by Brenda Joyce
Cold gray eyes met hers and her breath caught. He was so beautiful. His piercing eyes were impossibly long lashed, and set over strikingly high, exotic cheekbones. His nose was straight, his jaw hard and strong. She had never seen such masculine perfection in her entire life.
Her father stepped forward. “I am Cliff de Warenne. Who is vaida here?”
There was a moment of silence, filled with hostility and tension. It gave her the opportunity to really look at the Gypsy chief. Of course he wasn’t English. He was too dark, too immodestly dressed and his hair was far too long, brushing his shoulders. Tendrils were caught inside his open collar, as if sticking to his wet skin.
She flushed but couldn’t stop staring. Her gaze drifted to a full but tense mouth. She glimpsed a gold cross he wore, against the dark, bronzed skin of his chest. Her color increased just as her heart sped more fully. She knew she should look away, but she simply couldn’t manage to do so. In the fine silk shirt, she could even see his chest rising and falling, slow and rhythmic. Her glance went lower. The doeskin breeches clung to his thick, muscular thighs and narrow hips, delineating far too much male anatomy.
She felt his eyes on her; she looked up and met his gaze a second time.
Ariella flamed. Knowing she had been caught, she looked quickly away. What was wrong with her?
“I am Emilian. You will speak to me,” he said, a slight accent hanging on his every word.
“I see you are already making camp. You are on my land,” Cliff said, his tone hard.
Ariella looked up, but the gray-eyed Gypsy was intent on her father now. She didn’t know why she was so flustered. She had never been as aware of anyone. Maybe it was because he was an enigma. He was dressed like an Englishman might in his boudoir—but he was not in the privacy of his home. His English seemed flawless, but he spoke the Gypsy tongue.
Emilian smiled unpleasantly. “Long ago,” he said softly, “God gave the Rom the right to wander freely and to sleep where they wish.”
Ariella flinched. She knew a gauntlet when it was thrown, and she also knew that while her father wished to discuss the situation, he had a dangerous side. There was a hint of ruthless savagery in Emilian’s cold gray eyes.
Cliff’s smile was equally unpleasant. “I am sure you think so. But recently, the government of England passed laws limiting the places vagabonds and Gypsies can stay.”
Emilian’s gray eyes flickered. “Ah, yes, the laws of your people—the laws that allow a man to hang simply because he travels in a wagon.”
“This is the nineteenth century. We do not hang travelers.”
A cold smile began. “But to be a Gypsy is to be a felon, and for such an unlawful life, the punishment is death. Those are your laws.”
“I doubt you understand the law correctly. We do not hang men because they are Gypsies. None of that changes the fact that you are on my private land.”
Emilian said softly, “Do not patronize me, de Warenne. I know the law. As for this camp, there are women and children here who are too tired to go on tonight. I am afraid we will stay.”
Ariella tensed. Why did their leader have to be so belligerent? She knew her father had not intended to send them away, not that night. But she now saw Cliff’s eyes flicker with real annoyance, and she sensed an impending battle.
“I did not ask you to leave,” Cliff said flatly. “But you must give me your word that there will be no mischief tonight.”
The gray-eyed Gypsy stared. “We will try not to steal the lady’s necklace while she sleeps,” he said scornfully.
Her father tensed, his blue eyes flaring with anger. “The lady is my daughter, vaida, and you will refer to her with respect or not at all.”
Ariella quickly stepped forward, uncertain if the men might not come to blows. The air was drenched with their male fury. She smiled at the Gypsy leader; his gaze narrowed. “We are more than pleased to accommodate you, sir, for the night. There is plenty of room to spare, as you can see. My father is only concerned because the townspeople are in a tizzy. That, of course, is due to their ignorance.” She spoke in a rush and was terribly aware of her nervousness.
He stared at her. Her smile wavered and vanished.
Cliff flushed. “Ariella, go back to the house.”
