A Dangerous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  “I care about you—I need you—and I miss you when we are apart. Isn’t that enough?” If he said the words, she would agree. And would they really be a lie?

  “You are coming very close,” she breathed. “But not close enough.”

  She sighed as he began brushing her mouth and her lips. “Impossible man,” she murmured.

  He spent the next five minutes readying them both. When she was moaning in pleasure and he was pushing deep, he whispered, “I do love you.”

  She gasped, her eyes flying wide open.

  And he wasn’t certain he did not mean it.

  “SIT WITH ME,” Emilian said the next day, his expression very difficult to read. It was so impassive, he could have been seated at a table, gaming with cards.

  But he was on the driver’s seat of a wagon pulled by a pair of sorrel mares. The caravan was departing. The first few wagons were already on the road. She was too happy to be tired, despite having had only a few minutes of sleep, and raised her skirts to climb up onto the driver’s seat with him. He lifted the reins and the two mares walked forward.

  She remained impossibly aware of him. He smelled like fresh mown grass, pine and something far more exotic, perhaps an Eastern spice. She smiled, admiring his beautiful profile, thinking of his heated confession. Her heart soared. “How far does the caravan usually travel in a day?”

  “Ten or fifteen miles.” His gray eyes swept her face. They seemed to linger on her mouth. “There is no rush.”

  She thought of his declaration again and her heart raced. Would it be forgotten in the light of day? “It is such a beautiful morning,” she exclaimed. She wasn’t sure the sky had ever been as blue, the sun as bright, the birds as cheerful. She wasn’t sure Emilian had ever been as handsome.

  He glanced ahead. “Perhaps in a day or two the nomadic life will become boring.”

  “I haven’t been this far north in years,” she said swiftly, thinking that as long as they were together, she would never be bored. “Besides, it is a part of my heritage, too, even if I have never done more than study it in the history books.”

  “You were raised as an Englishwoman,” he said slowly. “Have you ever wondered about your mother’s life?”

  “Of course I have. It was a life of bigotry and exodus, of ghettos and hatred. I wish I had known her and her family, or at least whether they suffered or lived well.”

  “You have no desire to find them?”

  “When she was with my father, she told him her father had died in Tripoli, and there was no one else. So no, I have had no desire to try to trace that side of my ancestry.”

  “Will you ever consider returning to Rose Hill?” he asked seriously.

  She faced him fully, and laid her hand on his thigh. “You know you don’t want me to go.”

  He flushed. “You think you are an enchantress now?”

  Ariella decided she did not even have to bother to reply. He knew that answer.

  He finally said, “I am waiting for a reply to my proposal.”

  “Emilian, surely you did not mean it!”

  He said softly, “I did mean it. And do not demand another confession.”

  Was she so foolish? She was deliriously happy because he had finally told her he loved her, and she was carrying his child. She beamed. “I will wait for another confession,” she said. She leaned toward him and brushed her mouth over his cheek. “I am an independent woman, a strong one. I will not be broken by the Romany life.”

  “What does that mean?” he demanded.

  “It means yes, I will marry you.”

  “WILL YOU, Emilian St Xavier, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?” the rector asked, smiling.

  It was only a few hours later. Ariella stood in a small village chapel, almost disbelieving, clad in an ivory lace dress that had belonged to Jaelle’s grandmother. She wore her own pearls. Emilian wore a dark frock coat, silk shirt and dark cravat, with pale trousers and his boots. The entire kumpa’nia was crowded into the old church, which had been strewn with wildflowers, pinecones and wreaths woven with daisies.

  He had insisted they marry that very day. Ariella had wondered at the urgency, but he had refused to discuss either a proper wedding or any postponement. It hadn’t really mattered, for marrying Emilian was her wildest dream come true. She only regretted the fact that her family was not present. The preparations had been made in such a whirlwind that her head was spinning, even now as Emilian said, very firmly, “Yes, I do.”

