Claiming the Forbidden Bride (17 page)

‘I don't believe in fate,' Rhys said.

It was not the absolute truth, but he'd seen too many men become reckless in the belief that if it were their time to die, they would, and there was nothing they could do about
it. He'd stayed alive through years of the most brutal combat by believing his fate rested in his own hands, controlled by his intellect and courage rather than by something that had been written in his stars. Or in his palm.

‘Then you're a lucky man. Or a foolish one.' Stephano took the two steps that would carry him to the door. When he reached it, he looked back over his shoulder. ‘The villagers have finally roused themselves to investigate. With your background and position, I'm sure they could never believe you to be at fault in this. I hope you'll understand if I, on the other hand, decline to await their judgment regarding my part in it. I bid you goodnight, Major Morgan. And farewell. Have a safe and uneventful journey home.'

With that, the Rom slipped out of the cottage as soundlessly as he had entered. Faintly in the distance, Rhys could hear the murmur of voices that had alerted Stephano to the arrival of Burke's fellow citizens.

The Gypsy had probably been correct in his supposition that Rhys would eventually and without penalty be able to explain his presence in a house that also contained two dead men. That might, however, prove to be a time-consuming process, one in which he would be forced to call upon the influence of his brother. Or even his godfather. Neither possibility appealed to him.

After a quick look around to make sure there was nothing here to identify either himself or Beshaley as Burke's guests, Rhys crossed to open the shutter and, putting one leg over the low sill, climbed out.

He had untied the bay and was in the process of mounting before the villagers' voices grew loud enough for him to distinguish what they were shouting. Leaning forward over the neck of his horse, he sent the gelding thundering down the lane toward the main road.

Long before he reached it, he knew there was no pursuit. Nor would there be.

The constable would be called, but despite Rhys's earlier visit to the cottage, there would be no way for anyone to connect him with tonight's events. Or to Burke's death.

It was possible that some of the men Burke had persuaded to accompany him on the raid of the Gypsy encampment might consider his death to be payback by the Rom. Whether or not they would act on that idea…

Is none of your concern.
Both Nadya and her half-brother had gone out of their way to make that clear.

Go home, soldier boy. You should be safe there.

The temptation to do exactly that was stronger than it had ever been before. The attraction involved with fighting windmills had always escaped him.

Go home.
And he would, if only because Nadya had given him no other option.

Just not yet…

I
f Nadya had been expecting either praise or sympathy from her grandmother for sending Rhys away, she would have been disappointed. When she told the old woman that her former patient had gone home, Magda had acted as if she'd lost her mind. Now, three days after Rhys's departure, Nadya was beginning to believe her grandmother had been correct.

She knew that if she had pursued their relationship, Stephano would no doubt have disowned her, perhaps even sent her into exile. Compared to what she had given up to stay in his good graces, she was no longer sure she cared.

And what about Rhys?
logic demanded.
Do you care about him? What kind of reception would he have had if he'd returned to his family with a Gypsy in tow?

Of course, it was possible that Rhys had never intended to take her home. Maybe he had planned to provide her with a cottage nearby, a place he could visit when his physical desires for her drove him away from whatever marriage his family would eventually arrange.

Which would leave her in the same situation as her
mother. A
gaujo's
whore. A woman who had no rights under English law, not even to the disposition of her children.

Regret and reason circled endlessly in her mind, and now, three days removed from Rhys's departure, she was no closer to resolving the debate than she'd been when she had told him goodbye. Except she hadn't even done that, she admitted. Or allowed Angel to. And like her mother, the child had grieved that he was gone.

Despite the chill of the early October afternoon, today she had left her daughter with her grandmother in camp and walked alone to the meadow where the two of them had spent so many happy hours. She wanted time to think without the distraction of watching over Angel.

Once there, she had again spread her shawl and sat down in the heart of a countryside where always before she'd found peace. She was determined to reclaim her life—one that had given her joy and a deep sense of satisfaction.

To do that, she must dispel this pall of doubt that continued to depress her spirits. She had made her choice, one she knew was correct by any standard she might apply. Now she had to let go of all the ‘what ifs' that plagued her every waking hour.

She had no idea how long she'd sat there, the weak afternoon sun on her back, before a movement in her peripheral vision warned her she was no longer alone. She turned her head to see Rhys standing at the edge of the trees. And despite all her arguments that it was better he had gone, she couldn't prevent the involuntary increase in her heart rate at his return.

