Pulling back, and not wanting to in the least, but he was at least above bedding a woman still shaking, and not from his touch, he asked, “Would you care for a brandy?”
Biting her lower lip, she hesitated. He could not see her expression clearly, but her eyes glimmered in the moonlight as she stared up at him. At last, she nodded.
He was back in a moment with the decanter and two glasses. She sat up in her bed, her dressing gown now wrapped around her shoulders, but the room bathed only in moonlight. She sat very still, her sobs slowed to occasional sniffs as he poured the brandy. She took the glass he offered and held it between both of her own.
“To fewer dreams,” he said, lifting his glass. The crystal rang as he touched the rim of his glass to hers.
She tipped back the brandy in one swallow and held out her glass for more. This devil’s spawn was one of his own kind. Smiling, he obliged.
With another sniff, she gestured with her glass to the secret door that stood exposed against the room’s paneling. “I should have expected that.”
“And I should have expected this. You dreamed of Nevin, didn’t you, after seeing him tonight.”
She nodded again, the darkness of her hair catching a faint glimmer of moonlight. St. Albans stretched himself across her bed, his brandy glass in one hand. “I thought you Gypsies could foretell the future by reading dreams? One of my aunts swears by such nonsense.”
“There are those with such a gift. But I dreamed of the past. Of my father’s murder.”
St. Albans straightened, every muscle tensing and his anger stirring. “Murder? By heavens, if your soul is not as black as my own from your lies, then—”
“What lie?”
“Lies of omission, my dear. You neglected to cover this detail in your earlier renditions of this tale.”
“Well, I can hardly tell you the truth when I am not certain of it myself. But what else can anyone think when a young man goes back to a family that hated him, and then is dead within a fortnight’s time?”
St. Albans’s mouth thinned. He knew quite well what he would think, but he had a naturally suspicious nature. “Tell me about this dream,” he ordered.
She told him. She stumbled through the story, tripping over her words in a way he had never heard before. That alone left him uneasy.
What in blazes had happened to Edward Dawes?
What she did not tell him stood out like a light in the room. Her voice quivered at points, and he could imagine what she must have felt. He had had similar dreams as a child, when he had first started to ride, of his own father’s fatal fall.
“But it was just a dream,” Glynis said, as she finished. She twisted her fingers into the bedsheets, for it had not felt like a dream.
St. Albans’s stare remained on her. Even in the darkness, its intensity lay on her almost as if he had his hands on her. She knew she should not welcome his presence here, in her room. And in her bed. But his wide shoulders silhouetted against the pale linens seemed too comforting a reality. She did not want him to go away.
He cursed softly, and said, his voice as hard as icy ground. “What exactly did your mother tell of your father’s death? Did she ever actually accuse Nevin of murder?”
Glynis lifted one shoulder. “For years she said nothing. But I had memories of that night when those men came for us. Something—someone—hunted us. Four of them found our fire and came at us with clubs, and Bado—we would not be here if Bado had not been there with us and mother. This year, when Christo came of age, she had us sit beside the fire and she told us a swato of our father.”
Pausing, Glynis took a long swallow of the brandy, letting its fire burn away the aching cold left by the dream. Somehow it felt right to tell him this. Sitting in the darkness, she knew that she needed to tell someone. Not Christo, for he knew this story already and it troubled him. She needed to talk to someone who had no interest in how her story ended. She needed just to talk.
“My mother said that when my father heard that his father lay dying, he had to go home. She begged him not to. He had fought with his family, and left them to live like a Gypsy. My mother, too, defied her parents, and they never forgave her for marrying a gaujo. So they had only each other—and us. But my father would not listen to her. He had to go.
“For a week, my mother waited, each night dreaming of him. And then the dreams stopped, and she could wait no more. Bado had been her friend, so she went to him and left us in his care, and she went to find her husband.”
Pausing, she wet her lips. The old ache rose inside her. The ache for her mother’s loss, for her own. Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she went on.
“She found his grave, and servants who talked of how the young lord fell down the stairs the night after his father died. And she heard whispers of an argument. So she went to see his family, to ask them how her husband came to lay in his grave.”
“That was not very wise.”
“Most likely not. But all she knew was that her husband lay dead, and she did not know why or how. So she went to his family, and she saw his brother, laughing with some guests on the drive before Nevin House. Laughing. He was actually laughing. So she went up to him and cursed him.”
Glynis sipped her brandy again, remembering too well how she and Christo had sat silent beside the crackling fire, listening to their mother. She had stared into the fire, her eyes sightless. But Glynis had pictured her mother wild-eyed with grief, cursing Francis Dawes, accusing him of murder before others.
No wonder Dawes had sent men to hunt her down and kill her. He must have feared her as much as he hated her, and her children.
Cloth rustled, and pale hands lifted her empty glass from her grip. She looked up to find St. Albans standing next to the bed. He set the glasses down on the side table. Taking her shoulders, he easily lifted her so that she knelt on the bed before him, her muscles liquid from the brandy.
“I ought to bloody well throttle you!”
She squirmed, but his fingers dug into her, holding her tight, setting her heart pounding. “What? What did I do?”
