A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
within her. Emilian’s gray eyes seemed to be engraved permanently in her thoughts. She hadn’t ever been so preoccupied with a man, not in her entire twenty-four years. She wasn’t sure what her strange distraction meant, but their brief interaction had haunted her throughout the evening.
We are Rom.
She remained haunted, she realized, for she was standing alone in the front hall, in the night-darkened, eerily silent house, wondering about him. He was proud and hostile, and she couldn’t comprehend why he was so defensive, or why he had seemed to dislike her and her father so much. But he had found her attractive. She was woman enough to understand the kind of look he’d given her. Gentlemen had been looking at her with some admiration since she had turned sixteen, but it had never made her think twice—until now.
Her heart was racing.
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