Читать книгу A Dangerous Love - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

HE WANDERED along the perimeter of the encampment, head down, allowing the rage to build. He preferred the anger to the grief. Raiza’s fear must have known no bounds. But the rage did not erase the guilt. His mother had been murdered by gadjos while he lived like one, and he would never forgive himself for having visited her just once in the past eighteen years.

“Emilian.”

At the sound of Jaelle’s voice, he halted, realizing how selfish his grief was. Stevan cared for his sister, but that was no substitute for her mother. Jaelle’s father was a Scot who hadn’t cared about his bastard Gypsy daughter, for he had a Scottish wife and a Scottish family. “Come here, edra,” he said, forcing a smile.

Her expression was uncertain as she approached. She touched his arm. “I am sad, too. I am sad every day. But it is done.” She shrugged. “One day, I will make the gadjos pay.”

He stiffened. “You will do no such thing. You may leave vengeance to me. It is my right.”

“It is my right, as well, even more!” She flared. “You hardly knew Raiza!”

“She was my mother. I did not ask to be taken from her.”

She softened. “I am sorry, Emilian. Of course you didn’t.” She hesitated, her amber gaze searching. “When I was small, you came to us. Do you remember? It was a happy time.”

“I remember,” he said, aware of what she wished him to recall.

But she simply stared and he knew she was thinking about how he had come for a month—and abruptly left.

“What is it that you wish to know?”

“You are as rich as a king. You have no master. Why? Why haven’t you come to us since that time? Why haven’t you come to me? Do you prefer the gadjo to the Romany people? Do you prefer the gadjo life to our own? You came when I was a small child. But you did not stay!”

She was intense, and tears shimmered in her eyes. He understood how important this was to her—he understood that he had this small woman’s loyalty and love. He took her hand. It was awkward to do so, but he did not release her palm. A few days ago, his answer would have been different, he realized. But their mother’s death hovered over them, a dark, terrible shroud. The grief remained, bursting in his heart, overshadowed by guilt. The anger threatened to explode. “I left because I received word of my father’s death,” he said truthfully. “But I didn’t join the kumpa’nia intending to stay. I had dreamed of traveling with the Rom, and I was young, so I came. It was an adventure, jel’enedra.”

He recalled the boredom that had quickly arisen after the first few days of aimless travel. In the ensuing years, he had forgotten how disappointing the journey had been, for his memory had been tainted by the news of Edmund’s death. But while on the road, he had wondered about the duties and responsibilities he’d eventually return to at Woodland. He hadn’t really appreciated the journey, not then, but perhaps it was because he had been so young. And everything was different now.

“I don’t know what I prefer now, or what I want,” he said slowly. “I have lived as an Englishman for a very long time, but we both know I am didikoi.” His heart thundered as he spoke. He was an outsider; he would always be an outsider. Yet he had always known that—he had simply ignored it. “I do know I am gladdened to have such a sister.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know what you want? Everyone knows their heart!”

He laughed roughly. “Growing up, I dreamed of the kumpa’nia. Sometimes, in my bedroom, I played our songs on the guitar. Even though I chose to become a gadjo, as my father had asked me to do, I knew my people—our people— were out there somewhere, perhaps even waiting for me. But I had duties at Woodland. I accepted those duties. I know you cannot understand this confusion. I have never understood it, either. At times, I have felt like two completely different people.”

“So you are confused now?” she asked uncertainly.

“No. Today, I knew you were near. Today, I yearned to come. Today, I am Rom. Today, this is what I want.” He gestured at the camp. “Yesterday I sat in the library at Woodland with my steward and the mayor of the nearby village, discussing local affairs.” He shook his head. It became hard to speak. “They call me Gypsy behind my back, but they wish for me to lead them anyway. There was a matter of law to be solved. They wished for my advice—no one in Derbyshire has the education I have received.” It was so ironic. “I am not truly one of them, but long ago, I made my life Woodland. The estate is mine. It is a good place. I have no desire to wed, but if I ever have a son, it will be his. Can you understand that?” In that moment, he wasn’t sure he understood it.

“How can I understand such affection for land? I do not care about land and I never will. The Romany who have homes are not true blood. You are more English than Rom.” She wiped at her tears. “But I have known that for a long time. And our mother knew it, too.” She turned away.

