A Dangerous Love (36 page)

He released her, stepping back.

She tossed her hair and sauntered into the firelight. He watched her for a moment and when she turned, lifting her arms, it drew her blouse impossibly tight. Arms high, she swayed to the music.

Although his lust blazed, he felt himself still as she rotated her pelvis and hips in an ancient sensual rhythm. She turned slowly, so he could watch her back again, and when she faced him, she used her hands to fan out her hair, her eyes on him. His heart exploded. She smiled at him again, lashes low.

He strode into the circle of light and caught her; she laughed. As he covered her mouth with his, forcefully, it crossed his mind that the sound he had just heard had been a bit triumphant. He forced his tongue deep, and when she was clinging, he pulled back and said, “You haven't won yet.”

She somehow slipped from his arms, surprising him and darting ahead. He filled impossibly as she ran lightly toward the tent. Then, savagely intent, so aroused he could not think coherently, he followed her. She vanished inside.

He stepped inside, as well, dropping the flap behind him.

Candles burned in glass lanterns. She loosened the sash, dropping it by her feet.

He went still, realizing what she was doing.

She began to tug the yellow blouse over her head, very slowly, and she tossed it aside. Then she paused. He stared, his pulse drumming. The tips of her breasts were engorged and entangled with her hair. He couldn't seem to breathe. She smiled and turned her back.

She loosened the skirt and began sliding it down her hips. The moment he realized she was naked beneath the skirt, he went still, mesmerized, impossibly rigid. She slowly slid the skirt down her high buttocks and then lower, down her thighs. She let it go and it pooled on the floor.

He gave in, reaching her from behind, clasping her waist. He pulled her against his pounding loins. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked thickly.

She leaned against him, trembling. “Very much,” she said as thickly.

“I am master here,” he murmured, meaning it. But he moved his mouth over the side of her neck.

She shuddered and gasped, arching fully against him. He turned her swiftly and their gazes met; he caught the hair at her nape, wrapped it around his hand and kissed her, deeply.

He knew he should go slowly, but he could not. He tore his mouth from hers. A moment later he had pushed her down onto his bed, and he was already reaching for the flap on his breeches. She had his hair in her hands and their eyes remained locked.

Her blue eyes shimmered with far more than lust. There was so much love there. He moaned, slowly moving into her. In that moment, he knew that her being there with him in the
kumpa'nia
was so terribly right.

She gasped, beginning to cry. She touched his cheek, his back, wrapping her legs around him. He somehow moved slowly, savoring every long stroke, wondering at the stunning pleasure, the bursting joy, a chaos in his heart.

She would give up everything to be with him, just like this.

But wouldn't he give up everything for her, too?

“Emilian, yes.” She wept in pleasure and he gave in, crying out in his own release, joining her in the wonder of pleasure and love.

He held her tightly when they were both through, his face wet from tears. He did not want to let go.

 

H
E LOOKED AT HER
as she lay asleep, while dawn's pale light filtered into the tent. She had fallen asleep perhaps a half an hour ago, snuggled against his chest. He had one arm around her, and her beautiful, perfect face was turned toward him, so he could study her every stunning feature. His heart beat hard as he stared at her. They had made love all night, but he could do so again easily.

He tore his gaze from her face and stared up at the dark ceiling of the tent. He had never known a woman like this one. Now it was time to admit that he had never wanted any woman as he did Ariella. He had never cared this way before.

He almost laughed. Ariella had gotten her way, hadn't she? They had become friends and he could no longer deny it. She had achieved her natural progression.

He gently disengaged and put his hands beneath his head. She deserved better than him and more than this. They might be friends and lovers now, but he was a half blood and she was too good to be any man's mistress, much less a Rom's. She deserved a proper marriage and her Englishman.

The thought crept into his head that he could return to Woodland and marry her.

He was not quite shocked and he slowly sat up and stared down at her.

He wasn't returning to Woodland. But she had to go back, even if he wanted her with him. That was another stunning admission.
He wouldn't mind her staying with him, like this. He had come to care for her that much.

But it was impossible. What he wanted did not matter. He simply could not allow her to be a part of the ugly world the Roma lived in, and he wouldn't allow her to be his mistress.

But all of Derbyshire already knew of their affair from the Rose Hill ball. Her pursuit of him to York might even be out, as well. Servants eavesdropped and gossiped. Sooner or later, Ariella's latest escapade would be the rage among the rumormongers. They would call her a Gypsy whore—if they weren't doing so already. But only behind her back and never to her face.

De Warenne would have his hands full finding her a proper husband. It wouldn't have been that easy before—now, it would be even more difficult.

He would buy her a husband, Emilian thought. But he had already known that. He knew de Warenne would choose with great care.

He hated the idea of her being shackled to someone she did not love.

He hated the idea of her marrying someone else.

He exploded. She was tainted by association with him. He hadn't intended any of this. If he had let the de Warenne family force marriage upon them, she would be living with the scorn of being his wife, but it was far better than the scorn of being his lover. He could not allow her to stay with him and live the hard life of a Rom and he couldn't send her back ruined. His mind was made up.

Her hand covered his. “Aren't you going to sleep at all?” she asked.

Startled, he looked down at her. “I am enjoying looking at you.”

