A Dangerous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Jaelle met her gaze. “You are a good woman. I am glad we are friends.” Then she pulled free. “But I don’t need your help.”

  “Jaelle!” Ariella objected, but it was too late.

  Jaelle hurried from the courtyard.

  EMILIAN FINISHED the letter to his solicitor, asking him to locate several prospective estate managers. He had indicated that the matter was urgent. He sealed the envelope with wax, and then stared at the family crest that was the seal. He would not be using that seal again for some time. Maybe he would never use it again.

  He refused to think about Edmund now.

  His temples pounded. He stood, walked to the console and poured himself a brandy, feeling even more dissatisfied than before. There was no way to avoid the fact that a part of him was attached to the estate. He had begun to worry about his tenants, his business partners and several important contracts. But he had decided to go to Raiza’s grave with the kumpa’nia and find his Rom soul, and nothing would change his mind.

  An image of the de Warenne woman filled his head.

  He had been thinking about her often. He lusted for her, and the lust kept interfering with his grief and mingling with his rage. Lust was acceptable—he was a man—but he had never given his previous lovers any thought outside of the bedroom. She was different, after all.

  I am suited to be your friend—and perhaps even your lover, if a natural progression leads us that far.

  None of his paramours were interested in friendship. They wanted one thing from him—and he wanted the exact same thing in return. Why did she want his friendship? It was strange, it was odd, it was inexplicable!

  He was beginning to see how she could be considered eccentric by society. She wanted a natural progression; he wanted sex and revenge for all the injustices the Roma had suffered. He hoped she stayed far away from him, as he had warned her to do. He knew, with every fiber of his being, she could not withstand his vengeance.

  He also knew she was an innocent in this tragedy, and he should find a better target for his revenge. And that signified just how English he remained. It was unacceptable.

  He drained the brandy, torn and frustrated, and felt a presence behind him. He whirled and saw Jaelle. Instantly, he saw that her nose was red, as if she had been crying.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in concern, striding to her.

  She smiled brightly. “I am fine. Can I come in?”

  “Of course you can come in,” he said. Warmth filled him and it felt so good—and unfamiliar. He looked more closely at her and thought her eyes were filled with shadows. Was he imagining it? He wished he knew her better. “Are you certain you are fine?”

  “Very,” she said archly. “What a grand home. Maybe you are too gadjo to come north with us.”

  His smile vanished. “That is not the case.”

  She gave him a considering look, now walking the room, trailing her hand along the fine tables, stroking the vases, the candlesticks, the tiny painted boxes, all items collected by Edmund’s wife.

  “Are you too Rom to stay here at Woodland with me, until we leave?” he asked.

  She sent him a beautiful smile. “I cannot sleep in a gadjo’s bed.” Her smile faltered and she stared at the bookcase. “You can read, can’t you?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to teach you?”

  “I read English.” She turned to him. “I am clever. It would be stupid not to read the language of the place we live.” She glanced at the decanters on the console. “Is your gadjo whiskey better than ours?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  She went to the sideboard and started to pour a drink.

  “Absolutely not,” he said, stepping to her. He reached for the glass but she took it before he could do so.

  “I am a grown woman, Emilian, of twenty years.” She saluted him with the glass.

  She had been wearing a long-sleeved coat over her shirt and skirt. The sleeves fell back to her elbows as she raised the glass and he saw the raw abrasions on her arms. His world went still.

  A terrible calm began. Someone had done this to her—someone would pay.

  She paled, realizing what he had seen.

  Very quietly, he said, “What happened? Who did that to you?”

  “It is nothing,” she said quickly.

  “The wounds need to be cleaned and they need salve. What happened?”

  She was mute, clearly refusing to answer.

  “I know what happened.” A ruthless determination began and he paced away from her. “Gadjos. You’re too pretty. No, too beautiful, too tempting. Gadjos did this to you, somehow. Tell me.” He faced her, staring.