He seized her. “There is no place I would rather be than right here, right now. That is the truth, Jaelle.”

She searched his eyes. “But for how long? And when we leave, you won’t come with us, will you?”

He stared at her, seeing not Jaelle but Raiza, lying dead in a cobbled street, bleeding from the head, the crowd thronging her, viciously satisfied. His pulse exploded. Did he want to go back to his life at Woodland? He had so many duties there! But what about the life he had forsaken?

He owed Raiza far more than his respects, and he owed Jaelle.

The rich and melodious chords of a guitar strummed, slow and haunting. And suddenly the guitarist changed the beat, the tempo lively, joyous—celebratory. No sound could be more incongruous with his anger and despair—or with his profound confusion.

“We have a new cousin,” Jaelle said softly. “And it is time to celebrate.”

It was the Romany way. As she pulled him back toward the center of the camp, more guitars were played, as were a violin and cymbals. Laughter sounded, and he heard the men clapping in a strong rhythm to the music. His heart lurched and his body stirred.

Jaelle released him and ran into the center of the clearing, where four young Rom were dancing, arms folded, their heels pounding the ground in rhythm with the instruments. Jaelle lifted her skirts and whirled, legs flashing, hair streaming. He felt himself soften and smile as she raised her arms and began dancing in the midst of the men.

Everyone had gathered—men, women and children—and he saw Stevan with his wife, who reclined on blankets, nursing their newborn. Now he recalled her name—Simcha. The gathered crowd was clapping in tandem with the beating heels of the male dancers. The music began to fill his hollow, grieving body. He felt his veins pulse with each stomped foot. He felt his blood heat and race. This was the Rom life and it was simple and good.

It had been so long.

Raiza had been murdered and he would not allow the gadjos to simply walk away unscarred from her death. Sooner or later, he would have his revenge. This promise he made now. But the revenge would not come tonight.

Tonight they would celebrate a new life.

More men and women had joined the original dancers. A woman with ebony hair, her skirts purple and gold, twirled by him. Her stare was sultry and direct.

She was a handsome woman, full figured, close to his age, and there was no mistaking the invitation he had just received. He looked at her thighs as she lifted her skirts dangerously high. There was no lover like a Romni.

She dropped her skirts, sensually raised her arms high, and began to gyrate, her rhythm far slower than the music’s rapid beat. She turned seductively away, but cast a glance over her shoulder at him. He smiled and stepped into the clearing.

The guitars, the violin, the cymbals, a tambourine and the beating of the earth washed through him. His heels found the ground, right, left, right, left, and he lifted his face to the moon, his arms to the stars. Fingers snapped. His hips thrust and undulated. He remained aware of the woman, who danced on his right, but in that moment, his body needed nothing but the music and the night.

The moon smiled. The stars gleamed. The trees stood sentinel, and the fires blazed. It was a night for celebration; it was a night for lovers.

He returned the woman’s bold stare.

THE LAST OF THEIR GUESTS were gone. Ariella stood in the front hall, watching the Montgomery carriage leave as the family went upstairs to their rooms. A touch on her shoulder made her jump.

Cliff smiled at her. “I see you have survived our supper party.”

“Was I so transparent?”

He laughed. “You were daydreaming, and it was obvious.”

Gray eyes assailed her and she prayed her father would not guess at the subject of her musings. “I guess everyone is excited about Amanda’s ball.”

“Yes, they are, as it has been some time since there has been a lavish event at Rose Hill. Ariella, did you like Montgomery at all?”

She stiffened, incredulous. “I thought a match was Dianna’s idea.”

“It is. But she confided in her mother, who told me. You have no interest in him.” It was not a question.

“I am sorry, I do not.”

He sighed. “Ariella, when you were a small child, I worried about your future. At the time, I decided I would make certain to arrange the perfect marriage for you, when you came of age.”

Ariella was in disbelief. “I had no idea!”

He smiled. “That was a long time ago. I realized when you became an independent young woman, of whom I am so extremely proud, that I would do no such thing. In many ways, you remind me of myself before I met Amanda.”

Her relief knew no bounds. “Thank you. But Father, you were a privateer, not a bluestocking.”

