A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
“It isn’t right,” she floundered. “We just shared passion, Emilian.”
“We shared a simple kiss, one you will soon forget.”
She shook her head. “No. I won’t forget it. Please consider an exchange of letters!” she cried.
“Just go,” he roared.
She flinched but couldn’t tell her feet to move. How could this be happening?
He turned furiously, strode down the hill, and did not look back a single time.
AS IF A SPIDER caught in her web, he was drawn back to the bottom of the hill. He stared up at the house.
The sun had risen over an hour ago, but the camp was hardly stirring, due to the celebration the night before. He had not slept. He had not even thought to try. Emilian stared up at the de Warenne mansion. He did not want to lust after Ariella de Warenne, especially not now. He did not quite trust himself with his lust. There was too much rage.
He whirled and started back to the camp. He hoped to never encounter her again. Mariko could take care of his needs, as could a dozen well-bred Derbyshire wives. He had meant his every word. That morning had been goodbye. There would not be an exchange of letters or a flurry of meetings. He hadn’t asked for a woman like that to appear in his life, especially not now, when he was grieving and enraged.
She was the kind of young lady that no one had ever presented to him—and no one ever would—because of his tainted blood. She was beautiful, wealthy, well-bred and undoubtedly accomplished. She was even, somehow, innocent, in spite of her passionate nature—and her nature was passionate, he had uncovered that. He was deemed worthy of the fat, the aged, the infirm, the ugly—those rejected by everyone else. A lady like Miss de Warenne would never be presented to a man who had Gypsy blood running in his veins, no matter his wealth, his title. One day, Miss de Warenne would be presented to a genuine Englishman, one as blue-blooded and properly English as she. Her suitor would take one look at her and be smitten. Any sane man would instantly conclude that the beautiful and genteel Miss de Warenne would make the perfect wife.
No other man had ever kissed her before.
It was unbelievable.
He had given her pleasure for the first time. Too well, he recalled her cries. Even now, his skin was abraded from her nails and teeth.
He had wanted her attentions when he had first seen her, in spite of the fact that he had surmised she wasn’t married. He never chased unmarried women, but she was beautiful, English and above him. Perhaps because of her father, he had deliberately looked at her with sexual interest. He hadn’t been surprised when she had come to him last night. She could claim that she had drifted to their camp to hear the music, but she had come because of him. But he had assumed she was a woman of experience, a woman with lovers.
Young unwed ladies were meant to lounge in the drawing rooms of their mansions, sipping tea in the latest London fashions, awaiting their callers and suitors. She claimed she was different. Obviously, she was clinging to propriety, and he wondered if she would manage to continue to do so until her wedding night. Suddenly he hated the idea of an Englishman being the one to fully show her passion.
He could have had her; why hadn’t he taken her?
Because he was more English than Rom. As a gentleman, he had a strong sense of honor. The English valued innocence, the Roma did not. He had never dallied with a virgin, not even during his traipse with the Romany across Scotland eight years ago. It was not just because he preferred experienced women in his bed. The Englishman he had become, the man who was Woodland’s viscount and Edmund’s son, could not take or destroy a woman’s innocence. It was that simple.
Just then, he did not feel particularly English.
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