by Brenda Joyce
She hesitated. He looked as savage as a lion awoken from a deep sleep while in its den. “I don’t know why I came…to see you…. I only wanted a kiss.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HIS STRIDES WERE SO LONG and hard that she had to run to keep up with him. Ariella stumbled. “Wait!”
He didn’t answer her and he didn’t pause. His profile was a taut mask of frustration and anger. He was heading up the hill, toward the sleeping house. Clearly he wished for her to return home and this was his manner of escorting her safely back.
“I am so sorry,” she cried, racing to catch up to him. Of course he had expected a liaison—her behavior had been so bold. But why was he so angry now? “I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
He finally looked at her, halting so abruptly that she went past him. He caught her arm, dragging her back to his side. “If you don’t wish to mislead a man, stay in your fine, fancy house, in your fine, fancy bed, where well-bred virgins belong at this hour!”
She trembled, dismayed. “My curiosity led me astray. I heard the music and it was so enchanting.” She hesitated, because that was only half of the truth. She had been curious about him. He was clearly unmoved. “I meant to watch from a distance. I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t think anyone would notice me. I didn’t mean for…anything…to happen.”
His mouth curved, but not with mirth. “Didn’t you?”
She tensed. “Of course not!”
“The way you looked at me this afternoon—and this evening—left me with one inescapable conclusion.” He spoke so softly she could barely discern his words.
“You are wrong,” she tried, but he was right and they both knew it.
His expression hardened.
She hugged herself, flushing. “All right! I will admit that I was staring at you, but surely you are accustomed to ladies admiring you. I did not mean to be coy—I have never been coy in my life.” She felt herself blushing. She would never admit she had started thinking about his hard, male body when she had seen him dancing—and even earlier, during his confrontation with her father.
“That,” he said harshly, “I do not believe. I believe you know exactly how to use your blue eyes to inflame a man—and you did so with purpose.” His eyes flickered. “You inflamed me.”
She was already breathless. Her pulse surged wildly in response to his frank words. Too well, she recalled being in his arms, their mouths fused, their bodies on fire. She didn’t want to leave, not yet. In fact, a new and wanton part of her wished to explore what they had begun.
His laughter was harsh, as if he knew what she was thinking and feeling. “You need to go, before my baser nature defeats my sense of honor. It is getting light out. You have a reputation to maintain and I am not inclined to maintain it for you.”
The sky was beginning to gray, but she did not move. They couldn’t part company this way, especially when he was leaving Rose Hill shortly. “Why are you so angry? I am sorry—I have already said so, twice. Will you accept my apology?”
“Why should I? I do not like being played, Miss de Warenne.”
Her heart slammed. He was not going to accept an apology from her, even after she had explained her intentions.
He laughed harshly. “Am I the first man that will not do as you wish when you flutter your lashes at him?”
“I am not a flirt,” she said.
“Good night.” He nodded abruptly at the house, clearly wishing her to go.
Ariella took a deep breath, determined. “We have gotten off to a terrible start.” She smiled at him. “Obviously a third apology will not soothe you, so I won’t offer it. But can we start over again? We hardly know one another. I should like to further our acquaintance, if at all possible.”
His eyes widened and then narrowed, gleaming. “Really? How odd. Proper ladies—proper virgins—do not have Gypsy acquaintances. In fact, the ladies who wish for my acquaintance want one thing and one thing only—which you have clearly refused.”
“I will not believe that,” she whispered, aghast. Surely he was exaggerating!
He shrugged. “I do not care what you believe. Now that our ill-fated liaison is over, I do not care about you at all, Miss de Warenne.”
His words actually hurt. After what they had just shared, she could not believe he meant them. “I think you have decided to dislike me, although I cannot comprehend why. I think you decided to dislike me this afternoon, almost at first sight, even though I was trying to help you convince my father to let you stay the night here. Yet you liked me well enough a moment ago.”
He stared. Finally he said, every muscle in his face tensing, “Spoken with so much naiveté, I might actually believe you.”
“I am hardly naive,” Ariella said.
“I did not ask for this,” he continued roughly. “I did not ask for a beautiful fairy-tale princess to appear in my life, offering me a temptation I can barely refuse. You are a noblewoman, an heiress. You will clearly wed some English Prince Charming one day—and he will take your innocence in an ivory tower. Go home, Miss de Warenne, where you belong.” He turned to go.
She was finally angry and she seized his arm. She wasn’t strong enough to detain him, but he faced her, his eyes as cold and turbulent as a winter storm. “If I refuse to judge you, why do you insist on judging me? You know nothing about me. I am not like other women of my class and age, desperate for a proper husband and home, and while it might appear I am like those ladies who wish for your attentions, I am not like them, either. I did not seek you out for a love affair!”
“No, but you did seek me out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Let us cut to the chase. What do you want from me, Miss de Warenne?”
She inhaled. Although she instantly recalled his torrid kisses and his shockingly sensual touch, she did not hesitate. “I want to be friends.”
He laughed. “Impossible.”
“Why? Why is it impossible? I know you are leaving tomorrow, but we can exchange letters. We could even meet a few times before you leave Derbyshire.”