“You and that imbecile brother! What in blazes were you thinking not to mention to me that you suspected Dawes of bloody murder before you allowed me to parade you before him like a dove set loose before a hawk?”
Annoyed by his anger, she stopped struggling and gave a derisive snort. “A dove, am I? Yes, I am so helpless, I could not talk you out of your clothes, and could not leave Francis Dawes looking a fool for chasing a phantom gypsy! I look after myself, gaujo!”
He pushed her onto her back. She tried to roll away, but he loomed over her. His hands found her shoulders again and pinned her to the feather mattress. Its softness cocooned her, making it impossible to do more than writhe under his grip.
Teeth clenched she glared at him, her breathing rapid. She wished she had kept his pistol closer. It did little good laid under the bed where she had left it.
He lowered his face to hers. In the moonlight, she could see the glimmer in his eyes, and the hard set to his mouth. Brandy fumes, and his own male scent, left her head spinning. Fear fluttered in her stomach—and something else as well.
Ah, but she had gotten too comfortable with this one. One might tame a wolf, but that did not make it stop wanting to eat rabbits.
“You are a clever girl, I grant. But desperate men take desperate measures, my sweets. And I would regret loosing you before we have a chance to finish what is between us. From this point on, you will have a touch more care for this skin of yours.”
She glared at him, wishing he could better see the defiance that simmered inside her. Go ahead, kiss me again, gaujo, she thought, arms tensing to fight him. You will learn this time that even a rabbit has teeth!
As she expected, he lowered his mouth to hers. His breath brushed warm on her lips. But his head bent and he pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered.
Liquid heat pooled inside her. Her breath caught in her chest. He
r fists tightened as she fought that treacherous ache of desire. She bit down on her own lip, fighting to hold within the sigh that ached for release. Twisting underneath him only made it worse, for it turned that burning touch into a teasing caress of lips and teeth and tongue.
Her muscles slackened. She shut her eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening to her, but still her body betrayed her as it sang with joy at his touch.
Lifting his head, he shadowed her again as he rose over her. She braced herself for worse. Ah, but she should not have trusted this one.
He released her and stood.
She sat up, rubbing her wrists, glaring at him, wondering if she could reach his pistol before he could grab her again. Ah, but what would that solve? He would smile at her in that infuriating way he did, as if he knew her every thought. And he would go away, only to come back to torment her again.
Scrambling for the edge of the bed, she thumped her bare feet onto the thick carpet and dragged off the dressing gown from her body. She stood shivering in moonlight and in her thin nightdress.
“You want to settle what is between us? Well, settle it. You want my body? Go ahead. Take it! Let us have done with this, for that is all you will ever have from me!”
He stood very still for a moment, and finally took two steps closer. The heat from his body washed over her. His stare swept over her as well. And he smiled.
“You raise the stakes again, my Gypsy. For I now want far more than your body. Far, far more.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Now go back to bed.” Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, his voice soft as summer. “And dream of all the things I will ask from you one day. One day very soon. I shall ask, and you shall give in to me. That is a promise I shall keep.”
He left her then. Left her standing in her room, her arms bare and cold, her nightshift feeling transparent. Part of her wished to throw something at him, and in part of her a numbing relief settled along with an odd disappointment. Like a phantom, he disappeared into the dark hole and that secret door clicked shut and vanished back into the room’s paneling.
A sudden heat flared in her. Almost she wanted to scream again and have him back here and finish this. He wanted more! Bah! He wanted whatever he thought he could not have. And when he had her heart, he would look at it and decide he did not want it after all. She knew his kind too well.
Turning, she glanced around the room. She dragged a round table carved with exotic fish in front of that cursed door. When she finished, she pushed back the hair that curled around her damp brow. Her shoulders sagged.
She put a hand up to her neck, to the spot he had kissed. Still she could feel how warm his lips had been, and that longing he had stirred within her began to stir again.
Ah, but she did not know who really was more dangerous, or who was her greater enemy—this gaujo, or Francis Dawes.
* * *
Glynis woke to a bustling in her room. She pried open sleep-weighted eyes, and realized she had fallen asleep in her dressing gown, curled up in a chair in the salon and not in her bedchamber.
The maid, wide-eyed with curiosity, glanced at her, but seemed too well-trained to say anything about Glynis’s choice of bed. The girl dropped a curtsy, and asked the question she asked every morning. Would miss prefer tea or hot chocolate?
Glynis asked for tea, and she frowned at the trunks laid open on the floor. “What is this?”
“His lordship wants you ready to leave, miss. Soon as you’ve had your breakfast.”
CHAPTER TEN
A weight settled in the pit of Glynis’s stomach. So it had happened. Despite his words and actions of last night, the inevitable had occurred. He had grown tired of her. He had probably gone away angry with her, disgusted with her tears, and had decided this morning that he had had enough of her difficult ways.
She rose, her chin high and telling herself it was for the best. She and Christo would manage without anyone’s help.
Still, it stung her pride. Angry with herself that it did so tingled on her skin, pricked like thistles. And that, she told herself, was all she felt at this abrupt dismissal.
