A Dangerous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Ariella didn’t think she could stay away. She had never been to Woodland, but she knew of the estate. It was about an hour’s drive from Rose Hill. How long would the Roma stay there? If she went, was his threat to seduce her only intended to scare her away, or did he mean it?

  About to get to her feet, she froze. Emilian was talking to a beautiful young Romni woman. They were both smiling, and their affection was obvious. Jealousy consumed her, startling her with its intensity, but there was also uncertainty and fear.

  Emilian left and the Gypsy woman started purposefully toward her. Ariella stood. If this woman was a rival, she was far too attractive. She was young, perhaps twenty, with auburn hair and amber eyes. She wore bold purple skirts and a pale green blouse with a gold sash that framed a tiny waist. She was petite, but her figure was lush. Ariella was dismayed. She hadn’t even considered that a man like Emilian would surely have a lover or a mistress. Dear God, this woman could even be his wife.

  The woman paused. Her gaze was curious, not hostile. “I am Jaelle. I saw you here with my brother last night.”

  Relief flooded her. “I am Ariella de Warenne.” This pretty woman was his sister. “Jaelle is a beautiful name.”

  Jaelle was wry. “As beautiful as Emilian?”

  Ariella started. “His name is beautiful, too,” she said carefully. Was Jaelle a potential friend—or would she be set against Ariella, like her brother seemed to be?

  “Everyone saw you with him last night. My brother is strong, handsome and rich as a king. Many women want him. They would be fools not to. They are jealous of you today.”

  Ariella was surprised. “But we only just met. We barely know one another.”

  “A man doesn’t need to know a woman to want her,” Jaelle smiled. “Emilian chose you last night over everyone else.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be flattered.”

  “You should be very pleased.”

  Ariella began to relax. “He wasn’t very friendly a moment ago.”

  Jaelle laughed. “You refused him! He had to go to bed alone. Of course he is angry with you. No man likes being teased.”

  Ariella gaped.

  “The Rom like gadji women and Emilian is half blood.” She shrugged. “I would not be surprised if one day he chooses a gadji wife over a Romni one.” She glanced up the hill at the house. “You live like a queen.”

  Ariella took a breath and tried to appear calm. “I am not a queen,” she said, aware that Jaelle had made the same kind of reference to royalty that Emilian had. “Is he thinking about marriage?” Ariella asked cautiously.

  “I don’t know. All men marry, sooner or later.” She became sly. “Would you marry him, Ariella? Would you marry a Rom?”

  “If we decided to marry, I would not care that he is a Romany man.” She blushed. “We just met. He doesn’t even wish to be friends—and he is leaving soon.”

  Jaelle smiled, puzzled. “What does friendship have to do with my brother? He wants a woman in his bed, not a friend.”

  Ariella shook her head. “I don’t know why both are not possible.”

  Jaelle touched her. “Do you love him already?” she asked softly. “Because I saw him watching you as if you are a queen. And you look at him as if he were a prince.”

  Ariella looked at her and did not hesitate. “I have never felt this way before. I think I am falling in love.”

  Jaelle said instantly, “You must not refuse him for too much longer. The Rom like their women in their beds well before the wedding vows are spoken.”

  Ariella felt her insides hollow at the thought. Her pulse increased.

  Jaelle said, “We are going to Woodland now. We may be there for a week. My uncle Stevan had a son, his first.” She pointed to a large man Ariella recognized from the night before. “A first son is cause to celebrate for many nights. You should come to Woodland.”

  Ariella imagined Emilian dancing passionately beneath the stars, his every movement a sensual invitation, his every step suggesting far too much raw and masculine virility. She tensed. Tonight other women would be dancing with him—other women would be trying to attract him to their beds. She hated the notion.

  Did she dare go to Woodland?

  How could she not?

  “I am glad we met,” Ariella said. “Have a safe journey, Jaelle.”

  Jaelle smiled. “D’bika t’maya.”

  EMILIAN LEFT the caravan far behind, galloping his Thoroughbred across the fields and jumping the occasional stone hedge. As hard as he ran the horse, he could not shake her words. Do you believe in love at first sight?

