With a frustrated growl, Glynis threw up her hands. “Patience. Why ever did you tell anything to Christo and I if we are only to sit on our hands and wait?”
“It was time to tell you.”
“But not time to act! It never seems to be time to act.”
Slowly, Glynis’s mother climbed to her feet. Glynis rose as well, and reached out to help her mother.
Swatting away Glynis’s help, her mother straightened. “The time will come, as the time came at last to tell you of your heritage. Bah! Christo at least listens. You! You are too like your father. You do not see that you cannot walk straight when the road is bent. And this road is very bent. Very bent. Beware the lesson your father had to learn.”
Glynis swallowed the dryness in her mouth. She dropped her stare to the ground. Her father had paid for not listening to cautions with his life.
She looked up to see her mother’s dark form disappear into the nearest tent, the white canvas flap closing behind her.
Scuffing a stone with her boot, Glynis turned away from the tent and the firelight. She had not meant to be so disrespectful. But, oh, she did want to hurry this. She did not trust this waiting. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to know her place in this world. She wanted a home for her mother, and for Christo to be what he always should have been.
Perhaps she simply wanted too much.
Rubbing her arms against the cooling evening, Glynis walked to where ‘Lisi grazed. She leaned her arm over the sturdy pony’s back, not caring if white and black hairs and horse smells attached themselves to her dark blue dress. ‘Lisi’s warmth soaked into her, a comforting presence.
She had wished patience for Christo, but she ought to have included herself in that, too, it seemed. It had been as much her plan as his to give into the temptation to do more than wait and follow Lord Nevin’s coach. And that had led them only to more disappointment for they had gotten nothing from that gaujo. Ah, she should be used to that by now.
The steady sound of ‘Lisi’s grazing began to ease her unhappiness, but still that need to do something mixed uncomfortably with the dread that things really would not work out as she wanted. Ah, but she did not want to spend another winter in tents and on muddy roads. Her mother never complained, but Glynis hated it most when the icy weather came and her mother moved stiff and slow, like an old woman.
‘Lisi shifted, moving to a new patch of grass. Glynis followed the pony, brushing shedding hair from the pony’s back, scratching at the top of ‘Lisi’s shoulders.
“Ah, ‘Lisi. Too bad I am not like you, and happy to be anywhere that thick grass grows.”
‘Lisi lifted her head and nodded, as if agreeing, but Glynis knew the pony was only enjoying the attention. She smiled. And the back of her neck began to tingle.
A branch snapped under a horse’s step. Straightening, Glynis turned and started towards the sound, eager to see the horses Bado and Christo had bought. But it was a giant of a black horse that stepped from the shadows of the sheltering maples.
At the sight of the rider on his back Glynis froze.
Him! That gaujo!
CHAPTER FOUR
For a moment, half-hidden by the shadowing trees, with his dark mount and his wicked beauty, he looked more like some lord of the fey folks rather than a mortal lord. His mount pawed the ground, restless, but he sat easily in the saddle. Everything came too easy to this one, Glynis thought, frowning at him.
His horse stepped forward and the last rays of daylight glinted in his hair. The breeze ruffled those deep bronze locks, disordering the curls into softness. His dark blue coat opened over a rich, gold brocade waistcoat, and the nipped waist made his shoulders look broader than she remembered. Only she knew it was not padding that filled out his coat. She had seen the sleek muscles under his white shirt when she had stripped him.
The memory warmed her face, and she scowled at him. She would do best to remember that Lucifer, too, had the beauty of dawn in his face. And this devil was a gaujo. A Romany never came to any good at their hands.
Folding her arms, she deepened her scowl, hoping that would hide how her pulse quickened, and how sensations tingled upon her skin, and perhaps it would make him decide to turn and ride away again. If she had any sense, she would turn and run herself. But running had not gotten her very far from him—not if he had tracked her here. And she had as much pride as he. So she braced her feet wider and narrowed her eyes.
