Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers
her headlong flight she had lost her head scarf, and her hair, newly washed that evening, slipped from the careless knot at the back of her neck, to fall in curls about her shoulders. In the faint light, she looked like a wild, tawny animal, too shy to be tamed.
“Here’s a piece of luck! A runaway gypsy wench with hair the color of the Castilian plains! Perhaps she’ll act as our guide tonight.”
There were women among them, their flimsy, high-waisted gowns only carelessly concealed by velvet cloaks. Jewels winked around white throats, and they laughed as loud as the men.
“Don’t run off, little girl! We’re here to watch the dancing. Don’t let her run away. Look at her hair, isn’t that unusual for a gypsy?”
A man caught her around the waist, holding her captive in spite of her frantic struggles.
“Hold still, you little ninny! No one’s going to hurt you. Here, perhaps this will persuade you to calm down!”
Still laughing, he slipped a coin between her breasts. One of the women, throwing the hood back from her high-piled hair, said in a wheedling, husky voice, “Really, I assure you we don’t mean you any harm. But we’re all strangers here, and we’d pay you well if you’ll act as our guide. We want to join in the dancing—do you think your people would mind?”
There was wine on the woman’s breath as she leaned close, and Marisa tried to control the shudder that shook her whole body, feeling her breath cut off by the pressure of the arm that still held her close to a hard, masculine body. These people were obviously of the nobility, out for a good time with the common folk. And she would only provide a source of further amusement for them if she continued to struggle. From the smiling looks of the women, she could sense that she could not expect any help from them.
“Come—we’ll pay you well. Very well. And if you were running from a too-ardent lover, we’ll protect you!”
The man who spoke gave a laugh that sounded strangely familiar. He added petulantly, “Por Dios, amigo, don’t be so selfish! You’ve done nothing but drink and look sullen all evening, and now you won’t share the spoils! Perhaps our little gypsy will give us a private performance later—what do you say?”
Marisa felt, rather than heard, their inane talk and laughter pass over and around her. Without quite realizing what was happening, she found herself dragged along with them, as if she had been a rag doll with no feelings and no understanding—a new toy to amuse themselves with. She felt as dazed as if she had actually turned into wood; and at the same time some deep-rooted instinct of pride held her silent. She wouldn’t cry and plead with them to let her go! At least they were moving towards the lights and the music, and sooner or later, when they tired of their sport, she would escape. Suddenly she thought of Mario, and for once felt relieved that he was so jealous. He’d rescue her! She stopped resisting and tried to ignore the laughing comments of her tormentors.
“You see? She’s quite resigned now—quite tame. It must be your charm….”
“I wonder if she’s a deaf-mute? Really—she hasn’t said one single word!”
“Don’t be afraid. You’ll find us generous—and especially if you’ll dance for us.”
“The poor child looks as if she could use a good meal!”
“Child? She must be fifteen or sixteen at least! And among the gypsies, that’s almost old! Are you married yet, menina?”
The man whose steely arm still encircled her waist said suddenly, “I think she’s frightened half to death. Perhaps she’ll learn to talk back to us after she’s had some wine.”
He spoke with a strange, drawling accent she could not place. Was he a foreigner, then?
They came at last into the flickering circle of lights, and while everyone’s attention was caught by the sudden burst of handclapping as the guitars strummed wildly bringing a dance to its climax, Marisa dared a nervous upward glance.
Her breath caught in her throat when she encountered his eyes. They were like shards of splintered, glittering glass, piercing her, and she could not prevent her instinctive, shrinking movement.
His arm tightened, and he gave a soft, mocking laugh.
“Not trying to run away again are you, golden eyes? It’s too late now that you’ve come this far with us. My companions find you fascinating, you know.”
One of the other men chuckled, overhearing. “And so do you, obviously! I vow, amigo, that I have never seen you exert yourself before to catch a woman. Perhaps it is only the thrill of a chase and a capture that you enjoy?”
Held forcibly close to him, Marisa could feel the man who held her shrug.
“You know I’m a hunter. And this one, with her golden mane and the half-shy, half-wicked look in her eyes, reminds me of a mountain lion. Would you enjoy using your claws on me, menina?”
Taunted into a fury, Marisa tilted her head to glare at him.
“I would like to do worse! To stick a knife between your ribs and watch you bleed—”
“Dios! She is a wildcat after all!”
“I don’t think so,” the other drawled infuriatingly, and through her rage-slitted eyes Marisa could see one corner of his mouth twitch in a grin. “I think she means to challenge me.”
“Ohh! You—you—” Catching the sarcastically expectant look on his dark face Marisa bit her words off short. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her swear at him. She would merely bide her time and run away to lose herself in the crowd that now milled around them—some still watching the dancers and others glancing curiously at the new arrivals. Ignoring her captor, she began to search frantically for the sight of a familiar face. Where was Blanca? And above all, where was Mario? The music was so loud that even if she screamed aloud no one would hear her! How dared these people treat her as if she were a new plaything to amuse their jaded appetites?
She noticed for the first time, with a sense of fearful foreboding, that their small group was far too well escorted. In the light, it became apparent that the men were all well-armed, forming a kind of phalanx about the bright-eyed, jeweled women.
One of the women, wearing a deep purple velvet cloak trimmed with fur, had kept glancing in their direction, ignoring her attentive escort; and now as they came to a stop she said in a rather petulant voice, “Surely you don’t need to hold on so tightly to our little gypsy? Give her some more money and ask her if she’ll go back with us tonight, to dance for us. But for the moment, I thought we came here to enjoy ourselves.” And now the dark-haired woman addressed Marisa directly in a patronizing tone. “Do you have any suggestions, girl? We are here to have fun. What do you do to amuse yourself when you are not running away?”
A tall man with a deep voice said smoothly, “Ah, but these gypsies never like to stay in the same place for too long, mi reina. They are a restless, free people always craving to move along—like our friend here, who plans to leave us soon.”
Had there been something significant in his tone? In spite of her own anger and discomfort, Marisa could not help giving him a puzzled look.
“My Queen,” he had said. Merely a flowery compliment or—was it possible? She had heard tales of the wild, licentious royal court of Queen Maria Luisa. And suddenly, like a blow to her midriff, she recalled the careless, laughing words that had floated to her as she sat astride the convent wall on that fateful day not long ago. The nagging familiarity of a laugh—a drawling voice—oh, no! Surely not! Fate could not play such an unpleasant trick on her as to deliver her into the hands of the very man she was running away from!
Marisa became aware that the woman, refusing to be diverted, was speaking to her again—this time impatiently.
“Surely you can speak? Where are your friends? Perhaps they can join us, too. The music makes me want to dance. Do you think we could join in?”
They