A Much Compromised Lady (7 page)

With her dark hair pulled up into a careless
knot, she made a tempting sight. He was glad now he had pushed on,
forging a path through that impossible bramble of woods.

“Come, where is your curiosity?” he asked,
determined to lure her into conversation. “If not about the
package, then why not ask how I found you?”

She lifted one shoulder, and he thought how
delicious that movement would be if she were wearing nothing at
all. Her sharp voice brought him back to the moment. “Why should I
ask? So you may brag, and show how clever you are? Well, how clever
is it to find your way and lose your hat?”

Stung by her comment, his lips thinned as he
pressed them tight. It was not so much the reminder of his lost hat
that bothered him. It was that she had just laid bare the exact
reason why he had wanted her to ask—he had wanted her to think him
clever. He had wanted it enough, in fact, that he had taken this
hunt quite personally, coming himself rather than sending someone
to simply fetch her to him. He had wanted her to see just what he
could do.

Unaccustomed to having anyone see though to
his motives so well, he was not certain he cared for it. It left
him feeling curiously...well, not quite vulnerable, but certainly
far more exposed than he liked.

For a moment, he toyed with giving into the
impulse to simply do what he wished, which was to drop his package
and drag her into his arms. It would serve her well for pulling a
tiger’s tail. But he had ridden miles, following nearly impossible
Gypsy signs left in branches and rock for other Gypsies, and had
paid an extravagant sum for such knowledge from others of her
vagabond tribe. He had had his servants seeking information of her
that he could follow. He was hungry, tired, and he had spent the
last two restless weeks dreaming of a proper seduction.

And she was not, he thought firmly, going to
pull this out of his control by rousing his temper. This game
required expert finesse, not brute strength which any oaf could
muster.

Besides, he had gone to all this effort
because she had seemed to be an original. He ought to be please she
was that—and much more.

So he smiled and said, “Very well, I won’t
tell you
.” At least not until you beg it of me.
“Now, do you
want your package, or shall I just take it with me and depart? I
should mention, however, that there is more here than you expect. I
am at least a clever enough fellow to know when I owe a lady an
apology.”

Her eyebrows arched with surprise, but her
dark eyes remained wary as a cornered vixen’s. However, he knew
when he had caught a woman’s interest. Gypsy or lady, what women
could resist the lure of respect. That trick always worked far
better than any diamonds.

He pushed the package towards her again. “It
is getting rather heavy for me to continue holding it out in this
conciliatory fashion.”

She stared at him a moment longer, as if she
half expected him to jump upon her. An enticing image, but he had
far more interesting plans for her.

Gingerly, she took the package. She was
careful not to touch his hand, he noted. An excellent sign, for it
meant that his touch could affect her in ways she must guard
against. Oh, he was going to enjoy teasing her out from behind her
wise caution.

As she untied the twine, she bit her lower
lip, and the gesture shot a jolt of lust through him, just as it
had the last time he had seen her do that.

His skin warmed, and he thought with delight
that for her he would toss any number of fine hats into the
woods.

The twine fell loose, the paper parted, and
she gazed down at the neatly folded silk chemise, the new corset he
had purchased for her, and on top of them the mate to his own
silver filigree pocket pistol.

“I thought that if you planned to continue
your career as an adventuress, you might wish do so properly
equipped. The pistol is not loaded—I am also clever enough not to
tempt you, you see. But I will show you how to care for it later,
if you wish.”

With one hand supporting the package, she
reached up to slide her fingers over the pistol and over the silk,
her touch reverent as if she had never seen such things.

St. Albans stepped closer with the intent of
explaining a few features of the pistol, and of also placing
himself in a better position to accept her gratitude. His focus
centered on her. On how she had drawn in a deep breath that swelled
her chest. On how her eyes darkened with delight. On the hint of a
smile now curving her lips. He took a certain satisfaction in being
able to read a lady so well, and he knew this one to be pleased.
And a little confused by her own feelings.