  She had mistaken her desire for love, which merely proved how inexperienced she was. And she was far too inexperienced for him. He must never forget that.

  Would she come to Woodland?

  He hoped to never see her again. If she came to him tonight or tomorrow or the next day, he would lose his English conscience and make good his threats. And he would enjoy using her. He would be ruthless. It would be budjo and it would be revenge.

  She did not deserve to be used that way.

  He slowed his mount to a walk, hoping she would stay far away from him. And there was the proof that he was far more English than Rom.

  The road to Woodland led through the village of Kenilworth. He began passing whitewashed homes with slate roofs, an old Norman chapel in ruins, and a newer Anglican church made of pale stone. The main street, where a dozen shops, two inns and a pub were located, was two short blocks. A few carts and carriages were on the street, and several shopkeepers were sweeping their porches and tending their flowering window boxes. Otherwise, there were just a handful of pedestrians, and he saw a group of men coming down the block.

  Suddenly he pulled his mount to an abrupt halt, the horse flinging up his head in protest. He stared at the sign on the haberdashery. No Gypsies Here.

  He was in disbelief. Then he saw that, next door, the milliner had the same sign in his front window. He whirled the gray to face the opposite street where the White Stag Inn was. Hanging on the dark green door was the same sign, but in even bolder and larger letters—NO GYPSIES HERE.

  At Morgan’s Alehouse, he saw the words painted boldly in red on another sign. He spurred the horse up to Hawks’ Fine Goods. The abominable warning was posted on every door and in every window, on each and every public shop, as far as he could see.

  He whirled and galloped back to the handsome stone church where, once in a while, he attended services, usually on Christmas Eve or Easter Sunday. NO GYPSIES HERE.

  Rage suffused him.

  Those signs had not been present the last time he was in the village, just a few days ago. For a moment, he was so distressed, he simply sat his mount, staring at the church doors. Ariella de Warenne’s pretty image came to mind, and he hoped she was foolish enough to seek him out at Woodland.

  The English part of him was dead.

  He spurred his gray into a canter and went right up the stone walk to the church’s front door. He reached out and tore the sign from the door. Then he whirled the horse so cruelly it reared. He galloped toward the inn.

  This time he flung himself off his mount and reached the door in one stride. As he tore the sign off, he cursed the gadjos for their snobbery, their bigotry and their hatred. Then he felt the stares.

  “As Gypsy as the rest of them.”

  He turned slowly and saw five village men standing on the opposite sidewalk. They instantly looked away and started walking rapidly toward the town’s center. He didn’t know who had whispered the slur with such scorn.

  But he’d overheard that exact remark a hundred times.

  He breathed hard, needing control. He could rip off every sign, but it wouldn’t erase the prejudice and hatred, and the signs would reappear—until Stevan and the kumpa’nia were gone. But he couldn’t just walk away, either.

  He led his mount over to Hawks’ Fine Goods. The emporium carried exotic merchandise like Far Eastern spices, letter openers made from ivory tusk
s and American tobacco, as well as furniture from the finest cabinetmakers, clocks and watches, leather desktops, writing sets, urns and vases, lamps and candlesticks. Over the years, he had purchased many expensive items from the merchant.

  He looked at the sign as he seized the door handle, feeling sick now, deep in his soul. Then he stepped into the large, glass-fronted store.

  Inside, it was dimly lit. He glanced around at the merchandise, aware of the boiling rage he needed to mask at all costs.

  “Didn’t you see the sign? No Gypsies are allowed here!”

  He was still wearing the emerald-green, brilliantly embroidered vest. He slowly turned and faced Hawks’s pompous son.

  Edgar Hawks paled. “My lord St Xavier,” he cried, bowing. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Emilian spoke. “I will take those two crystal vases. They are handblown, are they not?”

  “Yes, they are Waterford, sir, the finest Ireland has to offer—”

  Emilian cut him off. “Those rugs, the pair.”

