For Love of a Gypsy Lass Read online

  “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 h
old 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.

  ***

  Talaitha sat on the steps of the vardo studying the package the Gadjo lord had left for her. Her thoughts strayed to him, to the way his lips had felt on her own, the way his hands had felt against her back. She imagined his fingers moving softly across the skin of her shoulders as her own trailed across the smooth fabric of the top handkerchief. She could almost feel his fingers going down the length of her spine. She sighed at the thought. No, she must not think such things.

  She shook the fine linen square open. She had never seen such delicate and beautiful lace work, and she most certainly had never owned anything this fine in her entire life. She rubbed the incredibly soft fabric of the handkerchief against her cheek. Then she tucked it into the bodice of her dress so only a little of the lace would show. Would he touch her here, on her breasts? Could she bear the pleasure of such a touch?

  Oh yes, she thought, I could bear it—would bear it—and I would want more. She sighed at the thought. Surely he would first take the time to kiss her, to press those sensuous lips against hers, hard and sure as he had before. She would allow him to run his hands over her naked body, touching her here, stroking her there. Slowly, slowly his touch would become more intimate as it traveled to her breasts, stroking, smoothing. She clasped her hands across her chest. He would find her nipples and—

  She started when her grandmother, the Puri Dai, the wise woman of the clan, stepped out of the shadows and took Talaitha’s hands in her own.

  “Pack your things,” she said. “We leave tomorrow—early.”

  “Tomorrow? But Baba Florica, we were to stay here another week or more.”

  “We must leave,” the old woman said. Talaitha thought she sounded irritable.

  “But why?” She didn’t want to go. Despite her resentment that he’d thought she could be bought—though he’d offered an almost unimaginably high price—she wanted, no, needed to see the Gadjo lord again. She knew nothing good could come out of the feelings she had for him, that she could never mean anything more to him than a Gypsy lass whom he had seduced with gold—in spite of his promises—but that didn’t stop her from feeling the way she did. Nothing could stop her from that.

  Her grandmother sighed. “I see danger here for you, my Talaitha.” She patted her on the cheek. “So we leave before dawn.”

  “What danger, Baba Florica? What possible danger can there be for me here?” But she knew the answer. The fire in her belly flared as she thought of him—the handsome Gadjo. She would not refuse him a third time even though she knew it to be prikaza, bad luck. Only sorrow and regret could follow. She would be despised by her clan for the rest of her life if she consented to the lord’s wishes. Even worse, they might leave her behind, and she would never look on their faces again.

  “Yes.” Her grandmother looked at her closely. “That is why.”

  She wanted to cry out that she didn’t care, that she would embrace the danger; that they should stay for the time they had planned, but she knew it would do no good. The others always listened to the old woman’s advice because she was their Puri Dai. She never changed her mind.

  Chapter Four

  Talaitha sat on the steps of her family’s vardo, trying to think about the songs she would be singing shortly—the last of the evening. However, she could not keep her mind properly on them. Rather, much to her irritation, it dwelled on the Gadjo lord. He would come to Grinell Green—well, at least he had said he would—and he would find them gone. They had left, like thieves, well before dawn and traveled most of the day, then set up camp in this new town. Would he be sad? Would he come at all? Would he would he think of her often as she thought of him?

  He had promised her a home, a carriage, jewels. Surely these things would include warm fires, plentiful food, and even clothing with no patches. She would never again be cold or hungry, she would no longer wish for pretty clothes. She would go about in her carriage like a fine Gadji.

  No. She shook her head. She must not think of these things and she must not think of him.

  She flushed with anger when she thought of how Delilah had flirted with him. Perhaps if they had remained at Grinell Green, and she herself had continued to reject him, he would have paid his respects to Delilah, perhaps would have offered her some gol
d coins. He’d be wasting his time, though. None of the women in their clan would give themselves to a Gadjo. They all planned to marry Romanichal. None would be willing to settle down to the boring stationary life. If she had given in to her desire for him, and he had what he craved from her, then what? Her own people would despise her and his would surely do the same. She would be lost—there would be no place in the world for her.

  But the handkerchiefs. The two he’d given Delilah had a boldly painted scene on it of a canal and a man in a little boat with a pole and a funny hat, while he’d given her six—each with different fine embroidery. Delilah’s, she realized, were simply a gift of courtesy and appreciation—or even a small token because Delilah was her friend.

  Why was she thinking all this? That lord would never want more than an amusing diversion with a Romani lass. And any lass would do. And even if he did truly want her, there was no way he could learn where she was. And besides, she did not want him… Didn’t she? Oh, but she did. That was the problem; she wanted him with all her heart.

  “Stop it,” she told herself. “Stop it and forget him.”

  But no sooner had she said that than she thought of him again. She was driving herself mad. No man had ever filled her mind the way he did.

  Delilah came running to where she sat, grabbed her arm tightly, and pulled her to her feet and over to the middle of the field in which they were camped.

  “He is here, your lord is here.” She pointed up the hill. “There is his carriage. We did not hear it arrive because Cambio is playing so loudly on the stage.”

  Talaitha saw it. The same perfectly matched four horses, the same coat of arms on the door.

  “Aren’t you going to greet him?” Delilah asked.