A Forbidden Love (7 page)

He laid the chemise atop her blanketed legs. “Can you sit up?”

“I think so.”

With the bed sheets pressed tight to her chest, she struggled to raise her head, and he slipped a supportive hand behind her neck to aid in her efforts.

Ah, the feel of her warm skin cradled against his palm, damp from pressing up against his pillow. She was so soft. He would bet his legacy she was just as soft in other places too…maybe even softer.

The lascivious image of his fingers trailing over the full swell of a magnificent breast invaded his mind with startling intensity. He could just feel the supple flesh cupped in his hand, his fingers kneading and caressing, his thumb swirling over the silky smooth patch of her rosy nipple, fast hardening under his solicitous touch.

He shuddered faintly, banishing the erotic fantasy before the slow stirrings of his cock grew more rampant.

Sabrina closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. His fingers were still entangled in the unruly locks of her ebony hair, holding her upright, so she didn’t tip to any side in a bout of faintness.

“I’m not dizzy anymore.” She lifted her lashes. “I can dress myself.”

He didn’t voice his doubts over her conviction. Rather, he put them to the test, and withdrew his hand from her neck. When she didn’t topple over, he stepped away from the bed.

“I’ll be by the window should you need my assistance.”

As she reached for her chemise, he turned on his heels and made his way over to one of the tall panes of glass, giving her his back and subsequently her privacy.

He too needed some time, but to regain his scattered wits. How had lust overtaken him so swiftly just a moment ago? He had never experienced anything like it before, where the mere touch of a woman had kindled his desire. And it was unnerving to think it took so little effort to stir his blood, especially where Sabrina was concerned, for she just happened to be the one woman in the world whom he could never be with. He may be a degenerate, with a propensity for lifting a wanton woman’s skirt, but he was not wholly without a sense of honor. Having Sabrina under his protection meant he had to guard her against all danger—including the danger of his predatory self.

Anthony didn’t notice any of the estate through the draped sheers, his mind too engrossed with detecting Sabrina’s movements. There were a few sighs and muttered remarks as she grappled with her garment, but so long as he could hear her, then he knew she was all right. And it was after a few combatant moments that her apparel seemed to be in place, for he next heard the rustle of bed sheets and the mattress shifting under her weight.

“May I turn around now?” he asked.

At the sound of her gasp, he pivoted, and found her clutching the bedpost for support. He was at her side in an instant, arms circling around her shoulders to keep her from slumping onto the floor. She sagged into his chest, and he sensed the shudder rip through her limbs, vibrating against his own.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” her words clipped. “You’re holding me too tight.” And she braced her palms flat against his chest to push him back.

The pressure of her fingers digging into his body had the most disarming effect on him. The blood quickened through his veins. His heart thumped with awakened vigor. His grip tightened around her in possessive instinct.

There was a heavenly weight pushing against him in the form of a bountiful pair of breasts. Each deep breath she inhaled thrust those mounds harder into him, leaving his muscles stiffening, his body aching to feel more of her, aching to know her without the frustrating barrier of clothing between them.

Anthony released his hold before he took a leave of his senses—if he hadn’t already. She was in no further danger of fainting if she could wriggle so soundly in his arms. But there was still a good thirty feet to cross before she reached the privy, and he wouldn’t risk another vertigo brush over her and send her face down into the carpet.

He cupped her elbow, and insisted, though in a slightly flustered voice, “I’ll escort you.”

“I can walk just fine,” she muttered all the way to the privy, and once there, promptly shut the door in his face.

The wooden obstruction snapped him from his bemusement. He sighed. Headstrong and distrustful. An ideal combination of character traits indeed.

So curtly denied the opportunity to explain where the water closet was located, he hoped she’d figure that out on her own. But living out of doors, as was gypsy custom, he had to wonder if she had ever even seen a water closet.

He took to restless pacing in the minutes that followed, another conundrum occupying his thoughts. Could he really stay in the same room with Sabrina and not be able to touch her? It had never really occurred to him before, that abstinence could be so…painful. He was still trying to tamp the stiffening in his groin, but it was proving rather difficult. He had never refrained from anything in his life, was wont to doing as he pleased, with whomever he pleased. And now he wanted Sabrina. Never mind that he couldn’t have her. His body was quite insistent that he take her. Bloody hell. Being a caregiver and a protector had an unforeseen, and rather agonizing, side effect.

Engrossed with his bewildering thoughts, he didn’t realize how much time had passed, that his gypsy had yet to emerge from the privy. What if she had fainted, and in his absentminded state, he’d simply not heard her body collide with the floor?

“Sabrina, are you all right?”

He knocked again when there was no response. A brusque reply of perfect well-being followed this time around and he eased his twining muscles.

Pacing before the door, he offered her a few more moments of privacy, when he realized what must have her so preoccupied. He smiled at the thought. If the girl had never seen a water closet before, then it stood to reason she was unlikely to comprehend the nuances of the contraption.

With a light shake of his head, he reminded himself not to take anything for granted when it came to his gypsy.

He rapped on the door once more. “Pull the valve.”

A muffled “What?” came through the barrier.

“The valve. Pull it.”

Soon thereafter, the door creaked open. He was careful to do away with his grin before she took heed.

“Shall we have breakfast?”

He extended his elbow to guide her back to the bed, but she declined the invitation, and, tight-lipped, traversed the chamber on her own. He maintained a close proximity, to catch her should she fall, but his assistance was unnecessary. She didn’t flounder once.

He realized then, there was something more than her beauty, something beneath those willful blue eyes, that relentless independence, that had him so intrigued. But thoughts of what that something was were put aside the moment Sabrina reached the bed and crawled over the covers, thrusting her posterior into the air.

