A Dangerous Love (9 page)

And he hadn't felt English at all last night.

He had reached the outermost wagons. A baby was crying; it might have been his newborn cousin. His head was pounding so badly he thought it might split in two. His body was pulsing as terribly, a combination of desire and rage. He wasn't even certain that he wanted to be English anymore. He only knew that he wanted to avenge Raiza, and, if he was brutally honest, a part of him was now regretting not taking the
gadji
princess to his bed.

But he kept thinking about her wide blue eyes, not her face or her body. Her eyes disturbed him, because she had looked into his as if she might find some ancient truth about him there.

He shook himself free of the fanciful notion. She claimed she wanted to be his
friend.
He laughed out loud.

He had no friends. He had brothers—every Rom in the
kumpa'nia
was his brother. He had family—Stevan, his cousins, Jaelle. Even Robert, no matter how much he despised him and was despised by him, was family. He had enemies—almost every
gadjo
and
gadji
on the street could be thrust into that category. But he did not have friends. He wasn't even sure what a friend really was or why anyone would want one.

What was wrong with her? He slept with women; he didn't befriend them.

Maybe she
was
different from the
gadjis
he took to his bed. She claimed she did not judge him the way all the
gadjos
did. But she had sought him out for passion, just as his lovers did. Had she been married, he was certain she would have leaped into his bed. That made her no different, after all. And one day, he would turn his back and overhear her speaking of him with condescension and scorn. He had not a single doubt.

His fury escalated. He hated the
gadjos,
every single last one of them—even her.

“You look ready to break someone apart.”

Emilian breathed, hoping to relax his tight muscles, and turned to face Stevan. “Do I?”

“Before I ever told you about Raiza, I saw the dark clouds in your eyes. Do you want to tell me your troubles?” Stevan asked quietly.

“I have worries at Woodland,” he lied. “All
gadjo
nonsense, really.”

Stevan smiled, clearly not believing him.

“But I want to speak with you,” Emilian said. His chest throbbed with pain. “I must go to Raiza's grave.”

“That is proper,” Stevan agreed. “She is buried at Trabbochburn, not far from where you were born. When will you go?”

There had been no time to grieve and no time to think. Just as he had learned of Raiza's murder, the celebration over the birth of his cousin had begun. And then Ariella de Warenne had appeared, distracting him. There was no question of his duty—he must go to his mother's grave and pay his respects. But now he regarded his uncle, thinking of his young sister, who needed a guardian and a brother. Raiza would want him to take care of Jaelle. “I think I would like to join you when you travel north,” he said slowly.

Stevan was surprised. “Your grief is speaking, is it not?”

“Maybe.” But the idea had so much appeal. By choosing to stay with Edmund when he was only twelve years old, he had forsaken the Roma people and their way of life. He had been so young to make such a choice. Shouldn't he attempt to understand the Roma way—especially when the Rom part of him was burning with hatred of the English and the need for revenge?

And he could get to know his little sister, who needed him.

“You know you are always welcome. But Emilian, why not take your fine
gadjo
carriage and your many servants with you? Why travel like a Rom, when you left us so long ago to become English?”

Emilian spoke with care, trying to make sense of the urgings in his heart, his soul. “I have forgotten what it means to be Rom. I feel that I owe Raiza far more than I could ever have given her—and far more than paying my respects at her grave. Everything has changed, Stevan. I am enraged with the
gadjos.
”

“You are her son—you should be enraged. I do not think you know what you want. But you are merely speaking of a visit with us, are you not?”

Emilian stared. “I am as much Rom as I am English.”

“Really? Because I see an Englishman standing before me—even if you dance like a Rom.” Stevan smiled, but Emilian could not smile back. “My sister was proud of the man you have become. She wanted you to have a fine life, with a fine house filled with servants. She would not ask you, if she were alive, to give up your English life for the Roma way.”

“What am I giving up?” Emilian cried. “I know she wanted more for me than the life of the Rom. I remember very well that she wished for me to live with my father—but she grieved over my loss, as well. I made the choice to stay at Woodland when I was too young to understand it. Did I make the right choice? My neighbors scorn me, Stevan, just as fully as they scorn you.”

Stevan was thoughtful. “I think I begin to understand. For half your blood is Romany and nothing will ever change that. But I still think you will tire quickly of the life. There have been too many changes made over too many years.”

“Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. Maybe, after a month or two, I will spit upon the
gadjos
and their way and never wish to return home.” He trembled with his rage and his attention strayed back up the hill, toward the huge de Warenne mansion.

Stevan looked at him and Emilian flushed. He had just called Woodland home.

“I think we both know that the day the
gadjo
took you away from Raiza, your
baxt
was made.”

Emilian stiffened. “I do not believe in fate.”

“Then you are very much a
gadjo,
Emilian.”

Emilian thought about how he had surrendered far more than his body to the intense, evocative Roma music last night. Briefly, he had been so consumed with the fiery passion of the dance, it had been as if the gap of eighteen years had ceased to exist. It had been as if he had never left the Romany people. “Last night I was Rom.”

Stevan clasped his shoulder. “Yes, you were. When will you be ready to leave?”

“I need a week, maybe more,” Emilian said. The lure of the open road beckoned, not just in his mind's eye, but in his heart. He could not wait—he felt as if the moment the caravan left Derbyshire, he would be free. “I must hire an estate manager, a man I can trust. Can you linger that long? The
kumpa'nia
will be welcome on my estate.”