  “They are Turkish, my lord, and very costly. Do you wish for me to unroll them?”

  “No, I do not.” He walked over to a chest that had clearly been imported from Spain. “I will take that.”

  “Let me get my ledger,” Edgar said, his tone rough with anxiety. He vanished toward the back of the store.

  Emilian stood still, despising the plump shopkeeper, and Ariella de Warenne came to mind again. Do you believe in love at first sight?

  He cursed. The sooner he found a suitable estate manager, the sooner he and the caravan could leave Derbyshire.

  Edgar ran back to him, huffing. His even more portly father was with him. “Lord St Xavier, I am so pleased to see you, sir. You haven’t shopped with us since last winter,” Jonathon Hawks cried. His smile was ingratiating.

  He glanced up at the ceiling, ignoring the remark. A crystal chandelier hung there, and he knew it was a part of the store’s décor. “I will take that, as well.”

  “It is not for sale,” Edgar began, sweat shining on his brow.

  Emilian looked at him, wishing he could put his hands around his throat and squeeze.

  Edgar paled. Jonathon exclaimed, “Of course we will sell it to you.”

  “Very good. That is all for now. You may put the sum on my account.”

  “Of course,” the elder said. “It will take me a moment to add up the amount of your purchases.”

  Emilian smiled coldly. “I so enjoy shopping in your emporium.”

  “I am pleased, my lord,” Jonathon began.

  “Really? For I should so hate to have to take my business to Sheffield’s in Manchester.”

  Jonathon stared.

  Emilian stared back. A long silence ensued. “I suggest you take the sign down. I also suggest you encourage your neighbors to remove their signs, as well.”

  Jonathon paled. His color now matched that of his son. “I think the sign has been a vast misunderstanding,” he finally said.

  “Good.” Emilian stalked out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS EMILIAN STRODE into his home, he heard his cousin’s voice and that of his two bachelor friends. They were in the great room and could not be avoided. He almost hoped they would taunt him. He had behaved politely at Hawks’ Emporium, exercising great self-control, and he would not be restrained now. One gibe and he would explode. He needed but a single excuse…

  But the moment he entered his great room, he paused, uncertain. He had refurbished the room at great expense over the past few years, and it was the luxurious hall of an Englishman. New sofas, chairs, occasional tables and lamps filled the room. The hall’s one stone wall, in which a huge hearth resided, contained the family coat of arms and the portraits of his St Xavier ancestors. Swords that Edmund claimed had been carried into the Civil Wars were crossed above that plaster mantel. An antique table, with two high-backed chairs, its leather cracking, was at the hall’s far end. According to Edmund, that table had been in the house since its construction in the late sixteenth century.

  This was his home, and he had spent years turning it into a fine estate. But this was an Englishman’s home, and he didn’t want to be English—not anymore.

  NO GYPSIES HERE.

  He saw the hateful signs in his mind’s eye, and he envisioned Raiza as she lay battered on a cobbled Edinburgh street. He breathed hard, all uncertainty vanishing. The need for revenge burned as brightly as before.

  He stared at his cousin coldly. Robert had despised him and scorned him with an Englishman’s prejudice from the moment of his arrival at Woodland, when he was only twelve years old. He would never forget his history with his cousin. Even then, Robert had been a pompous, bigoted ass. When Robert’s taunts had caused Emilian to come to blows with him, their fathers had torn them apart. Edmund had defended him, while Robert’s father had been as condescending and as obnoxious as his son.

  “He’s Gypsy scum!” Robert had shouted. “Whip him for what he’s done!”

  Emilian had bloodied Robert’s nose. He didn’t say a word as Edmund restrained him. Robert had started it by calling him names in front of the servants and the very pretty daughter of the cook.

  “He assaulted my son!” John exclaimed. “He’s a wild, savage animal! He should be locked up! Better yet, he should be sent back to his Gypsy mother!”

  Emilian trembled, hating them both. “No one will be whipped or locked up,” Edmund said firmly. He added quietly, so only he could hear, “Are you all right?”