  “I am fine.”

  “I will decide if you are fine or not.”

  She held her chin high. “I was reading palms. You are right. It was gadjos. They wanted more.” She shrugged dismissively.

  He had thought his temper tightly controlled. Now rage threatened. He shoved it aside. “They tied you? Those cuts were made with ropes?”

  “No! I ran away and hid under a stone wall. The stones scraped me. Another gadjo sent them away.” She flushed. “But I hate them all.”

  He put his arm around her. It felt awkward. “Which gadjos tried to force you to bed, Jaelle?”

  He saw the reluctance in her eyes. “I am here to protect you now. I will find out, whether you tell me or not.”

  “You’re didikoi. If you hunt an Englishman, they will send the sheriffs and the high lords after you!”

  “Nothing will happen to me,” he lied smoothly. To convince her, he smiled. “I am a lord here, Jaelle. I am viscount.”

  She hesitated. “It was the innkeeper from the White Stag, and a fat gadjo with brown hair named Bill.”

  “Let’s clean those scrapes,” he said. And finally, he allowed his hatred and rage to boil.

  He could not wait for his revenge.

  He would take it out on the first Englishman—or Englishwoman—who dared to cross his path.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE BOOK LAY OPEN on her bed unattended. She had tried to read, but she could not see the words, which danced and blurred like the flames in the bedroom’s hearth.

  Something had happened to her.

  Emilian had happened to her.

  Still clad in a cream-colored silk and chiffon evening gown, with small, off-the-shoulder sleeves, wearing pearls and diamonds and her hair curled and pinned up, Ariella stood by an open bedroom window, her pulse racing frantically. She was hot when the night air was cold. The tendrils that curled around her face were wet.

  The driver she had secretly hired that afternoon was waiting for her just beyond Rose Hill’s front gates. She hadn’t decided to go to Emilian. She would prefer to get to know him better and gently segue into a love affair, but she had hired the driver just in case.

  The decision she was poised to make seemed monumental and life altering. He had threatened her, warned her, told her forthrightly not to come. You are a temptation I do not even wish to resist. I want to ruin you!

  Of course he did. He was a virile man. Every male in her family had been a notorious rake until wed. He was as insanely attracted to her as she was to him. But it wasn’t just physical—there was an almost magnetic charge between them. It could not be one-sided. In the de Warenne family, that was the beginning of love. But Emilian couldn’t know that.

  How could she not go to him when she felt this way? When she was almost certain they would fall in love, or were even falling in love already? When she was coming to believe that he was the man meant for her?

  She stared out the open window, tugging at her bodice, which was sticking to her skin. Her heart thundered. She gazed past the stars, seeing not their bright light but the campfires of the night before. She strained to hear. She imagined that if she tried hard enough, she could hear their soulful guitars all the way from Woodland.

  But they were an hour’s drive away. All she heard was an owl hooting—and the echo of last night’s memo
ry.

  And it wasn’t the music she needed. Oh, she knew that now. She closed her eyes and almost felt his hands on her warm, wet skin.

  She could see him standing by a fire, staring toward the east, and she was certain he was thinking about her, too. He was at Woodland, waiting for her, just as hot and feverish as she was.

  Ariella went to the bed and sat down. She was falling in love with a complete stranger, a man from a different culture. She had to fight for him, for them. This had to be a beginning, not just an interlude and an ending. She had to make certain that, when the Romany left, he stayed.

  It was the Romany way to take lovers.

  She shivered. Did she dare? Why not? She was not like Margery or Dianna, who would never dream of such a thing. She meant for them to be friends, as well as lovers. After the afternoon in the village, she began to understand his life. The Romany suffered every day of their existence. Her mother’s people had suffered that way, too. There seemed to be amazing and terribly tragic similarities between the Romany history and that of the Jews.

  He was so proud and strong, but what lay beneath that hard exterior? It had been hard enough that afternoon, watching the two young Romany boys behaving with such indifference to the terrible signs and the bigoted passersby. No one could be unaffected by such hatred and prejudice.

