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“I am hardly naive,” Ariella said.
“I did not ask for this,” he continued roughly. “I did not ask for a beautiful fairy-tale princess to appear in my life, offering me a temptation I can barely refuse. You are a noblewoman, an heiress. You will clearly wed some English Prince Charming one day—and he will take your innocence in an ivory tower. Go home, Miss de Warenne, where you belong.” He turned to go.
She was finally angry and she seized his arm. She wasn’t strong enough to detain him, but he faced her, his eyes as cold and turbulent as a winter storm. “If I refuse to judge you, why do you insist on judging me? You know nothing about me. I am not like other women of my class and age, desperate for a proper husband and home, and while it might appear I am like those ladies who wish for your attentions, I am not like them, either. I did not seek you out for a love affair!”
“No, but you did seek me out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Let us cut to the chase. What do you want from me, Miss de Warenne?”
She inhaled. Although she instantly recalled his torrid kisses and his shockingly sensual touch, she did not hesitate. “I want to be friends.”
He laughed. “Impossible.”
“Why? Why is it impossible? I know you are leaving tomorrow, but we can exchange letters. We could even meet a few times before you leave Derbyshire.”
He choked. “Exchange letters? Meet?” He looked at her as if she were mad.
“I am interested in getting to know you, and letters are the perfect way to further our acquaintance. As for meeting, why is that suggestion so shocking? Surely you like to converse.”
“You wish to meet and converse?”
“That is what friends do.” She smiled at him. She thought her plan a capital one.
“We are not friends,” he said harshly. “I have no friends— nor do I want any!”
She was in disbelief. “Everyone has friends.”
“You do not want friendship and we both know it.” He pointed at her. His hand shook. “You are a de Warenne heiress! Your friends are tony!”
“I have all kinds of eccentric friends in town!”
“When I demanded you cut to the chase, I was merely curious as to how you would respond—and with how much subterfuge. I know why you came to the camp tonight. You sought me out for passion, Miss de Warenne, not friendship. I caught your interest and you wished to be in my arms, although not my bed. You wish to exchange letters? You wish to converse? I think not. In fact, I don’t think you very different from my gadji lovers. The difference is you only want safe kisses.” His eyes blazed. “And the kind of pleasure I so recently gave you.”
Ariella stared, taken aback, but not by his candor. He was partly right—after what had just happened, how could she not yearn to be in his arms? But why didn’t he believe that she was interested in friendship, too? She was eager to know what he thought of the world!
“I have been a sexual object for the ladies of the ton, and now, I am an object of sexual fascination for a virgin princess.” He seemed disgusted.
Ariella wasn’t quite sure what his statement meant, precisely, but she would think about it later. “I can’t possibly forget our kiss,” she said slowly. “How could I? I had no idea a kiss could be so wonderful. But I do want to be friends, Emilian. I always say what I mean. I have many unusual friends in town. If you truly have no friends—and I pray you are dissembling—then I will be the first.”
“What the hell did you mean, that you had no idea a kiss could be so wonderful?” he demanded. “I do hope you are not going to tell me that was your first kiss.”
“Why would that distress you?”
His eyes widened impossibly. “No one has ever kissed you before?”
“No, no one ever has. You gave me my first kiss. And I have no regrets—not a single one,” she cried, flushing.
He snarled, “Then I have enough regrets for the two of us.”
She inhaled. “You don’t mean that!”
“Go home and wait for Prince Charming. And stay there—with your unusual friends.”
He was rejecting her offer of friendship. Ariella was in disbelief. “But you are leaving in the morning! We can’t part this way.”
“Why not?”
She wet her lips, her heart thundering. “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 us, are you not?”
Emilian stared. “I am as much Rom as I am English.”
“Really? Because I see an Englishman standing before me—even if you dance like a Rom.” Stevan smiled, but Emilian could not smile back. “My sister was proud of the man you have become. She wanted you to have a fine life, with a fine house filled with servants. She would not ask you, if she were alive, to give up your English life for the Roma way.”
“What am I giving up?” Emilian cried. “I know she wanted more for me than the life of the Rom. I remember very well that she wished for me to live with my father—but she grieved over my loss, as well. I made the choice to stay at Woodland when I was too young to understand it. Did I make the right choice? My neighbors scorn me, Stevan, just as fully as they scorn you.”
Stevan was thoughtful. “I think I begin to understand. For half your blood is Romany and nothing will ever change that. But I still think you will tire quickly of the life. There have been too many changes made over too many years.”
“Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. Maybe, after a month or two, I will spit upon the gadjos and their way and never wish to return home.” He trembled with his rage and his attention strayed back up the hill, toward the huge de Warenne mansion.
Stevan looked at him and Emilian flushed. He had just called Woodland home.
“I think we both know that the day the gadjo took you away from Raiza, your baxt was made.”
Emilian stiffened. “I do not believe in fate.”
“Then you are very much a gadjo, Emilian.”
Emilian thought about how he had surrendered far more than his body to the intense, evocative Roma music last night. Briefly, he had been so consumed with the fiery passion of the dance, it had been as if the gap of eighteen years had ceased to exist. It had been as if he had never left the Romany people. “Last night I was Rom.”
Stevan clasped his shoulder. “Yes, you were. When will you be ready to leave?”
“I need a week, maybe more,” Emilian said. The lure of the open road beckoned, not just in his mind’s eye, but in his heart. He could not wait—he felt as if the moment the caravan left Derbyshire, he would be free. “I must hire an estate manager, a man I can trust. Can you linger that long? The kumpa’nia will be welcome on my estate.”
“We will wait as long as is necessary,” Stevan said, smiling. “I am very pleased you will come with us.”
Emilian was suddenly certain that, this time, the choice he was making was the right one.
Because now, with the road lying in wait for him, he could look at his English life and question it. He was tired of the parade of gadji women who ogled him as if he was an exotic specimen of manhood, and who expected him to be insatiable because he was a Gypsy. If he became bored after an hour or two, his lovers were affronted. They all expected him to be hugely endowed, and couldn’t wait to see if Gypsies really were built unnaturally. He had even seen his lovers checking their jewelry in the morning, to see if he had stolen anything from them.
And every gadjo he did business with expected to be cheated. He had never cheated anyone but he toyed with the newcomers ruthlessly; those with whom he’d conducted his affairs for years understood that he was an honest man.
He had never been a hateful man. He expected bigotry, for he had grown up with it. He could not recall the last time the words “dirty Gypsy” had really hurt him—maybe when he was a young boy, or maybe when he had first been forced to Woodland. Long ago, his heart had turned to stone. He was different from them, and he had always known that and accepted it. He might sit at their supper tables, or even, once in a great while, dance at their balls, but he was an outsider. Their scorn meant little when he was richer and more powerful than most of them, when he needed no one but himself.
Their differences had now become glaring. His life was a pretense that was no longer tolerable. He would not accept the bigotry now.
Their scorn and hatred had killed Raiza.
There had to be revenge.
He was staring up at the de Warenne house. The de Warenne woman was innocent, but she was one of them. In fact, she epitomized English society, with her beauty, heritage and wealth. She had sent him a sexual invitation, even if she hadn’t known it. He remained English enough to have refused her, but the Rom part of him could not help but calculate the seduction and envision the conquest. To take a virgin like Ariella de Warenne, use her and return her used, sending her to her betrothed that way, was more than budjo— it was revenge.
It would be so easy….
The English part of him was horrified.
ARIELLA SAT in the window seat of the bay window. The lush lawns and blooming gardens extended below, but she saw neither. She stared instead at the Gypsy encampment, which she could see clearly from where she sat.
Their horses were loose, grazing at will. Colorful wagons remained where they had been left last night. There was no sign of preparations for their departure.
She hugged her knees to her chest. She hadn’t slept at all; she hadn’t even tried. She had changed her clothes and slipped into her current position, vibrating with tension. She was worried. Emilian was a stranger, but last night she had danced in his arms and he had given her a glimpse of passion. She had never been attracted to any man before, and now she was drawn, like a moth to the flame. Wasn’t he drawn, too?
He intended to leave with the Romany—to simply walk away, as if nothing had happened between them.
It hurt. Even if society thought her odd, her stature as a de Warenne heiress guaranteed her acceptance wherever she went. Proper gentlemen both desired and feared her, but Emilian had rejected her.
How could she convince him to change his mind and begin a friendship with her? Her heart raced at the thought. She was beyond distraction, really, and not just because of his kiss. Ariella was uncertain of many things regarding Emilian, but one thing she knew without question: she couldn’t walk away from him, not yet.
And she couldn’t let him walk out of her life as abruptly as he’d appeared in it, no matter what he intended.
What was happening to her? Could she have fallen in love at first sight? There were quite a few de Warenne men and women who had instantly fallen in love, or so family myth claimed. The de Warennes were notorious for falling wildly and absolutely in love—once and forever.
“Ariella!” Dianna pounded on her door. “Can I come in? Are you awake? Alexi is here. He came with Aunt Lizzie and Margery!”
