Gypsy Moon (7 page)

He paused and Charlotte held her breath, fearing the denial his words seemed to imply. He caught her chin in his less-than-tender grasp and forced her to look into his eyes. His savage expression terrified her. He devoured her with his gaze before he spoke again.

“I do love you, Charlotte Buckland! God help us both, I do! As a man should only love one woman in his life. But…”

“But what, Mateo?” The words were not loud enough even to be called a whisper. Charlotte was numb from his unexpected declaration, from longing, and from a kind of heart-fluttering fear.

Instead of answering her, he pressed her face between his palms until she cried out in pain. His wild expression became at once terrifying and exciting. She had no idea what to expect from him next.

“You are an
ababina,
a sorceress, little one. All cream and honey covering deep-burning fires. If you knew how much I want you at this very moment, you would flee for your life!” A low growl rumbled in his throat. “No! I do not wish to wait for death to know happiness. But were that the only way…” He paused in midsentence and jerked a silver stiletto from his scarlet waist sash, letting the pointed tip press his throat dangerously. “I would die by my own hand this moment.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened as she watched a single drop of blood trickle down from below his neck scarf, staining his bronze skin. “Mateo, don’t!” she cried, struggling to wrest the knife from his hand. The point caught in her blouse, ripping a long slash, but she continued to fight him until the thin dagger fell to the ground between them. Then she collapsed, sobbing, against Mateo’s chest, her mind spinning wildly. Had he really meant to kill himself? Or had he meant to kill her? Maybe she was supposed to be some heathen Gypsy sacrifice—an offering to
Fate.

“Forgive me, darling,” he whispered against her hair. “I was only trying to make a point.” He held her at arm’s length so that he could look into her face and reassure her. “Tongue of a jackal! I’ve hurt you!” he cried, staring at the blood staining the jagged rip in her blouse.

Before Charlotte could tell him that it was nothing, Mateo swooped her into his arms and headed for the nearby stream. She relaxed against him. The night had been so emotionally charged that she truly felt she might faint.

When they reached the stream, Mateo laid her gently on the bank. Tearing off the
diklo
from around his neck, he dipped the silken scarf into the water. Suddenly Charlotte realized his intent.

She clutched her torn blouse and said, “Mateo, I’m all right, really. It’s only a scratch.”

Gently but insistently, he removed her hands from the neck of her blouse and pressed them down to her lap.

“Only a scratch can become a nasty infection out here in the wilds. It must be cleansed immediately. Relax now. I won’t hurt you. I promise to be gentle.”

Relax? Charlotte thought. How could she relax? Already she could feel the heat from his hands radiating to her breasts as he worked carefully to untie the drawstring holding her blouse. She sat rigid, her eyes averted from his face, and felt a blush tinge her cheeks.

Slowly, Mateo eased the blouse down over her left shoulder. The slight pressure of his fingertips sent a shiver through her.

“Easy now.” He gentled her as he would an injured mare.

“Mateo, really, it’s nothing,” Charlotte protested.

“Good, my little dove. Then it will not take me long to tend it.”

She breathed deeply, steeling herself for the delicious ordeal. Mateo would see soon that the wound was just above the nipple of her left breast. She tensed when his hands touched the area but relaxed with the soothing feeling of the cool, damp silk pressed to her flesh. She closed her eyes and let Mateo tend her, achingly aware of the liquid fire spreading through her body with each stroke of his ministering fingers.

Mateo, for all his cool detachment, could not deny that the soft pale mound laid bare before his eyes aroused him deeply. When the heel of his hand brushed Charlotte’s nipple and it stiffened against his palm, he jerked his hand away as if he had touched fire. Fire was, indeed, what he was dealing with here. The fire of passion fanned by soul-deep love—a love made more painfully exquisite by the inevitable fact that it would be denied him.

He wanted her… oh, yes! He, too, remembered Phaedra’s graphic words and wondered what it would be like to possess this lovely, golden woman. If he dared, he might find out this very night. By the change in her breathing, he could tell that she was not unaffected by the intimacy of his hands upon her. Even in the dim starlight, he could see that her eyes were closed, her full lips pouted as if anticipating his kiss. It would be so simple to disarm her with his own lips while he filled his hungry hands with her tender breasts—stroking, kneading, taunting their velvety nipples to quivering surrender before his mouth possessed them. And then…

No! he thought. I must not allow myself to think such things!