She started. Her father hadn’t ordered her about in years. How had a simple reconnaissance mission turn into such hostility? She stepped closer to Cliff and lowered her voice. “You will let the Gypsies stay the night, won’t you?” It had become terribly important to her. “I am sure their leader doesn’t mean to be so abrasive. Father, you know that their ways are different from ours. He probably doesn’t realize how impolitic he is being. Please give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Cliff’s expression eased ever so slightly. “You are too kind for your own good. You may be assured he intends to be rude. But I will give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Relieved, she glanced at the Gypsy, about to smile at him, but his expression was so intense and so speculative that her intention vanished. It made him seem savage and even predatory—as if he was thinking about her in very inappropriate ways. Ariella swallowed. It was impossible to look away.
“We are Rom,” Emilian said to her and her alone. “And I do not need you defending me and mine.”
He had overheard her. In that moment, she forgot that her father stood beside her and that four Gypsies crowded behind Emilian. Suddenly it was as if they were alone. She became acutely aware of his pull, as if a charge of some kind sizzled and throbbed between them. Her heart beat thickly and swiftly, almost hurtfully, in her chest; she thought she heard his heavy, thudding heartbeat, as well, although they stood at least three yards apart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “Yes, you are Romany, I know that.”
His lashes lowered slowly. She was certain he looked at her still, but it was almost impossible to tell. A frisson went through her, giving her the oddest feeling in her stomach. Her body ached with a new, terrible tension.
Cliff stepped forward. “Go back to the house, Ariella.” He was sharp.
He was angry, and she knew it was because the Gypsy had looked at her so boldly. She said, “Why don’t we both go back? It is late, and Amanda is delaying supper for us,” she tried.
Cliff stared coldly at the Gypsy, ignoring her. “I have been kind enough to allow you a night’s respite here. You may keep your eyes where they belong—on your own women.”
The Gypsy shrugged. “Yes, you are so very kind,” he mocked. “Do not expect gratitude from me.”
Why did he have to seek a battle? Did he have to be so hostile?
“I expect you to be gone in the morning,” Cliff said, his face set. “Let’s go.”
She didn’t want to leave, but there was no reason to stay. As Cliff turned away, she looked back helplessly. He stared at her, his silver gaze smoldering. No man had ever looked at her in such a way before. A terrible awareness of what it meant began.
That man was different. She wanted to pull free of her father and go back to him.
He almost smiled, as if he knew the effect he had on her.
Her father pulled on her arm and she turned to keep up with Cliff. As she did, a woman cried out loudly in pain.
Ariella turned back, alarmed. Their gazes locked again. She whispered, “What is that? Is someone hurt?”
He grasped her arm and murmured, “She does not need you, gadji.”
Ariella forgot to breathe. His hand was large, strong and burning hot. His breath feathered her cheek, and his knee bumped her thigh. Then he released her.
It had happened so quickly that Ariella was stunned. Emilian said harshly, “We take care of our own.” He looked at Cliff, his face hard and set. “Take your princess daughter away. Tell her we do not like gadjos. We will leave in the morning.”
Ariella trembled. “I can send for a doctor,” she tried, but her father cut her off.
“My daughter is just that to you, Rom—a princess. Never lay a hand on her
again,” Cliff exploded.
“Father, stop!” Ariella cried, shaken and breathless, still feeling the Rom’s touch. “He didn’t want me intruding—that is all! The mistake was mine.”
But Cliff ignored her, too upset to hear. “Make sure nothing and no one vanishes in the middle of the night. If one horse is stolen, one cow or a single sheep, I am holding you responsible, vaida.”
Emilian smiled tightly and did not speak.
Ariella could not believe her father would make such a threat. As she stumbled to keep up with Cliff, she looked back.
As still as a statue, the vaida was staring after her. Even from the distance separating them, she felt so much strength and disdain—and an intention she did not understand. He swept her a bow, as elegant as any courtier’s, but his eyes were blazing, ruining the effect. Ariella inhaled and turned away.
What kind of man was that?
EMILIAN STARED after the gadjo and his beautiful daughter. His insides burned with dislike for de Warenne. The daughter’s defense of his disrespectful behavior echoed in his mind. His body rippled with anger and tension. He didn’t need her or any gadjo to defend him. She thought to be kind? He didn’t care that she was kind.