This time, he was in her world. This time, he would be the one alone against her and her kind.
With a faint smile twisting his mouth, he swung off his black horse and left it standing, his reins dangling. She wished the animal would run off, but he had bewitched it as well, so that it stood patient and waiting, its black ears flickering towards its master.
Tucking a package wrapped in brown paper under his arm, the gaujo lord came towards her, lazy grace in every movement. As he neared, she saw the corner of his wide, sensual mouth lift a touch more, but wary caution lay in his green eyes.
Yes, you had better take care, my gaujo. I have more than one trick to play.
He stopped close enough to her that she could see the trace of golden beard on his cheek. She also saw the faint, red line of a branch’s slash across his left temple. Her fingers twitched to reach out to him, but she closed a fist on the impulse. It was no concern of hers if he had so much conceit that he stayed mounted rather than walk on the ground like a Gypsy peasant when the branches thickened.
Oh, but why did she even notice such things?
He made her a bow as if she was a lady and they stood in the tame park of a great house, and held out the package to her. “I believe these are yours.”
She glanced at the package, and back to him. “You have nothing I want. Go home, gaujo. Before someone takes your pretty horse, or takes a dislike to your pretty face.”
His smile widened to something warm and dangerously charming, and the green of his eyes deepened as wicked humor sparked there. She stiffened against that fascination he wove with so little effort.
“Pretty? You do say the most extraordinary things. I cannot recall anyone ever calling me pretty. Devilish, certainly. Remarkably good-looking has been mentioned by a few. Handsome is not often noted, but then handsome is as handsome does, and I so rarely do anything that is handsome by anyone.”
His Gypsy stood there, glaring at him as if she wished she still had her hand wrapped around his pistol. And his fatigue, the disgust of the dust on his person, and displeasure with her for being so difficult to find—he had now lost his favorite hat to a low slung branch for her—vanished. He found a rare delight in how she always surprised him. And in how she took his breath.
The setting sun cast golden light onto her skin, warming it as had the firelight the last time he had seen her. She wore a blue dress, high-waisted, but cut low and with a brightly patterned scarf tucked around her neck. He would have preferred to see her in less, but the dress nicely outlined the swell of her breasts and fell softly over the sweet curve of her hip.
With her dark hair pulled up into a careless knot, she made a tempting sight. He was glad now he had pushed on, forging a path through that impossible bramble of woods.
“Come, where is your curiosity?” he asked, determined to lure her into conversation. “If not about the package, then why not ask how I found you?”
She lifted one shoulder, and he thought how delicious that movement would be if she were wearing nothing at all. Her sharp voice brought him back to the moment. “Why should I ask? So you may brag, and show how clever you are? Well, how clever is it to find your way and lose your hat?”
Stung by her comment, his lips thinned as he pressed them tight. It was not so much the reminder of his lost hat that bothered him. It was that she had just laid bare the exact reason why he had wanted her to ask—he had wanted her to think him clever. He had wanted it enough, in fact, that he had taken this hunt quite personally, coming himself rather than sending someone to simply
fetch her to him. He had wanted her to see just what he could do.
Unaccustomed to having anyone see though to his motives so well, he was not certain he cared for it. It left him feeling curiously...well, not quite vulnerable, but certainly far more exposed than he liked.
For a moment, he toyed with giving into the impulse to simply do what he wished, which was to drop his package and drag her into his arms. It would serve her well for pulling a tiger’s tail. But he had ridden miles, following nearly impossible Gypsy signs left in branches and rock for other Gypsies, and had paid an extravagant sum for such knowledge from others of her vagabond tribe. He had had his servants seeking information of her that he could follow. He was hungry, tired, and he had spent the last two restless weeks dreaming of a proper seduction.
And she was not, he thought firmly, going to pull this out of his control by rousing his temper. This game required expert finesse, not brute strength which any oaf could muster.
