Curse of the Gypsy (31 page)

She cradled his cheek with her palm as his fingers trailed down her neck, over the soft skin of her bosom. Her breathing quickened and she had a moment of yearning for his body, the delicious intrusion of his sturdy masculinity into her softness. She had to be satisfied with deep wet kisses that left both of them panting and overheated.

“Tony, you make me yearn for things I cannot even name. How can I behave this way? Am I a harlot?”

“No, my sweet,” he said, holding her close to his chest, “for a harlot cares not with whom she lies, but you, I hope, will only allow me such passionate access to your delights.”

“You’re teasing, but it’s true, of course,” she said, looking up at him. What else was there, she wondered, to hold her back from marriage? She knew him now; he loved her, and she loved him. As strong and commanding as he seemed, that manner clothed a gentle soul. She wanted him and could not imagine ever tiring of their passionate engagement. Why did they not just say it now and be done? “Tony, I may as well say it now, I suppose,” she began.

But that moment a wailing cry arose. “Irusan,” she cried, pushing herself up from the bank.

Barking followed.

“That is my brother’s damnable beast. Atim!” Darkefell shouted, swiftly rising. “Atim, what the bloody hell are you doing?” He raced away and much frenzied barking ensued, along with Darkefell’s shouts.

Anne followed the sound and came out of the wood to find Irusan clinging to Darkefell, spitting and hissing as Atim danced around the marquess in a happy frenzy. She laughed at the sight and followed the man and animals back to the inn.

That, unfortunately for her intention to answer his standing proposal, was the last she saw of him alone that evening.

***

Darkefell was up early, after the best sleep he had ever had at an inn, and on his way out in just his shirtsleeves to the stable to see to his prisoner, who was locked in a shed. He could only attribute his sound sleep to a sense that he was gaining ground in his bid to marry Anne. That she was traveling north with them was a very good sign, he believed. If Anne would only give in and marry him, he’d have the joy and leisure of planning all the places at Darkefell where he could make love to Anne, all summer long: the tower, the forest, the cabin, the waterfall.

He strode across the stable yard, his boots scuffing through the dust, carrying some bread and cheese and a bottle of ale for Grover. His mind on Anne, he spoke briefly to his driver then headed through the stable and beyond, out back, where his prisoner was confined. His pleasant morning came to an abrupt halt when he saw the shed door open. His stomach twisted in a knot of alarm, and he leaped into a run, flinging himself into the shed. It was empty!

“Damn, and damn again!” he shouted, throwing down the food and ale. He whirled and looked around, but saw no one. “My prisoner is gone,” he hollered, breaking into a run toward the open back double doors of the stable and getting there just in time to see the driver he had hired in Canterbury lead a mount out and slap it on the rump.

The horse carried Hiram Grover, but Darkefell was not going to let him get away. He charged forward as the horse, frightened by the commotion, danced around in a circle. Grabbing Grover’s leg, Darkefell yanked him down off the horse as Julius and Atim, alerted by the commotion and coming back from their habitual morning walk, raced into the stable. With the wolf dog prancing and baying, adding to the confusion, Julius grabbed a leather bridle from a hook on one of the upright posts and restrained the prisoner, who was grunting and howling that he was being mistreated.

“Bastard!” Darkefell yelled, rising from the struggle and looking down at Grover, whose legs Julius was now efficiently tying with a hank of rope thrown to him by one of the inn’s grooms.

But Tony didn’t mean Grover. Who could expect aught else but that man should try to escape when he was being transported to face a murder trial? Darkefell strode about the stable and soon found who he was looking for, the recently hired driver from Canterbury. The fellow was standing in the shadow of one of the stalls.

“Bastard!” Darkefell hollered, stalking the fellow, who backed away from him. “I ought to kill you! Do you know what that animal did?” he said, pointing back at Grover. “Do you know that he brutally murdered a young woman who was with child? Two lives snuffed out with nary a care in the world? How could you release him?”

“I dint know, milord!” he wailed.

“Yes, you did. I told you myself when I hired you! I
told
you he was a killer and not to be trusted.”

“But ’e said as ’ow ’e weren’t guilty! Said as ’ow it were an accident.”

