Her Master's Touch (6 page)

She stared at his broad muscular chest. The
thought of her hands on his bare flesh brought flutters in her
belly and a warm flush in her cheeks. "My lord, I could not do
that," she said. "What would...
Begum
Mara think?"

"
Begum
Mara and I have parted
company."

"You have?" His words made Eliza warm all
over. It also made her feel uneasy. Lord Ravencroft was without a
mistress. And his eyes shone far too bright. Obviously he'd planned
this little parley. Perhaps had designs on her this evening. But
what he requested was out of the question. "I still cannot tattoo
my name over your heart," she said. "Tattoos are permanent. It
could be awkward for you... at certain times."

Damon's eyes held amusement. "Then, what do
you suggest I have you place here?" he asked, his hand still over
his heart.

"I suggest a floral design, or perhaps an
animal," she replied.

"Fine. I put myself in your hands. I also
leave the design to your discretion—" he gave her a wicked grin
"—or indiscretion." He sat on the ground and leaned against a
tree.

"Very well. I'll do a tattoo of a—"

"Let it be a surprise," he said.

"As you wish."

With a piece of sharpened graphite she began
tracing a design.

Damon glanced at the kettle. "Why are you
preparing corks out here when Cook could do them in the
kitchen?"

"I needed to be out of the house," Eliza
said. "The walls were closing in until I felt I might suffocate."
She paused. "Gypsies are like wild birds, you see. We must have
freedom or we die. Gypsies also believe that living in a house
brings sickness and bad luck, but traveling in a wagon brings good
fortune."

She could feel his eyes on her as he said,
"You say gypsies die when confined, yet your wagon is far more
confining than my house."

"Living in a wagon is not like being in a
house," Eliza countered, while continuing her design. "In a wagon I
can hear the rain on the roof and the wind in the trees. At night I
can watch fireflies and see a copper moon rise. And in the morning,
I know precisely when the birds awaken. Do you know when the birds
start to sing? Do you even hear them when you first wake up?" She
looked up to find him watching. "My lord, is something wrong?"

His lips curved in a languid smile. "No,
everything is quite right. Perfect, in fact."

Blinking nervously, Eliza lifted the bamboo
needle, and said to him, "This will cause a little pain, but it
cannot be helped."

Damon smiled a slow, sardonic smile, and
said, "Not as much as when you kneed me at the horse fair, I trust.
Do you always put up such a fight when a man tries to reason with
you?”

"I have learned to take care of myself if
need be,” Eliza replied, her needle making a series of tiny
pricks.

“Would you turn on me again, gypsy girl, if I
decided to take liberties with you?”

“I’m not sure what I would do, my lord, but I
suggest you not try to find out. The only reason I didn’t scratch
your eyes out at the fair when you attacked me was—"

“
Attacked you!
Bloody hell, woman, you
were like a wild cat
attacking me
when all I was trying to
do was stop you from running off.”

“You were sitting on top of a defenseless
woman. I was hardly attacking you.”

“
Defenseless woman!
You’re about as
defenseless as a mother lion."

"Maybe you should keep that in mind.” Eliza
began pricking the outline of a tiny ear. At first she tried to
work without touching him, but her hand with the needle trembled,
and she couldn't control the course of the point. Resting the heel
of her hand against his chest, she continued pricking out the
design, aware of the heavy beating of his heart.

"Do you live alone when with your people?"he
asked.

"Of course," she said quickly.

"Don't you want to be with someone, a
man?"

Eliza realized this was an overture, though
she had little experience along those lines. Her solicitations at
the fair had been a bold and necessary bit of acting. "If you mean,
do I get lonely living by myself. No. When I'm alone I can indulge
in outlandish fancies."

"Like what?"

"Like imagining spirits whirling in the
flames of my campfire," she said, while concentrating on the tiny
figure she was inscribing, "or envisioning whimsical nymphs in the
sparks that flicker against the night sky. And in the billows of
clouds and the swaying of river reeds I imagine sibyls dancing." A
moth paused on her knuckle. She looked at it thoughtfully, then
raised her hand and sent it away. "And amid the medley of crickets
and frogs I fancy clever undines singing. Sometimes I dream up
poetic fancies about them."

