Taken by the Wicked Rake (18 page)

If he did not, she was sure she would die. All she could manage in response was to moan in frustration, and arch her back to him as though offering herself. So he caught her low about the waist, bent her back and buried his face in her breasts, sucking them deep into his mouth as though he could draw the soul from her body. She kissed the top of his head, and twined her fingers in his hair, satisfied and frustrated at the same time. And finally, she pushed him away so she could kiss clumsily into his open mouth.

She could feel him laughing against her, and he pulled away to whisper, “So eager, my love?” before returning the kiss in the same languid fashion he did everything else. He did not part from her again until there was not a bit of her mouth unconquered.

Then he got up again, changing the water in the basin and choosing a fresh cloth. He knelt at her feet, taking each in turn and pouring the water over them in a thin stream, massaging the toes and the insteps, looking first into her eyes and then slowly dragging his gaze down her body to stop in the place she knew he meant to end. He took her hands and bade her stand before him, then washed her legs, his hands moving up and down them with long, smooth strokes, over her hips. Then he took the last cloth and squeezed a few drops of water from it into her navel as his hands settled between her legs. She almost collapsed at the first touch of his cloth-covered fingers, it was so good. But he knew there was more, and moved against her, varying the strength and the pace, before dropping the cloth and thrusting his fingers deep into her body.

She gripped him by the shoulders, revelling in the solid feel of his body under her hands and the shockingly possessive way he was touching her. Her body began to shake, and he laughed and leaned forward, licking the water from her belly. And then he thrust his tongue rhythmically into her navel as his fingers slid in and out of her, at last stilling, and curling, and drawing her body to his mouth for a kiss.

When his tongue touched her, she dissolved in a mass of contradictions, unsure whether to laugh or cry, gasp – or stop breathing altogether from the sheer pleasure of what was happening to her. The only thing she knew was that it would be even better if he were inside her.

She let her knees collapse under her, leaning against him as she slid down his body, cradling his hips between her thighs and settling her body against his as he guided himself into her. There was a perfect moment of paintinged pleasure as he claimed her. And then he began to thrust, his arms wrapped around her as she trembled with the after-effects of her release. “Good,” he groaned, shaking with his own need. “I could die happy, just from the feel of your body. You are so good.”

And she was. He pushed her back against the bed frame so that she could buck her hips to meet his thrusts, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. His hands held her just as tight, until with a final thrust and a possessive shout of her name, he came into her. Then he sagged, as weak against her as she was against him, and kissed her throat, her lips and her eyes. His head lolled against her shoulder for a moment, and then he looked up and whispered, “This was not how I planned it. I meant to let you go. But in the dream where I kept you? There was nothing like this. To make love on the floor of a wagon? You deserve a true bed. And a real house. And a better man than the one you have chosen. I–”

She put a finger on his lips to stop his talking. “It was wonderful,” she whispered back. “Just what I wanted. And there is nothing wrong with the bed behind us. It is very comfortable.”

He put an arm around her waist and reached out a hand to pull them both up onto the mattress. But he had forgotten the injury to his palm; he drew back with a little hiss of pain.

She took him by the hand and shook her head, then climbed out of his lap, sat on the bed herself and reached for his good hand to pull him after. “You must learn that it does no harm to ask for help when you need it. You are no longer alone, you know.”

“Not alone.” He smiled at the thought, and let her lead him to bed, curling his body close to hers and laying his face beside hers. “Say it again.”

“You are not alone,” she whispered, and felt him relax as his eyes closed and sleep took him.

Chapter Thirteen

When she woke the next morning, she lay still and watched the shadows in the little room move and recede. Stephano was behind her on the bed, his arms wrapped about her waist to keep her close, his face pressed into the hair that fell down her back. She could feel his breath, warm and steady on her shoulder.

She moved and felt the breath change to a kiss on her skin. “You are awake?” she whispered.

“I was watching you sleep. Does it bother you?”

She searched her mind, and smiled. “It is several hours too late for me to be worried by your interest, I think.”