“You released him because he gave you something or promised you something! What did he give you? What?” Darkefell snatched at him, but the fellow still backed away.

When they got as far as they could go the fellow slunk past him and trotted out toward the open stable yard.

“I gave him nothing,” Grover hollered as Julius kept him pinned on the stable floor.

A ring of grooms moved to circle Darkefell and the accused driver, some jeering, some calling for a fight.

“Yes, you did,” the burly fellow said, his tone defensive. “’E giv me ’is word ’ed send me fifty pounds! Word of honor, ’e said.”

Darkefell experienced a lashing of fury so dark it overcame him and he punched the fellow on the chin with no warning, shouting, “You bastard! He killed a girl!”

The fellow reeled and shrieked, “Joost a dirty slut, nothin’ more, ’e said, an’ a slut whut was gonna bear a bastard!”

Darkefell was shoved back hard as the man, bigger than him, though paunchy as well as muscular, leaped on him. They rolled in the dust, and, the wind knocked out of him, Darkefell struggled to rise, but the guy punched him in the jaw.

“Get him, Tony!” Julius shouted, still holding on to Grover. “Hit him!”

The jeering, the cheering, the fury at Grover’s near escape, rose up in him and Darkefell felt a surge of energy. He fully engaged and the battle was on. They met and gripped, wrestling, muscles straining. The fellow grabbed Darkefell’s shirt, ripping it with the force of his hold. The marquess punched him and received a blow to the ear that sent blood streaming. It was enough to infuriate him and he redoubled his efforts, gradually beating the fellow, who was becoming winded, his bloody face openmouthed and gasping as Darkefell punched and punched until his own knuckles were raw.

He became vaguely aware of a feminine voice joined to the shouts. Anne? Blood streaming into his eye from a cut, he whirled and saw her through a haze of red.

“Darkefell, stop this instant!” she shrieked. “Stop! You’re hurting the fellow!” She caught Darkefell by the arm and pulled on him, letting the man recover and sending Darkefell flying.

“Get out of here!” he yelled at her, scrambling to his feet, not taking his eyes off his opponent. “Go! Now! I mean it, Anne; go immediately or I will not be responsible for the outcome. This is none of your affair.” He launched himself again at the larger man and sent him flying; the force was enough to bash the fellow’s head against the post in the middle of the stable. The driver was finally vanquished and lay still, as Julius cheered and the men standing around paid off the wagers they had made, some of them casting curious glances Anne’s way.

She was gowned in just a robe, though she had it pulled tightly around her. “Don’t you
ever
threaten me!” she shouted, her gray eyes huge and round, sparkling with anger.

“Threaten you?” Darkefell said, ripping a hunk of his shirt free and mopping the blood off his brow and out of his eye. He felt his jaw; not bad. It was a little swollen, but would not bruise badly. He stared at her. “How the hell did I threaten you?”

“You said I had better go or you would not be responsible for the outcome; what is that but a threat?”

One of the men behind him laughed and Darkefell glanced around. The groom had the wisdom to shut up and slink off. “My lady,” the marquess said, his tone hard, turning back to stare at her. The other men were still staring at her slack-jawed. “Remember who you are and where. Go inside now.” He pointed to the back door of the inn. She didn’t move, so he said, “Go, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you in!”

One of the men chuckled and said something in an undertone to one of the others.

“Don’t you
ever
speak to me like that,” she said, her gray eyes dark with anger, her hands balled into fists at her side.

The blood still boiling in his veins, he shouted, “If you would behave properly I would not need to say such things, but I mean it, Anne. Go inside. Now!”

She glared at him for one moment, then whirled and strode away.

Julius, dragging a whimpering Hiram Grover behind him, and with Atim nipping at the prisoner’s heels, came up beside Darkefell and watched her walk away, throwing the door open with unnecessary force, her skirts whirling as she bolted through the doorway. “She’s angry, Tony. Won’t be a pleasant time for you.”

Another of the men snickered, but he stopped as Darkefell cast one look around at the dusty stable yard, gathering them all in. “Back to work,” he shouted. “And take this fellow to get bandaged up,” he said, kicking his opponent, who was groaning now, awakening from his defeat and feeling his bleeding head. He turned to Julius. “I don’t give a damn if Anne’s angry. I will not be ordered about like her lackey.”

