by Brenda Joyce
He reminded himself that she was a gadji princess. One day, there would be a gadjo prince.
Uncomfortable, he glanced at the book she clutched. His eyes widened when he saw Shakespeare on the spine. Relieved at the distraction, he said, “Have you been reading Romeo and Juliet to me?” He was amused.
“I have been reading Henry V.”
His smile vanished and he sat up straighter. “That is hardly a romance novel.”
“I lied. I do not read romance novels,” she said.
The “lie” was hard to comprehend. “Why Henry V?”
“I admire King Henry,” she said. Her gaze was direct. “In spite of his shortcomings. He was proud—too proud, really—but so brave.” She added, “He was so easily prodded into battle. A simple mockery made him wish to go to war.”
He felt uncomfortable. “He was shortsighted.”
“Perhaps, but he was a strong leader.” Her regard did not waver. “His men trusted him. He had charisma and they would follow him anywhere.”
“He was ruthless,” Emilian said slowly.
“Yes, he was ruthless—when betrayed.”
“He was betrayed and the English boys in his army were foully murdered,” Emilian said, sitting even straighter. Were they talking about Henry or him?
“The tragedy has only made me even fonder of Henry,” Ariella said firmly.
“Of course.” She understood the parallels perfectly. “And do you approve of his vengeance? He made sure those boys were avenged.”
“No, I do not approve, for Henry murdered all the French prisoners he had,” Ariella said tersely. “Violence begets violence, Emilian. That is the moral here. Surely you know that. Surely you are not thinking of revenge!”
He looked past her, recalling Tollman’s smirk and sneer. He glanced at her. “Henry married the French queen and became the King of France,” Emilian said harshly. “That was the outcome of such violence.”
“I cannot help but admire Henry’s pride, his courage, his skill as a leader, but every time I read this, I cry when those children are unjustly murdered. And I cringe, knowing what Henry will do next!” she said. “I cry over the injustices the Romany have suffered and continue to suffer, and I have wept over what they did to you! I am cringing at the look in your eyes now.”
He breathed hard, arms crossed now, thinking of how he would make Tollman pay. A flogging seemed appropriate—a brutal one. He trembled with anger and hatred. “You should have picked a different drama, Ariella.”
“You are so proud—so courageous—but I pray that you will not allow your pride to dictate vengeance,” she said harshly.
“I recall every single detail of what happened, Ariella,” he said. “And while I thank God you did not murder Tollman, he must pay.”
“He was arrested. There is an inquiry being launched. He will wind up in prison, Emilian.”
The arrest surprised him, but then he thought she had somehow been behind it. Of course she had. “Will he be convicted?” He flung his legs over the side of the bed so quickly his back hurt and he grunted. He lost a great deal of the sheet and he seized it, uncaring that his navel was exposed.
She looked and flushed. “My father,” she said, “is a fair man. Tollman broke the law when he decided to punish you for something you didn’t even do. Punishment is reserved for judges and juries. We cannot take the law into our own hands.”
He was certain she had pushed her father into seeking justice for him. “I don’t need or want gadjo charity.”
She inhaled. “That is unfair. My attending you wasn’t charity.”
“That I know. I am speaking of your father, going out of his way to please you, when he hardly cares about my fate.”
“That is unfair and untrue.” She left the chair and sat on the edge of the bed by his exposed hip. His pulse, already high with anger, responded instantly to her. She dared to caress his cheek again but the desire was welcome. He could not imagine not wanting her so badly, so urgently, even in the midst of a serious difference of opinion.
“He cares about justice. He cares about bigotry. And I was raised to have the same cares, the same values. Emilian, promise me you will leave Tollman alone.”
It crossed his mind that she had become the extraordinarily generous and open-minded person she was because of her family. “I am not making any such promise,” he said flatly. “How is Djordi?”
She tensed. “He did steal the horse, Emilian. He has been arrested, too.”
