For Love of a Gypsy Lass (2 page)

***

Carrying a tambourine decorated with silk ribbons that were definitely showing their age, Talaitha climbed onto the stage with Cambio. She saw the lord standing a few feet away, leaning with one arm on an ancient apple tree with his thin friend beside him. His broad chest and narrow waist showed to advantage. He was a handsome man. Unsmiling, he nodded at her and reluctantly she nodded back.

Against her will, liquid fire filled her belly. She commanded her body to stop; this man was not for the likes of her, but her body would not listen. She felt a savage desire for him. Had he cast a spell on her?

As she sang the songs the lord requested she tried to smile in his direction, but she felt so resentful and so confused. When she looked at him the liquid fire crept into her veins, and flowed right down to the tips of her toes and the ends of her fingertips. She felt the heat in her face. Inwardly, she cursed herself.

When she finished, her cousin, Delilah, climbed on stage beside her and they shook their tambourines to signal that the entertainment was about to change.

Cambio stroked his guitar. Delilah began the intricate dance steps and after a minute Talaitha joined her. It was a dance their mothers had taught them, but they knew no name for it. Delilah wore a close-fitting green blouse and skirt of multicolored layers and Talaitha, in her deep yellow dress, thought herself no match, but rather a foil to her colorfully attired cousin.

Might the Gadjo decide he preferred Delilah?
Vicious jealousy swept over her—jealousy of Delilah’s generously curvaceous figure and of the grace with which she moved. She glanced over to where the
Gadjo
stood. He was not looking at Delilah, but at herself. Again, her rebellious body allowed the flames to spread like wildfire through her, but this time she did not fight it.

Talaitha gave herself to the dance, allowing her unreasonable passion for him to overcome her as she glided and turned, following the steps. She was aware of the sway of her own hips, the twist of her waist, the way her breasts lifted as she took her arms above her head and touched her fingers to the tambourine.

She could feel her thighs brush gently one against the other, the delicious slip and slide of her dress against her skin. Even the touch of the frayed silk ribbons of the tambourine against her naked arms was arousing.

She could feel his eyes devouring her, though she would not, did not, dare look directly at him. She could feel his desire on her skin, on her breasts, even in that most secret part of her between her legs.

She let her own desire mix with his to move her, to consume her. When she looked out at the audience she saw an answering desire obvious on the face of every man there, and the women’s faces were flushed.

As the dance climaxed, she felt herself aflame. And then it was over. Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, she and Delilah bowed—no curtsy would be appropriate for a dance like this one—and then ran from the stage.

“I never saw you—anyone—dance like that,” Delilah said. “Every eye was on you.”

As Talaitha swiped at the sweat on her brow with her hand, the
Gadjo
lord’s shadow fell over her.

He asked solemnly, “May I?” He handed Talaitha a fine white linen handkerchief. She took it before she had a chance to think whether to accept it or not. As she wiped her face with it she remembered that Delilah had once told her that the
Gadje
believed women should not sweat.

Too late, she thought, as the linen was now quite limp. And she could not in decency return it, could she?

Among her people, the
Romanichal,
sweat—or any bodily secretions, for that matter—was never spoken of. It was something to be kept secret, to be hidden, and here she stood with her own sweat on this
Gadjo
lord’s handkerchief. She didn’t want to return it damp, as it was now, and yet she was too aware of the
Gadje’s
opinion that all
Romanichal
were thieves. If she kept it, would she seem a thief? Or might he think it meant that she wanted a keepsake?

“A pity my lord does not carry two,” said Delilah in seductive tones.

“Tomorrow night I shall bring one for each of you.”

“I will be dancing immediately after sundown. Alone,” Delilah cooed

How bold Delilah was. Did she not know that the man had made advances to Talaitha herself?

“I will be in attendance.” He smiled at Delilah. “And I will bring enough handkerchiefs so you may have a fresh one after each performance. Would you prefer those with scenes of Venice or does your taste run to sailing ships?” Just as she thought—any Gypsy lass would suit his ardor.

“I’d prefer those with hearts and love birds.” Delilah was a dreadful flirt.

“Well, I shall have to go to the shops tomorrow and see if I can find such a thing. And you, madam,” he turned to Talaitha, “which do you prefer?” His hot gaze lingered on her, disconcerting her in a most irritating fashion, making her blood go from warm to boiling hot.

“I have no preference,” she snapped. “I prefer to use my own.” She handed him the damp white linen and muttered, “Thank you.” She heartily wished she hadn’t taken it and she hated giving him something that had some of her own essence on it.