He hesitated. “And do you feel in the sunlight as you did by moon light?”

He held her so gently that she was sure, if she expressed outrage, he would release her and apologize, taking the blame for all upon himself. He would allow her to pretend that she had had no part in what had happened, if she wished it. So to answer him, she stretched and rolled in his arms until she faced him, taking his lips for the first kiss of the morning.

She could feel the moment of surprise, as she caught him unprepared. And then he began to kiss her in return. When they paused, she smiled and ran a finger along the smooth skin of his chest. “Actually, I feel rather better than I did last night.” She thought for a moment, and was honest with him. “Stiff. And a little sore. But so very happy that I think it does not matter.”

His hands moved over her body, stroking gently in reassurance. “Happy.”

“Very happy,” she repeated.

He laughed. “As am I.” He grew serious then, his eyes growing dark in a way that put the lie to what he had just said. He reached out and touched her hair, pushing it behind her ear so he could see her face again. “There is much we will have to talk about. The situation has grown difficult. But not today, I think. One day is all I ask, where I do not have to think of the past or the future. I deserve that much, at least.” He sounded almost wistful at the idea.

It pained her that he should fear what was ahead, when to her it looked brighter than all the days in the past. But she pushed it from her mind and said, “Then it is my wedding gift to you. Today, nothing matters but my love for you.”

“And mine for you.” Then he smiled again, sat up and reached a hand out to help her up.

They washed in the basin of cold water and helped each other to dress. It was strange being able to reach out and touch him, whenever she liked. And it made her laugh when he reached for her, as well, tugging at her hair and threatening to untie the kerchief as fast as she could tie it on.

When they were presentable, he started toward the door, then paused and looked back at her. “You have given me my gift, but I gave nothing to you.” He thought for a moment, and then reached to his wrist and worked at the band of silver that he wore there. It was difficult, for his hand was still sore from the cut, and it was obvious that it had been a long time since he had removed the bracelet. He rubbed at his bare wrist as though unaccustomed to the feel of it, and the skin where the silver had been was much paler than the skin of his arm. And then, he held it out to her. “It is little more than a trifle. And it will not fit you. But it is better than nothing.”

It was obviously much more to him than a trifle. As he removed it, he looked at it as though he were saying goodbye to an old friend. “And you wish me to have it? Then I should love to wear it. Please.” She held out her wrist to him, and he slipped the thing on. It was heavy and still warm with the heat of his body. And she closed her eyes and imagined for a moment that it was him, reaching out to catch her by the wrist, his fingers smooth and gentle against her skin. She opened her eyes and smiled. “Is it magic?”

“Magic?” He snorted. “Hardly. But the man who gave it to me swore that it would keep me safe. And it has done its job well for many years. May it do the same for you.”

She gave a little frown. “Then I will worry about you going without it.”

He smiled. “Now that you are mine, I will be more careful. For I will always wish to come home safe to you.” Then he opened the door and jumped down, holding out his hands to catch her.

She stepped into his arms and he lifted her so that her feet never touched the stairs, and set her down gently on the ground beside him.

One of his friends called out to him from the other side of the camp, and Stephano gave a wink and walked away from her. Or rather, he sauntered. He moved in a way she had not seen before. Just as graceful, but with a lightness in his step. There was a cockiness about him that all but crowed his news to the world.

The other Rom noticed it, as well. She could see the slight tilt of the man’s head, the quick shifting of his gaze to her and back, and then the broad smile and warm greeting. She could hear the men joking about something in Romany, and she wondered for a moment if they were speaking of her. But there was such warmth and joy in their voices that she was sure there was nothing mean-spirited in their talk.

She wondered if the women of the camp would see the same change in her that was so obvious in Stephano.

She walked to the fire in front of Magda’s tent. The old woman was there, as she had been every morning, ready to add milk and sugar to the tea that was boiling strong and dark in a pot on the coals. Bread was baking in the pan beside it, and Verity’s mouth began to water.

