Pain, struggle and the anger of others were left recorded on his flesh.
From his treatment of her, she could guess how he might have earned the punishments written here. She knew the lengths he might go to achieve his ends. But when would it be enough?
The hours passed and she continued her work, changing his bedding, forcing water between his lips when he would allow it and dozing in a chair beside the bed when he was quiet. When the fever finally broke and he stilled at last, she was nearly as exhausted as he.
She could see that there was space enough for two on the bed, and the floor where he had slept was hard and uninviting. And while she knew it was terribly wrong of her to entertain the thoughts she was having, she was very tired and he was too far gone to know the difference. It would be innocent enough to lie beside him, she was sure.
And yet, it was not innocent at all. For she had never in her life done such a thing for anyone else she had nursed. But it seemed to help him to have her close. When she climbed into bed behind him, he leaned back against her as a remedy to the chill night air. It felt good to touch him and to lie beside him, feeling warm and protected. Without thinking, she laid her cheek against his back, trailing her fingers over the muscles of his arms, and tangling her legs with his.
It felt strange, and good in a way that was beyond comfort. There was an answering heat building low inside her. Was it the excessive warmth of his body that made her too hot to lie still, or was it something more? She could not seem to get comfortable, and her dress seemed to bind her like the ropes he had used when he’d brought her to the camp.
At last, she sat up and drew the gown over her head, casting it aside and lying down again in nothing but her chemise. He moved slightly, adjusting his body to hers, and his skin rubbing against her nipples through the cloth was a delicious thing. She wanted more of it, and moved against him to recreate the sensation, knowing that it was in credibly wrong of her, and in credibly foolish.
It was one thing to wish to remain unmarried, and quite another to be trapped as a spinster be cause one was a pariah. Poor Honoria had been forced into seclusion for sins much smaller than the ones she was committing right now. She was not sure exactly what had happened, for as usual, the family had kept the full truth from her as a protection. But she seriously doubted it was anything so scandalous as lying down with a man.
She suspected that even the Gypsies would be shocked at the fancies that crowded her mind, lying beside Stephano. As might he. In his own way, he had been a gentleman through out this interlude. And he didn’t seem to want her in the way she was growing to want him.
But tonight, she did not wish to think of that. Now that the fever had broken, she wished he would awaken and respond in exactly the way she had feared from the first, punishing her for her audacity with rough kisses, touching her body as though he possessed it, and then claiming her so thoroughly that she could never leave him. By day, she could live in the Gypsy camp, sitting by the fire side with the other women. And by night, she would nestle with her lover in the soft bed of his vardo.
It sounded very romantic and adventurous. And no doubt, it was nothing like that at all. There would be hardship and pain. He would uproot her at the slightest provocation, traipsing homeless around the country or the world.
And she would not be bored. While living in a Gypsy wagon might cause her to greet each new day with trepidation, it might be better than her current state. For before he had taken her, she had risen each morning with growing dread, convinced that today and tomorrow would be identical to yesterday and the day before that.
A brief acquaintance with the man lying beside her was no reason to think that a lifetime with him would be something worth seeking. Nor did she have any indication that he wished her company. But in truth, whatever man she married was un likely to know her better than this one. Although Stephano claimed to dislike the colour of her eyes, at least she was sure that he had noticed it. And when he kissed her… She smiled. If he did not like the way they kissed, then she would be pleased to learn another way, if he wished to be her teacher. But she could not imagine anything better.
The Gypsy rolled suddenly, turning to face her without waking. In his dreams, it did not seem to surprise him that there was a woman in his bed. He gave a contented sigh, and muttered something in Romany, burying his face against her neck. Then he threw an arm over her, dragging it down her back until he could cup her bottom with his hand, digging his fingers into the flesh and massaging it as though he were palming her breast. He pulled her tight against him, as if to facilitate their joining, and she felt the heaviness of his body stirring between her legs. And then, without re leasing her, he settled back into sleep.
She should be shocked by his be ha vi our, but in stead, she felt only envy. Whomever he thought he was holding, his affection for her was as natural to him as breathing. So she wrapped her arms around him, pressed close against him, and pre tended, for tonight at least, that it was of her that he dreamed.
Chapter Ten
Stephano awoke with a start. He had not meant to doze at all. But he could tell by the light coming through the windows in the vardo that much time had passed. Shadows were growing, and he could see Verity moving around in the dim light of the cabin.
‘How long?’ His voice scratched, and he cleared his throat.
She turned to him, as though surprised. ‘How long did you sleep? About a day and a half. You were very ill.’
He wanted to argue that it had been moments. But there was a fresh bandage upon his wound and a clean basin of water on a chair beside his bed. Leaves floated in it, and there was a white cloth resting on the side. Vague memories surfaced of small white hands holding the cloth to his temples, squeezing drips of water between his parched lips, and bathing him as though he was the infant she had accused him of being. His body felt suspiciously cool and clean, and the faint scent of herbs clung to his skin.