Besides, he had gone to all this effort because she had seemed to be an original. He ought to be please she was that—and much more.
So he smiled and said, “Very well, I won’t tell you.” At least not until you beg it of me. “Now, do you want your package, or shall I just take it with me and depart? I should mention, however, that there is more here than you expect. I am at least a clever enough fellow to know when I owe a lady an apology.”
Her eyebrows arched with surprise, but her dark eyes remained wary as a cornered vixen’s. However, he knew when he had caught a woman’s interest. Gypsy or lady, what women could resist the lure of respect. That trick always worked far better than any diamonds.
He pushed the package towards her again. “It is getting rather heavy for me to continue holding it out in this conciliatory fashion.”
She stared at him a moment longer, as if she half expected him to jump upon her. An enticing image, but he had far more interesting plans for her.
Gingerly, she took the package. She was careful not to touch his hand, he noted. An excellent sign, for it meant that his touch could affect her in ways she must guard against. Oh, he was going to enjoy teasing her out from behind her wise caution.
As she untied the twine, she bit her lower lip, and the gesture shot a jolt of lust through him, just as it had the last time he had seen her do that.
His skin warmed, and he thought with delight that for her he would toss any number of fine hats into the woods.
The twine fell loose, the paper parted, and she gazed down at the neatly folded silk chemise, the new corset he had purchased for her, and on top of them the mate to his own silver filigree pocket pistol.
“I thought that if you planned to continue your career as an adventuress, you might wish do so properly equipped. The pistol is not loaded—I am also clever enough not to tempt you, you see. But I will show you how to care for it later, if you wish.”
With one hand supporting the package, she reached up to slide her fingers over the pistol and over the silk, her touch reverent as if she had never seen such things.
St. Albans stepped closer with the intent of explaining a few features of the pistol, and of also placing himself in a better position to accept her gratitude. His focus centered on her. On how she had drawn in a deep breath that swelled her chest. On how her eyes darkened with delight. On the hint of a smile now curving her lips. He took a certain satisfaction in being able to read a lady so well, and he knew this one to be pleased. And a little confused by her own feelings.
It would take only a little encouragement now to assist her in resolving those feelings into something mutually delightful.
He started to lean closer to her and something sharp pricked the middle of his back, stopping him more effectively than the low voice that growled, “Another step and you die, gaujo!”
Anger blazed for an instant inside him. His muscles tightened. No one threatened the Earl of St. Albans. And he had had about enough interruptions of his Gypsy’s seduction. If he had another coat ruined over this girl, someone would pay dearly for it.
He forced his body to relax into deceptive ease, and his temper to cool, and he began to shift his weight so he could kick back and snag the other man’s feet out from under him. He wanted his hands around this imbecile’s throat.
A soft touch on his arm stopped him.
Glancing down, intent tangling with anger at the sight of his Gypsy’s face turned up to his and silently begging him to be still. Oh, blazes, but she was an inconvenience just now. He did not want to be distracted, yet here she was, making it difficult for him to even think, let alone act.
He still ached to throttle the dolt who had dared threaten him, but it seemed that his Gypsy had other plans.
Glancing over his shoulder towards, she spoke rapidly in that odd language of her kind to the man with the knife. And it occurred to St. Albans that she was actually defending him.
He stared at her, astonished. No one shielded the Earl of St. Albans. Or at least no one had ever thought such a thing might be necessary. Not even among the all-too-numerous uncles and aunts who had raised him could he conjure such a memory. Oh, they had leapt readily enough to his command. He had learned early, after all, just how much power an earl wielded. But defend him? That was absurd.
However, here she was hotly arguing with one of her kind on his behalf.
For a moment, he wondered if he ought to feel affronted that she thought such effort necessary. But he was having the worst time coming up with any feeling just now other that a deep desire to touch his lips to the curve of that determined jaw of hers. And a wry amusement.