His gaze held hers as he slowly lifted the damp handkerchief to his lips. She heard not only her own sharp intake of breath, but Delilah’s as well. Talaitha managed to tear her gaze from his. She turned on her heel and stalked away. He was a most annoying man. And why was she furious at Delilah for playing the flirt with him?

***

“The divine singer sang every song you requested.” John stretched as best he could in the narrow confines of Harry’s carriage, and yawned.

“Yes.”

“And you paid well for it.”

“Yes.” Harry leaned back and folded his arms tight against his chest.

“Every penny you had and all of mine as well. I don’t begrudge you, but it was not necessary.”

“Such singing deserved a rich reward. I will pay you back.”

“I had no doubt of that,” John said, chuckling. “Besides, you wished to make amends.”

“True. Will you accompany me tomorrow night?”

John shrugged. “It’s no use, my friend. You insulted the lady mightily.”

“I was a fool.” He struck his forehead.

“True. And you will be a greater fool if you do not forget her.”

“I cannot forget her,” he groaned.

“Then, indeed, you are a very great fool.”

Harry sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“All for one night of pleasure?”

“Alas, I want more than that.”

John looked at his friend quizzically. “But she is a Gypsy. Your family, the ton—”

Harry sat erect and, pounding his fists on his thighs, he thundered, “Damn my family, damn the ton! I shall do everything in my power to win her. I will have her if she will have me.”

Chapter Three

The sun had just begun to set as Delilah began her first solo dance of the evening. Talaitha watched from the door of her family’s
vardo
as the coach with four matched gray horses pulled up nearby and a single gentleman—the same handsome
Gadjo
lord as the previous night—wearing fine fawn breeches, a dove gray coat, and a bicorn hat stepped out and joined the small audience that stood at the foot of the stage.

Well, he is obviously interested in Delilah. Or is he?
She watched as his gaze wandered from the dancer and toward the
vardos.
Talaitha pulled back into the darkness inside where he would not be able to see her. After a minute she peeked out. He was watching Delilah.

She observed him closely.
Was he absorbed? Was he pleased with the performance? Was he going to try offering a gold guinea to Delilah? Well, Delilah would play with him, but she’d never give him what he wanted
…
would she?

With his fine clothes and carriage, Talaitha could see why Delilah might be tempted to give in to him. But then everyone would despise her
.
Thank God she herself was impervious to his charms and his wealth and position.

She did not want to be thinking about him. Yes, he was handsome with those blue eyes and fair hair. She couldn’t help but notice his strong thighs, his broad shoulders. But he’d only thought of her as a pretty voice—and as someone he’d thought he could seduce for a coin.

How dare he come back and ogle Delilah!

Talaitha then noticed he held something in his hands—two small bundles tied with pink ribbon. The handkerchiefs! And he had brought two—one for Delilah and perhaps the other for herself. As a
Gadjo
he did not understand that to the
Romanichal
any mention of bodily secretions, of sweat or even of tears, was rather embarrassing and very intimate. But he was not
Romanichal
and so had no understanding of or sensitivity to such things.

And Delilah—she was clearly dancing for him; no smiles were wasted on the rest of those who watched her. Talaitha had to admit she was angry—angry at Delilah, angry at the lord. Well, she would tell her father to tell Cambio that she would not perform this night. Let those two have each other, it mattered not at all to her.

The dance came to an end and smiling, Delilah sauntered to the front of the stage. The lord extended his hand, which she took, and he helped her step down. Delilah kept hold of the lord’s hand some seconds longer than propriety directed. When she released it, he tipped his hat and gave her one of the packages with a slight bow.

Talaitha wanted to see no more. She climbed down from the
vardo
,
intending to run to where her father stood, with a knife in his pocket, watching to make sure there was no trouble; that the
Gadjos
did not bother the women; that they paid properly for their fortunes; that they did not drink so much that they could not ride or walk home; that they did not fight among themselves.

She paused at the foot of the steps and in that instant the lord raised his eyes, his gaze finding hers. Their eyes locked and she felt a spark leap between them. She told herself to turn away, but she could not. She told herself she had no feeling for this man, but she did. She told herself she would not let herself be overwhelmed by desire for him, but the fire within her re-ignited. She was helpless to stop these things.

Her grandmother’s hand lightly touched her shoulder and, startled, she dragged her gaze away from his, and the spell was broken.

“Cambio is waiting. It is time for you to sing, granddaughter.”

“Yes,” she said huskily. “I will sing.”