‘You had a fever. But it has passed.’
He grew conscious of his nakedness beneath the blanket, and glanced at the knife resting on the table on the other side of the room. She had stayed with him, when it would have been a perfect opportunity to run. ‘You should have left me when I was weak. No one would have stopped you. And yet, you did not.’
She turned her head and reached to straighten the cloth beside the basin, as though she wished to look anywhere but at him. ‘You were trying to release me when you fell ill.’
‘And you did not act on it?’ He wished she would look at him. For if she did, he was sure he could read the truth in the depths of those fascinating eyes.
‘I thought, if you had not already let me go, then perhaps there was still some hope that our families might reconcile peacefully. You are not foolish, nor is my father. He will not speak until he has me back. And if you had been fully satisfied with the results of your trip to London, I would have been gone already. If I am still here, then there is time.’
She raised her face to look at him, and in that moment, he knew he had lost his heart to her. She looked sad and yet hopeful, and totally trusting that he would do the right thing by her, if only she asked. How could he deny her? He was weak from the fever, but the ache in his hand had been reduced to the itching and prick ling of a healing scratch. And his head was clearer than it had been for years.
So he propped himself up on his elbows and looked into her hazel eyes for what he feared would be the last time. And he said, ‘I relinquish all claim against your family. If your father took a life, then you have given one back to me. If my mother is not satisfied with this, then she must come back from where ever she has gone and take her own vengeance. For I cannot.’ He slumped back, wondering what the consequences of that speech would be f
or him. He doubted that the curse would release him as easily as he had released the girl. But it would be better if she were safely home when fate caught up to him.
‘You will let me go? And my family?’ There was such a look of blessed relief upon her face that he knew he had done the right thing.
He nodded. Even if it was brief, he could savour the memory of this moment, sure that he had been honourable. Her happiness would be enough re ward. ‘Send for Val. I will instruct him to drive you back. And you must take Magda or one of the other women as chaperone.’
And then, she seemed to hesitate. ‘I would ask one more favour, if I could.’
‘Anything.’ And it was true. For he owed her his life.
‘I would like you to take me yourself. And for my family to hear the words from your lips, that this is over. But you are not yet well. In a day. Maybe two. We can return to them then. Would you do that for me?’
It seemed his reprieve would be as brief as he expected. He would take her back to London, and her brothers would shoot him, as they almost had in his own home. And that would be the end of it. He laughed.
Her face fell.
And so he said, ‘Of course. If you wish, I shall keep you prisoner for another day. But it would be much more sensible of you to demand that I stop ma lingering and harness a horse.’ He made to get out of bed and away from her, trying to resist the desire to prolong his illness for a few more days of her company.
She placed her hand against his chest again, to restrain him. ‘Do not argue with me, Stephano Beshaley. I will not have you undoing two days of my hard work in nursing you. You will remain in this bed until I say otherwise. For now, I will get your supper and check your wound again. Then, if you are feeling well enough, you may get up. But rushing when you are still weak will undo the progress I have made.’
‘I am not weak.’ He glared at her, willing her to believe. Although in truth, he felt as weak as a kit ten.
‘Of course not,’ she lied back to him, with a little smile that said she had no fear at all of his dark looks. ‘Now, stay in bed while I get your supper.’
She left him alone in the vardo, and he settled back into the pillows she had arranged for him, feeling for a moment like the luckiest man in the world. His woman was tending to him, bringing him food and fussing over him because of a little cut that would never have affected him so, had things been different between them.
It did not matter that she did not know she was his. For a day, maybe two, he would pretend that there was more between them. It would hurt no one, if he allowed himself a little pleasure before giving himself over to his enemies.
Verity returned shortly with a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread. She sat down on the edge of the bed and held it out to him, offering the fork.
He took the bowl in his left hand, and the fork in his right, then embarrassed himself by dropping it back into the bowl. He was weaker than he cared to admit. His fingers were stiff and could not grasp.
‘Let me help you.’ She took the bowl from him, and forked up a chunk of meat, offering it to him, as though she were feeding a child.
He took it, and ate. She was right. He needed to restore himself before they travelled. The food was good, and he was very hungry. If he had been able to feed himself, he’d have wolfed the meal. But instead, her ministering forced him to take nourishment slowly, and gave him the opportunity to enjoy the nearness of her as he ate. He leaned back into the pillows again, forcing her to scoot up the bed after him and to lean over him. It provided a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts as the neckline of her gown gaped in front of him. She fed him another bite, her hip brushing against his as she brought the next forkful to his mouth.
He smiled as he took the food from her, chewed and swallowed, then looked back at her and slowly licked his lips.
His response had been innocent enough, but he could see the way it affected her. Her eyes went dark as he looked into them, the pupils growing until the irises turned golden brown. Her skin flushed as though the fever from his infected hand had been contagious and she swayed closer to him as she dipped the fork to the bowl again and brought up another mouthful of food.
