A Dangerous Love (16 page)

A
RIELLA AWOKE
cocooned in heat. She blinked, feeling as if she had been drugged, her body sluggish and somewhat sore, and then she was wide awake.

She lay naked in Emilian's arms, in a guest room at Woodland. Their bodies were entwined, one of her legs caught between his. His arms were around her, her face pressed to the hard upper ribs just below his chest. Instantly she recalled his making love to her slowly, deliberately and exquisitely.

She had never been so happy, she thought, a thrill beginning. She noticed the pale gray dawn was filtering into the bedroom. Although delicious sensation was building, real alarm began. But before she could sit, his grasp tightened. She turned and realized he was awake and watching her closely.

She smiled, but he did not smile back. Instead, his gray, watchful eyes moved over her face, her hair, her breasts. “I have to go,” she whispered, realizing that he was ready to make love to her another time.

A smile finally flickered. “Do you?” He pulled her closer, moving over her.

Oh, she did not want to ever leave! “Emilian,” she began, images flashing. The sun would soon come up and she had to be at Rose Hill, in her own bed, as if she had spent the night there. She could see the staff beginning their day's chores. Her parents were early risers. So was Alexi. “I have to get home.”

He kneed her thighs apart, while nuzzling her throat. “How can you leave me now, like this?” he murmured in a most seductive tone.

He hadn't even finished speaking when she felt him entering her.

Her body responded instantly, urgently—he had taught her so well. She felt him smile against her neck as he stroked deeply into her swelling flesh. She had to go…but the warm waves of sensation held her back, threatening to become unbearable. She looped her hands around his neck. “Make love to me,” she whispered fiercely.

His silver eyes hot, his mouth claimed hers.

 

B
RIGHT SUNLIGHT AWOKE HER
.

She was so tired. She didn't want to awaken, and she groaned, covering her eyes with her hand. The movement hurt her arm. She began to awaken anyway, and she became aware of how utterly exhausted she was. She felt swollen and sore in unmentionable places and she suddenly recalled the evening before. She opened her eyes, but the other side of the bed was empty.

The sunlight flooding the room indicated that it was midmorning, at least. She sat up, dismayed. Why hadn't Emilian awakened her?

Memories of the night before began, flooding her. No wonder she was sore. Emilian was a superb and insatiable lover—but she had been rather insatiable, herself. She blushed.

She sat very still, her heart racing, her tired body trembling, thinking of all that they had done. They were lovers now. This was the beginning of the rest of their lives. Wasn't it? She wanted to smile. Her heart was trying to sing its way out of her breast, she was so deeply in love.

Where was he? Why had he let her sleep so late?

Ariella now saw her torn underclothes on the floor. Her dress lay there, too, in such a wrinkled state that she inhaled. How could she go home in that? What if someone saw her?

She looked up. A large Baroque mirror was above the bureau on the adjacent wall and she saw a stranger in the glass.

She could not look like that.
She was naked in the rumpled bed. Her body was lush and flushed. Her disheveled hair streamed past her shoulders and over her breasts. Her blue eyes were far too bright, her mouth swollen and red.

She looked like a woman who had spent the night in her lover's arms.

A chair creaked.

Ariella looked past the bureau. Her eyes widened. Emilian sat in a green velvet chair in the shadows by the closet, staring silently at her.

She smiled, about to greet him, but he did not smile back. His expression was distant, hard and watchful.

Unease made her heart lurch. She felt her smile fade. She summoned it back. Reflexively, she reached for a sheet and pulled it over her chest. “Good morning. Emilian?”

“Good morning.” He rose from the chair. His impassive expression, impossible to decipher, never changed. He was fully dressed, but not in the clothes he'd worn the night before. He wore a plain white shirt and his breeches and riding boots.

Her heart clenched, beginning to hurt in her chest. Why wasn't he smiling at her? “What are you doing?”

He simply stared. “I was watching you.”

“Watching me? Why did you let me sleep? I have to get home! What time is it?”

He folded his arms, stepping to the foot of the bed. His focus moved from her eyes to her mouth, then to her hair. “It is half-past ten,” he said flatly.

She cried out in dismay but did not move from the bed. “I have to get home! God, they will find me out! Emilian…you are making me uncertain about you—about us. Have I done something to anger you?”

“How could you anger me? We have passed an excellent night.”

Hurt began, piercing through her chest. Thus far, his tone mirrored his expressionless face. “We have passed an excellent night?” she echoed.

“You learn quickly,” he said with a negligent shrug. “I knew you would be an extraordinary lover.”

He wasn't speaking like a man in love—or even like man who cared. But he could not consider her an object he had used—he could not compare her to others!

“Last night was wonderful,” she began nervously, dread arising. “It was wonderful, wasn't it?”

“I have arranged for one of Woodland's carriages to take you to Rose Hill. It is waiting out front.”

Her eyes widened. When his expression did not change, she cried, “You know I can't go home with my hair like this, in those clothes! What is happening? Why aren't you smiling? Why are you speaking as if you are dismissing me—and us?”

“It is very late. You should leave…Miss de Warenne.”

She gasped. “It is Ariella!” She realized he had called her by name exactly once the entire night, when they had first consummated their relationship. “We had a wonderful night—it is a wonderful beginning,” she cried—and she heard the desperation in her tone.

