A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
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.
But he returned to Ariella, smiling and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Dancing had never interested her and she had two left feet. Did he think to have her whirl about like the Gypsy women? She would be a laughingstock. “I can’t dance.”
“All women can dance,” he murmured again, very, very softly. Suddenly the strains of a waltz began, coming from the violin. “The music is for us.”
She was surprised, but before she could finish an internal debate, he took her hand and reeled her slowly in. Suddenly they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh. His hands closed on her shoulders, her back. He swayed his body, moving her with him. She had never known such a sensation of male strength and male promise.
Their bodies were almost fused. Her cheek had somehow found the bare skin of his chest. She shuddered. All she could think of was his soft breath on her ear, and his hard manhood, so obviously aroused, against her hip. This wasn’t the waltz: this was a couple swaying to soft music, the brush of breast against chest, the rubbing of loins and hips. This was a prelude to passion.
He said against her ear, “This night is for lovers.”
She didn’t want to move her cheek from his wet skin, but she looked up. He had danced her over to the trees, where the night was heavy and dark.
“Can you feel the music in your body, against your skin?” he whispered. “Can you feel it in your blood?” His gaze was searing. “It is throbbing there, with need, with passion.” His mouth twisted. “Do you want to kiss a Gypsy?”
They weren’t moving now. They stood in an embrace and she felt her heart thundering—or was it his? And she felt herself nod. She thought she might die for his kiss.
“I