“I treasured my freedom, darling, as you do. However, I believe that one day you will come to me with stars shining in your eyes. You will tell me you wish to wed—and that you are madly in love.”

Ariella smiled. “You do know that you are far more romantic than I am?”

Cliff laughed. “Am I?”

“I fear I am not like you, Father. My passion is for knowledge. I did try to explain earlier to Dianna that being unwed doesn’t bother me at all. I do not think about handsome men or moon over them like other women my age.” The moment she spoke, she quickly looked away, because she had been doing exactly that since meeting the Rom with the gray eyes.

“That’s only because you have not yet met the man who is unique enough to stir your interest.”

She continued hastily, afraid he might sense her distraction. “The men I meet are scholars and historians, and very few of them are noblemen.”

He laughed. “And if you bring me a radical lawyer without means, I will approve—as long as he loves you in return.”

Ariella did not reply. She had been thinking about Emilian throughout the evening, almost against her own will. There was something provocative and unsettling about him, although she couldn’t quite identify what disturbed her.

“It may take you some time to realize that your heart has been captured, but the day will come, I have no doubts. You are too beautiful and intriguing to escape love. And when you ask me for my blessing, I will be pleased to give it, no matter whom you have chosen.”

She smiled. “I hope you are not in the rush that Dianna seems to be in. I cannot settle, Father. I have no interest in a traditional marriage. Dianna should marry before I do.”

“I won’t allow you to settle for anything less than what you deserve.” Cliff kissed her cheek. “I will never rush you. Now, I fear I must leave you stargazing by yourself. Good night.”

Ariella watched him hurry upstairs. She became aware of an odd tension within her. Emilian’s gray eyes seemed to be engraved permanently in her thoughts. She hadn’t ever been so preoccupied with a man, not in her entire twenty-four years. She wasn’t sure what her strange distraction meant, but their brief interaction had haunted her throughout the evening.

We are Rom.

She remained haunted, she realized, for she was standing alone in the front hall, in the night-darkened, eerily silent house, wondering about him. He was proud and hostile, and she couldn’t comprehend why he was so defensive, or why he had seemed to dislike her and her father so much. But he had found her attractive. She was woman enough to understand the kind of look he’d given her. Gentlemen had been looking at her with some admiration since she had turned sixteen, but it had never made her think twice—until now.

Her heart was racing.

There was no reason to linger in the front hall, but Ariella stepped closer to the window and pressed her face to the cool glass pane. She thought she heard music.

Ariella realized she should not be surprised. The Romany Gypsies were renowned all over the world for their music.

She was swept with curiosity and excitement. She swiftly crossed the hall, stepping into the parlor, and then she opened the terrace doors. The moment she did, she heard the unfamiliar, exotic music.

She went still. She had heard similar melodies in the Middle East, but she had never heard music with so much passion and joy. And did she hear laughter, as well?

She realized she had crossed the terrace and stood by the railing, staring down the hill. It was a bright night, with a million stars overhead and a waxing moon, but she could see only the light of their fires and the ghostly shapes of the covered wagons. There was no doubt in her mind that the Roma Gypsies were having a celebration.

She wanted to go down the hill. She told herself she did not dare. It was highly improper—and even imprudent. A woman could not wander about the countryside after dark alone. She didn’t care about the scandal, but it could be dangerous.

But no one need know. If she kept hidden, the Romany Gypsies wouldn’t see her, and her family was soundly asleep for the night. If she was careful to avoid any encounters, there wouldn’t be any danger to her person.

She trembled with excitement. When would she ever have this opportunity again? She hadn’t seen Gypsies since she was a child. She might never come across such an encampment again. How could she ignore the music, the festivities? Stories abounded about the Gypsies, about nights filled with music, dance and love.

And what about their charismatic leader?

Ariella breathed hard, her pulse pounding. She knew she found him highly attractive, as well as enigmatic. She was curious about him, too. He seemed so well-spoken, as if educated. He was clearly used to giving commands, and he hadn’t deferred to her father. What kind of man was he? Where had he come from?

The Roma would be gone in the morning.

He would be gone in the morning, too.

Her decision was made. She lifted her pale skirts and stepped down from the terrace onto the lawn. A moment later, she hurried across the drive, her pace increasing along with her excitement. She could identify more than guitars now, for she also heard at least one violin, and the rich song was punctuated with cymbals and clapping hands.

