A Much Compromised Lady

by Shannon Donnelly

  She studied him, as if viewing a new kind of wild animal.

  He had the conceit of his kind, this gaujo lord. It was bred into the clean, sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbone, and that arrogant nose. It lay coiled in the wide shoulders and strong muscles of his form now exposed by his disordered shirt and his close fitting pantaloons which outlined every lean sinew. There was much to interest a woman. But also much she despised. He stood there as if he owned this room and all in it—her included. His eyes were as cool as any green glen, and she knew how easy it was to hide danger in such places.

  As she studied him, his smile twisted his mouth into a cynical slant. He had a sensuous lower lip, full and soft. Her pulse galloped faster as tension crackled in the air. She knew how that mouth had felt on her. And how his hair, now drawn into glinting gold by the firelight, had felt like the finest silk fringe under her fingers.

  No, she did not trust this gaujo.

  She kept hold of the pistol, but she put on her best pleading face, the one she used for begging shelter on someone else’s land. “Please...please, let me go. I stole nothing.”

  One eyebrow lifted in such mockery that her fingers itched to shoot him for no better reason than to obliterate that look from his face and replace it with shocked surprise. His eyes, however, warmed as they rested on her, and the appreciation in them cooled her temper, though it did nothing to make her feel more comfortable.

  “You mean, rather, you came away empty-handed. Come, my delight, be honest at least. You may not be a thief, but it is not from lack of trying.”

  Her temper flared and her chin shot up. “You mean I am a Gypsy, so I must be a thief! Well, I came looking only for what is rightfully mine. For what that lying gaujo stole from me—from my family!”

  “Gaujo? And what is a gaujo?”

  Struggling to temper her pride, she tried to remember the lessons her mother had taught. Surrounded by the Gadje, the Rom’s only defense is his tongue.

  She shifted on the bed, and his gaze flicker across her body. She had a far better weapon there than any mere pistol. But she would have to take care how she used it.

  Softening her tone, she said. “You’re gaujo. As was that other lord. It is someone who is not one of the traveling people.”

  “Well, that is true enough, but I do object to being classified with Nevin. We really do not have much in common—other than perhaps an interest in you.” A measuring look came into his eyes. “And I will point out that you did steal one thing—my pistol.”

  She glanced down at the silver and wood pistol in her hands. It would fetch a goodly price in any market, and Bado would certainly have urged her to pocket it—and the man’s gems—for the good of the family. But she hated that such need had always driven her.

  Looking up at this gaujo again from under her eyelashes, she saw his mocking smile, and she could not bear it. She had too many times been called thief—justly and unjustly. Well, no more. She had sworn that day when Dej had told them of their true inheritance that there would be only one thing for which she used her skills. By God she had sworn, and on her father’s memory. She would not break that vow.

  Slowly, carefully, she put the pistol on the pillow beside her. Rocking back on her heels, she folded her hands in her lap.

  “I have stolen nothing,” she said, her expression kept empty. There, let him try to do what he wanted with her. She knew a few tricks yet to deal with such as him. Pulling in a breath, Glynis waited, her heart racing.

  St. Albans’s pulse kicked up a notch. Such an unwise move for her to relinquish her protection. He could now put her back where he wanted her—underneath him.

  And yet he stood there, arms crossed, not moving towards her. Oh, damn his curiosity. It would indeed be the death of him one of these days.

  “If you are not a thief, then why are you here? What did he take from you that you would risk your neck to get it back?”

  Tilting her head, she studied him from the corner of her dark eyes. What lie will she tell me? he wondered.

  Voice credibly even, and her gaze steady, she said, “I was his mistress. He promised me a box of jewels, and I came to claim that from him.”

  St. Albans’s mouth quirked. Oh, she really was quite wickedly wonderful. Liar, thief, and Lucifer knew what else. Virtue had always attracted him with its fascinating illusion, but sin had always been far more entertaining.