“Have you finished with me, Mateo?” came her soft, innocent voice.

He looked at her through eyes glazed with desire. She sat there, one breast still partially exposed—still tempting him with its ripeness. How could he let such a moment pass? He must fight these lustful demons to the limits of his endurance.

“No, not yet,” he replied. “Proper herbs pressed to the wound will draw out the pain.”

“But there’s no pain, Mateo.”

Liar! she thought to herself. You’ve never known such pain in your life! Pain of heart, soul, and body. Only Mateo can ease it, and it will take more from him than his special herbs!

Charlotte leaned on her elbows and let her head fall back, inhaling deeply, trying to slow the rapid rate of her heart. Her breasts strained forward, rising and falling dramatically with each breath. When Mateo returned with his poultice of sweet grasses for her wound, the sight of her stopped him in his tracks. Never had he seen such languid, sensual beauty—her pale gold hair cascading over her bare shoulders, eyes closed and face upturned as if star-bathing, her breasts at a proud jut with their crested peaks straining against the confines of her thin bodice.

Mateo moved quickly, his feet, even in their heavy boots, as silent as if they were bare. Standing over her, he gazed down, keenly aware of the desire throbbing through his body—a desire that refused to be banished in spite of all his efforts to control himself.

He dropped to his knees beside her and eased the blouse down to free her breasts, his fingers trembling against her bare flesh. She opened her eyes but made no protest.

Charlotte could feel his gaze fondling her. The sensation centered in her breasts but massed and intensified in a lower region until her thighs quivered and her legs felt weak. When he leaned over her to press the cool, moist grasses on her wound, she could feel his breath, warm against her skin. She sighed his name.

“Charlotte, my darling,” he whispered. “You are too beautiful! No man should be denied…” There was a long pause; then, in a husky whisper, he said, “I want to touch you.”

She watched his hand in tingling fascination as it hovered, fingers splayed, above her naked breast. She nodded silently, looking now into his wonderfully solemn face.

A long silence ensued. Charlotte closed her eyes and lay very still, hardly daring to breathe. His touch was feather-light. She barely felt it at first. But soon she realized with a burning certainty that his fingertips were cautiously exploring the very tips of her nipples. They stood erect for him, begging for more demanding caresses. Slowly, his fondling intensified. He stroked her boldly, masterfully, and white-hot fire raged through her. He squeezed, and the torment was exquisite. Charlotte was hard-pressed to lie still and complacent. When he cupped both breasts in his hands, circling their crowns with his thumbs, her hips, as if with a will of their own, thrust forward toward him and she moaned.

“Charlotte, oh, my sweet Charlotte,” he crooned, lowering his head to let his lips scorch a trail down the steamy valley from her throat.

The next moment explosions of delicious sensation erupted through her. His hard, pointed tongue stabbed the tender tip of her breast, then flailed wildly, battering her aching nipple into a supple mound of surrender. He left off his attack at that moment, permitting his victim to relax her defenses. But when she allowed a satisfied sigh to escape her lips, her loving tormentor struck once more, sucking the tender nipple into the hot, moist darkness of his mouth. He licked, he probed, he suckled until she thought he would draw the very soul out of her body.

Charlotte cried aloud with the magnificent feeling, throwing herself on his tender mercy. But her pleading only encouraged Mateo’s tongue to bolder insinuations. Carefully, he imprisoned the throbbing nipple between his teeth, breathing in and out deeply so that the sensations of cool and warm, moist and dry, titillated her with each breath he took. She writhed and thrashed beneath him until he released his hold. Capturing her lips, he quieted her with his eager mouth and the hard, throbbing pressure of his body.

One of Mateo’s strong arms encircled her waist and he pillowed her head against his shoulder. Charlotte felt his other hand touch her bare back. It began its tantalizing progress downward. Gooseflesh covered her as his fingers slithered along her backbone. At the band of her skirt, his hand stopped, resting for a moment. Then his widespread palm cupped her buttocks, bringing her firmly against his thighs. Charlotte stiffened, feeling the throb of his desire even through her skirts. But she forced all reserve from her mind. This was not Kentucky! Her Mateo—her husband-to-be—wanted her as much as she wanted him. Why should she force him to wait? Already their souls were married by their love for each other.