‘Is Angel with you?' His eyes searched for the child before they returned to her.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. She had just realized that, for almost the first time since he'd regained consciousness, they were truly alone.

The same thought seemed to occur to Rhys. He stepped through the trees and began to walk toward her.

She rose before he reached her. ‘What are you doing here?'

He took a breath, deep enough that it moved his shoulders. ‘I still believe you're in danger.'

She should be flattered, she supposed, that he was obsessed with her safety. But of all the things he might have said to her, that was the last she wanted to hear.

‘The target of some nefarious plot to deprive my people of their
drabarni
. How could I possibly have forgotten?'

‘Oliver Burke was murdered. Someone had cut his throat before I could talk to him again.'

If her half-brother had also discovered the name of the man who'd led that raid, he might well have enacted his own form of justice. One that would prevent further harm to his people.

‘And you believe Stephano had something to do with that?'

‘
Stephano
? Why would you think that?'

Rhys's surprise seemed genuine, making Nadya wish she hadn't mentioned her half-brother's name in conjunction with the murder. After all, there was no way he could know her brother's weapon of choice had always been the knife. Learning Burke's throat had been cut had instantly led her to wonder if he'd had a hand in the man's death.

‘Because you're here,' she lied. ‘I thought you'd come to confront him.'

‘Actually…' He seemed disinclined to finish the thought.

‘No?' she prodded.

‘Stephano was there. At Burke's cottage. But I don't believe he had anything to do with his death.'

This time Nadya was wise enough to hold her tongue. She thought it strange Rhys didn't suspect her brother,
even though that had been her first thought. Of course, he wasn't as familiar with Stephano's thirst for vengeance on those who'd wronged him as she was.

‘So Stephano knew about Burke?' she asked.

‘Andrash gave him his name. Stephano had been able to trace him, just as I had.'

Then it seemed even stranger that Rhys didn't think her brother had anything to do with the man's death. That wasn't an idea she wanted him to dwell on, of course. She suspected Rhys's code of honour would force him to go to the authorities if he thought Stephano was involved.

‘Then perhaps he was also able to determine why Burke incited the villagers.'

‘I'm afraid any trail that might lead us beyond Burke has ended. I've spent the last few days at the inn where he told me his employer approached him, but no one there seemed to know Burke. And if any gentlemen frequent that establishment, no one was aware of that either.'

‘Then…forgive me, but why have you come back?'

A muscle in his jaw tightened and then relaxed. ‘Unfinished business, I suppose.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Nor do I. Every time I leave you I think…'

‘What?'

‘That it's the right thing to do. The honourable thing. And then…then I find myself drawn back again, once more searching for words that will make sense of what I feel.'

Her heart had begun to pound, but they'd been down this same path too many times to allow false hope. They both knew nothing could come of what was between them.

Nothing except what might happen here…

‘And have you found those words?'

He shook his head. ‘Only ones that tell me I shouldn't be here. Not with you. Not alone.'

‘We both know all the arguments against it.'

‘And seem to have rejected them,' he said softly. ‘So that we're back to this.'

‘And what is
this
?'

‘I don't know. All I know is that I've never felt about another woman the way I feel about you.'

At one time hearing him make that confession would have meant everything to her. Now she wondered if it were enough.

And even if she decided it was enough for now, would it be enough when he was gone? When she'd been deserted like her mother so that he could marry the oh-so-respectable
gadje
wife his family would choose for him?

‘What do you want from me, Rhys?' The words were an expression of her frustration. So much so that she didn't expect an answer.

He gave her one. ‘Whatever you're willing to give.'

And that was her dilemma. What was she willing to give of who and what she was? A woman respected within her tribe. Valued for who she was, as well as for what she knew. One whose position had been secured from the moment of her birth.

All of that would be at risk if she gave herself to this man. This
gaujo
.

She had no doubt what Stephano would do if he found out she'd disobeyed one of the strongest taboos of her people. Not only was he her brother, he was also the leader of their people.

And the unfortunate product of a misalliance exactly like this one would be.

That was the term the
gadje
used to describe a highly unsuitable match, and exactly what their pairing would be to her people. As well as to his.

‘There's too much at stake,' she said finally. ‘For both of us. You know that.'

Rhys nodded, but took another step forward. Close enough now that she could have reached out and touched him.

‘You shouldn't have come back,' she said instead.

‘Is that what you wanted? Never to see me again?'

That was a lie she couldn't bring herself to give voice to. Not even to protect him.

With her silence, he took the last step. As near to her as he had been when he lifted her down from his horse that night. The night they had kissed.