He choked. “Exchange letters? Meet?” He looked at her as if she were mad.
“I am interested in getting to know you, and letters are the perfect way to further our acquaintance. As for meeting, why is that suggestion so shocking? Surely you like to converse.”
“You wish to meet and converse?”
“That is what friends do.” She smiled at him. She thought her plan a capital one.
“We are not friends,” he said harshly. “I have no friends—nor do I want any!”
She was in disbelief. “Everyone has friends.”
“You do not want friendship and we both know it.” He pointed at her. His hand shook. “You are a de Warenne heiress! Your friends are tony!”
“I have all kinds of eccentric friends in town!”
“When I demanded you cut to the chase, I was merely curious as to how you would respond—and with how much subterfuge. I know why you came to the camp tonight. You sought me out for passion, Miss de Warenne, not friendship. I caught your interest and you wished to be in my arms, although not my bed. You wish to exchange letters? You wish to converse? I think not. In fact, I don’t think you very different from my gadji lovers. The difference is you only want safe kisses.” His eyes blazed. “And the kind of pleasure I so recently gave you.”
Ariella stared, taken aback, but not by his candor. He was partly right—after what had just happened, how could she not yearn to be in his arms? But why didn’t he believe that she was interested in friendship, too? She was eager to know what he thought of the world!
“I have been a sexual object for the ladies of the ton, and now, I am an object of sexual fascination for a virgin princess.” He seemed disgusted.
Ariella wasn’t quite sure what his statement meant, precisely, but she would think about it later. “I can’t possibly forget our kiss,” she said slowly. “How could I? I had no idea a kiss could be so wonderful. But I do want to be friends, Emilian. I alwa
ys say what I mean. I have many unusual friends in town. If you truly have no friends—and I pray you are dissembling—then I will be the first.”
“What the hell did you mean, that you had no idea a kiss could be so wonderful?” he demanded. “I do hope you are not going to tell me that was your first kiss.”
“Why would that distress you?”
His eyes widened impossibly. “No one has ever kissed you before?”
“No, no one ever has. You gave me my first kiss. And I have no regrets—not a single one,” she cried, flushing.
He snarled, “Then I have enough regrets for the two of us.”
She inhaled. “You don’t mean that!”
“Go home and wait for Prince Charming. And stay there—with your unusual friends.”
He was rejecting her offer of friendship. Ariella was in disbelief. “But you are leaving in the morning! We can’t part this way.”
“Why not?”
She wet her lips, her heart thundering. “It isn’t right,” she floundered. “We just shared passion, Emilian.”
“We shared a simple kiss, one you will soon forget.”
She shook her head. “No. I won’t forget it. Please consider an exchange of letters!” she cried.
“Just go,” he roared.
She flinched but couldn’t tell her feet to move. How could this be happening?
He turned furiously, strode down the hill, and did not look back a single time.
AS IF A SPIDER caught in her web, he was drawn back to the bottom of the hill. He stared up at the house.
The sun had risen over an hour ago, but the camp was hardly stirring, due to the celebration the night before. He had not slept. He had not even thought to try. Emilian stared up at the de Warenne mansion. He did not want to lust after Ariella de Warenne, especially not now. He did not quite trust himself with his lust. There was too much rage.
He whirled and started back to the camp. He hoped to never encounter her again. Mariko could take care of his needs, as could a dozen well-bred Derbyshire wives. He had meant his every word. That morning had been goodbye. There would not be an exchange of letters or a flurry of meetings. He hadn’t asked for a woman like that to appear in his life, especially not now, when he was grieving and enraged.
She was the kind of young lady that no one had ever presented to him—and no one ever would—because of his tainted blood. She was beautiful, wealthy, well-bred and undoubtedly accomplished. She was even, somehow, innocent, in spite of her passionate nature—and her nature was passionate, he had uncovered that. He was deemed worthy of the fat, the aged, the infirm, the ugly—those rejected by everyone else. A lady like Miss de Warenne would never be presented to a man who had Gypsy blood running in his veins, no matter his wealth, his title. One day, Miss de Warenne would be presented to a genuine Englishman, one as blue-blooded and properly English as she. Her suitor would take one look at her and be smitten. Any sane man would instantly conclude that the beautiful and genteel Miss de Warenne would make the perfect wife.
No other man had ever kissed her before.
It was unbelievable.
He had given her pleasure for the first time. Too well, he recalled her cries. Even now, his skin was abraded from her nails and teeth.
He had wanted her attentions when he had first seen her, in spite of the fact that he had surmised she wasn’t married. He never chased unmarried women, but she was beautiful, English and above him. Perhaps because of her father, he had deliberately looked at her with sexual interest. He hadn’t been surprised when she had come to him last night. She could claim that she had drifted to their camp to hear the music, but she had come because of him. But he had assumed she was a woman of experience, a woman with lovers.
Young unwed ladies were meant to lounge in the drawing rooms of their mansions, sipping tea in the latest London fashions, awaiting their callers and suitors. She claimed she was different. Obviously, she was clinging to propriety, and he wondered if she would manage to continue to do so until her wedding night. Suddenly he hated the idea of an Englishman being the one to fully show her passion.