His lips moved from hers and rasped, “Fate be damned! I want you now, Charlotte Buckland! Nothing else matters anymore. Not the
familia,
not even knowing you belong to Petronovich!”

His words slashed her with deadly aim and inflicted far more pain than his dagger. The sudden shock shattered her mesmerized state. She pushed him away, pounding at his chest when he tried to hold her.

“Charlotte, what’s wrong?” he begged.

“Everything, Mateo,” she answered as she stood up on shaky legs and adjusted her blouse. “Everything in the world! What do you mean, I
belong
to Petronovich?”

He looked angry and confounded. “It is our custom. The wife belongs to the husband. He pays the brideprice and she is his property from then on. It has always been so!”

Charlotte stared at him, unbelieving. Hadn’t she heard Mateo ask Queen Zolande for permission to marry her only an hour ago? True, it had been a strange conversation between them and Mateo had yet to ask her to be his wife, but still…

She wanted to scream and tear her clothes as the Gypsy in the song had done. Mateo stood so tall and handsome before her, with the stream forming a silver ribbon backdrop. She could still taste his mouth on hers… still feel the tingle where his gentle hands had caressed her flesh so lovingly. But now he was beyond her reach.

Was he so different from other men that she had mistaken his words of love? Had his actions been spurred by lust alone? Her mind whirled. Suddenly, all she could think of was escape. She spun away from him.

“Where are you going?” Mateo called.

“I’m leaving!”

“Wait!” He ran after her, catching up in a few long strides. He grasped her arms and pulled her to him, not roughly, but with a certain undeniably masculine command.

His lips captured hers once more, and their breath mingled, weakening Charlotte’s resolve. Holding her close with one arm, he sought her breast with his free hand, stroking new sparks to flame.

“You forced me to admit my love tonight. I would not have spoken so openly to you and put this burden upon us both. But now it is done. We owe something of ourselves to each other. Can you say you don’t love me, Charlotte?” he whispered.

She tossed her head defiantly, determined to say the words. “I don’t…” she began, but the rest trailed off into nothingness as scalding tears brimmed in her eyes. “No, I can’t, Mateo.”

“Then it is as I thought. But we will press each other no more on that subject. Now I want you to listen to me, Charlotte.” His hand was still fondling her, draining the defiance from her soul. “I have wronged you tonight. I want you, yes. But I should never have tried to take advantage of the situation.”

“Take advantage? But I thought…” She couldn’t finish. How could she tell him that she believed he had brought her to the woods to make love to her… that she wanted him to?

“Sometimes I go a little crazy. The others call it moon madness. Perhaps we can blame my behavior on that. At any rate, I promise you it will not happen again. I have no right. I had a special reason for wanting to see you alone tonight.”

Charlotte’s hopes caught flame once more. Of course! she thought. Gypsy men lived by high standards. That was why Queen Zolande was so angry with Petronovich for kidnapping her. Now Mateo was furious with himself for trying to seduce her before they were married. Her obstinate mind refused to acknowledge that Mateo still referred to her as “Petronovich’s woman.” She didn’t choose to remember that undesirable detail.

“As I told the
phuri dai,
I want you, Charlotte.”

She clung to him, weak with relief and happiness.

“I want you to be my partner.”

She stared up at him, not comprehending. “Of course we’ll be partners, Mateo. In everything!”

“The horses…”

“Yes, the horses! I’ll feed them, groom them for you, exercise them, whatever you ask me to do.”

“Oh, little one,” he said, laughing, “you are not to be a water boy, a groom! I’d never expect such menial tasks of you. You’ll have a much more exalted position. Since Phaedra joined Petronovich’s act some weeks ago, I have been working alone. But I need a woman.”

Charlotte stared up at Mateo. He was serious! Everything that had happened now became clear as crystal to her. Tamara had said Mateo had big plans for her. He had asked the old queen for her approval of something that was important to the
familia.
He had called her “Petronovich’s woman,” even after admitting his own love for her. But he had brought her into the woods not to make love to her but to ask her to be a part of his act!