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A Dangerous Love
Brenda Joyce
A Dangerous ObsessionWealthy and powerful, Viscount Emilian St Xavier is haunted by whispers of his Romany past. When his comfortable world implodes with the news of his mother’s murder, he is determined to avenge her death – and Ariella de Warenne is the perfect object for his lust and revenge…A Dangerous Passion Ariella’s heritage guarantees her place in proper society, though she scorns the frivolous pursuits of the ton. Then she finds herself drawn to Emilian, the charismatic leader of the gypsy camp at Rose Hill.Though he warns her away, threatening to seduce and destroy her, she stubbornly refuses – just as determined to fight for their dangerous love…
Ariella now heard him speakingto the Gypsies in their strange,Slavic-sounding tongue. His tonewas one of command. InstantlyAriella knew he was their leader.
And then the Gypsy leader looked at them. Cold grey eyes met hers and her breath caught. He wasso beautiful. His piercing eyes were impossibly long lashed, and set over strikingly high, exotic cheekbones. His nose was straight, his jaw hard and strong. She had never seen such masculine perfection in her entire life.
Of course he wasn’t English. He was too dark, too immodestly dressed and his hair was far too long, brushing his shoulders. Tendrils were caught inside his open collar, as if sticking to his wet skin.
She flushed but couldn’t stop staring. Her gaze drifted to a full but tense mouth. She glimpsed a gold cross he wore, against the dark, bronzed skin of his chest. In the fine silk shirt, she could even see his chest rising and falling, slow and rhythmic. Her glance went lower. The doeskin breeches clung to his thick, muscular thighs and narrow hips, delineating far too much male anatomy.
She felt his eyes on her; she looked up and met his gaze a second time.
Ariella flamed. Knowing she had been caught, she looked quickly away. What was wrong with her?
“I am Emilian. You will speak to me,” he said, a slight accent hanging on his every word.
Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed DEADLY series, which is set in turn-of-the- century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in more than a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half- Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her forthcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.
A Dangerous Love
Brenda Joyce
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
Derbyshire, 1820
HIS AGITATION KNEW no bounds. What the hell was taking the runner so long? He’d received Smith’s letter the day before, but it had been brief, stating only that the runner would arrive on the morrow. Damn it! Had Smith succeeded in finding his son?
Edmund St Xavier paced the length of his great hall. It was a large room, centuries old like the house itself, but sparsely furnished and in need of a great deal of repair. The damask on the single sofa was badly faded and torn, a scarred trestle table demanded far more than wax and a shine, and the gold and ivory brocade that covered the chairs had long since turned that unpleasant shade of yellow that indicated aging and a serious lack of economy. Once, Woodland had been a great estate, compromising ten thousand acres, when Edmund’s ancestors had proudly borne the title of viscount and had kept another splendid home in London. Now a thousand acres remained, and of the fifteen tenant farms scattered about, half were vacant. His stable consisted of four carriage horses and two hacks. His staff had dwindled to two manservants and a single housemaid. His wife had died in childbirth five years ago, and last winter, a terrible flu had taken their only child. There was only an impoverished estate, an empty house and the prestigious title, which was now in jeopardy.
Edmund’s younger brother stared at him from across the hall, as smug and cocksure as always. John was certain the title would soon pass to him and his son, but Edmund was as determined that it would not. For there was another child, a bastard. Surely Smith had found him.
Edmund turned stiffly away. They’d been rivals growing up and they remained rivals now. His damned brother had made a small fortune in trade and owned a fine estate in Kent. He regularly appeared at Woodland in his six-in-hand, his wife awash in jewels. Every visit was the same. He would walk around the house, inspecting each crack in the wooden floors, each peeling patch of paint, every musty drapery and dusty portrait, his disgust clear. And then he would offer to pay his debts—with a sizable interest rate. Edmund could not wait until John departed—leaving behind his high-interest note, which he’d signed, having no other choice.
He’d die before seeing John’s young son, Robert, inherit Woodland. But dear God, it wasn’t going to come to that.
“Are you certain Mr. Smith found the boy?” John inquired, his words dripping condescension. “I cannot imagine how a Bow Street runner could locate a particular Gypsy tribe, much less the particular woman.”
He bristled. John was enjoying himself. He scorned Edmund’s affair with a Gypsy and believed the boy would be a savage. “They winter by the Glasgow shipyards,” Edmund said. “In the spring they journey into the Borders to work in the fields. I doubt it was all that hard to find this caravan.”
John walked to his wife, who sat sewing by the fire, and put his hand on her arm, as if to say, I know this is a distressfultopic for you. No lady should have to comprehend thatmy brother had a Gypsy lover.
