Taken by the Wicked Rake (12 page)

Considering the tragedy of his childhood, it was easy to see why he would be angry with people of her class. But beyond all the pain and anger, he must be a very resourceful and quick-witted man to have survived all that had happened to him. And then, there were his many travels and adventures. He had been every where, done everything, and moved easily amongst all types of people. She had been curious to hear his story, when she had thought him Lord Salterton. And her desire had not dimmed.

But no matter how intriguing she found him, she must not lose her head. There were a hundred reasons that she did not wish him to pay her court, to hold her hand, whisper affections or kiss her again. And she most definitely did not want him to come to her tonight, when they were alone together in the vardo, and do the sorts of things that she had feared from the first, but in gentleness instead of anger.

She put the thought firmly from her mind. A group of children had crowded around her feet, and watched in rapt attention as she began to draw the alphabet in the dirt. She offered the stick she had been using to each in turn, letting them trace what she had written. They mimicked her writing, and then smiled at her, fascinated by her teaching. She smiled back, gratified at how quickly they learned. When she looked into their dark eyes and happy faces, she was glad to have come here, whatever the reason had been.

The only person in camp who did not seem to be pleased with her was the man who had brought her to it. Stephano stood a short ways off, leaning against a tree and glaring in her direction. After this morning, she was sure that he did not intend to hurt her, no matter what her father did. But there were times when he got that curious expression on his face, and her surety faltered. Perhaps he objected to the children learning to read English. Or reading at all. Although why he should wish his people to remain ignorant, she could not understand.

More likely it was something else that made him stare at her as though he wished her to be any where but where she was. He had taken the bread that she had made, tasted it and then thrown the rest uneaten into the fire. He must have known that it was safe to eat, for his own grand mother had watched her make it. She had eaten it herself, and knew that there was nothing wrong with the taste. But apparently, the touch of her hands was enough to render it inedible to him.

If he hated her so, then why could he not have taken someone else? Or why did he not just return her to her home? If he beat her, or shouted – behaved as a villain should – then she could hate him with impunity. But the hospitality of the camp, coupled with his cold courtesy and utter disgust of her, was more than a little up setting.

And that led her to her greatest fear: that his dislike of her arose out of a weakness of her character more than from hatred of her family. She had followed the instructions of mother, nurse, sister and chaperone for years, until she could perform the rituals and courtesies of Society as easily as breathing. But at some point in all the instruction, she feared she had lost whatever wit and vitality she might have owned. And now there was nothing left to tempt the sort of man that might interest her. She had become an empty, vacuous shell.

One of the Rom, who had introduced himself to her as Valentine, came over to tease the children and comment on their lesson. She smiled up at him with relief. Val had made great effort, during the day, to make her laugh with tricks and stunts. She’d have found his attentions a trifle too warm had he not paid them equally to everyone around him. It seemed he was as naturally happy and outgoing as his kinsman was sullen and hostile.

He returned her smile and said, “How are you getting along with our dear leader?” Val glanced in Stephano’s direction, and then turned back to give her a brilliant, white smile.

She looked down at the ground and traced a few more letters in the dirt, pretending it did not matter. “He hates me.” It felt better being able to voice the truth.

Val snorted. “Hates what you do to him, more like.”

“Me?” She looked up in surprise. “I do nothing to him, I swear.”

Val laughed again. “And that is the heart of the problem, I am sure. But do not worry. For all his temper, he is a good man. If his attentions are unwelcome, you have but to tell him so, and you will have nothing to fear from him. Great though his pride might be, he is unlikely to die if you wound it.” And then, Val put his hands into his pockets and walked away.

She stood up, ready to follow him and argue that the problem was nothing of the sort. She had no reason to fear Stephano’s attentions, since none appeared to be forthcoming. And if they were, she certainly would not have deemed them unwelcome–

She stopped in her tracks. Why was she thinking such foolishness? Stephano Beshaley was out to prove her father a murderer. Any animosity to wards her was rooted there. She should not spin fancies about him, but should answer his hatred with her own. Although her father had many faults, she was sure that murder was not amongst them. The Gypsy’s plans of vengeance would lead to nothing more than the ruin of her reputation.

Although she suspected that in her case, a ruined reputation might make for an easier life. If any word of this escapade leaked out, another Season would be impossible. No amount of explanation could persuade potential suitors that she was an acceptable choice. Mother would be destroyed; Father, enraged. Marc would blame himself, just as he had over Honoria.

And she would be packed off to Aunt Foxe to rusticate, and be forever free of the obligation of husband hunting. The thought suited her well. She had no desire to wed the sort of older, more appropriate man that Diana Price had encouraged. Nor was she eager to accept Alexander Veryan, no matter how happy it might make the family. So far, none of the candidates who claimed to want her hand had shown any interest in the rest of her. They had been ready with a proposal before trying to steal even a chaste peck on the cheek.

Perhaps that was what attracted her to Stephano Beshaley. If and when he chose to marry, he would not base the decision solely on the prominence of the girl’s family. He would choose the woman because he wanted her. It would not matter to him who his father-in-law might or might not be.

He only cared about the Carlow family because of this silly curse. And even though she did not interest him beyond that, he had at least bothered to kiss her before making the decision. That was something, she supposed. She frowned into the fire. If she had not been so inexperienced at kissing, perhaps things might have been different.

He had noticed her watching him. As the children ran off to play, he pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning on, and came slowly toward her. He paused a few feet short of her, watching as she sat back down and scrubbed the words out of the dirt with the end of her stick, and then felt foolish for doing it. She was acting as if she had something to hide. She must get hold of herself immediately. “Is there something the matter?” She threw the stick into the fire and stared up at him, waiting for his response.