  “You were his mistress?” he repeated. He knew enough of Nevin to know that the man would never take any creature so low as a Gypsy to his bed—no matter how tempting she was. Thank heavens he himself had no such prejudice.

  She frowned at him, those dark eyes flashing.

  “And he promised you a box of jewels?” St. Albans said, hoping to prompt her to embroider her story.

  Slowly, she nodded. St. Albans’s smile widened, and Glynis’s heart began to hammer a warning again.

  Uncrossing his arms, he pushed off the door and came towards her. She forced herself to sit still and watch him approach. She knew better than to flinch. A hound always chased the fox that ran. Better to hold still and dodge at the last moment, if she could.

  “In that case, my delight, forget Nevin. I shall give you far more than a box of jewels.”

  She waited until he reached the bedside before she scurried back, putting the width of the bed between them. She had no illusion of safety. She had felt the strength in his arms. But all she needed was to stay from his reach, and to find a way to unblock the door.

  “Do you think me a fool to believe such a promise again? You are like him. You will say anything now, but come the morning, you will give nothing.”

  Green fire flashed in his eyes. Glynis’s throat tightened and her pulse skittered. She knew how a dangerous it might be to taunt a lord such as him, and now she saw just how much he hated to be compared to Francis Dawes.

  “You dare...” he started to say. He cut off his words. He pressed his mouth tight, and his upper lip thinned to a cruel line. She waited for him to move, to react. Instead, his mouth softened and quirked. “You are good. Very good, indeed. A lie to feint, and then a botta segrete to score a palpable hit.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Fencing, my delight. A secret attack. You compare me to Nevin, hoping I shall respond and offer you an opening. And almost I did. But the wound is not fatal, my Gypsy. I did warn you that you had best go in for a kill.”

  He smiled and began to move around the bed.

  Panic flooded Glynis. She thought briefly of trying to scramble across the bed for the door, but instincts tingled, warning her that he wanted her tangled in those covers again. Well, she would not play his game. She had no hope of winning.

  Backing into the corner, she watched him come around the end of the bed until he stood before her, the fire lighting one side of his face and the other half of him in shadows. Heat blazed from his skin, far warmer than the embers in the fireplace. She wet her lips and swallowed, but her throat remained hollow and parched. Her heart pounded faster against her ribs, and she struggled to keep her mind clear and quick.

  “You are right,” she admitted. “That was a lie. And you deserve better, for you did not give me away to the others and I see now that you could have. You are not like that man. You have honor in you.”

  He stopped his advance and stared down at her, his expression startled and a little bemused. “Honor? My dear, you really did choose the wrong room for hiding if you think that.”

  “No. I choose well. I heard the maids talk of you—that you like women. And so I knew that you would be a good man.” Glynis gave him a warm smile. “After all, how can any man who likes women not be good in his heart?”

  St. Albans stared at her, baffled and distracted. Her logic defied rationality. It also irritated him. What in blazes was he doing arguing philosophy with her? And yet, he could not allow these delusions of her hers to persist. “My sweet mystery, a love of the fair sex is the least likely indication of virtue i
n this world.”

  Still smiling, she shook her head, her eyes wide and staring up at him with such trust that he started to feel not only annoyed with her, but with himself. Be damned, but was this a seduction or an argument about his black soul? Oh, he had had enough of this.

  Before he could move, she spoke, sealing his fate. “But do you wish to hear the whole of how I came to choose you to protect me?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  No, I don’t want to hear this, he told himself. Only the truth was that he rather did want to hear it. The very idea that anyone could view him as a savior amused him no end, for he always had been on the opposite side of such protection, from gentlemen looking after their daughters, their wives, and even their mistresses. Curiosity itched inside him, meaning that he could not simply sweep her into his arms and kiss her silent.

  She will only lie again, he told himself.

  However, he wanted to hear the next invention that would come from those delectable lips.