  The rector, a young man whose buxom wife was wide-eyed with excitement in the first pew, turned to Ariella. “And do you, Ariella de Warenne, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, until death do you part?”

  She met Emilian’s eyes. His demeanor was partly sober and partly grim. She had never seen a man as determined, and certainly not at his own wedding. Was he having doubts about her? Did it matter? Their journey had definitely begun and nothing and no one could stop them now.

  “Ariella?” Emilian asked.

  She smiled at him. “I do take this man to be my lawful, wedded husband, until death do us part.”

  Relief flared in his eyes.

  Had he really thought she would change her mind and stand him up at the altar? Didn’t he know how much she loved him and that she would never stop loving him? Or was something else worrying him?

  “You may exchange rings,” the rector said.

  Ariella wasn’t terribly surprised when Stevan produced two simple gold rings, perhaps locally purchased, perhaps borrowed. Emilian gave her a look and murmured, “I will buy you the diamond of your choice when we return to Woodland.”

  Were they returning to Woodland? As he slipped the wedding band on her fourth finger, she stared at it, breathing hard. Tears of happiness began.

  Stevan handed her his ring, and she slipped it onto Emilian’s finger. She looked up, her vision thoroughly blurred.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the rector cried. His wife started to weep and the Roma clapped and cheered.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the rector said warmly.

  Ariella couldn’t quite smile, but Emilian smiled at her, his eyes oddly soft. He leaned toward her and brushed her mouth once, and then just stood there, looking at her. She felt him tremble.

  Emilian didn’t move, his hands tightening on her shoulders. She sensed he wanted to say something but simply couldn’t. And then they were surrounded by their friends, the men pulling him away, the women hugging her enthusiastically. Someone started playing a flute.

  Ariella wiped her eyes. My God, she thought, dazed, watching the men pounding Emilian on the back—they were married, at last.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ARIELLA PAUSED on a hill, staring down into the valley below. A small, quaint Border village was nestled just below the ridge. It consisted mostly of stone farmhouses, framed by lush fields of hay and oats. Smoke came from the stone chimneys and birds flocked on the thatched roofs. Sheep were grazing in the fields with a few cows scattered about. Ariella saw a pair of furry gray donkeys. It was charming and picturesque and her impossibly happy heart leaped.

  She had been traveling with Emilian as his bride for over a week now, and she was more deeply in love than she had ever dreamed possible. They rode together as he drove the wagon by day, discussing the works of Shakespeare, Chaucer and Keats, the radical thoughts and programs of Owens, Shaftsbury and Place, the history of the Romany, the Vikings and the Jews. They debated the efficacy of Peel’s police and the continuing reform of the penal codes. They argued over the extent and content of parliamentary reform. He was well educated and as intelligent and as well-read as she. And he was a progressive thinker. She could not be more thrilled.

  He did not condemn her for her independent manner or thinking. Every debate brought the light of admiration to his eyes. In fact, he frequently conceded to her when they were in disagreement. Many times she had heard him say, softly and seduc
tively, “Point taken.”

  Ariella hugged herself, and then danced a few steps forward, feeling as light and buoyant as the clouds. It was late afternoon. They had stopped for the evening a bit earlier than usual. Behind her was a stand of woods and beyond that, the encampment. She should go back and help Jaelle with their supper.

  She heard an odd whinny.

  It was high-pitched, the sound of a young animal in distress.

  Ariella glanced around. It took her a moment to see a young horse, perhaps a yearling, caught up in a thicket. It snorted again, showing the whites of its eyes. It was frightened, trapped in the brush.

  She would need a rope. She briefly debated going to get Emilian. Then she saw that the colt was bleeding on its forelegs, undoubtedly having panicked and hurt itself. She hurried down the slope.

  The young animal went still as she approached. Ariella undid her sash, crooning to the colt. He started backing up, thrashing in the thorny brush, when she tried to put the sash around its neck. She soothed it again and eventually had the colt lassoed. A moment later she was leading it out of the thicket.