Her smile faded and she searched his eyes. “What is wrong?”

He somehow smiled. “Nothing.”

She surprised him by taking his large hand to her mouth and kissing it. “You are sad! How can you be sad now, after the night we have shared?”

He hesitated. “You cannot stay here, Ariella.”

She sat up. “I will not leave.”

He sat, too, surprised. “I mean it.”

“Too bad! And don't try to claim that you do not want me. That is bunk.”

He almost smiled. “I will always want you.”

“Good.” She cupped his cheek. “Then that subject is ended.”

“No, it is not. You pursued me here against my wishes. I am sending you back. But I will not allow you to be my Gypsy whore.”

Her eyes widened and she flushed.

“That is what they will call you, behind your back. Loud enough for you to hear, by the way,” he said darkly.

She lifted her chin. “Fine. Then I am a whore.” She shrugged. “I suppose the slur will hurt, but I will manage and it will pass. I am
not
leaving you.”

He smiled. Her eyes widened, but he knew when to be seductive. “That isn't the subject I wish to discuss…darling.” And he pulled her into his arms.

“Why am I getting the distinct feeling that this is not about making love?”

“But I am going to make love to you very shortly.” He cradled her in his arms. “We should have been married at Rose Hill.”

“What?” she gasped.

He searched her beautiful eyes.

“But you don't want to marry me,” she finally said, her eyes wide.

“I don't like being forced into anything. No one is forcing me now. I wish to make an honest woman of you.” He pulled her down, beneath him.

“Stop! This is so important!”

“I don't want to see you hurt. I don't want to see you scorned. You should have never come, Ariella. But you did, and we are very entangled,” he murmured, repositioning himself for more effect.

“So you wish to marry me to protect me?” she asked huskily.

“Something like that,” he said roughly.

“When you can tell me that you love me, I will accept,” she gasped.

“I care about you—I need you—and I miss you when we are apart. Isn't that enough?”
If he said the words, she would agree. And would they really be a lie?

“You are coming very close,” she breathed. “But not close enough.”

She sighed as he began brushing her mouth and her lips. “Impossible man,” she murmured.

He spent the next five minutes readying them both. When she was moaning in pleasure and he was pushing deep, he whispered, “I do love you.”

She gasped, her eyes flying wide open.

And he wasn't certain he did not mean it.

 

“S
IT WITH ME
,” Emilian said the next day, his expression very difficult to read. It was so impassive, he could have been seated at a table, gaming with cards.

But he was on the driver's seat of a wagon pulled by a pair of sorrel mares. The caravan was departing. The first few wagons were already on the road. She was too happy to be tired, despite having had only a few minutes of sleep, and raised her skirts to climb up onto the driver's seat with him. He lifted the reins and the two mares walked forward.

She remained impossibly aware of him. He smelled like fresh mown grass, pine and something far more exotic, perhaps an Eastern spice. She smiled, admiring his beautiful profile, thinking of his heated confession. Her heart soared. “How far does the caravan usually travel in a day?”

“Ten or fifteen miles.” His gray eyes swept her face. They seemed to linger on her mouth. “There is no rush.”

She thought of his declaration again and her heart raced. Would it be forgotten in the light of day? “It is such a beautiful morning,” she exclaimed. She wasn't sure the sky had ever been as blue, the sun as bright, the birds as cheerful. She wasn't sure Emilian had ever been as handsome.

He glanced ahead. “Perhaps in a day or two the nomadic life will become boring.”

“I haven't been this far north in years,” she said swiftly, thinking that as long as they were together, she would never be bored. “Besides, it is a part of my heritage, too, even if I have never done more than study it in the history books.”

“You were raised as an Englishwoman,” he said slowly. “Have you ever wondered about your mother's life?”

“Of course I have. It was a life of bigotry and exodus, of ghettos and hatred. I wish I had known her and her family, or at least whether they suffered or lived well.”

“You have no desire to find them?”

“When she was with my father, she told him her father had died in Tripoli, and there was no one else. So no, I have had no desire to try to trace that side of my ancestry.”

“Will you ever consider returning to Rose Hill?” he asked seriously.

She faced him fully, and laid her hand on his thigh. “You know you don't want me to go.”

He flushed. “You think you are an enchantress now?”

Ariella decided she did not even have to bother to reply. He knew that answer.

He finally said, “I am waiting for a reply to my proposal.”

“Emilian, surely you did not mean it!”

He said softly, “I did mean it. And do not demand another confession.”

Was she so foolish? She was deliriously happy because he had finally told her he loved her, and she was carrying his child. She beamed. “I will wait for another confession,” she said. She leaned toward him and brushed her mouth over his cheek. “I am an independent woman, a strong one. I will not be broken by the Romany life.”

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“It means yes, I will marry you.”

 

“W
ILL YOU
, Emilian St Xavier, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?” the rector asked, smiling.

It was only a few hours later. Ariella stood in a small village chapel, almost disbelieving, clad in an ivory lace dress that had belonged to Jaelle's grandmother. She wore her own pearls. Emilian wore a dark frock coat, silk shirt and dark cravat, with pale trousers and his boots. The entire
kumpa'nia
was crowded into the old church, which had been strewn with wildflowers, pinecones and wreaths woven with daisies.