"If you dream up poetic fancies," he said, "I
assume you read and write."

Eliza glanced up and found him watching her
with burning eyes. Feeling drawn to him like a moth to flames, she
quickly averted her gaze. "Well, yes," she said, hesitatingly.

"Do you pen your poetic fancies?" he
asked.

"No," she said. "I don't want to imprison my
fantasy world by putting it into words." She dipped her needle into
the vial. "And you, my lord?" she asked, completing a Lilliputian
eye. "Do you get lonely when you are alone?"

"I'm rarely alone," he said. "My home is not
lacking for human occupancy."

Eliza's hand holding the bamboo needle
paused, and she looked into eyes that flared with sparks of intent
as he moved closer, until his breath tickled her face. "My lord...
no..." Her heart beat wildly with the realization that he intended
to kiss her. And when he did, her eyelids fluttered closed, her
lips parted, and a ripple of pleasure rushed through her. But
during the kiss, she started giggling. "I'm sorry, my lord," she
said, patting her lips, "but it's the first time I've kissed a man
and it made my mouth tingle."

Damon gave a short, sardonic laugh, and said,
"Let's dispense with the game, Eliza."

He moved to kiss her again, but Eliza pressed
against his chest and turned her cheek to him, and said, "Games, my
lord?"

"Yes, games," he replied. "You don't expect
me to believe that a woman of your wandering nature has never been
kissed?"

"You may believe whatever you wish, my lord,
but the fact is, gypsy girls are far more chaste than
gorgio
girls. The bride-price requires chastity."

"There was nothing chaste about the way you
dressed at the horse fair," he said.

"It was a warm day," she replied. "I did not
want to be overcome by the heat."

Damon said with irony, "So, what did you
think of your
first
kiss?"

Eliza struggled to find the words to describe
what she'd felt. It was as if she had been tickled all over. A
warm, delightful tickle she'd like to experience just one more
time. Was there something in the way Lord Ravencroft kissed that
was different from other men? Or did all men kiss that way? The odd
thing was, she felt no desire to try it with any other man. She
also knew he did not believe that she'd never kissed a man before.
But living on the fringes of the
kumpania
as she did, and
carrying in her veins
gorgio
blood, she was not a prize. Old
Zelda's words shortly before she died affirmed it. ‘
You always
be outcast, Eliza, but if you earn much money, you might find man
who marry you
...’

"My kiss?" a deep voice interrupted her
musing. "What did you think of it?"

"It was... different than I expected."

"Different good, or different bad?"

"Just... different," Eliza said. Anxious to
be done with this particular tattoo, she dipped the needle into a
vial, braced her hand against his chest, and began pricking out
short wisps of hair. In an attempt to dispel the unsettling effect
of his nearness and her yearning for another kiss, she broached a
subject that had hovered in her mind ever since she'd arrived. The
whereabouts of her father. Not to sound eager, she said, while
pricking out a diminutive foot, "How long have you lived here?"

"About four years," he replied.

"Did your family originally own
Shanti
Bhavan
?" she asked.

The muscle beneath her palm went rigid. "Why
did you call my house that?" he asked.

Eliza looked into sober eyes and realized her
blunder. Shrugging with an air of indifference, she replied,
"That's what the servants call it."

He looked at her intently. "I only heard it
called that once," he said, "and that was by Lord Sheffield, the
man I bought it from."

Eliza's hand holding the needle jerked,
leaving a scratch. She hadn't heard her father's name in years. She
hadn't wished to hear it. By now he'd probably have forgotten she
existed. Still, he was her father, and she had a certain curiosity
about him. She gave Damon a nervous smile. "This Lord Sheffield…"
she asked, tentatively. "Was he a government official?"

"No," Damon replied, "he was the second son
of a Marques. He returned to England in search of his daughter,
who'd been kidnapped from school. He gave me a good price for the
place though, just to be rid of it. Claimed the memories were more
than he could bear."