He reached out to steady her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to bring the fork back to his mouth, enveloping the tines with his lips and drawing the meat off slowly, closing his eyes as he chewed and swallowed. He rubbed his thumb gently against the pulse point on her wrist, feeling the faint beat under the silk-smooth skin.
And then he guided her hand to her side, his meal for got ten. He stroked slowly up the outside of her arm to her shoulder, cupping his hand to the back of her neck and bringing her face to his.
He kept the kiss soft. After how he had behaved the last time he kissed her, he would not continue if she rejected him. But the way she had watched his mouth as he ate, he did not think she would mind. He teased with the tip of his tongue, and she opened for him. And this time, she kissed him back. Was the fever re turning, he wondered? For the heat in him was building with each tentative stroke of her tongue into his mouth. And then, she pulled herself on top of his body, to be closer to him.
She knew. God’s mercy, she felt what he felt. He did not have to hold her, to keep her near. She was free to leave, if she wished. She had stayed not just to nurse him or to secure the safety of her family. She had stayed because she wanted to be with him. She had stayed so that they might do this.
He let his arm slip to her waist to hold her against himself. His mouth created a gentle rhythm on hers, and as the sheet slipped low on his upper body, she laid her palms flat against his chest and pushed it further down so she could touch his bare skin as she must have when she’d washed him. But he was better now. He felt cool and dry, free of the fever that had plagued him. And he was awake to enjoy it. She seemed to feel no guilt or fear in tracing his nipples, letting her fingers sink into the muscles, massaging. He was over whelmed with the sense that she knew him and wanted him, body and soul.
It was as if he had woken in a different world. This was a paradise, with a ministering angel who aroused him and welcomed his response. His hand slipped lower down her back, kneading the round ness of her hips, letting her feel how hard she made him, and waiting for any sign of fear from her. But there was none, for she let out a gratifying moan of longing at the contact.
He made no effort to hurry the kiss, brushing his fingers against her covered breasts until he could feel the nipples peaking beneath the fabric. She writhed under his hands and her hips gave an answering roll against his, as though she wished to excite him further. She gave a little gasp as she realized the pleasure that movement brought her. His body ached with anticipation as she began a tentative rocking against him, letting the desire grow between them. It would be like the last kiss they had shared. But better. For if he had released her from the curse, there was no reason to stop. Soon, when he was sure that she would not refuse, he would lift her skirts and push the sheet away. She would spread her legs to straddle him. And then… He squeezed her breast and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, as he would thrust into her body.
The sudden realization of what she was doing hit her like a hammer. She went rigid against him, turned her head from his kiss and scram bled off of him, and away from the bed. She backed towards the door of the vardo, her hand to her mouth as though she did not know whether to cry for help or kiss him again.
And for a split second, he felt a disappointment so acute that he feared it must show on his face. Without thinking, he had raised a hand, to reassure her and coax her back to bed. Better to let her think that he was a wicked Rom who would feign weakness to seduce her, than to look like the love sick fool he was. He smoothed the movement of his arm, folding it behind his head as a cushion from the wall. He changed his expression to cynical self-satisfaction, laughed and blew her a kiss.
With a look of utter disgust, she turned and hurried from the vardo.
Stephano closed his eyes so he would not have to watch
her run from him, and listened to the sound of the slamming door. The crack was loud in his brain, and the pain in his skull came flooding back, as though the sound was the breaking of a dam.
He winced. If he was lucky, her brothers would take him the minute they were parted, and make a quick end to him. Even if they did not do the deed, he would not live long without her.
As she’d stretched out on top of him, it had be come obvious that there was a much better way for two lives to become one than a benighted quest for vengeance.
Loving her healed his head, just as her nursing had healed his hand. It did not matter if her father was guilty or not. His search was over. Verity Carlow was the only truth he would ever need.
And then she had realized what was happening, and had run from him. What else could he do but laugh? For to do else would show her how deeply she had hurt him, and how easily she could control him.
Chapter Eleven
What had she done?
Verity patted at her dress and straightened her head scarf as though she was afraid that the bed play must be clear to all around her. But if there was any shaming evidence of what had happened, no-one commented on it as she went to the edge of camp and stepped out into the soothing green ness of the trees. She leaned against a beech, letting her skin cool and her pulse slow. It had been good. Wrong, of course. But very good. She could still feel it between her legs, a low trembling, a flame ready to re-ignite at the slightest touch of hand or body.
It was what she thought she had wanted. But with satisfaction scant moments away, she had grown frightened. Before he’d gone to London, he had claimed not to want her body. Had so much changed in just a few days? Or was he willing to use any girl who was foolish enough to crawl into his bed and offer herself? If the last rejection had hurt, it would be a hundred times worse if he took her maidenhead for sport, and then laughed and turned her out.
Taken by the Wicked Rake Page 12