  But I will not give you love when I take your innocence. We will not be friends…we will never be friends. I will give you nothing but passion, pleasure—and then it will be goodbye.

  He was wrong. A night together would change everything, if they dared become lovers. Hadn’t Alexi even said that women ruled men from their beds? If she became his lover, he would soften toward her. It would be the beginning she yearned for. He might soften completely—the way her father had with Amanda, the way her uncle Ty had with Lizzie. From this one night, there might be so much love. From this night, there could be a future.

  Her mind was made up. She strode to the closet and opened the door, taking out a wrapper and placing it over her dress. If anyone caught her sneaking through the house, she would claim she was looking for a sweet in the kitchens. After tonight, he would not want to leave the county—he would not want to leave her.

  ARIELLA RAPPED on the glass window that was between her and the coachman and he halted the single-horse carriage.

  The moon was full and shining silver in a night sky shimmering with bright stars. Woodland was a dark gray shadow, situated at the end of a long, pale drive, with a number of outbuildings closer to the public road. Just ahead she saw the bright fires of the Romany encampment. She heard their guitars and violins. The music was more sensual than she recalled and even more enchanting.

  Ariella breathed hard. Once she stepped out of the coach and let the coachman leave, there was no turning back. But she had no intention of turning back now. She was going forward—with Emilian.

  She pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, trembling. In spite of her determination, she had never been more nervous and anxious. The stakes felt huge.

  She barely smiled at the driver, her attention already moving to the perimeter of the camp and the fires blazing within. He was close by, waiting for her. She was certain. “Thank you.”

  He leered and said, “Want me to wait, miss?”

  She hadn’t given her name for a reason. Ariella was fairly certain that, if he had any intelligence, he would realize who she was, but she hoped he thought her just a visiting guest. If he did realize her identity, what was left of her reputation was now in shreds, as there was only one reason a lady would secretively be out and about at such an hour. She didn’t care very much, but her parents would be devastated if they ever heard of her affair.

  She would worry about them later. She somehow shook her head.

  He grinned again and lifted the reins and the gig moved away.

  Ariella’s heart was pounding so fiercely now she let her shawl slip. Perspiration had gathered between her breasts. Her body seemed to hum with tension. Breathless, she started across the road, stumbling in her narrow slippers with their dainty heels, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was this new beginning.

  Her strides lengthened. She started to run. She crossed the foot of the drive. Veering across the fields toward the outermost wagons, the light of the fires intensified, allowing her to see the ground more clearly.

  The Romany’s grazing horses drifted out of her way. She reached the first wagon and hurried past. As she came closer to the circle of light from their fires, it did not occur to her to hide. She halted abruptly, breathing hard, and saw a half dozen dancers now. Emilian was not with them.

  The music was more exotic, subdued and sensual than the night before, the tempo slower—like two familiar lovers slowly and sensually touching and caressing one another, a prelude to the storm of their love.

  And then she saw him. From across the clearing, he stared.

  She had known he was waiting for her.

  His eyes silver and hot, their gazes locked.

  She forgot to breathe at all. He started toward her, leaving the camp behind.

  The music seemed to stop. His strides were long with purpose, but somehow, he did not seem to rush. The seductive smile she had dreamed of began. There was so much promise, all of it was sensual.

  She remembered to take in some air. Now, she studied him. He wore a red shirt with full sleeves, narrow black trousers and a black sash. The red shirt had a tie at the throat that had been left open. As he moved, it fell away from his skin, revealing the cleft between the two bulging planes of his chest.

  A terrible urgency began. So much heat gathered and she felt moisture trickle beneath her undergarments. She was no longer shocked.

  He paused before her and she smelled musk, whiskey, citrus, man. Although their bodies did not touch, she felt the heat coming from him in waves. His thick heavy lashes lowered slowly. “So you took the bait,” he murmured.