Eliza felt her throat tighten. How could her
father have felt that way? He'd rarely visited her when she was at
Madam Chatworthy's. From his letters, he'd cared little for
anything but
Shanti Bhavan
. Yet, to sell the place and
return to England, he must have cared some.

For the first time since she'd fled England,
she felt guilt for having broken with him and never contacting him
again. She also felt a need to go to him, learn from him the reason
behind her mother's sudden disappearance from her life so many
years ago. But she had no idea where in England her father lived.
Nor did she have money for ship’s passage.

Damon rested his head against the tree and
said, musingly, "I sometimes wonder if he ever found her. He's
never mentioned it in his letters, so I assume he hasn't."

Swallowing hard, Eliza said, "Then... you
still... correspond with him?"

Damon nodded. "Sporadically, over the years.
More often lately, since he holds land along the river that I
planned to buy. But recently I changed my mind, and I expect to
return to England instead." He studied her closely. Although a
cooling breeze sifted through the trees, sweat glistened on her
brow, and her eyelids fluttered nervously. She was skittish as a
cat. She was also asking too many questions. Did she know who he
was? Had she been sent by authorities to verify what they'd only
suspected? After all, she'd been the one to suggest she work for
him.

He fixed his gaze on her."Who are you?"

She looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're clearly Eurasian. Who are you?"

"I'm half Hindu, half British," she
replied.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

"My mother's dead. I don't know where my
father is," she replied.

"But you've obviously had a British
education," he said. "How did you come by it?"

"After my mother died I lived with a British
family," she replied.

Her answer came so readily, Damon found
himself believing her, believing she wasn't a spy sent to ferret
out the truth about him. But he suspected the reason she didn't
know the whereabouts of her father was because he was a seaman and
she was his bastard daughter. That touched a soft spot in him.
Covering her hand, he lifted it to his lips and placed a kiss
against her palm, then returned it to his chest, and said, "Why do
you roam with gypsies when you could find a man who could make a
proper home for you?"

As he said the words, her face became
wistful, which surprised him. He'd thought her far too independent
for such sentiment. "Do I see melancholy in your eyes?" he asked.
"Is it a wife you wish to be instead of a gypsy hoyden?"

The wistfulness faded, and sparks of
challenge flared in her eyes. "Haven't you heard the old adage that
one never knows what's behind a gypsy's eyes?"

Damon studied her closely. Perhaps it was so.
She'd collected herself quickly, and now her eyes were unreadable.
"I give little credence to old adages—" he curved a finger beneath
her chin, lifting "—only new facts."

"What kind of facts?" The look on her face
was eager, hopeful, and she made no move to stop him when he
brushed her lips with his. Rather, she kissed him back, her lips
yielding. But after a moment, she braced both hands on his chest,
and said, "I only allowed you to do that so I could try it again. I
was curious."

"Have I satisfied your curiosity?" Damon
asked, fighting the urge to lay her back against the warm earth and
strip off her clothes and...

"Yes and no," she said. "It didn't tickle
this time, but now I feel warm all over, my cheeks, my neck...
other places.” She fanned her face with her hand. “It's...odd."

"Not odd. Natural," Damon said, noting the
sensual fullness of her parted lips. He brushed her bottom lip with
his thumb. "Perhaps it's true, one never knows what's behind a
gypsy's eyes," he said, "but I'll wager from the fire burning in
yours that I see passion."

"Passions,' she replied. "It's said the fire
in the eye of the gypsy is kindled with many passions. Passion part
hate, passion part love, passion for wandering."

Damon gave her a wry smile, and said,
"Perhaps I should remain in my bedchamber tomorrow morning so I
will be available to satisfy your many passions."

Her laugh was like the melodious rippling of
a guitar. "You have much wit, my lord, but very little sense. If
Mrs. Throckmorton were to find us there I would lose my job. And my
debt to you is not yet paid."

Damon gazed at her high clever forehead, her
beautifully-arched brows, the straight line of her nose.
You're
weaving a spell around me, gypsy girl
, he thought, fighting the
urge to take her in his arms and kiss her again. But his plan
wasn't to drive her away. It was to install her in the bungalow as
his mistress. "So, is my tattoo finished?" he asked. "May I look at
it?"