Brenda Joyce - A Dangerous Love

He grasped her arm and murmured, “She does not need you, gadji .”

Ariella forgot to breathe. His hand was large, strong and burning hot. His breath feathered her cheek, and his knee bumped her thigh. Then he released her.

It had happened so quickly that Ariella was stunned. Emilian said harshly, “We take care of our own.” He looked at Cliff, his face hard and set. “Take your princess daughter away. Tell her we do not like gadjos . We will leave in the morning.”

Ariella trembled. “I can send for a doctor,” she tried, but her father cut her off.

“My daughter is just that to you, Rom —a princess. Never lay a hand on her again,” Cliff exploded.

“Father, stop!” Ariella cried, shaken and breathless, still feeling the Rom’s touch. “He didn’t want me intruding—that is all! The mistake was mine.”

But Cliff ignored her, too upset to hear. “Make sure nothing and no one vanishes in the middle of the night. If one horse is stolen, one cow or a single sheep, I am holding you responsible, vaida .”

Emilian smiled tightly and did not speak.

Ariella could not believe her father would make such a threat. As she stumbled to keep up with Cliff, she looked back.

As still as a statue, the vaida was staring after her. Even from the distance separating them, she felt so much strength and disdain—and an intention she did not understand. He swept her a bow, as elegant as any courtier’s, but his eyes were blazing, ruining the effect. Ariella inhaled and turned away.

What kind of man was that?

EMILIAN STARED after the gadjo and his beautiful daughter. His insides burned with dislike for de Warenne. The daughter’s defense of his disrespectful behavior echoed in his mind. His body rippled with anger and tension. He didn’t need her or any gadjo to defend him. She thought to be kind? He didn’t care that she was kind.

His loins were full. To a man like him, she was so far above him she was a princess—the kind of beautiful, perfect, blue-blooded woman that no English matron would ever present to him. But in spite of the differences of class and blood between them, she had looked at him the way all the Englishwomen who wished to use him did—as if she couldn’t wait to tear off his clothes and put her hands and mouth all over him.

He almost laughed, mirthlessly. He exchanged gadji lovers with almost the same frequency that he did his clothes. Those wives and widows used him strictly for carnal passion, and he used them for far more. There was a satisfaction to be had in sleeping with his neighbor’s wife, when his neighbor looked down on him with so much condescension and scorn. He may have been raised English, but he was still didikoi —half blood—and budjo was ingrained in his soul. A man who mowed his neighbor’s hay and sold it back to his neighbor was considered great. To take what belonged to someone else and reap a profit from it before returning it to its owner, perhaps for even more profit, was a great swindle. Every Rom was born with the need for budjo in his or her blood. Budjo was a Rom’s last laugh—and it was his revenge for the injustice every Rom had ever faced in the world.

He could have de Warenne’s daughter, if he wanted to bother. More blood filled him, hot and thick. She would be wet clay in his hands. He was well aware of his powers of persuasion. But he had little doubt that Cliff de Warenne would murder him if he ever found out.

The temptation was vast, because she was so beautiful. He knew she’d whisper about him behind his back after leaving his bed, like they all did. His paramours couldn’t wait to discuss the sexual prowess of their Gypsy lover with their friends—as if he was a stud for hire. She was unmarried, but the way she’d looked at him told him she was experienced. It would be interesting, he decided, to take that one to bed.

Something niggled at him, bothering him—a sixth sense, warning him, but of what he could not decide.

“Emilian.”

He whirled, relieved at the distraction. Then the relief vanished as he stared at his uncle’s sober face. “The woman?”

Stevan made a sound. “The woman is my wife, and she is having your cousin.”

A warmth began, unfurling within his chest. Stevan had several children, whom he had met eight years ago, but he didn’t even know precisely how many cousins he had, nor could he recall their names. And another was on the way .

Suddenly he was overwhelmed. He felt moisture gather in his eyes. The warmth felt like joy. It had been so long since he had been with family. Robert did not count; Robert despised and scorned him. Stevan, his children, Raiza, Jaelle—they were his family. And although he was didikoi , these people accepted him in spite of his tainted blood, unlike the English, who had never really accepted him at all. Even Edmund had had his doubts. In that moment, he did not feel isolated or alone. He did not feel different. He was not an outsider.

Stevan clasped his shoulder. “You are a grown man now. Djordi tells me your home is rich.”

“I have made it rich,” Emilian said truthfully. He wiped his eyes. He could not remember Stevan’s wife’s name and that was truly shameful.

Stevan smiled. “A lot of budjo , eh?”

Emilian hesitated. He had made Woodland profitable through English work, not Gypsy budjo . He did not want to tell his uncle he had labored honestly and industriously, instead of using cunning for his gain. “A lot of budjo ,” he lied.

Stevan nodded, but his smile faltered.

Emilian tensed. Knives seemed to have pierced his guts. He asked slowly, “Why have you come to find me?”

Stevan hesitated, but as he did so, a young Romni ran out from the wagons, her bright red skirts swirling. She paused, barefoot, not far from them. “Emilian,” she whispered, flushing.

It took him a moment to see Raiza’s beauty in her young, striking features. He gasped, realizing he was staring at his little half sister, except she wasn’t twelve years old anymore —she was twenty.

She smiled beatifically and rushed into his arms.

He felt himself smile widely, the kind of smile he hadn’t felt in years, one that began in his heart. He held her, hard, just for a moment, relishing the rare embrace—it was entirely different from holding a lover he did not care for. When he released her, he was still smiling. “Jaelle! You are a beautiful woman now. I am in shock!”

“Did you think I’d grow up ugly?” She laughed, tossing her dark mane of hair. He now realized it was tinged with deep red tones and her eyes were golden amber.

“Never!” he exclaimed. “Are you married?” He was almost afraid of her response.

She shook her head. “There is no one here that I want.”

He wasn’t sure if that answer pleased him or not.

Stevan said gruffly, “There have been good men who have asked for her. She has refused them all.”

“I will know when I wish to marry, and I haven’t wished to yet.” She touched his face. “Look at you—a gadjo now! With so much wealth—Djordi said so. But can pounds replace the wide road and the shining stars?”

His smile faded. Although he had tried to run away many times when he had first been brought to Woodland, he had finally chosen to stay. And he hadn’t thought twice about taking over the estate upon Edmund’s death. What could he say? Just then, surrounded by true family, he was uncertain his choices had been the right ones. “I am half blood,” he said, hoping to sound light. “Woodland is a good place, but I miss the open road and the night sky.” And in that moment it was achingly true. He missed Jaelle, Raiza and his uncle. He hadn’t realized it until then.