His loins were full. To a man like him, she was so far above him she was a princess—the kind of beautiful, perfect, blue-blooded woman that no English matron would ever present to him. But in spite of the differences of class and blood between them, she had looked at him the way all the Englishwomen who wished to use him did—as if she couldn’t wait to tear off his clothes and put her hands and mouth all over him.
He almost laughed, mirthlessly. He exchanged gadji lovers with almost the same frequency that he did his clothes. Those wives and widows used him strictly for carnal passion, and he used them for far more. There was a satisfaction to be had in sleeping with his neighbor’s wife, when his neighbor looked down on him with so much condescension and scorn. He may have been raised English, but he was still didikoi—half blood—and budjo was ingrained in his soul. A man who mowed his neighbor’s hay and sold it back to his neighbor was considered great. To take what belonged to someone else and reap a profit from it before returning it to its owner, perhaps for even more profit, was a great swindle. Every Rom was born with the need for budjo in his or her blood. Budjo was a Rom’s last laugh—and it was his revenge for the injustice every Rom had ever faced in the world.
He could have de Warenne’s daughter, if he wanted to bother. More blood filled him, hot and thick. She would be wet clay in his hands. He was well aware of his powers of persuasion. But he had little doubt that Cliff de Warenne would murder him if he ever found out.
The temptation was vast, because she was so beautiful. He knew she’d whisper about him behind his back after leaving his bed, like they all did. His paramours couldn’t wait to discuss the sexual prowess of their Gypsy lover with their friends—as if he was a stud for hire. She was unmarried, but the way she’d looked at him told him she was experienced. It would be interesting, he decided, to take that one to bed.
Something niggled at him, bothering him—a sixth sense, warning him, but of what he could not decide.
“Emilian.”
He whirled, relieved at the distraction. Then the relief vanished as he stared at his uncle’s sober face. “The woman?”
Stevan made a sound. “The woman is my wife, and she is having your cousin.”
A warmth began, unfurling within his chest. Stevan had several children, whom he had met eight years ago, but he didn’t even know precisely how many cousins he had, nor could he recall their names. And another was on the way.
Suddenly he was overwhelmed. He felt moisture gather in his eyes. The warmth felt like joy. It had been so long since he had been with family. Robert did not count; Robert despised and scorned him. Stevan, his children, Raiza, Jaelle—they were his family. And although he was didikoi, these people accepted him in spite of his tainted blood, unlike the English, who had never really accepted him at all. Even Edmund had had his doubts. In that moment, he did not feel isolated or alone. He did not feel different. He was not an outsider.
Stevan clasped his shoulder. “You are a grown man now. Djordi tells me your home is rich.”
“I have made it rich,” Emilian said truthfully. He wiped his eyes. He could not remember Stevan’s wife’s name and that was truly shameful.
Stevan smiled. “A lot of budjo, eh?”
Emilian hesitated. He had made Woodland profitable through English work, not Gypsy budjo. He did not want to tell his uncle he had labored honestly and industriously, instead of using cunning for his gain. “A lot of budjo,” he lied.
Stevan nodded, but his smile faltered.
Emilian tensed. Knives seemed to have pierced his guts. He asked slowly, “Why have you come to find me?”
Stevan hesitated, but as he did so, a young Romni ran out from the wagons, her bright red skirts swirling. She paused, barefoot, not far from them. “Emilian,” she whispered, flushing.
It took him a moment to see Raiza’s beauty in her young, striking features. He gasped, realizing he was staring at his little half sister, except she wasn’t twelve years old anymore—she was twenty.
She smiled beatifically and rushed into his arms.
He felt himself smile widely, the kind of smile he hadn’t felt in years, one that began in his heart. He held her, hard, just for a moment, relishing the rare embrace—it was entirely different from holding a lover he did not care for. When he released her, he was still smiling. “Jaelle! You are a beautiful woman now. I am in shock!”