His face hardened. For the first time, she saw the anger in his eyes. “What beginning to do you refer to?”

She was reeling. “I thought…that after last night…” She could not continue.

“If you are suggesting that we continue the affair—” he shrugged “—that can be arranged.”

She choked. “That isn't what I meant! You know what I meant! I didn't come to your bed for an affair! I came—” She stopped. She was becoming sick at heart. He couldn't mean his words. He could not be so cruel.

“I told you what would happen if you came to me last night.”

“You did not ruthlessly seduce me. We made love!”

“I seduced you, coldly and callously. We had
sex.
”

She cried out and stumbled from the bed, forgetting the sheets. “Why are you doing this?”

He folded his arms across his chest and a ruthless look entered his eyes. “Exactly what am I doing, Miss de Warenne? You threw yourself at me. I accepted your offer of sex. You were well pleased last night—eight times, I believe. I enjoyed myself, as well. Now you should hurry to dress, otherwise you will never make it home undetected by your family. They must be distraught by now.” Finally, he smiled.

She trembled with shock, with hurt. “We made
love.
”

“And how would you know that?”

She recoiled.

He turned his back and started for the door, without any sign of being in a hurry. There he paused. “I'll see if I can find you a maid.”

She covered her mouth with her hands but could not stop the choked sob of anguish. “Do you
want
to ruin me?” And too late, she recalled his terrible words.

He whirled. “I did not make you a single promise!” His eyes blazed with anger. “I was blatantly honest with you. I am sorry if you had absurd expectations. I told you to
run!
” His voice had risen to a shout.

“But I thought…I thought you felt the same way about me as I do for you!” she begged. She realized tears were falling.

His face tightened. “You thought wrong. I wanted an enjoyable evening, nothing more—and I never indicated otherwise.” He left.

She had made a terrible mistake. Emilian had meant his warnings. She should have believed him. He had no feelings for her. He had coldly and ruthlessly used her.

She felt her legs give way. She didn't care. She dropped to the floor, knocking over a table as she did so, landing hard on her shoulder. Pain exploded, but she welcomed it. He had to have heard the bric-a-brac shattering, but he did not come back.

She curled up into a ball.

 

H
E CAREFULLY CLOSED
the door to his library and leaned against it. His heart thundered; he could not breathe.

He would never forget the look on Ariella's face.

He had wanted
budjo,
a Gypsy's best revenge for all of the world's ills. As a boy, he'd stolen a cow, painted its face and sold it back to the original owner. Stevan had praised him and Raiza had been proud. He had enjoyed the swindle, and the fact that the
gadjo
cow owner had refused to allow them a night on his farm had only made the hustle better. The farmer had deserved
budjo.

He had wanted Ariella de Warenne to be
budjo.
He had wanted her to be revenge for Raiza, and even for Jaelle. He had known it would be easy to take her and then return her to the
gadjos,
tainted and used. A fool would marry her, not knowing she was used by a Gypsy lover.

But she did not deserve to be
budjo,
and he damn well knew it.

Last night, he had played her like his violin. Last night, she had told him that she loved him. He had pretended not to hear.

He didn't want her love.
Why couldn't she have been a different woman, a woman of experience, a woman who only wanted to have sex? Why did she have to have those huge blue eyes, which could look into a man's empty soul and find something bright and light? He knew that she was confused; she was mistaking desire for love. He did not believe in love at first sight.

Why did he have to be her first? Why did she have to claim that she loved him?

He reached for the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Using all of his rage and strength, he tore it from the wall. Wood thundered as it fell; it cracked and splintered loudly, books flying everywhere, thudding like dropping stones. And then he stood in the havoc of the room, a terrible silence falling.

He had only wished to use her and return her that way to the
gadjos.
Had she been a different woman, one with experience, the
budjo
would have been simple and she would not have suffered very much. Instead, he had crushed her.

Too late, he realized he hadn't considered all the consequences of his actions. Too late, he knew he hadn't really meant to use, abuse and hurt such a woman.

Finding air was impossible. It was as if he suffered with her. And then he heard the piano.

He stiffened. He had never heard such beautiful yet soulful music. He often played by ear, according to his mood. He could not imagine who played now, especially a melody so deeply sad and haunting. It was filled with yearning.

He recognized the depth of the pain he was hearing and for one moment, he was still.

And then the melody changed. It became light, lively, filled with hope and joy.

He thrust the door open and raced to the music room. He halted, both doors open, and he saw Jaelle seated at the piano, engrossed, her fingers moving deftly over the keys. She was smiling, but tears streaked her face.

He closed his eyes. She had found joy in this moment, but her life was one of pain.

All Rom lived that way.

He had done the right thing using the de Warenne woman.

 

“O
H
, G
OD
! What happened?” Margery cried.

“Shut the door,” Ariella whispered, seated on the window bench, wrapped in a sheet. She was numb now. She supposed she was in shock. She had managed to send word for Margery, but had done nothing but sit and stare since.

Margery closed the door, a parcel in her arms. Her eyes were huge, taking in the rumpled bed and Ariella's clothes scattered on the floor. Her regard moved back to Ariella's face. “Who did this to you?”

Ariella looked at her distraught cousin. “I am fine,” she choked. It was a lie. She had been grossly abused, and she would never be fine again.