He stared back at her. And she got the same light-headed feeling she’d had when she’d first met him: as though they were having some intimate and wordless conversation. And now, it felt as if he were touching her body, although he had made no move towards her. Her breasts tingled as though his hands were upon them, and her nipples went hard and achingly sensitive. She wondered if he knew. For his breathing had changed, growing slow and shallow. He seemed to be fighting to keep control of his emotions.

He broke the gaze first, with a small shake of his head as though it had taken effort to get free from her. “Do not stare at me with those eyes. They cannot make up their mind to be green or brown, any more than you can decide between
gadje
and Rom. You are a prisoner here. Do not forget it.”

“I was doing nothing objectionable. And as I remember, you had given me parole. But if you have changed your mind, and wish me to remain in the vardo, or to avoid the company of the children–”

“I said, it does not matter to me, what you do,” he barked back at her.

She stood up and prepared to walk away. “Very well, then.”

“Nor does it matter what I do, apparently. It was all decided by Jaelle, years ago. I have no control over anything that is happening here.” And he dragged her into the shadow of a nearby wagon.

This time, she had a moment to prepare. She should have struggled or run from him. But she did not. She went willingly and waited for what she knew would come. And she shut her lips tight, to be ready.

But it did not seem to matter, for he forced them open again and thrust his tongue into her mouth. There had to be another word than
kiss
for what was happening to her. It was a claiming. A possession. One of his hands was twined in her hair, locking her mouth to his. And the other hand cupped her bottom, pressing her against his body so tight that she could feel him grow hard as he thrust into her mouth. There could be no doubt that he was teaching her about the physical act of love, in its most primal form. In the silent communion between them, he told her with his kiss,
This is how it will be when I take you.

In response, she opened herself to him, and let him do as he wished. She went limp in his arms, kept on her feet by the pressure of his hands and his lips. She imagined their bodies, joined as they could be, in the way that her body ached for. And she could feel the actual moment of surrender – passing through her in a shudder, and leaving her as a gasp – and the silent cry,
I am yours.

He heard it. Or perhaps he felt it. But it was clear that he knew what had happened. For in the next moment, he pushed her away and wiped at his mouth with the back of his injured hand. “And now, you try to bind me to you by lust? I do not want your body,
gadji
witch.” He spat upon the ground at her feet.

She could not decide what about his actions made her the most angry. Was it that he pretended to have no control over what had happened between them? That he blamed her for it? That he lied about wanting her? For it was quite obvious that he did. Or perhaps it was the way he spat, as though the taste of her was something vile that he could not wait to be rid of.

Without thinking, she spat in response, just as he had. “If you do not want my body, then take my curse. That is all you seem to understand. This morning, you complained that your head hurt you. If it does, then I am glad of it, and I do not care if it kills you.” She pushed past him, and ran across the camp and into the vardo, slamming the door behind her so that he would not see the beginnings of her foolish tears.

~***~

With her sudden absence, he could feel the pain coming back into his head. And her fresh curse made his hand burn as though she had dropped a coal on it. For a moment, he almost followed her, ready to beg her to take back the words. But it was foolish. What power did a
gadji
have to lay a curse upon him? Only a fool or an old woman would believe it possible. And Stephano Beshaley was no fool.

But something unnatural was afoot, and Verity Carlow was at the heart of it. Tonight, he had found the place on the opposite side of the camp that marked the border of her influence on him. To go farther was to risk pain. But to come too close created all manner of confused desires.

As he had watched her play with the children, it had occurred to him: if she liked Rom children so well, he should drag her back to the wagon and give her one of her own. Or several. He doubted that he would leave her alone after one. The picture of her, great with his child, smiling in welcome to him, was taking root in his mind, growing like a tree.

The delusion made him feel like the dirty Gypsy boy they’d called him, when they’d sent him to the foundling home. She was destined for a titled gentleman of some sort or other. At the very least, she would marry a legitimate son from a respectable family. Even the relatively unblemished Stephen Hebden would not be good enough for the likes of the Earl of Narborough’s daughter. What chance did Stephano Beshaley have?

But he had spoken with the men she’d spurned, and heard the rumours that she planned to remain unmarried. What harm could it do to speak with her? When she laughed in his face, he would be in good company, for it seemed she had already rejected every unmarried nobleman in London.

So he had crossed the camp to talk to her, half imagining that he would say something to improve her opinion of him. But Val had gotten to her first. And when Stephano had reached her side and opened his mouth, he had behaved like a jealous idiot.

And then he had kissed her, in the middle of camp where anyone might have seen. He should thank her for the pain it had brought him, for it cooled his blood and spared him the shame of a public arousal. She smelled of meadow flowers. And he could not seem to get enough of the taste of her. If she had almost climaxed in his arms, just from the force of his kiss, what would it be like when they made love?

But then, he had finally remembered what he should have known all along: she was his hostage, not his lover. He wished to barter her innocence for Narborough’s confession. The very nature of his plan, and his own sense of honour, required that he leave the girl untouched. He was a fool to have kissed her, and an even bigger fool to want more than that.

So he had pushed her away, and hurt her with his rejection. His hand throbbed as he remembered her parting words. But that was nothing more than a septic cut. He would go to Magda and get a poultice for it. His grand mother was not as good a healer as Nadya, but she should be able to manage something as simple as this. He went to his her tent, and held out his injured hand to her, as though he were a little boy.

She glanced in his direction and sniffed in disapproval. “I wondered when you would come to me with this. It has been troubling you for some time, has it not?”

“Since Monday.”

“The first day that you brought the
gadji
to camp with you.”

“That was the day I cut myself.” He did not want to tell her how it had happened, for he was unsure whether she would congratulate him or berate him for his foolish pride.