A Dangerous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Somehow, for her sake, he pushed through the black waves of anguish, grief and guilt. He knelt beside her, taking her hand. He did not know what to say.

  She had been accosted in the woods—because of him. She had lost their child—because of him. She was in pain and sorrow—because of him.

  “Ariella?” When she didn’t respond, he touched her cheek. “I am sorry.”

  Her face tightened. Then, finally, her lashes lifted, and more tears poured down her face. “I lost our baby,” she choked.

  There was a chance that she might not have been pregnant at all. Yet Simcha had said she was certain. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I have never missed a time. I missed two times and my body was different….” She closed her eyes, bit her fist and sobbed against it.

  He pulled her fist to his chest, and then it was simply not enough. He pulled her stiff, resistant body into his arms. She wept against his chest and he held her helplessly. And his tears finally mingled with hers.

  ARIELLA STARED up at the dark green ceiling of the tent. The baby was gone.

  The feeling of emptiness intensified, the sense of loss became consuming. She had no tears left to shed, and the grief had become a black, bottomless hole in her heart. She kept picturing what their child would have looked like. She imagined it had been a boy with Emilian’s gray eyes. How could this have happened?

  She hugged herself. The Romany lived in a world of bigotry and hatred, a world filled with injustice. Even though she knew, rationally, that she could have had a miscarriage at Rose Hill or Woodland, ignorant, hateful gadjos had done this to her. They had accused her of horse stealing, and they had assaulted her in a cruel and brutal way. Because of the two farmers, she had lost her baby. And this was how the Roma lived. How did anyone stand it?

  She closed her eyes tightly, trembling. She had understood how difficult the Roma way of life was before arriving at their camp to be with Emilian, but somehow, the entire truth had escaped her until this tragedy. Just then, she hated the gadjos and understood Emilian’s hatred well.

  She trembled and was surprised when a tear leaked down her cheek.

  “You are awake,” Emilian said, sounding relieved.

  He was the father of her child, the man she loved, the man she had given up everything for. He was her husband and he shared her loss. She needed him now, but her heart didn’t stir. There was too much grief.

  He sat down beside her, took her hand and held it tightly. “Ariella, can I please bring you something to eat?” he asked quietly, but she recognized the uncertainty in his tone.

  “How can I eat?” she managed.

  “You must eat, even though you have no appetite,” he said.

  She noted that he looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept. He looked older—there were lines on his forehead and his face seemed drawn.

  “You’ve been sleeping for two entire days,” he continued, unsmiling.

  “I am so ill,” Ariella whispered. “My heart hurts so much. I don’t know what to do, Emilian. I don’t know how to get through this.”

  “I know.” He reached for her. “But you will get through this, I promise.”

  She went into his arms, but his embrace didn’t chase the grief away. She wept again, surprised she had more tears to shed.

  He held her until she was done.

  He stood up. “I am going to get you some soup Simcha made,” he said, his tone thick.

  She did not have the strength to argue. She looked up at him and found him staring intensely at her again. He was visibly distressed. Had he loved their child, too, after the fact?

  “Emilian?” she whispered. “I should have told you…. I was going to. I was waiting for the right time.”

  He nodded, and he seemed incapable of speech.

  He was grieving, too, she thought. “We will have other children…eventually.”

  His face tightened. “Ariella.” He stopped, as if he thought the better of what he must say. He inhaled and said, “I am sorry.”

  She nodded at him. “I know.”

  His eyes blazed with anguish and he left.

  It crossed her numb mind that something else was wrong with him—terribly so—but she simply didn’t have the strength or will to try to comprehend it now. She moved onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.

  THEY HAD CROSSED the Borders several days ago. The caravan had halted for the night. They were two days from the town where he had been born—the town where Raiza was buried. Yet the significance of that was somehow lost in the trauma of Ariella’s miscarriage.

  He had set up their tent, and Ariella was making their bed. He stood beside his wagon, watching her through the open tent flap. She had lost weight. She ate very little, and didn’t sleep well. She woke up in the middle of every night, crying. He held her, feeling helpless, consumed with his guilt.

  She moved slowly now, without enthusiasm, tucking the sheets beneath the mattress. Once, she had been like quicksilver. Once, she had been impossibly, adorably talkative. He understood that she was grieving. She had every right to her sorrow. He mourned, too.

  He had done this to his healthy, happy bride.

  It was too late for regrets, but he knew he should have never married her. He should have never returned to Rose Hill to see her. He should have sent her away the moment she had found him in York.

  He watched her finishing the bed, shaking out the heavy comforter. She was strong enough to go back to Woodland, he thought.

  She caught him staring and smiled wanly at him. Suddenly tears filled her eyes and she turned away so he wouldn’t see.

  He caught her in such moments of grief every single day and every single night.

  His self-hatred had grown.

  He moved to their tent but did not enter it. “I’ll cook tonight,” he said. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He had to tell her that she was going back to the life of an Englishwoman. He was certain she would not argue with him.

  He should be relieved. He was not.