She dressed quickly in her blue gown, throwing her few things into a bundle she hastily tied. Reluctantly, she left the fringed turban behind. She could not afford reminders of him.
Starting down the stairs, she forced her shoulders straight, stiffened her back to as tall as she could make herself.
St. Albans stood in the main hall, talking to Gascoyne. As Glynis came down the stairs, St. Albans glanced up at her, dismissed his servant and moved to the base of the stairs to wait for her.
His Gypsy, St. Albans decided, looked in a decidedly thorny mood. Ashamed perhaps of last night? Head high, dark eyes snapping, she wore that confounded blue gown of hers, her cloak draped over her shoulders. Someday he would really have to burn that rag.
Clutching a small dark bundle, she stopped before him. “I am ready to go. Where is Christo?”
Still weighing her mood, St. Albans offered a smile. “He is staying behind on this excursion. It is just the two of us.”
Shock widened her eyes and she glanced at him, a frown pulling her dark brows together. He realized then what it was. She had mistaken the intent behind his orders. “You thought you were being given your congeé.”
“My what?” she said, still sounding indignant.
“Your permission to depart,” he said, offering his arm. “You are departing, but with my escort. I want you out of Nevin’s reach for a time.”
“But why? This is not what you promised! You said you would arrange that I—”
“Plans have changed. No, do not lose your temper just yet. You do have a choice in this—you may stay here, locked in your room, or you may come with me.”
“And why should I wish to go anywhere else with you?”
“Because I am curious about this story you have told. Curious enough to have your favorite item—questions. I think you might find the answers interesting. Now, do you come with me, or stay?”
She did not like her choices. He saw that at once, but her preferences did not matter on this occasion. He wanted her away from Lord Nevin’s reach for a time—enough time to make Nevin forget her presence, in fact. And this was not an errand for a servant. Too many nuances might be uncovered, and it was a delicate thing to inquire if the current Lord Nevin might have caused his elder brother’s death. That task demanded discretion.
So he would have to go, because he hated puzzles, and he had done nothing last night but puzzle over the question of could his Gypsy really be telling the truth.
Curse as he might want to, he could not avoid the fact that she had infected him with this quest of hers. At least he had that brother of hers safe under lock and key, where the fellow would not cause further problems. Gascoyne would see to that.
He offered his arm again. “Shall we?”
They covered nearly a hundred and thirty miles in just over ten hours. A reasonable pace, St. Albans thought, but Glynis sat bolt upright across from him the entire time, clasping the strap inside the carriage and vowing that his coachman would overturn them at this speed.
But no such delay overtook them. No horse went lame—St. Albans kept his own horses along each of the major roads, and he change teams every fifteen miles to keep the pace he liked. No axle broke. No wheel came off. His staff knew how to maintain a carriage.
He could not draw his Gypsy into conversation, and she glared at him if he even leaned towards her, so he left her to her own thoughts and amused himself with a deck of cards and a traveling card table.
At six that evening, with a good amount of light still left in the sky, his carriage pulled up before a snug brick house, not five miles from the village of Nevin. St. Albans swung out and turned to reach for his Gypsy.
On solid ground, Glynis eyed the house with misgivings, although its age-yellowed stone facing, its flight of shallow steps that led to the main double doors, and its tidy size and gar
dens, made an inviting setting. Particularly after ten hours in a swaying coach. Ah, but she felt as if she were still moving.
A wooded hill rose up behind the house, as appealing as any home to Glynis and lit with the golden light of a clear blue evening sky.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Owlpen Manor. One of my lesser holdings. I sent a messenger ahead to have all ready for us. You will want to bath and change. We dine at eight with the Vicar of Nevin.”
She glanced at him. “But why?”
“Because, my sweets, you are now Miss Dawes, and a distant connection of mine, and have an interest in your family history, and a desire to bestow a gift upon the parish in exchange for a glimpse of its records.” His smile widened. “You see, you are not the only one who can invent a good swato.”
* * *
Dinner seemed to Glynis to drag on forever.
She had dressed in a gown of gold silk which had a half-robe of red velvet. She plucked at the velvet, self-conscious, feeling overdressed and out of place. St. Albans acted as if she honestly was a lady, deferring to her every preference, and lightly wielding that devastating charm of his on both her and their host.
The vicar, Mr. Ambrose Cook—a solemn man, gray haired, and round of figure and face—had greeted them at the Rectory with more caution than hospitality. Glynis realized the vicar must be aware of St. Albans’s notoriety, for the man could not have been more guarded if he were greeting the devil himself.
Still, he offered the Earl the deference due his position. And after serving them sherry in the drawing room—and after being handed a discreetly proffered check drawn, as St. Albans said, on his own bank on behalf of Miss Dawes—the vicar’s starched formality began to thaw.
Not a word more was mentioned by St Albans of why they were there. Not as the vicar took them into dinner. Not as a meal of more pies and sauces and dishes than Glynis could count was laid before them. Not as she retired—as a lady must—to leave the gentleman to their port, with their promise not to linger.
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