Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (12 page)

I follow her outside, where I can see most of the gypsies gathered around the fire. In the distance, Creek is still helping to shoe one of the piebald horses. He’s wearing a tweed cap now and a white, v-neck gypsy shirt along with black trousers and boots. His sleeves are all rolled up, revealing every taut muscle, and he’s hammering shoes onto an unruly stallion that matches him with its wild, sinewy beauty. As the breeze picks up and rifles through the horse’s black and white mane, it rears up, snorting red nostrils and striking hooves in air. Rather than dash for cover, like the other gypsy man, Creek merely drops the iron shoe and seizes the horse’s halter, speaking softly to him. The stallion paws the ground with his head bowed, as if listening, but then rears a couple more times to show off his massive strength. Creek simply smiles, giving the stallion just enough lead to release his pent up energy and flex his muscles before Creek gently strokes his neck and rubs between his ears. The stallion tosses his head one last time, but then burrows his muzzle into Creek’s chest.

I smile to myself. It’s no surprise to me this willful beast feels comfortable around Creek. He has a knack for letting wild things stay wild, and embracing them just the way they are.

The breeze rises again. Creek straightens his back and lifts his head, turning a little as if listening to it. And I swear to God, it’s as though he feels me before he sees me. He swivels around and stares straight across the camp, laying eyes on me as though he knew I’d be there.

And I wish I could frame that look on his face.

The setting sun reflects across his hat and cheekbones and the horse’s neck and mane, as if they’d both been dipped in gold. The way he stares at me is not the look of a teenager anymore. It’s the gaze of a young man—recognizing the love of his life.

The burly blacksmith grabs the horse’s lead and gestures for Creek to walk over to me. But this is no mere stroll. More like a male rite of passage, because as soon as he nears the campfire the men of the camp grab him and shove a bottle of wine in his hand, threading their arms over each other’s shoulders for a boisterous line dance. They laugh and pass the bottle around along with a pipe as the violin melody hastens to keep up with their feet. The little girl shows me a sweet ring of flowers she’d picked and tugs on my hand for me to bend down. She places the garland over my head and shrieks with glee.

“Come!” The blonde portly woman cries, running up and taking me by the arm. “We dance!”

All this for Creek’s birthday? I marvel, suspecting ulterior motives by now. I glance down at my pretty pleasant blouse—the one Zuhna wore for her own wedding—and feel my cheeks blush.

The women are in a line opposite of the men on the other side of the campfire with their arms interlocked, kicking up their heels. Children are clapping and spinning in place, some waving bright scarves. Then a little boy holds up a hollowed loaf of bread and gives a loud cry. While dancing, the men pull coins from their pockets and toss them, spinning expertly, into the bread and congratulate each other on their aim. The boy lays the bread loaf right in front of me beside the campfire. Then the little girl with dreadlocks breaks over to the men’s side of the dance and shoves Creek toward me, making everyone laugh. To my surprise, she pulls a long red ribbon out of her pocket and begins winding it around us, singing chants.

I’m so overwhelmed by this display that I’m sure my face is as red as her ribbon. Sensing my self-consciousness, Creek sweetly cups his palms around my cheeks, but it only makes the camp hoot louder.

“Looks like we’ve stumbled into something more than a birthday party.” He smiles, gazing into my eyes. “I think this is their version of . . . you know . . . a gypsy wedding—”

What I see reflected in Creek’s face is not the cocky expression I’ve grown accustomed to. Though his eyes twinkled just moments ago, right now they’re dead serious. And their blue ice appears to be searching mine, as if trying to find some sign of . . . forever?

How could I not melt?

Even the stone at my breast is throbbing to the staggered beats of my heart.

I glance around the camp, but the dancing has ceased for a moment. Everyone is looking at us, waiting and holding their breath.

I pull the ruby heart from my blouse and hold it up to Creek, the flames of the fire dancing at its center, conscious of the ribbon that binds us together.

“Creek—right here, right now—I couldn’t walk away from you if my life depended on it. You
are
my heart.”

“Does that mean we’re more than partners?” he asks.

I swear I saw his Adam’s apple wobble. He puts his hands around mine, but they’re not timid or nervous, like I expected. They’re warm and strong—and determined.