Twenty-one

It was the last day of travel; they would be at Ivy Lodge that evening and Anne had intended to have a conversation with Tony about marriage once there. She had to make up her mind, for she could not keep him dangling.

But Anne was unsettled and anxious. She had awoken that morning at the inn, after a night of dreams of lovemaking, to the sound of shouts in the stable below her window. When she looked out she was at first worried to see Darkefell in pitched battle with the burly driver he had hired in Canterbury to drive the maids and luggage in the hired carriage. Once outside, she had caught on to the fact that the man must have been trying to help Hiram Grover escape, but still, Darkefell was beating him ruthlessly, smashing him again and again in a fog of fury, it seemed. It had taken her shouting his name five times or more to get his attention and then he had blazed with rage at her interference. It was more than what he said, it was how he looked, his face twisted in a snarl, his dark eyes black with anger, blood streaming down his face. His shirt had been virtually torn off and his muscles were etched in sharp relief, blood bedaubing the shreds of his white shirt.

It was deeply unsettling. Darkefell was brutally strong, a fighter, and that side of him frightened her. Which was the real Tony, the tender lover, or the bruiser who was beating a man almost to death?

She tried to get her mind off the morning’s episode and back to what she could perhaps do something about, the problem of Lady Darkefell. The carriage rattled and bounced over the road, setting her teeth on edge, her shoulders and bottom aching from the long journey. It was the third day of travel and the dowager marchioness had not spoken to Anne in all that time except when strictly necessary. From feeling like an intruder Anne had advanced to being sorry for the lady, then to disgruntled pondering of why the marchioness was being so unpleasant. Now, near the end of their journey and after the morning she had experienced, she was boiling with anger.

Which would not be contained much longer.

They would be at Darkefell’s estate before sundown, in just an hour or two; Anne would not arrive there without having it out with the marchioness. Every polite sally had been met with silence or single-word answers, so it was time to become more firm in her approach. After all, Anne reflected, the woman could not get away from her if she chose to have the necessary conversation.

Lady Darkefell was trying to rest, supposedly—though she did not have her head back or her eyes closed—so the curtains were drawn and the interior of the carriage was dim. Anne regarded her potential mother-in-law, examining her haughty expression, her hooded gaze, her tightened mouth. And yet Lady Darkefell was an attractive lady for her age when she occasionally let her anger abate, or when she regarded Julius. Then a beatific expression of joy made her appear almost young.

“Lady Darkefell, you have made it abundantly clear that you despise me,” Anne said, deciding not to delay another moment. “I have tried time and again to be pleasant. I have made concessions. I have been conciliatory, but to no avail. If I am merely tormenting you without hope of making you my friend then I will leave off, but I think it only fair that you tell me in what way I have displeased you.”

The woman stiffened in disapproval and lowered her head so that her eyes were completely concealed by her bonnet, but her mouth was tight with displeasure. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you believe I dislike you, though, I wonder that you forced this three-day torment upon us.”

“Let us be honest, at least, my lady,” Anne said, her stomach churning. She ruffled Irusan’s mane of thick fur. “Two facts I know: you dislike me, and your son has asked me to marry him. I must think them related.”

An audible hiss of fury emitted from the lady. “So he
did
propose?”

“I thought you knew. He did and I said no.”

A sigh of relief.

“The first time,” Anne continued. “But the second time—”

“Enough! I have an aching head,” the marchioness said, leaning back against the cushion. “I wish to rest.”

“You will hear me out, my lady,” Anne said, setting Irusan aside on the seat.

“You cannot
make
me listen!”

Anne narrowed her eyes and stared at the woman. “Unless you choose to fling yourself from the moving carriage or puncture your ears with a hat pin to deafen yourself, you cannot help it,” she said, her tone hard. “I give up trying to imagine why you don’t like me. We may not see eye to eye on everything. I may not be your ideal of a wife for your son. Perhaps you would wish for someone prettier, or softer, or more amenable to suggestions. But he has chosen
me
, and if I decide to marry him I will, with or without your blessing. And I think you understand your son enough to know he will disregard any attempt on your part to blacken my character in his view.”