His perfect, pretty wife smiled at him and continued to sew.
Edmund couldn’t help thinking of Raiza now. Ten years ago she’d appeared at Woodland with their son, her eyes ablaze with the pride and passion he still vividly remembered. He had been shocked to look at the child and see his own gray eyes reflected in that darkly complexioned face. The boy’s hair had been a dark gold, while Raiza was as dark as the night. Edmund himself was fair. His wife, Catherine, was in the house, pregnant with their child. He’d insisted the bastard was not his—hating himself for doing so. But his affair with Raiza had been brief and he loved his wife. He could not ever let her know about the boy. He had offered Raiza what little coin he could, but she had cursed him and left.
As if reading his mind, John said, “How can you be certain the boy is even yours, no matter what the wench claimed?”
Edmund ignored him. He’d been at a house party in the Borders, hunting with a group of bachelor friends, when the Gypsies had first appeared, camping not far from the local village. He’d walked past Raiza in the town and when their eyes had met, he’d been so stricken that he had reversed direction, following her as if she were the Pied Piper. She had laughed at him, flirting. Smitten, he had eagerly pursued her. Their affair had begun that night. He’d stayed in the Borders for two weeks, spending most of that time in her bed.
He’d wanted to stay with her even longer, but he had a floundering estate to run. With tears of regret in her eyes, Raiza had whispered, “Gadje gadjense.” He didn’t understand her, but he thought she was in love with him, and he wasn’t sure that he didn’t love her, too. Not that it mattered, for they were from two completely different worlds. He hadn’t expected to ever see her again.
A year later he had met Catherine, a woman as different from Raiza as night and day. The niece of his rector, she was proper, demure and impossibly sweet. She would never dance wildly to Gypsy music beneath a full moon, but he didn’t care. He had fallen in love with her, married her and become her dearest friend. He missed her even now.
He intended to remarry, of course, because he hoped for more heirs. He could not risk the estate. But he had learned firsthand how capricious life was, how uncertain. And that was why he had decided to find his bastard son.
Edmund heard the sound of horses arriving outside in the rutted dirt drive.
He rushed to the front door, aware of John following him, and flung it open. The heavyset runner was alighting from the carriage, a single-horse curricle. The damned shades were pulled down. “Have you found him?” Edmund cried, aware of his desperation. “Have you found my son?”
Smith was a big man who clearly did not like to shave on a daily basis. He spit tobacco at him and grinned. “Aye, me lord, but ye might not want to thank me yet.”
He had found the boy.
John came to stand beside him. He murmured, “I don’t trust the Gypsy wench at all.”
His gaze glued to the carriage, Edmund retorted, “I don’t care what you think.”
Smith strode to the carriage, pulling open the door. He reached inside and Edmund saw a lean boy in patched brown trousers and a loose, dirty shirt. Smith jerked him out and to the ground. “Come meet yer father, boy.”
Horrified, Edmund saw that the boy’s wrists were tightly bound with rope. “Untie him,” he began, when he saw the chain and shackle on his ankle.
The boy jerked free of Smith, hatred on his pinched face. He spat at him.
Smith wiped the spittle from his cheek and glanced at Edmund. “He needs a whipping—but then, he’s a Gypsy, ain’t he? Flogging’s what they understand, just like a rotten horse.”
Edmund began to shake with outrage. “Why is he bound and shackled like a felon?”
“’Cause he’s treacherous, he is. He’s tried to escape a dozen times since I found him in the north, an’ I don’t feel like being stabbed to death in me sleep,” Smith said. He seized the boy by the shoulder and shook him. “Yer father,” he said, gesturing at Edmund.
There was murderous rage in the boy’s eyes, but he remained silent.
“He speaks English, just as good as you an’ me.” Smith spit more tobacco, this time on the boy’s dirty bare feet. “Understands every word.”
“Untie him, damn it,” Edmund said, feeling helpless. He wanted to hold his son and tell him he was sorry, but this boy looked as dangerous as Smith claimed. He looked as if he hated Smith—and Edmund. “Son, welcome to Woodland. I am your father.”
Cool gray eyes held his, filled with condescension. They belonged to an older man, a worldly man, not a young boy.
Smith said, “She gave him up without too much of a fuss.”
Edmund could not look away from his son. “Did you give her my letter?”
Smith said, “Gypsies can’t read, but I gave her the letter.”
Had Raiza agreed that his raising their son was for the best? As an Englishman, a world of opportunity was open to him. And he was entitled to this estate, his title and all the privilege that came with it.