And she could finally see the wagons ahead. The blazing fires within their midst illuminated them. She heard more laughter and conversation, and she glimpsed the dancers, a flurry of movement and jewel tones.

She paused behind the closest wagon, breathing hard. The music was fierce and demanding now. It almost beat inside her, causing her stomach to churn. The tempo had escalated, as had her pulse. Gray eyes dominated her mind’s eye.

Ariella crouched low beside the wagon, slipping around the front. Seeing the dancers, she stiffened in amazement.

In the center of the clearing, he danced alone. He held his arms high, fingers snapping, his white shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His chest gleamed in the firelight as he danced. The fabric of his breeches strained over his thighs and hips, and each step was impossibly seductive and sensual. Each step brought him a bit closer to where she stood. Her mouth became dry.

His eyes were closed. His dark lashes were fanned out on his high, flushed cheekbones. His expression was tight, one of sheer pleasure. A sheen of perspiration covered his face, too, and as he gyrated, she could see his navel. Ariella tugged at her bodice. Every solid inch of his anatomy was visible in that open shirt and those doeskin breeches and she was terribly, uncomfortably hot.

She swallowed. She could not look away and she did not care. She knew her thoughts had become more than improper. She was thinking about his masculinity, his virility and his barely leashed power. He was dancing alone, but somehow, it was terribly suggestive—as if he would soon take a lover to his bed.

She did not know what was happening to her. She had never thought about a man this way. What he might or might not do after dancing was not her concern.

His eyes suddenly opened. Although there were many people dancing now, and a few exotic women had surrounded him, his gaze swung directly across the dancers at her.

Had he known she was there? Her heart exploded in her chest. She knew she should duck, but somehow, she had risen to fully stand. She knew she should tear her attention away from his beautiful face, his bare chest, but that was impossible. She realized she no longer stood by the traces; somehow she had actually stepped forward.

His gray eyes caught hers and blazed.

Ariella could not look away.

His eyes were so fierce, she forgot to breathe. Their gazes locked, his arms lifted and he turned slowly for her. His arms swept toward her, and his hips slowed. Ariella felt as if his hands had just drifted down her body, as if his loins had just brushed across her belly. She did not have to be a woman of experience to know that he was dancing for her.

As if under a spell, all she could think of was his embrace and being pressed against his hard body.

He smiled seductively and his thick black lashes lowered, just as the music ceased.

Trembling, Ariella wondered if he would hear her slamming heartbeat.

He stood still, except for his chest, which rose and fell rapidly. His eyes lifted, male and intense, searing hers.

She should run away. If she stayed, something would happen—if she stayed, he was going to touch her, pull her close, against his hard body…somehow, she knew.

A hand seized her from behind. “Kon nos? Gadje romense? Nay!”

Ariella cried out.

A young man, perhaps sixteen, stared furiously at her. He shook her and spoke angrily in his language again. There was no music now, no laughter or conversation.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

The youth dragged her forward. Ariella stumbled and paused. The dancers surrounded them. Emilian strode forward, his eyes flashing, his body hot and wet. “Dosta!”

Ariella was released. Trembling, she hugged herself. Her savior was as angry as the young man. She looked at the crowd. Hostile stares were trained upon her. No one moved. Stances were belligerent. She wanted to vanish into the ground.

He spoke again, rapidly and firmly.

The young man looked at her. “I am sorry,” he said in a heavy accent. He turned and walked away.

Ariella was incredulous. She looked at Emilian and he stared back at her, while the bearlike man from earlier that afternoon clapped his hands and spoke to the crowd. Someone began playing a guitar. Conversation resumed, but in lower tones and whispers, as everyone walked away. And they were alone.

Ariella was so dry she had to wet her lips. Worse, her focus had precipitously dropped to his bare, sweat-slickened chest. She couldn’t help it; she stole a glance at the tight lines of his abdomen. She knew she did not dare look lower; she knew what she would see there. “What…” She wet her lips again. She sounded horribly breathless. “I wasn’t spying.”

His gaze narrowed.

“I swear.” She breathed hard, shaking now. “I heard the music, I could not help myself.”

His stare remained enigmatic. “And were you amused? Did our primitive way entertain you?”