  She was about to let the horse go when she saw two men heading rapidly her way, obviously coming from the closest farm. The men were very angry and she was instantly alarmed.

  She released the colt. Her every instinct told her to flee, but that was absurd. “Good afternoon,” she began, smiling, but the younger man did not stop. She was shocked when he seized her arm, so hard she cried out.

  “We seem to have a Gypsy horse thief,” he said. “A pretty one, at that.”

  She was so surprised that for one moment, she did not speak. What had he said?

  He leered at her, looking directly down her low-cut blouse.

  “You misunderstand,” she cried, trying to jerk the bodice up. Her cheeks flamed “Let me go!”

  He jerked her against his body. “Shut up.”

  For one moment she was so stunned that she was incapable of thought, as well as speech. No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before.

  “We brand Gypsy thieves in Skirwith, but we screw their whores.” He grinned at her.

  Real fear seized her.

  They thought she was a Gypsy—this was how they treated Gypsies—look at what had happened to Jaelle and Raiza!

  Horror began, melding with the fear. “Let me go, this instant! How dare you speak to me in such a way,” she cried. This could not be happening. She was Ariella de Warenne and she was the viscountess St Xavier!

  “She sounds like a high-an’-mighty lady,” the older man said. He slapped the colt’s rump and sent it running off.

  Ariella was now still, acutely, horrifically aware of the man’s body pressed against hers. His intentions were terrible—she had to get away. “Let me go,” she said again, firmly. “I am the viscountess St Xavier.”

  “God, she thinks she’s a countess! Are you a Gypsy countess, sweetheart?” He laughed. “I’ll tell you what. Trick for trade. You do me and we’ll leave your pretty ears alone.”

  She closed her eyes against her fear. Then she said, “Let me go or you will pay.”

  “Johnnie, she sounds English,” the older man said with some uncertainty.

  “Must be an English Gypsy.” He slid his hand over her breast.

  Ariella struggled, red exploding in her brain. He laughed, pulling her blouse down, revealing her breasts. Ariella didn’t think—she reacted. She bit his arm as hard as she could. He howled, releasing her.

  She ran.

  She lifted her skirts and ran up the slope, as hard as she could, in full-blown terror. She heard him cursing, heard his footsteps, his heavy breathing. He was so close behind her. She forced her legs to pump harder, gulping air, mindless with the fear. She had to escape him. She stumbled onto the hilltop but didn’t pause. Her lungs exploding, she ran toward the stand of trees. Branches tore at her hands, arms, her cheeks, and he grabbed her skirt from behind.

  She went down hard on her face and belly.

  “Gotcha,” he snarled.

  Ariella screamed for Emilian. As he crawled to her, she rolled over and went for his eyes with her nails.

  He jerked back and she raked his face instead. Then she seized a stone. Rearing up, she smashed it against his jaw. She was stunned when his eyes widened and rolled back in his head. He collapsed a moment later.

  She fell to her hands and knees, shaking, shocked, breathless. And then she heard Emilian. Somehow she stood, pulling up her blouse, and staggered through the woods toward him.

  I AM SORRY, Emilian, but Emma was the wife of both Cnut and Aethelred. You have your facts wrong.

  He smiled to himself, for she was probably right, and then thought of their recent debate on the subject of Catholic Emancipation. Ariella had pointed out that the universities still excluded dissenters, while he had tried to explain that sometimes gradual reform was for the best. She had begun to refute that—until he had kissed her.

  He laid the load of firewood down, his mind now transported to the night before and the night to come. Images tumbled through his mind of his beautiful princess bride, naked and flushed, moving over him, riding him, demanding so much. His pulse was hard to ignore. She had become a very bold and adept lover, and he did not mind, not at all.

  He had meant to send her back to Woodland right after their wedding night. But that had been the best night of his life, filled with desire, explosive passions and simple smiles. He had told himself he would send her back the following day—but that day had been as pleasant, as uplifting, as had the days afterward. He knew that she had to go back eventually. She could not live with him as a Gypsy. This interlude must end—sooner, not later. He knew she would argue and that he would miss her. But he was simply delaying the inevitable.