“But she wept like a woman dying,” Smith said, unlocking the shackle on the boy’s ankle. “I couldn’t understand their Gypsy speech, but I didn’t have to. She wanted him to go—and he didn’t want to leave. He’ll run off.” Smith looked at Edmund in warning. “Ye’d better lock him up at night an’ keep a guard on him by day.” He seized his arm. “Boy, show respect to yer father—a great lord. If he speaks, ye answer.”
“It’s all right. This is a shock.” Edmund smiled at his son. God, he was a beautiful boy—except for his eyes and coloring, he looked exactly like Raiza. So much warmth began, flooding his chest. He should have never turned Raiza away so many years ago, he thought. But surely they could get past what he had done. Surely they could get past this terrible beginning and their differences. “Emilian,” he smiled. “Long ago, your mother brought you here and introduced us. I am Lord Edmund St Xavier.”
The boy’s expression did not change. He reminded Edmund of a deadly, darkly golden tiger, waiting for the precise moment to leap and maim.
Taken aback, Edmund reached for the ropes on his wrists. “Give me a knife,” he said to Smith.
“Ye’ll be sorry,” Smith said, handing him a huge blade.
John murmured, “The boy is as feral as I expected.”
Edmund ignored both comments, cutting the ties. “That must feel better.” But the boy’s wrists were lacerated. He was furious with the runner now.
The boy stared coldly. If his wrists hurt, he gave no sign— and Edmund knew he wouldn’t.
“Better guard your horses,” John murmured from behind them, a snicker in his tone.
Edmund did not need his smug brother’s presence now. Getting past his son’s hostility was going to be difficult enough. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d turn him into an Englishman, much less become a real father to him.
The boy had become still, staring closely, his expression wary. Edmund almost felt as if he were looking at a wild animal, but John was wrong, because Gypsies weren’t beasts and thieves—he knew that firsthand. “Can you speak English? Your mother could.”
If the boy understood, he gave no sign.
“This is your life now,” Edmund tried with a smile. “Long ago, your mother brought you here. I was a fool. I was afraid of what my wife would say, do. I turned you away—and for that, I will always be sorry. But Catherine is gone, God bless her. My son Edmund—your brother—is gone. Emilian, this is your home now. I am your father. I intend to give you the life you deserve. You are an Englishman, too. And one day, Woodland will be yours.”
The boy made a harsh sound. He looked Edmund up and down with scorn and shook his head. “No. I have no father— and this is not my home.”
His English was accented, but he could speak. “I know you need some time,” Edmund cried, thrilled they were finally speaking. “But I am your father. I loved your mother, once.”
Emilian stared at him, his face twisted as if with hatred.
“This has to be a difficult moment, meeting your father and accepting that you are my son. But Emilian, you are as much an Englishman as I am.”
“No!” Emilian snarled. And he said proudly, head high, “No. I am Rom.”
CHAPTER ONE
Derbyshire, the spring of 1838
SHE WAS SO ENGROSSED in the book she was reading that she didn’t really hear the knocking on her door until it became pounding. Ariella started, curled up in a canopied four-poster bed, a book about Genghis Khan in her hands. For one more moment, visions of a thirteenth-century city danced in her mind, and she saw well-dressed upper-class men and women fleeing in panic amidst artisans and slaves, as the Mongol hordes galloped through the dusty streets on their warhorses.
“Ariella de Warenne!”
Ariella sighed. She had been able to smell the battle, as well as see it. She shook the last of her imaginings away. She was at Rose Hill, her parent’s English country home; she had arrived last night. “Come in, Dianna,” she called, setting the history aside.
Her half sister, Dianna, her junior by eight years, hurried in and stopped short. “You’re not even dressed!” she exclaimed.
“I can’t wear this gown to supper?” Ariella said with mock innocence. She didn’t care about fashion, but she did know her family, and at supper the women wore evening dresses and jewels, the men dinner jackets.
Dianna’s eyes popped. “You wore that dress to breakfast!”
Ariella slid to her feet, smiling. She still couldn’t get over how much her little sister had matured. A year ago, Dianna had been more child than woman. Now it was hard to believe she was only sixteen, especially clad in the gown she was wearing. “Is it that late?” Vaguely, she glanced toward the windows of her bedroom and was surprised to see the sun hanging low in the sky. She had settled down with her tome hours ago.
“It is almost four and I know you know we are having company tonight.”
Ariella did recall that Amanda, her stepmother, had mentioned something about supper guests. “Did you know that Genghis Khan never initiated an attack without warning? He always sent word to the countries’ leaders and kings asking for their surrender first, instead of simply attacking and slaying everyone, as so many historians claim.”
Dianna stared, bewildered. “Who is Genghis Khan? What are you talking about?”