“When I give my heart, Robin, it’s for keeps,” Creek promises. “And I’m a hell of a lot more relentless than any damn stone.”

Tears are moistening my eyes. And I’m not quite sure, but I thought I saw sparks fly in the middle of the ruby heart.

“I want you,” I say like a vow to Creek. “My love is for all time.”

I lean in and steal a kiss.

I thought the camp would howl in triumph, but instead they all look toward Zuhna. She gives them a nod and steps up to me. From her pocket she pulls out a long silver chain.

“You know what you choose, yes?” She says not to me, but to Creek.

Her veiled-looking brown eyes bore into him, even though I know she can’t see. And to my astonishment, she snatches the ruby heart from my hand and strings the silver chain through the small clasp at the top of the stone. Then she laces it not around my neck, but around Creek’s, and fastens it like a necklace—or a heavy weight, depending on how you look at it.

“Do you accept this burden?” she asks Creek, her tone ominous. The camp is so quiet now you could hear a pin drop.

Creek lifts his head and smiles.

He doesn’t glance at the stone. He stares straight into my eyes with every ounce of conviction he has in him.

“It’s what keeps me
alive
,” he replies, his voice a mix of both hope and gravel.

Zuhna nods and throws up her hands. A raw cry erupts from her chest, resounding among the trees. “
Abiav!
” she announces, picking up her skirt and launching into a jig with an abandon that amazes me, given her eyesight. It’s as if her feet already know what to do, where to go, and the other women laugh and pat me on the back and follow suit. Then the men light up more pipes and begin to dance again as well, while other members of the camp go to fetch food—piles of it! They bring out a table loaded with breads, potatoes, chicken and sauces that smell of wild mushrooms and herbs. My mouth is watering, but a boy hands me a bottle of wine before I can even think of heading to the feast.

I cautiously take a sip.

It’s sweet and bubbly, and immediately goes to my head.

“Prosecco,” the boy says proudly before he darts off to join in the dance.

I glance at the bottle in my hand and its words in Italian, not knowing if it was purchased from a nearby vineyard, or stolen? How fitting for a couple of lovestruck thieves.

“A toast?” I say to Creek, holding up the bottle and watching the flames of the fire dance in his eyes now. A devilish look has returned to his face.

“No,” he replies, shaking his head. He starts to slowly unravel the red ribbon that holds us together and swirls it gently around my neck, pulling me in for another deep kiss.

“Tonight,” he whispers, “all I want is
you
.”

And for the life of me, I thought I heard the ruby heart begin to laugh.

When it comes to touching Creek’s body and my fear of the consequences of the stone, Creek’s body wins.

Every time.

It’s past midnight and we’re in the same wagon Zuhna led me to earlier. The blanket I repaired turned out to be our wedding
patura
, as Zuhna called it, and the wagon is a
vardo
where only adults sleep—in every sense of the word.

My head is still swimming from the music, dancing, and Prosecco. And I can’t decide whether the sweetness that lingers in my mouth is the sparkling wine, or from the anticipation of tasting Creek.

Creek . . .

Who stands before me, his frame lit only by the wavering candles in our wagon, nearly unrecognizable in his gypsy clothes and tweed cap. But those icy wolf eyes are trained on me, hungry as hell.

I move in for the kill first—

Boldly, I trace my finger along his exposed chest at the opening of his v-neck gypsy shirt, where the ruby heart lies, red and shimmering. His tan skin trembles at my touch, and Creek closes his eyes, dipping his head a little. But every muscle in his body is tight, as if he’s holding himself back from pouncing on me like prey. I can see his fists clench, broad knuckles flashing white, as though he’s afraid of what the force of his desire might do to me.

And like a cat, all I want to do is play with that longing.

I’m sure he’s had other girls.

But he’s never touched a soul as wild as mine.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me—maybe it’s because I tasted Creek’s blood. Or maybe it’s because of that goddamn stone. But right now, even though I’m a virgin who spent her life locked away in private boarding schools, I have an overwhelming urge to lick every inch of his body until he’s quivering—screaming—out of control.