  “Emilian?” She faced him, wiping her eyes. “Can you come here?”

  He was surprised, uncertain of what she wanted, as he stepped inside the tent. She began untying her gold sash. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed, but he instantly knew.

  She let it fall and smiled wanly again. “We haven’t been together since…in a week. Make love to me.” She reached for her blouse.

  He stilled her hand. For the first time in his life, he knew he was incapable of making love to a woman. “Why?”

  She forced the fragile smile again. “Don’t you need me?” she whispered.

  She thought to see to his needs? He was incredulous. “I’m fine,” he said swiftly, an utter lie. He was never going to be fine again. He had done far more than ruin this woman.

  She touched his cheek. “You’re not fine. Neither one of us is fine. I am never going to forget what happened, but sooner or later, we will have to try to put the past behind us. I thought lovemaking might help us both.”

  “Ariella, you are clearly not in a passionate mood.”

  She put her arms around him. “Then hold me, please.”

  He did, trembling.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” she said.

  He choked and could no longer stand his pretense. He clasped her shoulders, set her back and looked down at her. “I knew that no good would come of your being pulled down into the filth with me.”

  She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “How many times have I said that you deserve a Prince Charming?”

  Her eyes widened. Then she cried, “I can’t debate this now!”

  He released her. “I have no intention of debating you, Ariella. Once, you were the brightest light I could see—as bright as the North Star. Once, your every other expression was a smile, and laughter trailed in your wake. Your eyes used to smile at me!”

  “I have lost our child. I am sorry, Emilian, but I am struggling with my grief.”


  “I know. Damn it, do not apologize to me!” he roared.

  She flinched.

  “I seduced you for budjo—and you have been with us long enough to know what that means.”

  She paled impossibly and he knew she hadn’t realized.

  “I started this. I hunted a beautiful, perfect English princess and I brought her down.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Stop! Why are you doing this?” She began to cry. “I am hurting, Emilian.” She held out her hand. “Please, don’t do this now.”

  He shook his head, refusing to take her hand. “I started this and I am ending it. This marriage was a terrible mistake.”

  She sat down, as if her legs had given way, gasping.

  “Look at what I have done to you!” he cried. Then he realized his face was wet. He swatted at the tears.

  “You didn’t do this,” she begged hoarsely.

  “You are living like a Gypsy because of me! Can you honestly tell me that you like living like this? Did you like being called a Gypsy whore? Did you like having those strange men grope you? Did you like being assaulted?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know how anyone can live this way,” she sobbed. “I hate this life. I hate it here!”

  Finally, he had the truth from her. She couldn’t live like a Gypsy. And in a way, he was relieved. Hadn’t he been expecting such condemnation ever since they had first met?

  She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t fight for us now. I can’t.”

  “There is nothing to fight for. I am ending this marriage,” he said.

  She dropped her hands and stared up at him, horrified.

  His heart screamed at him, but he did not want to hear its protest. He could not give her the life she deserved. He had given her pain, sorrow and loss. Worse, he had failed to protect her, his own wife.

  He found his voice. “The marriage is a mistake. It should have never happened. I will give you a divorce.”

  “How can you do this to me now?”

  “You will thank me sooner than you think.”

  Her eyes widened. He felt his heart harden and shrivel up into nothingness. Then he turned and left.

  She stumbled after him and clung to the tent flap. “You bastard. Damn you! Damn you for doing this to me!”

  He gasped, not looking back, but her words felt like a knife in his back. He had turned her against him, at last.

  He walked away, never faltering, into the woods. And then the rage arose, like a howling beast, and it was black with despair. The woman he loved had vanished with the loss of their child. Now, too late, he knew he loved Ariella de Warenne.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE GRAVE WAS in the family cemetery at Adare.

  Ariella slowly walked past marble headstones, raised tombs with stone effigies and several magnificent mausoleums. It was quiet in the cemetery, where her ancestors had been buried since the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. She shivered. It was October now. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. Even clad in a heavy wool gown and an even heavier mantle with a hood, she was too thin and always cold.

  Not a day had gone by since Emilian had left her in Windsong’s front hall almost two months ago that she did not visit the monument that commemorated her child. But this morning she’d realized that she had not come to the cemetery yesterday. She had been busy with callers from town. She frowned, disturbed. For the first time in ages she had enjoyed a lively debate on the upcoming parliamentary elections.

  She realized she missed London.

  Ariella faltered. She had a sacred duty to her child, but instead she was reminiscing over a pleasant afternoon and yearning for town. She looked up at the sky. The sun was behind the thick gray clouds, as if determined to come out.

  I am feeling better, she thought.

  She smiled a little as she drifted past the mausoleum where the previous Earl and Countess of Adare were entombed. She had loved her grandparents dearly. They had passed away comfortably in their sleep within months of each other. She was always comforted as she passed their tomb. Now she could almost feel them walking with her, as if content and pleased.

  I am becoming romantic, she decided.

  But behind the stone edifice was a glaringly empty section of land, the plot her father had reserved for his immediate family. Ariella’s smile faded. Amidst all the green grass and oak trees there was one small white marker.