Even the memory of Magda's scolding wasn't enough to prevent her from doing what she had wanted to do since he'd walked out of the trees. She stepped into his arms, which closed around her as if they, too, knew she belonged there. As if none of the things that should have kept them apart mattered.

Her face lifted for his kiss. This time there was no hesitation. His mouth met hers, claiming it, branding it as if he intended that they should never be separated again.

His touch ravaged her senses. All her logical arguments for why this couldn't be dissolved in the intensity of what he could make her feel.

After a long time, he lifted his head, looking down into her eyes. They had opened slowly, reluctant to return to even this much reality.

He smiled at her, his thumb tracing across the moisture his lips had left on hers. She opened her mouth to capture it, suckling while her gaze held his.

He bent his knees to lift her, carrying her into the denseness of the forest. When he finally set her on her feet, her knees trembled so that she was forced to put her hand on his shoulder for balance.

He stripped off his coat and waistcoat and laid them on the ground. His fingers struggled with the intricacies of his cravat until hers replaced them, untying its knot and letting the cloth drift down to the blackened leaves that formed a carpet around them.

As soon as he pulled his shirt off over his head, she was there, pressing her body against the strength of his. She put her hands on his shoulders and, standing on tiptoe, reached for his mouth. He responded by pulling her closer, her breasts once more crushed against its muscled wall.

When he broke his kiss this time, it was to trail the heat of his lips down the line of her throat and into the valley between her breasts, exposed to his touch by the low neck of the blouse she wore.

She drew a shuddering breath, as the warmth of his tongue moved over her skin. The scent of his body was in her nostrils. Clean. Sweet. Dearly familiar.

She moved her hands down his chest, and then lower, her thumbs trailing down the line of dark hair that centred his stomach. With the tips of her fingers she traced along rib and muscle until she reached the barrier of his pantaloons. She slipped her fingers inside them, brushing over his hipbone.

When he eased the neck of her blouse down, so that his lips caressed the swell of her breast, something released deep inside her body, sending heat scalding through her veins. And still her body begged for more.

She wanted the masculine abrasiveness of his chest, which she'd felt beneath her palms, against her breasts. The only way to accomplish that…

She took a step back, reaching down to strip her blouse off over her head. Before it reached the ground where his
clothing lay, she was back in his arms, the warmth of his body replacing the chill of the air against her dampened skin.

Flesh to flesh.

This was what she had craved. What she'd dreamed of. Yet even as she gloried in his nearness, it was not enough. It could not be. Not now. Not when she had tasted the reality of things she'd only imagined before.

As his mouth closed over hers once more, his kiss was different somehow because of this new intimacy. And, although she tried to prevent the desertion of his lips, she made no protest when he knelt, drawing her down to the scattered clothing he'd arranged to form a makeshift bed.

It was not a marriage bed—that could never be hers—but it was theirs. One the two of them would share.

And when they had, she would deal with the consequences of this decision. One she made not only with her heart, but with her head.

Rhys lay down beside her. For a long time, he didn't touch her, content to look down into her face.

His eyes traced her features as if he'd never seen them before. Or if he were trying to memorize them.

In preparation for the time when they would no longer be together?

What did that matter? They would at least have this. This here and now. And as for what would come when it was over…

Rhys lifted his torso, propping on one elbow to smile at her. With one finger he followed the line of her lips, which opened under his touch. He dragged their slight moisture down the curve of her chin and then into the small hollow at the base of her throat. He lowered his head, pressing a kiss against its pulse.

His fingers cupped around the fullness of her breast,
cradling it to meet his mouth's descent. As his lips closed around her nipple, already hardened with the afternoon's chill, molten heat ran through her body.

And then the release she'd felt before was suddenly there again. Her mouth opened involuntarily, her sigh of pleasure audible.

Rhys's practiced caress didn't falter. Instead, he seemed to delight in discovering new ways to create that reaction.

His patience unlimited, with his teeth, lips and tongue, he taught her the ancient art of approach and withdrawal. Of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Of anticipation and release.

It wasn't enough. Nothing could be. Not until he had taken her. Not until he had made love to her in every way that had been devised by the imagination of man since the beginning of time. Only then, perhaps, would the need she felt finally be satisfied.

And so he began that final lesson, employing again all the pleasures he'd introduced her to. He loosened the tie that held her skirt at the waist—the long fingers that had seemed unable to deal with the intricacies of his own clothing having no problem with hers—until she lay completely naked. Completely exposed to his gaze.