Without thinking, Verity dipped her head as she approached the woman, in apology that she must impose on her again. She reached for the chipped cup that sat on the little bench beside the fire and waited patiently for her turn.

Magda’s head snapped up at her approach, and her gaze seemed to pierce Verity. She looked across the camp to her grandson, and then again at Verity, and her eyes travelled down her arm to see the silver at her wrist. Then she raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and nodded. She took the cup she had been filling for herself and handed it to Verity, taking the chipped cup away. She went back to the tent and reappeared with another mug. It was undamaged, and a match to the one Verity now held. She filled it for herself and then pulled the bread from the fire and sliced it, offering Verity a large plate and the pot of butter.

Magda watched her as she ate, and when she was through, held out her hand and said, “Show me your palm.” Verity placed her hand gingerly in the old woman’s grasp.

She examined the bracelet. “It is loose. Foolish boy should have fixed it for you, before giving it. He has the skill to do it.”

Verity smiled at her wedding gift. “I suspect he did not think of it. It was an after thought to give it to me.”

Magda shrugged and tapped her forehead. “I have seen the thing on your arm from the first day. That he could not is no excuse for his carelessness.” She wagged a finger in Verity’s face. “Do not lose it.”

Verity nodded obediently, and then said, “He did not tell me what it means. He seemed afraid that I would not like it. But it is the most marvellous thing I have ever worn. I think–” she bit her lip, searching for the word, “–I think it is powerful. Important.”

Magda nodded. “My daughter’s Rom husband, Thom the Silversmith, gave it to Stephano, when he first brought him to the camp. The boy was a scrawny thing, then. A pale nothing. Always hungry, angry and afraid. Always stealing. Pennies. Bread. He was trying to take Thom’s purse when we found him.” She shook her head and smiled. “Stupid boy, trying to steal from a Gypsy. Thom said the quickest way to break him of the habit was to make him rich. So he gave him the silver, told him he was a Rom prince, and brought him back to camp.” Magda smiled. “And that is how he has behaved. Too proud, of course. But then, he has much reason.”

Magda turned the hand she was holding palm up, and studied it for a moment. “Four children, and the first will be a boy.” She glanced up into Verity’s eyes for a moment, then back down. “All healthy. You, as well. You are very strong for a
gadji
.” She looked her body up and down. “Wide hips make for easy birth. And you are as stubborn as my grandson. Stephano chose well.” She closed her fingers around Verity’s, curling them into a fist, as though it was possible to grab the future and hold it tight. “You will be happy. It will be all right.”

For a moment, she could see the future as clearly as Magda did. But to be happy would include a return to her family, and many explanations. No matter that they had promised she could marry whomever she liked, her father and brothers would be less than happy with her choice. And Stephano would have to renounce the curse, as he had promised. It all seemed helpless. “But how?”

The old lady shrugged. “I only know what I see.” She went back to prodding at the fire. “What is your name, girl?”

She smiled. “Verity.” She had been about to say Carlow. But was that her name, any more? She must learn to think of herself as Beshaley. Or perhaps Hebden would be easier. But was she entitled to either name?

“Truth.” The old woman nodded. “It is a good name. Not Roma. But good. I shall call you–” she thought for a moment, “–Tachiben. Because it is easier.”

For a moment, Verity thought to question why it would be easier to give her a new name than to learn the old one. But she suspected that there was no more reasoning with Magda on this than on anything else. “Thank you.”

The old woman grinned at her. “And now? We will have
patshiv
. A celebration. Val!” she shouted across the camp. “Take yourself and your lazy brothers off to the woods. Bring us meat.”

There was laughter around the circle of tents, for she could hear the news, making its way. Men were setting aside their work, and taking up guns to hunt game or pulling out mugs and bottles to begin the party early. She could hear the sound of a fiddle being tuned, drum heads tightened, and saw penny whistles and wood flutes appearing out of pockets.

And the women had to work all the harder, although they did it with a light heart. By late after noon, the cooking fires were bigger than usual, and large cast-iron pots had been gathered and filled with nettles, wild mush rooms and onions.