Royal 02 - Royal Passion
Page 39
The chance had been there, and she had let it go. She had let it go out of—what? Pride? Distrust? The fear that she was not loved in return?
But she loved. She loved a golden prince, and to leave him to go across the ocean thousands of miles away, perhaps never to see him again, would be to maim some tender portion of her being.
For the gypsies, to love was enough. The happiness of the moment was what mattered, and each person was responsible for his or her own happiness, none other. Life was life. Love was love. Neither could be measured or bartered or hoarded away. They required use. Living. Loving.
The music had slowed, becoming sweet and vibrant with desire. The feasting was over. Soon the bridal couple would leave to be alone in Luca's caravan. Not long after, the caravans would begin to roll. The wedding would be over.
But not yet. Luca, his arms held out from his sides, began to move to the music. The crowd spread, forming a circle, giving him room. Advancing, retreating, the dance he wove before Juliana was as old as time, a courtship ritual as natural as it was obvious. As if enticed, Juliana joined him, circling, whirling, moving with him as if mesmerized and yet with elegance and a rising emotion that matched that of her new husband. The music rose; fester and faster the violins played until they reached a crescendo. Suddenly, Luca swept Juliana up and the two of them broke through the crowd, vanishing into the dark line of the caravans.
But the sweet, high note of the violins did not end. It held, stretching in audible tension, seeking, demanding. A sigh swept through the crowd as Roderic stepped into the circle. He had removed his uniform coat and wore his shirt open at the neck and tucked into his trousers with a sash of blood-red about his waist. His hair gleamed with the dark luster of old gold coins in the firelight, and his expression was self-contained as he moved with lithe and muscular grace, slowly turning as if searching. The crowd retreated, jostling, widening its circle until Mara was included where she stood. Roderic's gaze touched her, lingered, held.
She watched him advance upon her as the music throbbed into its sensual melody once more. Her heart began to pound, and she felt a flush mounting to her hairline. There was such distress racing with the blood in her veins that her body ached as if she had been poisoned. And yet there rose within her such excitement that she could not breathe, could not think.
He held out his hand. She raised her gray eyes to his and saw reflected there an infinite and implacable will, a perilous challenge, and an aching need.
She loved him, and it was enough for now. But once she had seduced him. She had made him desire her in spite of all his talk of duty and traps and causes. It was possible that she could do it again. She could try, beginning here with the wine and the music and the night as her aids. And so she allowed a smile, sweet and gently enticing, to curve her mouth and placed her hand in his as if the touch would burn.
Together they moved, their bodies attuned, gliding as one. Now locked together, now apart, they whirled in splendid unison. With spirit and tender longing, they courted each other, Roderic guiding Mara's movement, Mara drawing him, entranced, toward her. Their feces were absorbed, secretive. The silver banding on Mara's skirts flickered like lightning around them. The white of Roderic's clothing glowed incandescent. They were burnished by the firelight, enwrapped in magic and a tremulous, soaring desire.
And the music of the violins rose, building, straining, reaching for that fervent, sustained note. Higher and higher, faster and faster, describing violent joy, wild ecstasy, teetering on the fine edge of a dissonant scream. It came.
Roderic spun Mara into his arms. He lifted her, pushing, forcing his way through the crowd. Behind them was sudden, crashing silence. Then came the roaring cheer. The sound wafted them toward a caravan, long remembered, of white and blue. It loomed before them and then they were inside. The door slammed shut behind them, closing out the noise. They were alone.
He put her on her feet, retaining a light grasp on her arms. In the light of the single candle that burned beside a bed strewn with violets, he searched her face. “Ah, Mara,” he said, the words strained, a husk of sound, “if you don't mean to stay, then go now, before it's too late."
"It's already too late."
"I swear I love you. You hold my heart by steel ribbons, and you are the tether that anchors my soul. If you leave me, I will be a rattling husk of a man, fit for nothing more than to frighten ravens."
"I won't leave."
His hold tightened. “Tell me how I can prove it and that will become my grail, my golden fleece, my hope of heaven and dream of paradise. Let me show you—"
She raised her hand, placing it across his lips. It was possible that she believed him, but for now it did not matter. Her eyes clear gray and bottomless with trust, she said, “Roderic, princely love, tell me what I am thinking."
He met her gaze, his own suspended, infinitely receptive. A moment passed. The corners of his mouth twitched, began to curve upward. The light of a fine amusement rose in his eyes, growing, shining bright. His grasp tightened and he drew her against him, crossing his arms behind her back, burying his face in her hair and inhaling its fragrance as he drew a deep breath. There was laughter and warm relief and pulsing longing in his voice when he spoke.
"Sweet temptress, light of my days and solace of my nights, you might have spared my blushes."
She drew back to give him a skeptical look, saying, “I would have if you had—"
She was not allowed to finish.
[Back to Table of Contents]
About the Author
Jennifer Blake was born near Goldanna, Louisiana, in her grandparents’ 125-year-old hand-built cottage. She grew up on an eighty-acre farm in the rolling hills of north Louisiana. While married and raising her children, she became a voracious reader. At last, she set out to write a book of her own. That first book was followed by thirty-four more, and today they have together reached more than nine million copies in print, making Jennifer Blake one of the bestselling romance authors of our time. Her most recent novel is Joy and Anger.
Jennifer and husband live near Quitman, Louisiana, in a house styled after old Southern planters’ cottages.
* * *
Visit www.e-reads.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
About the Author
[Back to Table of Contents]