An admiring, if not somewhat wolfish, grin touched his lips at the charming sight. Was she a virgin? He wondered. He had never found the despoiling of maids particularly appealing. They were far too abashed for his taste. He much preferred the allure of an experienced woman—and gypsies weren’t known for being chaste.
His
gypsy certainly had no qualms about parading around in his bedchamber in only her chemise, and it was his understanding that a woman who found her body comfortable was very much accustomed to using it in a variety of ways.

The tempting thought took root. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be with
this
particular gypsy? And if the girl was willing, it’d be a marvelous match.

He closed his eyes, willing the yearnings into submission. He had a code of conduct to adhere to. He couldn’t play the scoundrel and seduce his vulnerable ward. Honor demanded the utmost of gentlemanly behavior—though the sight of that tight derrière could certainly shake a man’s sense of honor.

He quickly banished the thought.

Sabrina fumbled with the covers and at last slipped beneath them. She closed her eyes, sighing heavily, the short walk across the room having sapped some of her tenuous energy.

He took that moment in which to pour her a rejuvenating cup of tea and gather a few goods on a plate. He then set the food on the nightstand next to the basin.

Accepting the cup he offered with a nod of thanks, she sipped her tea without much effort, now able to sit up more comfortably than she had the previous night. And since he had already indulged in some eggs and ham this morning, he merely dispensed with another cup of tea for himself and hauled an armchair over to the bed.

Setting her own tea aside, she reached for the plate of food. “It’s as rich in there”—she indicated to the privy—“as it is out here.”

“Do you really think so?”

She sounded incredulous as she dipped into her eggs, mumbling, “There’s a
fireplace
next to the tub. It’s no bush in the woods.”

The tea skewed down the wrong passage. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

Oblivious to his throat clearing, she wondered aloud, a wistful note to her voice, “It must be nice taking a bath in winter with a fire raging nearby.”

He silently admitted the thought had never crossed his mind, but he assumed it was indeed more comfortable.

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast with your family?” she wondered next.

He shook his head. “Ashley will look after any questions regarding my absence, but with the house in an abhorrent state of uproar, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that no one took heed of my empty chair.”

“You hate balls?”

“I despise disorderly conduct. Just the sight of all those bustling bodies, aimlessly scurrying from room to room, gives me an excruciating headache. I prefer to be as little troubled as possible.”

“Then why trouble with me?”

He could feel those beautiful blue eyes carving up his soul in meticulous assessment, burrowing past his defenses, rousing within him what he was trying so hard to suppress.

“There’s nothing cryptic about it,” he said. “I simply deal with trouble as it finds me.”

“So I was trouble?”

“I believe that label is more fitting for your assailants.”

She nodded, her gaze averted to her plate, her voice taking on a more timid quality. “And does trouble often find you?”

His smile was suggestive, his response more oblique. “Not too often.”

She said nothing more on the matter and returned to her breakfast. He studied her for a while, casually drinking his tea, admiring her like a work of art. His eyes didn’t skip over a single detail, from the lone freckle on her neck to a short, stray lock of hair that curled under to tickle her chin. She was charming. She was lovely. She was every bit an alluring nymph…And she was in his bed.

He took in a deep breath. He would conquer this. He was strong enough to resist the nymph’s enchanting call.

But the more he admired her, the more he felt like a jewel thief in the royal vault, appointed to be his own sentry.

Into the stretching silence he heard a throat clear, followed by a hesitant, “Um, how old is your youngest sister?”

Good. A wholesome question. He needed a sound kick in the arse, a blow to rattle and realign his scattered senses. “Cecelia will be seventeen on the day of her ball.”

“And she is
now
being prepared for a husband?”

“Is she too young by gypsy standards?”

She scooped up another mouthful of egg and swallowed. “Too old.”

“At what age do you marry?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s quite young.” And then his brows lifted at the prospect. “You must be near Cecelia’s age. Are you married?”

She shook her head in response. “I’m one year older than your sister, but I’m not wed. The council of elders decided nothing should interfere with my training as a healer, even a husband.”

“And when does your training come to an end?”

“It already has.”

“So you’ll be married soon?”

“In about a fortnight.”

The teacup hovering near his lips struck the saucer with a faint clink. For some daft reason, he was annoyed to hear of her upcoming nuptials, and to dislodge the aberrant thought from his mind, he gave his head a rapid shake. Didn’t do much good, though, the inexplicable irritation still lingered.

He set the china on the nightstand. “Who are you marrying?”

“My cousin, Istvan.”

She said it so calmly, so indifferently, and certainly with none of the enthusiasm he’d expect from a prospective bride, that he had to wonder, “Do you love him?”

She shrugged.

“Then why marry the man?”

“Because the council has arranged our union.”

A betrothal! So that was the culprit of her apathetic disposition. He could certainly sympathize. What a ghastly fate to be reduced to.

“Does your council of elders decide your future entirely?”

She nodded. “The elders must keep tradition. Because my father is the tribal leader, and I his only child, it’s fitting that I marry my eldest cousin, who is destined to be the next tribal guardian.”

“I see.” Though a betrothal was not unheard of by any means, it was increasingly scarce in his sphere of company. Granted, a lady may not have complete autonomy in the choice of her husband, but she certainly had a say and could reject a suitor. Anthony knew as a certainty his father would never force Cecelia to marry a man for whom she had no regard, even if social rank and income were highly desirable. Then again Cecelia would never rebuff a gentleman of impeccable breeding, but that was a moot point. That his sister had the option to first set her cap on a potential beau was the issue. That Sabrina had not the same option was a little unsettling. But then, she was not a noble lady and thus afforded any of the privileges that accompany the title. Still, being a gypsy, wandering the countryside as a way of life, he’d expected her to have greater freedom when it came to formalizing a lifelong union.