It would take only a little encouragement now
to assist her in resolving those feelings into something mutually
delightful.

He started to lean closer to her and
something sharp pricked the middle of his back, stopping him more
effectively than the low voice that growled, “Another step and you
die,
gaujo
!”

Anger blazed for an instant inside him. His
muscles tightened. No one threatened the Earl of St. Albans. And he
had had about enough interruptions of his Gypsy’s seduction. If he
had another coat ruined over this girl, someone would pay dearly
for it.

He forced his body to relax into deceptive
ease, and his temper to cool, and he began to shift his weight so
he could kick back and snag the other man’s feet out from under
him. He wanted his hands around this imbecile’s throat.

A soft touch on his arm stopped him.

Glancing down, intent tangling with anger at
the sight of his Gypsy’s face turned up to his and silently begging
him to be still. Oh, blazes, but she was an inconvenience just now.
He did not want to be distracted, yet here she was, making it
difficult for him to even think, let alone act.

He still ached to throttle the dolt who had
dared threaten him, but it seemed that his Gypsy had other
plans.

Glancing over his shoulder towards, she spoke
rapidly in that odd language of her kind to the man with the knife.
And it occurred to St. Albans that she was actually defending
him.

He stared at her, astonished. No one shielded
the Earl of St. Albans. Or at least no one had ever thought such a
thing might be necessary. Not even among the all-too-numerous
uncles and aunts who had raised him could he conjure such a memory.
Oh, they had leapt readily enough to his command. He had learned
early, after all, just how much power an earl wielded. But defend
him? That was absurd.

However, here she was hotly arguing with one
of her kind on his behalf.

For a moment, he wondered if he ought to feel
affronted that she thought such effort necessary. But he was having
the worst time coming up with any feeling just now other that a
deep desire to touch his lips to the curve of that determined jaw
of hers. And a wry amusement.

Would this not astonish half of London—and
leave the other half laughing—to think that a lowly Gypsy had taken
the side of the notorious and high-born Earl of St. Albans.

Easing his shoulders, he began to enjoy the
situation—and the view. His Gypsy’s eyes glittered, color blazed on
her cheekbones, and that chin of hers lifted with determination. He
would simply have to indulge her, if for no other reason than to
see what happened next.

The idiot she argued with had been making his
own intentions quite clear, and the pressure of a blade dug deeper,
causing St. Albans to wince.
Another coat ruined
, he
thought, deeply irritated as the warmth of blood trickled down his
spine. Well, no matter. The fellow would pay later. In kind.

Another jab and St. Albans’s temper flared
again. That did it. His Gypsy might be a tempting morsel, but she
was doing a poor job as his champion, and he was really not going
to allow himself to be skewered simply to indulge her.

Just as he braced for action, a sharp voice
cut through the gathering twilight, stopping everything.

“
Chavaia!”

Despite the odd language, the command to stop
came across as plain as if it were the King’s English. St. Albans
focused his attention on the woman who commanded so much respect
here.

Dressed in black and with the twilight
gathering close, he thought at first that she must be an old gypsy
woman. Silver streaked her hair in a dramatic bolt that added to
his first impression, and she felt for her steps with a cane.
However, as she came closer, he noted the straight figure, age
thickened, yes, but not too bent by time. And while her weathered
face made it difficult to place her exact years, he doubted if she
had reached half a century yet. A black shawl lay loose over her
black dress, but he noted her garments only with a casual glance.
Her presence demanded far more of his attention.

She had black eyes, unfocused, but they
glittered with an assessing intelligent. Sharp cheekbones, nose and
jaw showed a former great beauty was maturing into magnificent
ruins. Despite her small stature, she certainly knew how to wield
power. He always admired strength.

The annoying sting at his back vanished, and
St. Albans found himself facing this woman.

He started to look for where his Gypsy girl
had gone, but the woman captured his face between her hands. He
began to pull away, resenting and resisting such intimacy, but the
Gypsy held tight.