  She wasn’t sure she could speak. “I was afraid…you might be gone…in the morning.”

  His lashes lifted. Hot silver scorched her. “Did you even consider my warnings, my sweet?” He lifted his hand and drifted his fingers across her cheek.

  Pleasure jumped like sparks from nerve to nerve, from her face to her neck, to her breasts. Her nipples stiffened. A reply became impossible.

  He knew. He let one blunt forefinger slide down her throat. Her pulse slammed beneath it.

  “I wanted you to come,” he whispered.

  She wet her lips, swallowed. “I can’t let you leave.”

  “Tonight, I am not going anywhere without you.”

  That wasn’t what she had meant, but it didn’t really matter. “Did you know I would come here tonight?”

  He caressed her cheek. “Yes.”

  She turned her mouth to his palm and pressed her lips there.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered, “brave…and bold.”

  She closed her eyes, the skin of his palm salty against her tongue. She was feeling faint. So much desire had gathered, consuming her. It was hard to think, to speak. “I have never been bold before.” She looked at him as he dropped his hand, only to lay it on her throat and collarbone.

  “I know.” His fingers played. “May I teach you how to be very bold before this night is through?”

  “You may teach me anything you wish,” she breathed.

  The beautiful smile reformed while his silver eyes glittered. He took her hand and lifted it. His mouth caressed the edges of her fingers and more delicious pleasure sparked and the flames fanned. “An invitation I could never refuse.”

  She went still as he rubbed his lips sensually over the inside of her palm. He slowly straightened and pulled her gently forward. One arm went around her back; his palm moved over her breast, above her clothes, but the glancing touch was like fire. His fingers brushed her throat; she inhaled. He pulled a hairpin from her hair and smiled at her. Then he removed another one.

  He was taking her hair down. She trembled.


  He pulled more pins out and tossed them aside. “In one night, I can only do so much,” he murmured, his smile filled with secrets she didn’t understand. “But in one night, I will teach you what I can.” He tugged more hairpins loose, scattering them. “I hope you are prepared for endless pleasure.” His hands moved into her curls.

  She hollowed and gave in to the stabbing need. His huge hands were in her hair, fanning it out, parting the tight curls, loosening them, but every time he brushed her head, her face, her shoulders, the tension tightened. Her flesh throbbed with growing urgency now. Her knees felt weak and maybe they buckled, because he caught her.

  “Then one night will not be enough,” she whispered, acutely aware of his hands splayed out on her lower back. He didn’t press her close but it didn’t quite matter. The heat coming from him was searing.

  “You may be right,” he said, but there was soft, sensual laughter in his tone. “One night might not be enough for us, princess.”

  “Are you going to kiss me?” she cried, her pulse explosive.

  He laughed. “The first thing you will learn is patience.” His smile vanished. “I think I might be able to give you pleasure, right now. Shall we find out?”

  She stared, uncertain whether to be dismayed or not.

  He grasped her waist, pulled her against him, and the skirts between them no longer mattered. He moved his mouth against her neck. Ariella closed her eyes and trembled violently. Pleasure fanned.

  His hands lowered. He caught her buttocks, pulled her high and hard and she felt herself spasm against his rock hardness. She gasped.

  His tongue stroked over her throat as his fingers dug into her waist. His arousal thrust into her skirts. And then his mouth moved over hers.

  She threw her arms around his neck and felt him grunt in satisfaction. Pleasure blinded her; she wrapped one leg around his waist and he tore her skirts from between them, spinning her. Her back found something hard—a wagon. And then his bulging loins thrust against hers. With his fingers, he tore open the slit in her drawers, ripping them, fabric tearing loudly.

  She wept with pleasure as he ground against her and caressed her. The spasms slowed. Her racing heart slowed. She felt almost boneless. He slid her down his body, her skin inflamed and firing, until her feet touched the ground. And for one moment, he held her that way.