  With a sigh of resignation, he crossed his arms again, hoping that would seem less threatening to her, but ready to pounce should she try to slip past. He leaned his shoulder against the wall. She must be playing for time. But he was a good enough angler to know that the real sport lay in the art of allowing the fish to run when it would. For now, it amused him enough to watch her play his line.

  “Why do I have the feeling this is a long story?” he asked.

  She gave a small shrug. “Your part in it is not, which is all that would interest you.”

  His mouth quirked. “What, did the maids also fill your ears with stories of my being a vain fellow, attentive only to myself?”

  “No. That I have seen for myself tonight.”

  “Oh, you do have a sharp edge to your tongue. But I assure you that I can actually manage to be engaged by a number of things outside myself. But, my own ease does come first, so if this is going to be a very long—”

  “Only long enough.”

  “We still ought to be comfortable.” He swept his arm around the barren room. “I would offer you a chair, only it is otherwise occupied, so you shall have to make do with the bed. Oh, you may save your suspicious glances. My bite is generally regarded by ladies as considerably nicer than my bark.”

  St. Albans allowed his smile to warm, calculating the exact amount of charm to exert. It always amazed him that people were so easily disarmed by a mere curving of the lips.

  She, however, did not seem inclined to be easy. With a scornful glance at the bed, she threw wide her arms, her face expressive and her eyes bright with indignation. “How can I sit and tell you my swato—my story? Bah! That is no good. I need to show you as much as tell you!”

  She was up to something, right enough. She wanted out of her corner, and this was but an excuse to get past him. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. Despite his certainty that she was plotting something, he wanted to hear this swato of hers. Besides, she could not get past that door without moving the chair. And he rather liked how those gestures did interesting things with those lush curves of hers.

  Uncrossing his arms, he gave her a courtly bow and offered room for her to step past him. She gave him a sidelong glance, and he decided if she gave him many more of those looks from under those thick, dark lashes, he would not be able to allow her to finish her story without ravishing her. But she scooted past him, her fast step betraying her nervousness, and he thought this was far more entertaining than an ordinary seduction.

  He followed her around the foot of the bed, and seated himself on the rumpled linens. After sliding his pistol back to its place under the pillow, he shifted on the bed to face her.

  She had pulled up the sleeves of her shift so that the thin fabric covered her shoulders, but in her underclothes and with her hair rumpled she looked as if she had already been deliciously tumbled. The firelight warmed her face, casting a glow onto her high cheekbones and that round chin of hers.

  St. Albans lay back, propping himself up on one elbow. “So what is this...this swato of yours?”

  Glynis settled her hands on her hips, and forced her smile back in place. She had the door to her back, and everything inside her screamed to turn and run. But the chair under the doorknob would slow her too much. And her dress and cloak still lay underneath this gaujo’s bed, where she had stuffed them after slipping into his room. What a mistake she had made there, but no use came of regret. She needed a new plan now, and time enough to think of it.

  Wetting her lips, she began talking.

  As with any good swato there was some truth. She owed him that much for not betraying her earlier. But a swato needed a little fantasy, too. And she had Christo and Dej to protect. She could not risk betraying their presence nearby.

  She told him how she came to the inn after hearing that a man who went by the title Lord Nevin was staying there. Happy to have their fortunes told, the maids had let her into the kitchen, but they told her more than she ever revealed to them. That was the usual way of it. Her dej—her mother—had taught her well to tell fortunes from the questions asked. But now Glynis could see why one girl had giggled nervously, and another had asked with apprehension if she would catch the eye of the wicked Earl of St. Albans.

  Seeing him as he was now—sprawled elegantly across the bed, looking as boneless and lazy as a cat, his green eyes large and glittering with intriguing lights—she could believe those stories the tavern maids had told her. She had thought they must be elaborating that he was the most depraved rake in England. A gentleman by title only, and a man to fear and avoid. They had said he took any woman he wanted, that he gambled and drank and did what he pleased. That he was a dangerous man.