He cried out, furious. “And Stevan and the kumpa’nia?”
“They remain at Woodland,” she whispered, her eyes on his. “There have been no further incidents, not really.”
“What does that mean?” He had to get out of the sickroom and return home.
“Tempers are high. The villagers want them gone. Father is trying to calm everyone.”
“You are worried.” He saw it in her eyes.
She grimaced. “Yes, I am.”
“Allow me to worry. You have done enough.” But her heart was simply too large and too accommodating to stop worrying about the Roma. He took her hand and looked up into her eyes. “You have spent a week of your life caring for me. I cannot repay you with an argument. Maybe you are right about your father. It has been my experience that most of society is intolerant, but not all of it. If he seeks to defuse the situation, I am grateful to him, as well as to you.”
“If you want people to have an open mind about the Romany people, shouldn’t you have an open mind about the gadjos? We are not all the same. I can’t believe, in all your years at Woodland, you have not realized that.”
He stared, thinking about how extraordinary she was.
She smiled at him. “You are too intelligent, Emilian, to be a bigot against all gadjos.”
She was right. And he did know some decent Englishmen. Something in his heart softened impossibly. “So I should walk into a salon and assume everyone is eager to be my acquaintance, and that the whispers I can just barely hear are not filled with condescension?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It can be an experiment.” Her tone was rough. “It can be our experiment.”
His heart lurched again. He let his eyes close and this time he kissed her palm slowly, tasting the soft skin in its center while his blood roared. There was one way in which he could pay this woman back, and it had nothing to do with social experiments.
She made a soft, throaty sound.
He pulled her closer, wrapping his hand around her nape. Her hair began to fall down. He pulled her other hand low onto his belly. She gasped, brushing the stiff folds in the sheet.
“I want to thank you, Ariella, for taking on Tollman—and for caring for me.” He brushed her mouth once with his. He had never meant anything more.
Her eyes were wide, warm, loving.
He choked on an insane need to make love to her. “But don’t ever interfere again, not in such violent matters,” he said. He searched her face, their lips centimeters apart.
“How could I not interfere?” she whispered. “Emilian, I was so scared.”
He almost told her, So was I. Instead, he brushed her mouth again, this time with more pressure. She whimpered and opened her lips. He let his tongue roam freely, slowly, sensually. Her hands moved to his shoulders, seizing him there, a sign he now knew well. It would be so easy to lay her down and move over her, into her, satisfying them both.
Damn it, he was at Rose Hill, and he owed his host so much. And he owed her now with his life.
He murmured, meaning to tease but too aroused to do so, “When am I allowed to resume normal activity?” And he did what an English gentleman would do: he released her.
She murmured, “I hope it is today.”
HE WAS AWARE of his servant’s intent regard as he wolfed down the bowl of stew. When he was done, he sighed.
“May I bring you more?” Hoode asked, smiling.
“No, thank you. You may help me finish dressing and you may tell me about Miss de
Warenne.” He stood, wearing only trousers. He had already checked his back in the mirror. It was crisscrossed with scabs and new pink skin. He felt certain there would be scars. That was good, as it would remind him to finish things with Tollman—and for the rest of his life, it would remind him that most gadjos deserved his hatred.
“Miss de Warenne, my lord, has proved herself the most loyal of friends.”
Emilian crossed the bedroom to where a broadcloth shirt was hanging on a stand. “How so?”
“She only left your side when ordered to do so by her father, and then, for only an hour or two at a time.”
He smiled at his reflection, oddly pleased, even satisfied, as he began to shrug on the shirt. He winced.
“Her entire family has been most accommodating. They are the highest people,” Hoode continued. “Captain and Mrs. de Warenne checked on you, as did the earl’s wife, Mr. Alexi de Warenne, the younger sister and Lady Margery. And they have given your sister a room, although I do not believe she has used it.”
“My sister must have been worried. Can you send for her?”