Would this not astonish half of London—and leave the other half laughing—to think that a lowly Gypsy had taken the side of the notorious and high-born Earl of St. Albans.
Easing his shoulders, he began to enjoy the situation—and the view. His Gypsy’s eyes glittered, color blazed on her cheekbones, and that chin of hers lifted with determination. He would simply have to indulge her, if for no other reason than to see what happened next.
The idiot she argued with had been making his own intentions quite clear, and the pressure of a blade dug deeper, causing St. Albans to wince. Another coat ruined, he thought, deeply irritated as the warmth of blood trickled down his spine. Well, no matter. The fellow would pay later. In kind.
Another jab and St. Albans’s temper flared again. That did it. His Gypsy might be a tempting morsel, but she was doing a poor job as his champion, and he was really not going to allow himself to be skewered simply to indulge her.
Just as he braced for action, a sharp voice cut through the gathering twilight, stopping everything.
“Chavaia!”
Despite the odd language, the command to stop came across as plain as if it were the King’s English. St. Albans focused his attention on the woman who commanded so much respect here.
Dressed in black and with the twilight gathering close, he thought at first that she must be an old gypsy woman. Silver streaked her hair in a dramatic bolt that added to his first impression, and she felt for her steps with a cane. However, as she came closer, he noted the straight figure, age thickened, yes, but not too bent by time. And while her weathered face made it difficult to place her exact years, he doubted if she had reached half a century yet. A black shawl lay loose over her black dress, but he noted her garments only with a casual glance. Her presence demanded far more of his attention.
She had black eyes, unfocused, but they glittered with an assessing intelligent. Sharp cheekbones, nose and jaw showed a former great beauty was maturing into magnificent ruins. Despite her small stature, she certainly knew how to wield power. He always admired strength.
The annoying sting at his back vanished, and St. Albans found himself facing this woman.
He started to look for where his Gypsy girl had gone, but the woman captured his face between her hands. He began to pull away, resenting and resisting such intimacy, but the Gypsy held tight.
Putting up his own hands, he took her wr
ists to pull away those roughly callused hands of hers. He did not like to be touched. Never had. Oh, he could enjoy a woman’s body well enough, but that was an entirely different thing than having this...this familiarity pushed upon him.
However, the woman would not let go, and he would look a fool to struggle with her.
So he dropped his hands and stared back at her, one eyebrow lifted, waiting and wishing for her to finish her nonsense. Some rubbishing Gypsy superstition, no doubt.
It took an effort not to grow restless under that blank and empty black-eyed gaze. Her fingers began to roam over his face. He fought down the uneasy feelings that stirred inside him, the sense she honestly was seeing more than he cared to reveal. The urge to fling off her hands grew stronger, almost overruling his control. He clenched his back teeth and vowed this woman would not stare him down.
And in that thought, he realized the truth.
Devil a bit, but she was blind. That was why her stare slid through him, and why she used her touch as her eyes. He relaxed, deciding he would permit this liberty with his person, for even he had his limits of detestable behavior, and rudeness to blind women certainly lay beyond his depths of depravity.
Finally, she let him go, and he had the most peculiar reaction.
Regret.
The feeling washed over him along with the cold air that bathed his face where her warm hands had but a moment ago held him still. Curiously, he could not understand this...this sense of loss. As if the part of him that had always been empty had been briefly filled, and now lay...
But what utter rot! This Gypsy had a bewitching trick to her, and that was all. He was not about to become like his Aunt Julia and give into a belief in mystic nonsense.
He blinked away his disoriented feelings, dismissing them. These Gypsies dealt in the pretense of such special powers, of living in the unseen. He would do well to remember that.
The older woman stepped back, sliding her cane from under her arm where she had tucked it. She surprised him again with a voice that would have suited a Mayfair drawing room. “He will stay. Bado, see to his horse. Christo, put away your tshuri. Come, daughter, we have a guest for dinner.”
A Much Compromised Lady Page 5