“Did you think I’d grow up ugly?” She laughed, tossing her dark mane of hair. He now realized it was tinged with deep red tones and her eyes were golden amber.
“Never!” he exclaimed. “Are you married?” He was almost afraid of her response.
She shook her head. “There is no one here that I want.”
He wasn’t sure if that answer pleased him or not.
Stevan said gruffly, “There have been good men who have asked for her. She has refused them all.”
“I will know when I wish to marry, and I haven’t wished to yet.” She touched his face. “Look at you—a gadjo now! With so much wealth—Djordi said so. But can pounds replace the wide road and the shining stars?”
His smile faded. Although he had tried to run away many times when he had first been brought to Woodland, he had finally chosen to stay. And he hadn’t thought twice about taking over the estate upon Edmund’s death. What could he say? Just then, surrounded by true family, he was uncertain his choices had been the right ones. “I am half blood,” he said, hoping to sound light. “Woodland is a good place, but I miss the open road and the night sky.” And in that moment it was achingly true. He missed Jaelle, Raiza and his uncle. He hadn’t realized it until then.
Jaelle tugged on his hand. “Then come with us, just for a while.”
He hesitated. There was so much temptation.
Stevan seemed doubtful. “Jaelle, you have heard it before—half blood, half heart. I don’t think our way will please your brother for long.” Stevan looked at him. “He has been raised a gadjo. Our life is better—but he cannot know that.”
His uncle’s words filled him with tension. The lure of the open road was suddenly immense. But he had duties, responsibilities. He saw himself hunched over his desk, attending to papers until well into the next morning, or standing in a great hall, apart from the ladies and gentlemen present, there only to discuss a business affair. He recalled the previous evening, when he had been in bed with a neighbor’s wife, giving them both rapture. How easily he could sum up his life—it consisted of Woodland’s affairs and his sexual encounters and nothing more.
“Maybe your life is the better way,” Emilian said slowly. That did not mean he could leave, however.
Jaelle seemed ready to hop up and down. But she teased, “Your accent is so strange! You don’t sound Romany, Emilian!”
He flushed. He hadn’t spoke
n the tongue in eight years.
Stevan took his arm. “Do you wish to speak with your sister now?”
Emilian glanced at Jaelle, who was bubbling with enthusiasm and happiness. He did not want to disappoint her. He hoped her good nature was always with her. It crossed his mind that he wished to show her Woodland at some point in time, before the kumpa’nia went north again. There was so much he could offer her now—except she preferred the Roma way.
He could see her in his gadjo home, in a gadji’s dress, and he stiffened because that was completely wrong. He faced Stevan. “Jaelle and I have all night—and many nights to talk to one another.” He sent her a smile. “Maybe I can find you your husband, jel’enedra.”
She made a face. “Thank you, but no. I will hunt on my own—and choose on my own.”
“So independent!” he teased. “And is it a manhunt?”
She gave him a look that was far too arch; she was no naive, virginal, pampered English rose. “When he comes, I will hunt him.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and darted off.
Emilian stared after her.
“Do not worry,” Stevan said. “She is far more innocent than she appears. She is playing the woman, that is all. I sometimes think of her as being fifteen.”
“She isn’t fifteen,” he said tersely. Romany mores and ethics were entirely different from gadjo ones. It would be unusual if Jaelle was entirely innocent when it came to passion. “She should be married,” he said abruptly. He did not wish for her to be used and tossed aside like their mother.
Stevan laughed. “Spoken like a true brother—a full-blood brother!”
Emilian didn’t smile. He waited.
Stevan’s smile faded. “Walk with me.”
He did, with a terrible sense of dread. The night had settled with a thousand stars over them. The trees sighed as they walked by. “She’s not here.”
“No, she is not.”
“Is she dead?”
Stevan paused, placing both of his hands on his shoulders. “Raiza is dead. I am sorry.”
He wasn’t a boy of twelve and he had no right to tears, but they filled his eyes. His mother was dead. Raiza was dead—and he hadn’t been there with her. She was dead—and he’d last seen her eight long years ago. “Damn it,” he cursed. “What happened?”