She inhaled. “The music…the dancing…it is wonderful.”

He made a sound. His attention slid to the edge of her bodice. “Isn’t it late, Miss de Warenne, for a stroll across your lawns?”

He was too close. She could feel his heat and smell his scent. She could so easily touch him if she tried. Her anxiety escalated. “Yes. I should go. I am sorry to intrude.” She started to rush past him.

He seized her wrist, restraining her. “But you are my guest.”

Her entire arm, bare to the cap sleeve of her dress, was pressed against the hot, wet skin of his chest. She felt dizzy, faint. The hollow aching became acute. “Is that what you told them?”

“We do not like gadjos in our midst.” Suddenly he smiled at her. “But you have become the exception to our rule.”

Didn’t he care that he was indecently dressed and practically naked? Didn’t he know that he held her entire arm against his chest? Couldn’t he feel her trembling with more than distress, with more than fear?

“Do you really want to go?” he murmured, his tone becoming a caress.

She stared into his warm eyes. She didn’t want to leave and they both knew it.

“The evening has only begun.”

“I don’t know…I only came to investigate.” The moment she spoke, she realized how bigoted that sounded.

“Most proper ladies would not dare such an investigation at such an hour,” he said. He released her arm.

She could have moved farther away from him, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked at his muscular chest where she’d just been so intimately pressed. His abdomen was concave. She reached up to touch her cheek—it was on fire. And her own body was perspiring almost as much as his.

He smiled again. He leaned close. “But an improper lady might venture out at such an hour. Can I help your investigation?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Of course you did. You want to compare.” He sent her a rather cool smile and took her arm.

He tugged her to a small table near one of the wagons, farther from the dancers. He poured two glasses of wine from a hefty jug, handing one to her. Before she could refuse, he drank thirstily, as if the wine were water. His gaze moved down to the edge of her silk bodice.

Her nipples tightened. That look was as bold as if he’d reached inside her dress, past chemise and corset. “I didn’t mean that I had come to investigate.”

“Of course you did. Drink the wine. You will enjoy the night even more fully.”

“I have already had wine with supper.”

His white teeth gleamed. “But you are so nervous, as much as a schoolgirl or debutante. I do not bite, Miss de Warenne. Nor do I cheat or steal—or seduce unwilling ladies. It is Miss de Warenne, is it not?” His attention strayed to her left hand.

She came to her senses. “It is Miss de Warenne. I don’t believe in stereotyping. Of course you don’t cheat or steal— or seduce unwilling women.” She thought she flushed. This man had a way of making his every word seem sexually suggestive.

His brows lifted. “So you are the single gadjo without prejudice? How laudable.”

“Bigotry is wrong and I am not a prejudiced person,” she managed.

He turned aside, lashes lowering, but not before sending her a long glance.

Ariella raised her glass and took a gulp of the wine. Had that look meant what she thought it did? She gulped again. She had seen her father, her uncles, even her brother and cousins look at women that way. That look had one meaning. What should she do?

She should stay and let him kiss her.

Almost in disbelief, ready to wonder if this were a dream, she took another draft of the wine. She was an enlightened thinker. She didn’t care about propriety and she had never been interested in a kiss before. There was no doubt about it—she was highly interested now.

As if he sensed her decision, he murmured, “If you did not come here to investigate, then I wish to do so.” He laid his hand on her waist.

She tensed, but not with fear. Instead, her body hummed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I wish to understand why a beautiful, unwed and proper lady of your age is wandering into my encampment in the middle of the night.”

“I am passionate,” she whispered, “about knowledge. I want to know more about the Romany people.”

“The Romany people—or me?”

She went still.

“Give up the pretense,” he murmured. His hand moved up her side, a shocking caress. “You didn’t come for the music or for them. You came for me. I am your investigation.”

Ariella couldn’t speak. He was right.

His smile twisted as he pulled her closer. “You aren’t the first Englishwoman to wish for a Romany lover.”

She started to protest but he murmured, “Why else would you come to me, gadji, at such an hour?”

She had no answer to make. She stuttered, “I don’t know… I wanted to come…I was drawn.”

“Good. Be drawn. I wish for you to want me.” His eyes smoldered. “We are open about our passions. Wait here.”