  He glanced at the sun, which would not set for an hour or so yet. Not an evening came that he was not as impatient as a raw boy to be with her.

  And he heard her scream.

  For one heartbeat, he was in disbelief. He whirled, heading for the woods, his heart exploding in alarm. “Ariella!” There was no reply.

  He ran harder, faster. But before he reached the woods, she emerged from them, stumbling. She was dirty, bedraggled, her blouse torn. He froze in horror.

  What had they done to her?

  She staggered, holding out her arms. He rushed forward, catching her. “Are you all right?” he gasped hoarsely.

  She shivered in his arms. “Now I know what it is like to be Romni,” she said brokenly.

  The world went still. He felt the cold, savage and ruthless part of himself take over. “Were you raped?” he asked quietly. He would kill the gadjos who had done this.

  “No,” she said. “I am fine, Emilian,” she began, but then her expression froze. Eyes wide, she gasped, doubling over, clutching her abdomen.

  He held her, going down to his knees with her, terrified. “Ariella! What is it?”

  She didn’t speak—clearly she couldn’t. He tore her hands from her stomach, expecting to find a terrible wound there, but her clothes were intact. He thrust up her skirt, but her belly wasn’t even bruised. She cried out again, striking his hands away, folding over in pain.

  He held her while she fought a torment he could not identify. There was so much fear. “What is it? What is wrong? Ariella, answer me!”

  Panting, she looked up at him, her cheeks as white as sheets, her eyes bright with pain. “The baby…” she gasped. “I can’t lose our baby!”

  EMILIAN SAT outside his tent, holding his head in his hands. His aunt had ordered him away hours ago, when he had become paralyzed by the sight of Ariella holding her belly in pain. Her moans had followed him outside. They had ceased a while ago.

  She was carrying his child. Why hadn’t she told him? Had he gotten her pregnant the first night they had been together, a night of budjo and revenge, or the next time, when he had used her in almost as much anger? He was sick over her pain and at the thought that their child might have been conceived from such
ruthless, savage acts.

  He kept seeing her shining eyes, her joyous smile. She deserved happiness. She could not lose their child!

  The silence was heavy, stunning. What was happening? He shuddered, finding it hard to breathe. He had selfishly delayed sending her back to Woodland and now she was suffering a miscarriage.

  He felt someone clasp his shoulder firmly.

  It was Stevan. He hadn’t realized his uncle had come out of the tent and he rose to his feet. The moment he met his uncle’s sober eyes, he knew. No, he thought, panicking.

  “She lost the child, Emilian.”

  He pulled away, shaking his head, so undone, he felt near tears. “Ariella?”

  “She is resting. She will be fine.”

  Would she? He wiped at a stray tear. They had lost their child because he hadn’t sent her back to Woodland.

  “It was still early in the pregnancy. She said she was only ten weeks along,” Stevan said, trying to console him.

  He covered his face with his hands. She had conceived that first night at Woodland. Do you believe in love at first sight?

  Ariella believed she had fallen in love with him at first sight.

  Do you believe in fate?

  Was this loss fated? Ariella did not deserve this. Look at what he had done to her!

  His aunt approached, wiping her hands on a damp cloth. Simcha smiled kindly. “She is young and strong. There will be more children and you must tell her so.”

  He trembled, filled with self-loathing. “Of course. How is she?”

  Simcha gave him a look. “She is grieving. It is usual.”

  He steeled himself. She would hate him now, too. But he deserved the hatred.

  He ducked into the tent. He thought he was prepared for the worst, but when he saw her lying there, tears streaming, not making a sound, he was undone. His heart broke in half.

  As she wept soundlessly, he became aware of the extent of his own devastation. He hadn’t known of her pregnancy, but she had been carrying his child. They would never know this child. They would never even know if it had been a boy or a girl.