“We will wait as long as is necessary,” Stevan said, smiling. “I am very pleased you will come with us.”

Emilian was suddenly certain that, this time, the choice he was making was the right one.

Because now, with the road lying in wait for him, he could look at his English life and question it. He was tired of the parade of
gadji
women who ogled him as if he was an exotic specimen of manhood, and who expected him to be insatiable because he was a Gypsy. If he became bored after an hour or two, his lovers were affronted. They all expected him to be hugely endowed, and couldn't wait to see if Gypsies really were built unnaturally. He had even seen his lovers checking their jewelry in the morning, to see if he had stolen anything from them.

And every
gadjo
he did business with expected to be cheated. He had never cheated anyone but he toyed with the newcomers ruthlessly; those with whom he'd conducted his affairs for years understood that he was an honest man.

He had never been a hateful man. He expected bigotry, for he had grown up with it. He could not recall the last time the words “dirty Gypsy” had really hurt him—maybe when he was a young boy, or maybe when he had first been forced to Woodland. Long ago, his heart had turned to stone. He was different from them, and he had always known that and accepted it. He might sit at their supper tables, or even, once in a great while, dance at their balls, but he was an outsider. Their scorn meant little when he was richer and more powerful than most of them, when he needed no one but himself.

Their differences had now become glaring. His life was a pretense that was no longer tolerable. He would not accept the bigotry now.

Their scorn and hatred had killed Raiza.

There had to be revenge.

He was staring up at the de Warenne house. The de Warenne woman was innocent, but she was one of them. In fact, she epitomized English society, with her beauty, heritage and wealth. She had sent him a sexual invitation, even if she hadn't known it. He remained English enough to have refused her, but the Rom part of him could not help but calculate the seduction and envision the conquest. To take a virgin like Ariella de Warenne, use her and return her used, sending her to her betrothed that way, was more than
budjo—
it was revenge.

It would be so easy….

The English part of him was horrified.

 

A
RIELLA SAT
in the window seat of the bay window. The lush lawns and blooming gardens extended below, but she saw neither. She stared instead at the Gypsy encampment, which she could see clearly from where she sat.

Their horses were loose, grazing at will. Colorful wagons remained where they had been left last night. There was no sign of preparations for their departure.

She hugged her knees to her chest. She hadn't slept at all; she hadn't even tried. She had changed her clothes and slipped into her current position, vibrating with tension. She was worried. Emilian was a stranger, but last night she had danced in his arms and he had given her a glimpse of passion. She had never been attracted to any man before, and now she was drawn, like a moth to the flame. Wasn't he drawn, too?

He intended to leave with the Romany—to simply walk away, as if nothing had happened between them.

It hurt. Even if society thought her odd, her stature as a de Warenne heiress guaranteed her acceptance wherever she went. Proper gentlemen both desired and feared her, but Emilian had rejected her.

How could she convince him to change his mind and begin a friendship with her? Her heart raced at the thought. She was beyond distraction, really, and not just because of his kiss. Ariella was uncertain of many things regarding Emilian, but one thing she knew without question: she couldn't walk away from him, not yet.

And she couldn't let him walk out of her life as abruptly as he'd appeared in it, no matter what he intended.

What was happening to her? Could she have fallen in love at first sight? There were quite a few de Warenne men and women who had instantly fallen in love, or so family myth claimed. The de Warennes were notorious for falling wildly and absolutely in love—once and forever.

“Ariella!” Dianna pounded on her door. “Can I come in? Are you awake? Alexi is here. He came with Aunt Lizzie and Margery!”

Before she could respond, Dianna came inside. “Wake up, sleepy…” She stopped. “You are up! Oh, of course you are. You are usually the first one up in the house.” Her smile faded and she stared closely.

Ariella knew then that her tension and excitement showed. She forced a smile. All she could think was that Alexi would discover her new secret if she wasn't careful.

He was her half brother and her elder by two years. His Russian mother, a countess, had handed him off to their father at birth, as neither she nor her husband cared to have her bastard son remain in their family. They had grown up together with their father on Jamaica Island, and he was far closer to her than any full sibling could be. He was her dearest friend, her brother, her protector. He would take one look at her and demand to know what was wrong.

Panic arose.
If he ever learned of her tryst with Emilian, he would try to kill him.
He was that protective of her.

“What is wrong? Are you ill?” Dianna asked, coming close and touching her cheek.

“I couldn't sleep,” Ariella said truthfully. “I doubt I slept at all last night.”

For one moment, Dianna stared as if she knew the truth. “It was their music, wasn't it?” she said, low. “I heard it, too. It took me a while to fall asleep. There must have been dancing.”

Ariella thought there was innuendo in her sister's words, but surely that was not the case. “I don't know.”

Dianna sat down on a blue-and-white-striped ottoman. “They say that is what they do—dance and sing all night long.”

“I don't think we should accept rumors as fact,” Ariella said. The moment she spoke, she heard how cross she sounded. She stood, hoping Dianna had not noticed her harsh tone.

“My, you are a grouch today. Are you coming downstairs to see Alexi?”

Ariella prayed she could pretend that all was as it should be now. “Of course.” But as she followed Dianna down the wide, central staircase, the steps covered with a red and gold Persian runner, she heard her brother's voice. His tone was hard.