Ariella beamed. “I am reading about the Mongols, Dianna. Their history is incredible. Under Genghis Khan, they formed an empire almost as large as that of Great Britain. Did you know that?”
“No, I did not. Ariella, Mother has invited Lord Montgomery and his brother—in your honor.”
“Of course, today they inhabit a far smaller area,” Ariella said, not having heard this last bit. “I want to go to the Central Steppes of Asia. The Mongols remain there today, Dianna. Their culture and way of life is almost unchanged since the days of Genghis Khan. Can you imagine?”
Dianna grimaced and walked to a closet, pushing through the hanging gowns there. “Lord Montgomery is your age and he came into his title last year. His brother is a bit younger. The title is an old one, the estates well run. I heard Mother and Aunt Lizzie talking about it.” She pulled out a pale blue gown. “This is stunning! And it doesn’t look as if you have worn it.”
Ariella didn’t want to give up on her sister yet. “If I give you this history to read, I am certain you will enjoy it. Maybe we can all go to the steppes together! We could even see the Great Wall of China!”
Dianna turned and stared.
Ariella saw that her little sister was losing patience. It was always hard to remember that no one, not even her father, shared her passion for learning. “No, I haven’t worn the blue. The supper parties I attend in town are filled with academics and Whig reformers, and there are few gentry there. No one cares about fashion.”
Holding the gown to her chest, Dianna shook her head. “That is a shame! I am not interested in Mongols, Ariella, and I cannot truly understand why you are. I am not going to the steppes with you—or to some Chinese wall. I love my life right here! The last time we spoke, you were in a tizzy about the Bedouins.”
“I had just returned from Jerusalem and a guided tour of a Bedouin camp. Did you know that our army uses Bedouins as scouts and guides in Palestine and Egypt?”
Dianna marched to the bed and laid the gown there. “It’s time you wore this lovely dress. With your golden complexion and hair and your infamous de Warenne blue eyes, you will turn heads in it.”
Ariella stared, instantly wary. “Who did you say was coming?”
Dianna beamed. “Lord Montgomery—a great catch! They say he is also handsome.”
Confused, Ariella folded her arms across her chest. “You’re too young to be looking for a husband.”
“But you’re not,” Dianna cried. “You didn’t hear me, did you? Lord Montgomery has just come into his title, and he is very good-looking and well educated. I have heard all kinds of gossip that he is in a rush to wed.”
Ariella turned away. She was twenty-four now, but marriage was not on her mind. Ever since she was a small child, she had been consumed with a passion for knowledge. Books—and the information contained within them—had been her life for as long as she could remember. Given a choice between spending time in a library or at a ball, she would always choose the former.
Luckily, her father doted on her and encouraged her intellectual pursuits—and that was truly unheard of. Since turning twenty-one, she had resided mostly in London, where she could haunt the libraries and museums, and attend public debates on burning social issues by radicals like Francis Place and William Covett. But despite the freedoms, she wished for far more independence—she wanted to travel unchaperoned and see the places and people she had read about.
Ariella had been born in Barbary, her mother a Jewess enslaved by a Barbary prince. She had been executed shortly after Ariella’s birth for having a fair-skinned child with blue eyes. Her father had managed to have Ariella smuggled out of the harem and she had been raised by him since infancy. Cliff de Warenne was now one of the greatest shipping magnates of the current era, but in those days, he had been more privateer than anything else. She had spent the first few years of her life in the West Indies, where her father had a home. When he met and married Amanda, they had moved to London. But her stepmother loved the sea as much as Cliff did, and by the time Ariella came of age, she had traveled from one end of the Mediterranean to the other, up and down the coast of the United States, and through the major cities of Europe. She had even been to Palestine, Hong Kong and the East Indies.
Last year there had been the three-month tour to Vienna, Budapest and then Athens. Her father had allowed her this trip, with the condition her half brother escort her. Alexi was following in their father’s footsteps as a merchant adventurer, and he had been happy to chaperone her and briefly detour to Constantinople, upon her request.
Her favorite land was Palestine, her favorite city Jerusalem; her least favorite, Algiers—where her mother had been executed for her affair with Ariella’s father.
Ariella knew she was fortunate to have traveled a good portion of the world. She knew she was fortunate to have lenient parents, who trusted her implicitly and were proud of her intellect. It was not the norm. Dianna was not educated; she only read the occasional romance novel. She spent the Season in London, the rest of the year in their country home in Ireland, living a life of leisure. Except for charity, her days were spent changing attire, attending lavish meals and teas, and calling on neighbors. It was usual for a well-bred young woman.