“Of course, my lord.” A knock sounded on the door. As Hoode went to answer it, he buttoned up the shirt. He tensed when his host stepped into the room.
Cliff de Warenne nodded at him politely. “I am pleased you are up and about,” he said carefully.
Emilian faced his host. “I would like to thank you for your generosity and hospitality,” he said. He meant it but he was wary, for de Warenne had probably come seeking information about his relationship with Ariella.
“You are welcome. The flogging was a travesty.” De Warenne looked at Hoode. “I’d like a word with the viscount.”
Hoode left instantly, closing the door behind him.
De Warenne regarded him with intensity. “Although we do not spend more than a month or two each year at Rose Hill, I feel an obligation to provide this community with leadership, and to set an example for others. Tollman is in a Manchester jail, but his family has hired solicitors, and I believe he will soon be released on bond. There is a controversy over whether any charges can be brought, as you volunteered to take the flogging.”
He laughed. “Of course there is controversy. I am not worried about Tollman, even should he be freed.”
Cliff shook his head. “I recognize the look in your eyes. I suggest you allow the legal system to manage this affair. Seeking vengeance will not help your case, and you have a responsibility to Woodland and the shire.”
“Lately, I have come to believe my duties are to my Roma brothers and sisters,” Emilian said. “What about Djordi?”
“I have arranged for him to leave with the Rom. He is young, and that is why he will be let off lightly, but he is to leave Derbyshire, St Xavier, and not come back.”
“Of course not.” He felt the hatred welling. Djordi was being banished, an age-old persecution.
“You might suggest that the next time he wishes to abscond with a horse, to choose one not so unusually marked,” de Warenne said softly.
Emilian ignored that. At least Djordi could return to the caravan. But he was damned if he’d leave Tollman alone, not if he was released on bond.
“I want to discuss my daughter with you.”
Emilian met his piercing blue gaze, tensing. “I owe your daughter a vast debt,” he said flatly.
“Yes, you do. I believe she saved your life.” His stare did not waver.
“I realize that.”
“I asked you at the Simmonses what your intentions were. You said you had none.”
Emilian did not respond.
“It is quite obvious that Ariella is very fond of you. Do you return her feelings at all?” de Warenne said with growing heat.
Emilian turned from the other man, stunned by such a question. Surely de Warenne did not wish for him to step forth as a suitor. “Your daughter is an exceptional lady. I have never met a woman like her.”
“Answer the question.”
She was his angel of mercy. He breathed hard. “I am leaving, de Warenne. I am going north with the caravan.”
De Warenne started. “Does Ariella know this?”
“Yes, she does.”
“You are speaking as if you will not return.”
“I may be gone for months, years. I do not know.”
“What about your estate?”
“I have hired a manager.”
“I fail to understand. You have been viscount for years. Why leave now?”
“That is my affair, de Warenne.” He would not explain himself to anyone.
“Really? Because it seems to me that you have led my daughter on. In which case, your affairs become mine.” De Warenne’s eyes flashed.
Emilian prepared for battle, but with some reluctance. Not only did he owe Ariella and her brother, he owed this man, too. “I have never insinuated any false intentions to your daughter. To the contrary, I have been brutally honest with her.” He thought he flushed. “I am half blood. I have never courted an Englishwoman, nor will I. Frankly, I have no plans to ever marry. I am going north. I do not know if I will return. Ariella knows all of this.”
A tense moment ensued. “There is a family myth that has never been proved false. A de Warenne loves once—and it is forever.”
He flushed. What the hell did that mean? “Surely I am misinterpreting your words. You cannot be implying that you wish for me to come forward as a suitor?” He steeled himself, for he expected de Warenne to laugh at him.
There was no laughter. Somberly, he said, “If that makes my daughter happy, yes.”
He was stunned.
