A Dangerous Love (7 page)

There was no reason to linger in the front hall, but Ariella stepped closer to the window and pressed her face to the cool glass pane. She thought she heard music.

Ariella realized she should not be surprised. The Romany Gypsies were renowned all over the world for their music.

She was swept with curiosity and excitement. She swiftly crossed the hall, stepping into the parlor, and then she opened the terrace doors. The moment she did, she heard the unfamiliar, exotic music.

She went still. She had heard similar melodies in the Middle East, but she had never heard music with so much passion and joy. And did she hear laughter, as well?

She realized she had crossed the terrace and stood by the railing, staring down the hill. It was a bright night, with a million stars overhead and a waxing moon, but she could see only the light of their fires and the ghostly shapes of the covered wagons. There was no doubt in her mind that the Roma Gypsies were having a celebration.

She wanted to go down the hill. She told herself she did not dare. It was highly improper—and even imprudent. A woman could not wander about the countryside after dark alone. She didn't care about the scandal, but it could be dangerous.

But no one need know. If she kept hidden, the Romany Gypsies wouldn't see her, and her family was soundly asleep for the night. If she was careful to avoid any encounters, there wouldn't be any danger to her person.

She trembled with excitement. When would she ever have this opportunity again? She hadn't seen Gypsies since she was a child. She might never come across such an encampment again. How could she ignore the music, the festivities? Stories abounded about the Gypsies, about nights filled with music, dance and love.

And what about their charismatic leader?

Ariella breathed hard, her pulse pounding. She knew she found him highly attractive, as well as enigmatic. She was curious about him, too. He seemed so well-spoken, as if educated. He was clearly used to giving commands, and he hadn't deferred to her father. What kind of man was he? Where had he come from?

The Roma would be gone in the morning.

He would be gone in the morning, too.

Her decision was made. She lifted her pale skirts and stepped down from the terrace onto the lawn. A moment later, she hurried across the drive, her pace increasing along with her excitement. She could identify more than guitars now, for she also heard at least one violin, and the rich song was punctuated with cymbals and clapping hands.

And she could finally see the wagons ahead. The blazing fires within their midst illuminated them. She heard more laughter and conversation, and she glimpsed the dancers, a flurry of movement and jewel tones.

She paused behind the closest wagon, breathing hard. The music was fierce and demanding now. It almost beat inside her, causing her stomach to churn. The tempo had escalated, as had her pulse. Gray eyes dominated her mind's eye.

Ariella crouched low beside the wagon, slipping around the front. Seeing the dancers, she stiffened in amazement.

In the center of the clearing, he danced alone. He held his arms high, fingers snapping, his white shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His chest gleamed in the firelight as he danced. The fabric of his breeches strained over his thighs and hips, and each step was impossibly seductive and sensual. Each step brought him a bit closer to where she stood. Her mouth became dry.

His eyes were closed. His dark lashes were fanned out on his high, flushed cheekbones. His expression was tight, one of sheer pleasure. A sheen of perspiration covered his face, too, and as he gyrated, she could see his navel. Ariella tugged at her bodice. Every solid inch of his anatomy was visible in that open shirt and those doeskin breeches and she was terribly, uncomfortably hot.

She swallowed. She could not look away and she did not care. She knew her thoughts had become more than improper. She was thinking about his masculinity, his virility and his barely leashed power. He was dancing alone, but somehow, it was terribly suggestive—as if he would soon take a lover to his bed.

She did not know what was happening to her. She had never thought about a man this way. What he might or might not do after dancing was not her concern.

His eyes suddenly opened. Although there were many people dancing now, and a few exotic women had surrounded him, his gaze swung directly across the dancers at her.

Had he known she was there? Her heart exploded in her chest. She knew she should duck, but somehow, she had risen to fully stand. She knew she should tear her attention away from his beautiful face, his bare chest, but that was impossible. She realized she no longer stood by the traces; somehow she had actually stepped forward.

His gray eyes caught hers and blazed.

Ariella could not look away.

His eyes were so fierce, she forgot to breathe. Their gazes locked, his arms lifted and he turned slowly for her. His arms swept toward her, and his hips slowed. Ariella felt as if his hands had just drifted down her body, as if his loins had just brushed across her belly. She did not have to be a woman of experience to know that he was dancing for her.

As if under a spell, all she could think of was his embrace and being pressed against his hard body.

He smiled seductively and his thick black lashes lowered, just as the music ceased.

Trembling, Ariella wondered if he would hear her slamming heartbeat.

He stood still, except for his chest, which rose and fell rapidly. His eyes lifted, male and intense, searing hers.

She should run away.
If she stayed, something would happen—if she stayed, he was going to touch her, pull her close, against his hard body…somehow, she knew.

A hand seized her from behind.
“Kon nos? Gadje romense? Nay!”

Ariella cried out.

A young man, perhaps sixteen, stared furiously at her. He shook her and spoke angrily in his language again. There was no music now, no laughter or conversation.

“I don't understand,” she whispered.

The youth dragged her forward. Ariella stumbled and paused. The dancers surrounded them. Emilian strode forward, his eyes flashing, his body hot and wet.
“Dosta!”

Ariella was released. Trembling, she hugged herself. Her savior was as angry as the young man. She looked at the crowd. Hostile stares were trained upon her. No one moved. Stances were belligerent. She wanted to vanish into the ground.