  He had the urge to cry. He fought it, nodding.

  In that moment, although he’d been at Woodland for months, he wished he was with the kumpa’nia, traveling the Borders. He was so homesick. And he knew he would never fit into the life Edmund intended for him—the life he had agreed to.

  Robert and his friends sat at the table, two wine bottles there, one empty. They were playing cards. It was three in the afternoon and far too early for cards and drink, but then, not one of the gentlemen understood anything about responsibility or duty. He was disgusted. Robert’s friends were wastrels and the sons of noblemen without means.

  The abominable signs danced in his mind’s eye. Robert was the kind of man to put up signs like that, or encourage others to do so. In fact, he and his scurvy friends could easily be behind the acts of hatred and bigotry.

  Robert saw him and stood. “Emil!” he cried, smiling widely. “You have returned.” But he took in Emilian’s billowing yellow shirt, a gift from Jaelle, and the green vest, a gift from Stevan’s wife.

  Emilian fervently hoped one of them would dare to scorn him now. “Of course I have returned,” he said softly. “This is my home.” Even as he spoke, an image of the kumpa’nia flashed in his mind, followed by the damned signs—and Ariella de Warenne.

  “It’s a good thing,” Robert said, his smile strained. “Your housekeeper and another servant have left their employment, and there seems to be chaos among the staff.”

  His temper escalated dangerously. “I have been gone for a single night,” he said softly. “Did you abuse my staff? Which servant left with Mrs. Dodd? Oh, let me guess—her daughter, the redhead?”

  Robert flushed.

  Instantly he knew that his brother and his friends had made advances toward Mrs. Dodd’s daughter, who was only sixteen. He trembled. “I have just given you a tidy sum to see you though the year, yet you abuse my staff behind my back?”

  Robert blanched. “I beg your pardon, Emil! The wench jumped into my bed on her own, and somehow her mother found us!”

  Emilian thrust his arm across the table, striking the wine bottles, glasses and cards from it. Robert’s friends jumped up and leaped away, cowards that they were. He felt like going after each and every one of them, in turn.

  “Are you also behind the present mischief in town?” he asked coldly.

  “We have not been to town,” Robert cried anxiously. “I do not know what mischief you refer to.”

  He breathed hard. “You may pack your bags,”
he said, “while I try to make amends to Mrs. Dodd. Get off these premises within the hour.” Before his cousin could respond, he stalked into the library and slammed the door closed, hard.

  It reverberated.

  He had wanted to smash Robert’s nose. He stood motionless, fighting for control. As he did so, he recalled the night before. The music had claimed him body and soul—the Romany had claimed him, and it had felt good. He had lost the Englishman when he had begun to dance. In the dance, there had only been a Rom. There had been so much freedom….

  He did not need this life, and he intended to prove it to Raiza’s memory—and to himself. Now, too late, he realized that in becoming so English, he had lost the most important part of himself. He had lost more than his identity—he had lost his Rom soul.

  But he would recover it.

  WE WILL BE AT WOODLAND tonight.

  Ariella sat beside Margery and Dianna in the carriage, Alexi facing them, but she did not see the passing countryside as they raced through it. She only saw Emilian, his face strained with the anger she still could not understand.

  Come to Woodland tonight and I will seduce you…

  She inhaled. Of course she couldn’t go. It would be terribly hard to steal out after midnight and not be caught. On the other hand, it would be easy enough to hire a driver from the closest village and pay him handsomely for his silence. Dear God, was she really considering meeting Emilian at Woodland, after he had told her to run from him? When he had so boldly stated his intentions?

  I will give you nothing but passion, pleasure—and then it will be goodbye.

  She refused to believe he would make love to her and walk away. He had spoken cruelly and harshly, but that was because he wished to push her away—he had even admitted that. He was not ruthless. She would never be attracted to such a man.

  The Rom like their women in their bed well before they make their wedding vows.

  Did she dare begin a love affair with him? It was not the English way, but it was the Romany way. And while he seemed to think a friendship was impossible, she believed a love affair and a friendship were not exclusive.