  For he could make any woman love him.

  She had almost laughed at their words.

  But now she could see how he could do just such a thing.

  He had skin that glowed like rich butter. She had never seen such skin before on a man. Peeking from the ‘V’ made by his white shirt, the hair on his chest caught the light and tempted like strands of gold. Almost she wanted to touch it, to stroke the muscles she glimpsed there. That would be about as safe as stroking a steal trap.

  Yes, he looked like a trap ready to spring. He concealed the tension coiled inside him with languid grace, but her dej had taught her well. Dik and shoon—watch and listen, Mother had always said, though her mother’s own eyes were now sightless.

  So Glynis watched this one as she spoke, and what she saw kept her heart pounding and her nerves stretched tight.

  Stalling for more time, she told how she had slipped upstairs when the maids had left to answer a summons back to work. She did not tell him how she had gotten past a locked door—he had no need to know about her skills in such matters. However, the knowing glint in his eyes as she slipped past this point made her squirm in her own skin. He seemed to know far more than she told him. She did not like that. It made him seem more Romany than gaujo, and she liked better to think of him as an arrogant, hateful gaujo lord.

  With luck, she would soon be gone from here and never see him again.

  Only why did her heart twist a little at that thought? Oh, he was a devil to smile at her with his eyes. To stare at her with warmth in his gaze. To lie so very still that she began to forget her fear of him.

  She needed more than luck tonight. She needed all her wits and cunning, or her escape from him might cost her dearly.

  She forced a wider smile. “You were clever to sense my lie—I was never mistress to Lord Nevin. But that one, he holds papers he carries inside a box that is mine. One of the maids came to his room and found me before could take it. I slipped away, but the girl cried thief. So I ran.”

  One golden-brown eyebrow rose. “Into my room, where you could pose as my doxy for the night? You do like high-stake games.”

  She had to agree with him on that. Only he had no idea just how high the stakes were.

  He went on, his voice lazy. “But what papers could Nevin possibly have that you w
ould want? You are leaving out some rather important details here.”

  Glynis lifted one shoulder and her shift slipped distractingly lower. St. Albans watched her push it back up and decided that he was going to enjoy pulling it down again.

  Lifting her chin, she looked him straight in the eye, her stare unblinking. “Those papers are marriage lines that would prove the truth of marriage to Lord Nevin’s son.”

  St. Albans held utterly still. Disbelief, icy and raw, trickled into him. Married? Her? To Nevin’s son? No. It was preposterous. It ought not to matter, but it did. He did not want his gypsy owned by Nevin’s son. Or anyone else. His glance slid over her, and a confused anger beat hot and heavy against his chest. Pushing down the emotion, he tried to think.

  It must be a lie. Did Nevin even have a son? He recalled vague talk of one. Yes, an heir. At university still, he rather thought, so that would put the son at about her age. But it could not be. Nevin was far too high in the instep to allow his own blood to marry so far beneath him. The man had the effrontery to even think his lineage surpassed all others, for its purity of Norman blood. But the earls of St. Albans had been Saxon lords long before Nevin’s kin arrived on these shores.

  However, that was not the topic at hand. No, it was this ludicrous idea of a marriage between his Gypsy and...

  No. He would simply not allow it to be.

  He relaxed again, but his eyes narrowed as he saw the flaw in her lie. “There is but one obvious question, my sweet, which is why, if these papers are in Nevin’s reach, does he not destroy them?”

  Arching an eyebrow, she shot him an irritating look as if he were a simpleton. “He has the box, not the papers. And he does not know the trick to the secret bottom that is concealed there. Lord Nevin’s son hid them there for safe keeping, but if they are found and destroyed...”

  Her face paled and her mouth tightened, and the certainty flooded St. Albans that she meant every word she spoke. But it all seemed too dramatic with this talk of secret compartments and marriages. Dramatic, but plausible.