She walked quickly to the stage and climbed onto it. She stepped forward and let her gaze slide over the lord and out over her small audience. Before Cambio could begin to play and thus dictate what she would sing, she began “Robin Adair”, the song the
Gadjo
lord had said he’d never heard more sweetly sung.

She kept her gaze from him, but she was sure he stared at her. And when the song ended she heard him call out, “Brava.” She did not want to be able to recognize his voice, she did not want the intimacy of knowing his voice, but she did know it, and against her will her gaze went to him. He was staring at her intently; she could see the hunger for her in his face. He had not looked thus at Delilah. He nodded slightly and mouthed, “Robert Burns.”

And so she sang “
Montgomerie’s Peggy”
and
“The Winter It Is Past”
, as well as some other songs by Mr. Burns. She sang for him, the handsome lord with his fine
Gadjo
clothes and his
Gadjo
blond hair and his
Gadjo
fair skin and blue eyes. She sang for him alone.

***

She was exquisite, he thought, and her voice was that of an angel. At first he had thought she was distressed to see him and then he was sure she ignored him, leaving him puzzled and unhappy. Yet, when she sang Mr. Burns’ songs she met his gaze, and he was certain that she sang for him alone

He was overwhelmed with gratitude that she no longer seemed to despise him. He would have stepped forward after every song and placed a coin in the pot, but he seemed unable to move.

Never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted this Gypsy singer. He loved each song she sang more than the one before. He longed to hold her, to tangle his fingers in that black-as-night hair, to kiss those dark eyes, to run his hands over that delectable body.

He would give anything—everything—to have her continue to smile on him, to have her willingly bring her lips to his. He desperately wanted her and, just as desperately, he wanted her to want him in return.

As she sang, her gaze came to his own more and more often, and he began to feel more sure of her, more certain that she wanted him. By the time she curtsied and stepped off the stage, he thought she could be his for the asking. And he was determined to be wildly generous. He would give her a house of her own, perhaps two—one in town and one in the country—each near his own, of course. She would
have her own carriage and as many servants as she wished. He would keep her as his mistress in the utmost luxury. No longer would she live in a shabby wagon, or have to travel from town to town to perform publicly like this for a few coins. He would give her anything and everything she wanted. He would take the best care of her. She would be his.

She finished singing, curtsied and ran offstage. He threw coins in the pot—everything in his pocket—uncaring of what they were or their worth.

He hurried after her, anxious to tell her his plans. She walked quickly to a small stand of trees and once there turned to him. He stepped forward intending to address her. Instead he found his arms around her and hers slipping around him as their lips met hungrily.

Her lips were as inviting as he had imagined and her kiss as arousing. He ran his hands up and down, loving the sweet curves of her back, of her bottom. He pulled her even closer to himself until her breasts were crushed against his chest and his cock hard against her belly. Her body was soft and yielding against his own, and her lips—her lips were opening to him.

His tongue slipped within and met her own. The flames of desire, hot and bright already, flared—wildfire spreading through him, consuming every part of him.

Suddenly she pushed him away
and stepped back.

“Sir,” she said, her voice soft and shaky, “this is unseemly. We may well be visible to others.”

“Yes, forgive me.” He stepped back slightly. “I forgot myself.”

“I, too.” She sighed. “I…we…we cannot, must not, do this. Please go, please leave us and do not come back.”

“I will go,” he said. “If you will come with me.”

She shook her head. “No, sir, that can never be. Please, I beg you, disturb me no more.”

“I will provide a good life for you. You will always be comfortable.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“I want you near me always. I want to care for you—give you a house and carriage of your own. Jewels, servants—whatever you wish for shall be yours.” He placed his hand on his chest, where his heart was beating wildly. “You will be my mistress, the queen of my heart—”

“No.” She put up a hand as though to ward off an evil. “No!” She turned and ran toward one of the wagons and disappeared inside.

He followed her to the wagon and stood, his shoulders slumped, beside it.

“Please tell me. What have I done wrong? I wish only the best for you,” he said, but there was no response.

“I don’t wish to distress you,” he continued. “I’ll leave now, but will return tomorrow. I beg of you that you will do me the favor then of explaining what I should do to convince you of my good intentions toward yourself.”

He placed the little package of handkerchiefs—which, to the amusement of his friend, John Long, he had spent the day seeking out—on the top step of the wagon. They were of the finest sheer linen and edged with exquisite Belgian lace. Pure and rare like the woman for whom they were intended. Like the woman he loved so unreasoningly.