  Two months ago, the sight had brought fresh tears. Now, Ariella simply knelt solemnly before the stone, laying a bouquet of white roses there.

  Beloved child of Ariella and Emilian St Xavier

  July 27, 1838.

  Forever rest in peace

  “How are you?” she whispered. She was no longer able to envision her infant as clearly as she once had. In her mind’s eyes, the infant had become vague in feature, except for the stunning gray eyes she imagined. The eyes she saw belonged to Emilian.

  She tensed. She could not go to the cemetery without thinking of her child’s father. It had been impossible, as if Emilian was with her when she went to visit.

  She breathed hard and focused on their child, because oddly, she was almost ready to think about her husband. “Your mother is feeling better, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

  She sighed. “I think I am going to London,” she said. “I think it is time I got back to living.” Her smile wavered. “But I will come see you before I go, and I will be back for Christmas.”

  Emilian’s gray eyes blazed at her—with anger.

  I started this and I am ending it. This marriage was a terrible mistake.

  Ariella stood. She hated remembering their last moments together in the kumpa’nia. She had been so sick with grief that their terrible argument was shadowy and vague in her mind, which relieved her. But that didn’t mean she failed to understand how ruthless he had been. He had decided to end their marriage when she was so incapacitated with grief that she had been incapable of fighting back. That night he had driven her to the closest railhead, refusing to speak with her. She had been too overwhelmed with hopelessness to even try to talk him out of it. He had added an insurmountable weight to her grief and mourning.

  I am sorry, but this is for the best. You will realize that when you can think clearly.

  They had traveled by rail across the Lowlands, then taken a ferry to Ireland. Ariella had been consumed with hurt, but she had been furious, too, almost hating him for choosing that moment to destroy their marriage, when she should be allowed her grief. She would never forget the hard and set look he had worn on his face, day after day. She had huddled against the train window, trying to keep herself as far from him as possible, grieving and raging silently, while he sat rigidly beside her, staring purposefully ahead. The tension had been impossible.

  “I am going directly to London to petition for a divorce.”

  “How can you do this to me? How can you do this to us?”

  He hadn’t spent more than a moment or two in the house. It had been raining, a downpour.

  We both know this is my fault.

  He had climbed into the rented carriage and driven away, not looking back.

  Ariella vaguely recalled collapsing in the drive and being carried back into the house by her brother. She recalled Alexi volunteering to kill him, but she had begged him not to interfere, not to make things worse. She was so sick with grief and exhaustion, she had tried to turn her back on Emilian and her memories, her thoughts of him and their marriage. She had been too overwhelmed to fight him. And in a way she had been glad—and relieved—to be home. Windsong was the safest haven she knew. Her private apartments were an even safer sanctuary, where she could crawl into bed whenever she wished and heal her wounds.

  But his image slipped into her mind unannounced, with stealth, every day, several times. Instantly she would be awash with hurt and anger and so much confusion. Then she would dismiss her thoughts. She had enough pain. She did not need any more.

  She had tried, very hard, to
avoid thinking about the divorce. Now, for the first time, Ariella wondered if a deed for a separation had been granted to Emilian in the ecclesiastical courts.

  Hurt consumed her and she sank back down beside her child’s grave. Why was he doing this? They had been so happy for a while.

  Poignant memories assailed her. She saw him smiling at her as their wagon rolled down a country road, while she chatted merrily away. She saw him dancing in the firelight, his smoldering gaze upon her, a prelude to the passion they would share in his tent. She remembered how he had looked at her after their exchange of vows, as the entire kumpa’nia surrounded them, the men congratulating him. His eyes had been so warm.

  I will always want you.

  She stood, shaken. Image after image of Emilian came—looking up from a cook fire where he knelt; moving over her, seductive, intent; at the Simmonses’ ball, watching her from afar like a hawk. She saw him clad only in a shirt and breeches and his high boots, that very first time they had met. She saw him welding the smith’s tool, bare chested, muscles rippling. She saw him seated at his desk in Woodland, the epitome of the lord of the manor.

  I love you.

  Were they still married? Had he received the deed of separation? To attain it, he would have to accuse her of adultery. She could fight this divorce if she wanted to.

  Ariella lifted her skirts and ran through the cemetery to her waiting coach. For suddenly, she was ready to fight for their marriage and their future.

  SHE RAN BREATHLESSLY into Windsong’s grand entry hall.

  “Ariella, have you been to the cemetery?” Dianna asked pleasantly, coming from the hall. She faltered, her eyes widening. “Oh! Something has happened. You look ready to ferociously debate someone—you look like yourself!”

  “Dianna!” Ariella cried. “Do we know if Emilian has attained a deed for a separation, or worse, if a bill for our divorce has reached parliament?”

  Dianna looked at her closely. “I know nothing.”

  Ariella searched her face, well aware that her family might wish to hold such profoundly unpleasant news from her. “Where is Father?” Cliff had returned from London several days ago with Amanda.