He spoke again, rapidly and firmly.

The young man looked at her. “I am sorry,” he said in a heavy accent. He turned and walked away.

Ariella was incredulous. She looked at Emilian and he stared back at her, while the bearlike man from earlier that afternoon clapped his hands and spoke to the crowd. Someone began playing a guitar. Conversation resumed, but in lower tones and whispers, as everyone walked away. And they were alone.

Ariella was so dry she had to wet her lips. Worse, her focus had precipitously dropped to his bare, sweat-slickened chest. She couldn't help it; she stole a glance at the tight lines of his abdomen. She knew she did not dare look lower; she knew what she would see there. “What…” She wet her lips again. She sounded horribly breathless. “I wasn't spying.”

His gaze narrowed.

“I swear.” She breathed hard, shaking now. “I heard the music, I could not help myself.”

His stare remained enigmatic. “And were you amused? Did our primitive way entertain you?”

She inhaled. “The music…the dancing…it is wonderful.”

He made a sound. His attention slid to the edge of her bodice. “Isn't it late, Miss de Warenne, for a stroll across your lawns?”

He was too close. She could feel his heat and smell his scent. She could so easily touch him if she tried. Her anxiety escalated. “Yes. I should go. I am sorry to intrude.” She started to rush past him.

He seized her wrist, restraining her. “But you are my guest.”

Her entire arm, bare to the cap sleeve of her dress, was pressed against the hot, wet skin of his chest. She felt dizzy, faint. The hollow aching became acute. “Is that what you told them?”

“We do not like
gadjos
in our midst.” Suddenly he smiled at her. “But you have become the exception to our rule.”

Didn't he care that he was indecently dressed and practically naked? Didn't he know that he held her entire arm against his chest? Couldn't he feel her trembling with more than distress, with more than fear?

“Do you really want to go?” he murmured, his tone becoming a caress.

She stared into his warm eyes. She didn't want to leave and they both knew it.

“The evening has only begun.”

“I don't know…I only came to investigate.” The moment she spoke, she realized how bigoted that sounded.

“Most proper ladies would not dare such an investigation at such an hour,” he said. He released her arm.

She could have moved farther away from him, but she didn't. Instead, she looked at his muscular chest where she'd just been so intimately pressed. His abdomen was concave. She reached up to touch her cheek—it was on fire. And her own body was perspiring almost as much as his.

He smiled again. He leaned close. “But an improper lady might venture out at such an hour. Can I help your
investigation?
”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Of course you did. You want to compare.” He sent her a rather cool smile and took her arm.

He tugged her to a small table near one of the wagons, farther from the dancers. He poured two glasses of wine from a hefty jug, handing one to her. Before she could refuse, he drank thirstily, as if the wine were water. His gaze moved down to the edge of her silk bodice.

Her nipples tightened. That look was as bold as if he'd reached inside her dress, past chemise and corset. “I didn't mean that I had come to investigate.”

“Of course you did. Drink the wine. You will enjoy the night even more fully.”

“I have already had wine with supper.”

His white teeth gleamed. “But you are so nervous, as much as a schoolgirl or debutante. I do not bite, Miss de Warenne. Nor do I cheat or steal—or seduce unwilling ladies. It is Miss de Warenne, is it not?” His attention strayed to her left hand.

She came to her senses. “It is Miss de Warenne. I don't believe in stereotyping. Of course you don't cheat or steal—or seduce unwilling women.” She thought she flushed. This man had a way of making his every word seem sexually suggestive.

His brows lifted. “So you are the single
gadjo
without prejudice? How laudable.”

“Bigotry is wrong and I am not a prejudiced person,” she managed.

He turned aside, lashes lowering, but not before sending her a long glance.

Ariella raised her glass and took a gulp of the wine. Had that look meant what she thought it did? She gulped again. She had seen her father, her uncles, even her brother and cousins look at women that way. That look had one meaning. What should she do?

She should stay and let him kiss her.

Almost in disbelief, ready to wonder if this were a dream, she took another draft of the wine. She was an enlightened thinker. She didn't care about propriety and she had never been interested in a kiss before. There was no doubt about it—she was highly interested now.

As if he sensed her decision, he murmured, “If you did not come here to investigate, then I wish to do so.” He laid his hand on her waist.

She tensed, but not with fear. Instead, her body hummed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I wish to understand why a beautiful, unwed and
proper
lady of your age is wandering into my encampment in the middle of the night.”

“I am passionate,” she whispered, “about knowledge. I want to know more about the Romany people.”

“The Romany people—or me?”

She went still.

“Give up the pretense,” he murmured. His hand moved up her side, a shocking caress. “You didn't come for the music or for them. You came for me. I am your investigation.”

Ariella couldn't speak. He was right.

His smile twisted as he pulled her closer. “You aren't the first Englishwoman to wish for a Romany lover.”

She started to protest but he murmured, “Why else would you come to me,
gadji,
at such an hour?”

She had no answer to make. She stuttered, “I don't know…I wanted to come…I was drawn.”

“Good. Be drawn. I wish for you to want me.” His eyes smoldered. “We are open about our passions. Wait here.”

Ariella stared after him, shaken, while he went back to the crowd. She saw him pause before the violinist, an older white-haired man. She realized she was hardly the only woman staring at him with yearning. The younger Romni women were beautiful, and a few of them were watching Emilian as closely as she was.