He could have had her; why hadn’t he taken her?
Because he was more English than Rom. As a gentleman, he had a strong sense of honor. The English valued innocence, the Roma did not. He had never dallied with a virgin, not even during his traipse with the Romany across Scotland eight years ago. It was not just because he preferred experienced women in his bed. The Englishman he had become, the man who was Woodland’s viscount and Edmund’s son, could not take or destroy a woman’s innocence. It was that simple.
Just then, he did not feel particularly English.
And he hadn’t felt English at all last night.
He had reached the outermost wagons. A baby was crying; it might have been his newborn cousin. His head was pounding so badly he thought it might split in two. His body was pulsing as terribly, a combination of desire and rage. He wasn’t even certain that he wanted to be English anymore. He only knew that he wanted to avenge Raiza, and, if he was brutally honest, a part of him was now regretting not taking the gadji princess to his bed.
But he kept thinking about her wide blue eyes, not her face or her body. Her eyes disturbed him, because she had looked into his as if she might find some ancient truth about him there.
He shook himself free of the fanciful notion. She claimed she wanted to be his friend. He laughed out loud.
He had no friends. He had brothers—every Rom in the kumpa’nia was his brother. He had family—Stevan, his cousins, Jaelle. Even Robert, no matter how much he despised him and was despised by him, was family. He had enemies—almost every gadjo and gadji on the street could be thrust into that category. But he did not have friends. He wasn’t even sure what a friend really was or why anyone would want one.
What was wrong with her? He slept with women; he didn’t befriend them.
Maybe she was different from the gadjis he took to his bed. She claimed she did not judge him the way all the gadjos did. But she had sought him out for passion, just as his lovers did. Had she been married, he was certain she would have leaped into his bed. That made her no different, after all. And one day, he would turn his back and overhear her speaking of him with condescension and scorn. He had not a single doubt.
His fury escalated. He hated the gadjos, every single last one of them—even her.
“You look ready to break someone apart.”
Emilian breathed, hoping to relax his tight muscles, and turned to face Stevan. “Do I?”
“Before I ever told you about Raiza, I saw the dark clouds in your eyes. Do you want to tell me your troubles?” Stevan asked quietly.
“I have worries at Woodland,” he lied. “All gadjo nonsense, really.”
Stevan smiled, clearly not believing him.
“But I want to speak with you,” Emilian said. His chest throbbed with pain. “I must go to Raiza’s grave.”
“That is proper,” Stevan agreed. “She is buried at Trabbochburn, not far from where you were born. When will you go?”
There had been no time to grieve and no time to think. Just as he had learned of Raiza’s murder, the celebration over the birth of his cousin had begun. And then Ariella de Warenne had appeared, distracting him. There was no question of his duty—he must go to his mother’s grave and pay his respects. But now he regarded his uncle, thinking of his young sister, who needed a guardian and a brother. Raiza would want him to take care of Jaelle. “I think I would like to join you when you travel north,” he said slowly.
Stevan was surprised. “Your grief is speaking, is it not?”
“Maybe.” But the idea had so much appeal. By choosing to stay with Edmund when he was only twelve years old, he had forsaken the Roma people and their way of life. He had been so young to make such a choice. Shouldn’t he attempt to understand the Roma way—especially when the Rom part of him was burning with hatred of the English and the need for revenge?
And he could ge
t to know his little sister, who needed him.
“You know you are always welcome. But Emilian, why not take your fine gadjo carriage and your many servants with you? Why travel like a Rom, when you left us so long ago to become English?”
Emilian spoke with care, trying to make sense of the urgings in his heart, his soul. “I have forgotten what it means to be Rom. I feel that I owe Raiza far more than I could ever have given her—and far more than paying my respects at her grave. Everything has changed, Stevan. I am enraged with the gadjos.”
“You are her son—you should be enraged. I do not think you know what you want. But you are merely speaking of a visit with us, are you not?”
Emilian stared. “I am as much Rom as I am English.”
“Really? Because I see an Englishman standing before me—even if you dance like a Rom.” Stevan smiled, but Emilian could not smile back. “My sister was proud of the man you have become. She wanted you to have a fine life, with a fine house filled with servants. She would not ask you, if she were alive, to give up your English life for the Roma way.”
“What am I giving up?” Emilian cried. “I know she wanted more for me than the life of the Rom. I remember very well that she wished for me to live with my father—but she grieved over my loss, as well. I made the choice to stay at Woodland when I was too young to understand it. Did I make the right choice? My neighbors scorn me, Stevan, just as fully as they scorn you.”
Stevan was thoughtful. “I think I begin to understand. For half your blood is Romany and nothing will ever change that. But I still think you will tire quickly of the life. There have been too many changes made over too many years.”
“Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. Maybe, after a month or two, I will spit upon the gadjos and their way and never wish to return home.” He trembled with his rage and his attention strayed back up the hill, toward the huge de Warenne mansion.
Stevan looked at him and Emilian flushed. He had just called Woodland home.