Putting up his own hands, he took her wrists
to pull away those roughly callused hands of hers. He did not like
to be touched. Never had. Oh, he could enjoy a woman’s body well
enough, but that was an entirely different thing than having
this...this familiarity pushed upon him.

However, the woman would not let go, and he
would look a fool to struggle with her.

So he dropped his hands and stared back at
her, one eyebrow lifted, waiting and wishing for her to finish her
nonsense. Some rubbishing Gypsy superstition, no doubt.

It took an effort not to grow restless under
that blank and empty black-eyed gaze. Her fingers began to roam
over his face. He fought down the uneasy feelings that stirred
inside him, the sense she honestly was seeing more than he cared to
reveal. The urge to fling off her hands grew stronger, almost
overruling his control. He clenched his back teeth and vowed this
woman would not stare him down.

And in that thought, he realized the
truth.

Devil a bit, but she was blind. That was why
her stare slid through him, and why she used her touch as her eyes.
He relaxed, deciding he would permit this liberty with his person,
for even he had his limits of detestable behavior, and rudeness to
blind women certainly lay beyond his depths of depravity.

Finally, she let him go, and he had the most
peculiar reaction.

Regret.

The feeling washed over him along with the
cold air that bathed his face where her warm hands had but a moment
ago held him still. Curiously, he could not understand this...this
sense of loss. As if the part of him that had always been empty had
been briefly filled, and now lay...

But what utter rot!
This Gypsy had a
bewitching trick to her, and that was all. He was not about to
become like his Aunt Julia and give into a belief in mystic
nonsense.

He blinked away his disoriented feelings,
dismissing them. These Gypsies dealt in the pretense of such
special powers, of living in the unseen. He would do well to
remember that.

The older woman stepped back, sliding her
cane from under her arm where she had tucked it. She surprised him
again with a voice that would have suited a Mayfair drawing room.
“He will stay. Bado, see to his horse. Christo, put away your
tshuri
. Come, daughter, we have a guest for dinner.”

St. Albans glanced behind him and locked
stares with a younger man. Dark-haired like all the Gypsies, tall
and well-muscled, the fellow had an arrogant face and an insolent
manner. There was enough resemblance to his Gypsy to make St.
Albans wonder if the fellow was a relative? He certainly hoped so,
for he really did not to deal with a jealous lover. That was such a
predictable nuisance.

Slipping his snuff box from his waistcoat
pocket, St. Albans watched the fellow sheath his knife—the
tshuri
the older woman had mentioned, no doubt. He allowed
his gaze to travel over the gypsy’s worn coat, down to his patched
breeches and dusty boots, and back up to the fellow’s face.

St. Albans gave him a cold smile. “Do be a
good fellow and give Cinder some oats if you have any.”

The Gypsy’s jaw tightened, and for an instant
St. Albans thought the fellow would be reckless enough to come
after him now.
Oh, please do
, St. Albans thought, his
dislike for the fellow growing stronger.

But then the younger man’s shoulders relaxed
and he flashed a contemptuous grin, and spoke, his accent as
unexpectedly well bred as the old woman’s. “I suppose a man who
cannot even look after his own horse has to rely on others to do
for him. Don’t worry,
gaujo
. Tonight you are a guest. But
tonight is only tonight.”

Turning, the young Gypsy walked away, taking
with him his companion, an older man, also dark-haired, but short,
stout, and balding, with a wicked scar down his cheek. St. Albans
watched as they tended to his own mount, and to the three, bony,
disreputable-looking horses they had led into the clearing.

Insolent pup
, St. Albans thought,
irritated with the Gypsy. And then he dismissed the fellow. It
would be a different matter, of course, if the fellow were a
gentleman and offered such an insult. But he was only a Gypsy,
after all, and far below the notice of the Earl of St. Albans.

The Gypsy girl, however, was a different
matter.

Turning, he strode towards the campfire,
where the women were busy, setting up a cooking pot over the open
flame and busying themselves with a rabbit to skin—poached in a
snare, no doubt. And arguing in their own language.