“Have no doubt, you are the last man I would have chosen for her. I have made an investigation this past week, St Xavier. You shun Derbyshire and London society, yet you manage Woodland magnificently. You have a keen intellect for business affairs, but you are a ladies’ man—openly so. A man of business I can and do admire, but a recluse and a rogue? My daughter should do better and I fear for her heart.”
He was reeling. His host actually wished for him to court Ariella? Was this a sick jest? “You seem to have forgotten that a great deal of society shuns me for my Gypsy blood,” he said.
“You have been at Woodland since you were a boy. That makes you as English as myself. But you are entitled to your heritage—all of it—just as Ariella is entitled to hers. I do not object to your heritage. I object to your behavior.”
Emilian recalled Ariella’s admission that her mother had been a Jewess. But de Warenne taking that woman as a lover was very much like all the gadjos who took Romni women to their beds, wasn’t it?
“I heard about your mother’s murder in Edinburgh,” he said suddenly. Emilian stiffened. “Is that why you are about to walk away from the life your father gave you?”
“I have a duty to her,” he said, quietly furious now.
“I am sorry for your loss. But you have many duties, and not just to your dead mother.”
He was not about to discuss Raiza with this gadjo. “Thank you,” he managed to say, the words an utter pretense.
“I have had grave doubts about you from the moment we met,” de Warenne said flatly. “I am an excellent judge of character, and my concerns are based on far more than the fact of your rakehell ways. You are angry, belligerent and somehow scarred—I do not mean physically. My daughter deserves a great and lasting love. Rakehells can be reformed, but a damaged man cannot give her the love she deserves.”
He trembled, oddly dismayed, as well as angry now. “Ariella deserves a gadjo prince. I hope you find her one.” He meant it.
De Warenne’s eyes burned. “If you break her heart, I will be the one to personally make you pay.”
He stiffened. De Warenne’s reputation as a great friend and deadly enemy was well-known.
De Warenne stalked to the door. “The sooner you leave these premises, the better. I no longer feel very generous or hospitable. And the sooner your relationship with my daughter ends, the better. Make certain it remains
platonic.” De Warenne walked out.
THE MOMENT HE OPENED the bedroom door, he knew he had found Ariella’s room. He could just barely detect her jasmine and tuberose scent, but every inch of the blue and beige decor was so simple and elegant that there could be no doubt. For one moment, his heart thrumming, he merely stood there and took in the serene interior.
He was leaving Rose Hill. Hoode was already downstairs, where his coach was waiting out front. He hadn’t seen Ariella since that morning, and he felt certain she did not even know he was leaving. But that wasn’t why he stood on the threshold of her private apartments.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leaning against it. This was where she went to bed every night and woke up every morning; this was where, had he accepted her invitation, he would have made love to her. This was where she bathed, dressed, brushed her hair. This was her private, personal sanctuary.
A terrible need to know her completely, to fill in any lingering gaps, assailed him, and he could not deny that the prospect of leaving was distasteful.
A vase of white roses was on the table by the pin-striped sofa, undoubtedly from the gardens, and a book lay facedown beside it. He glanced from the sofa to the canopied bed, its covers and draperies the exact vivid blue color of her eyes. A book lay on the bed, too, as if she had left it there after reading.
He glanced around slowly, taking in every item: the two quietly elegant tea gowns hanging up on a stand in one corner of the room; the beautiful hand-painted jewelry box on the bureau, a collection of jewelry left out beside it; a hairbrush beside that; another book on the bedside table, along with a single yellow rose in a crystal bud vase. He glanced at the bookcase against one wall. No one he knew had a bookcase in the bedroom, and hers was full. It was odd. Or was it?
He went to the mantel first. Above it was a family portrait. He recognized her father and stepmother, perhaps as newlyweds, for from their dress and youth he surmised it had been painted two decades or so ago. The small golden girl seated beside them, a book in hand, was clearly Ariella. Her brother stood with them, grinning, his hand on a wolfhound. Ariella was solemn, intent.