My tongue rolls down his chest to his nipple as the stone brushes against my temple. Creek groans softly, and that’s when I hear a low whisper.

Taste your destiny, Rubina
.

I swallow hard, my own blood pulsing at my breasts and between my legs, as if they’re on fire.

Eat him alive
.

The stone’s urgings don’t belong here—don’t belong with me—and I shake my head to dismiss the whispers. Pressing my lips softly against Creek’s skin, I relish his warmth with a hint of salt and that lingering meadow scent from sleeping outside. Slowly, I run my palms over his hard muscles, and Creek caves, bringing his hands to my waist to pull up my peasant blouse. He lifts it over my head and unclasps my bra in seconds, but then he slowly slides the straps over my shoulders until the bra falls lazily to the floor.

My breasts are exposed now, nipples outstretched, wanting him—yearning for him.

Creek leans down and simply breathes.

His soft air caresses my nipples, and he blows on them, the warmth floating across my skin like a beautiful song. I arch my back, wanting him to kiss me, devour me, but Creek only smiles.

Who’s in control now?

I couldn’t hear the stone’s insistent murmurs if I wanted to, because the blood is hammering so hard in my brain it’s driving me out of control—

“Please touch me,” I whisper, aching inside.

“As you wish,” Creek replies, his lips curling further. His eyes glance up at me full of power, and he fucking knows he’s got me already. Blowing ever so softly, one nipple and then the other, his hands refusing to touch me yet, he slips out his tongue and gives my left breast just one, very wet lick.

And I feel every neuron in my brain pop and explode.

The other breast receives his lick, ever so gratefully.

Each breast is swept by his tongue, soft and slow, until he’s fallen to his knees and pulls me to his mouth. He sucks on my breasts with a ravenous hunger, and I throw off his tweed cap and claw my hands through his hair.

His
short
hair?

Stunned, I open my eyes, not realizing they were closed before because I was too busy drowning in the sensation of Creek’s tongue.

“You cut your hair?” I gasp.

He rises to his feet, throwing off his shirt and blinding me with that beautiful, toned chest—that’s filled with horrendous scars. Each one a vicious memory that he seems to be making up for now.

“I had to, baby,” he replies, running his hand through his choppy hair.

I don’t know how he does it, but Creek can go from molten hot to frozen cold eyes in a heartbeat, scaring the shit out of virtually anybody.

My bare nipples feel his ice, but it only makes them harden for him more.

“The de Bargonas are surely searching for us, Robin,” he says. “I had to change my looks, like you did, to blend in.” He smoothes the unevenness of his hair a little. “All I had was the blacksmith’s old knife. What do you think?”

Seriously? He’s heaven on earth as far as I’m concerned, even if he died his hair purple. But I don’t let on for a moment how wildly I’m attracted to him.

“Well I don’t know,” I sigh, “I think I’m going to miss that beautiful hair.”

“Yeah?” Creek smiles, circling my nipple with his finger.

“You know, how soft it felt in my hands.”

“Like this?” Creek whispers, circling my other nipple.

His tongue starts to wrap around my breast again, while his hand runs down my curly dark hair. He stops for a second and leans his cheek into its softness before he returns to his luxurious licking, faster now, full of promise—

“I think I might be able to make you forget my hair, baby,” he whispers. “Besides, it’ll grow back . . .”

Creek said something more but I have no idea what it was. My heart is pounding hard and my body is swimming in such raw pulses that I couldn’t remember the alphabet if I wanted to right now. Savagely, I dive for his trouser button and pull down his pants along with his underwear. His penis is hard, trembling, angling for me already. Creek responds in kind by sliding his warm hands down my waist and slipping the skirt—and my underwear with it—from my hips. We both kick off our boots and push our clothes aside with our feet.

For the first time ever, we’re completely naked in front of each other. And Creek is so tall and muscular and beautiful that I forget to breathe.

I know I should feel self-conscious, with this god-like creature before me, but every second feels so
right
it’s as though the angels created us to stand—young and beautiful and yearning—for this very moment. All Creek is wearing is that ruby stone, glistening like the powerful desire I feel between my legs. I grasp the stone at his chest and feel his penis press against my thigh.