Ariella stared after him, shaken, while he went back to the crowd. She saw him pause before the violinist, an older white-haired man. She realized she was hardly the only woman staring at him with yearning. The younger Romni women were beautiful, and a few of them were watching Emilian as closely as she was.

But he returned to Ariella, smiling and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

Dancing had never interested her and she had two left feet. Did he think to have her whirl about like the Gypsy women? She would be a laughingstock. “I can’t dance.”

“All women can dance,” he murmured again, very, very softly. Suddenly the strains of a waltz began, coming from the violin. “The music is for us.”

She was surprised, but before she could finish an internal debate, he took her hand and reeled her slowly in. Suddenly they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh. His hands closed on her shoulders, her back. He swayed his body, moving her with him. She had never known such a sensation of male strength and male promise.

Their bodies were almost fused. Her cheek had somehow found the bare skin of his chest. She shuddered. All she could think of was his soft breath on her ear, and his hard manhood, so obviously aroused, against her hip. This wasn’t the waltz: this was a couple swaying to soft music, the brush of breast against chest, the rubbing of loins and hips. This was a prelude to passion.

He said against her ear, “This night is for lovers.”

She didn’t want to move her cheek from his wet skin, but she looked up. He had danced her over to the trees, where the night was heavy and dark.

“Can you feel the music in your body, against your skin?” he whispered. “Can you feel it in your blood?” His gaze was searing. “It is throbbing there, with need, with passion.” His mouth twisted. “Do you want to kiss a Gypsy?”

They weren’t moving now. They stood in an embrace and she felt her heart thundering—or was it his? And she felt herself nod. She thought she might die for his kiss.

“I thought so.” He suddenly caught her face in his hands. “Be forewarned, I never do anything halfheartedly.”

Ariella whispered, “Emilian.”

His eyes blazed. He covered her mouth with his and Ariella stiffened, for his lips were hard, fierce and demanding. She gasped as the pressure became painful; he made a sound, and before she knew it, he had thrust his tongue deep inside her mouth. Alarm began. She pushed at his shoulders. This wasn’t the kind of kiss she had expected—she wasn’t sure it was a kiss at all. There was rage in his actions.

He went still.

She began to shake, frightened, for now she realized she was truly at his mercy. Her strength was no match for his.

He tore his mouth from hers. Ariella again tried to push away. This had been a terrible mistake. But he caught her and held her against his hard, trembling body, his arms a vise from which there was no escape. “Don’t go.”

She continued to shake in genuine alarm. But standing still, his body throbbing against hers, she felt her own pulse begin to surge and race. He hadn’t hurt her, she reminded herself, but for one moment, she had sensed that an explosion of brutality was imminent, a violence for which she had been entirely unprepared.

His tone was soft. “I won’t hurt you. I want to love you. Let me.” She felt a shudder go through him as he looked down at her.

His eyes weren’t cool or mocking, nor did they blaze with a heat that was almost angry. They were searching for permission from her.

That hollow feeling inside her became acute. Her breasts tightened impossibly. She became aware of his arousal between them. She shifted. Flames fired across her belly, between her thighs. He made a harsh sound.

And before she could even decide whether to allow him any further privileges, he caught her face in his large hands. She tensed but he only lowered his mouth to hers, slowly.

His lips brushed hers, just barely, like the touch of a feather. Her heart exploded, as did so much sensation that she ceased to think. He dragged his mouth across hers, again and again, and her eyes closed as she began to swim in the pleasure of heat and sensation. He rubbed his lips back and forth, testing and teasing, until her lips were soft, open.

He made a sound, rough laughter, and his tongue flicked the seam of her lips. Ariella gasped, seeking his tongue with her own. He deftly avoided her, this time closing his mouth over hers for a long, deep, endless kiss.

She spun. The fever in her body became a conflagration; she moaned and he sparred with her, tongue to tongue. She pressed against his huge hardness shamelessly now. He laughed again, clasping her buttocks through her skirts and petticoats, hard. He hiked her higher, against him.

She moaned, clinging, lips locked. Somehow he had positioned himself exactly where she needed him to be and she felt maddened with urgency now. She moved more frantically upon him.

The kiss raged on. Vaguely she felt his hand slipping up her leg, inside her thigh, beneath her skirts and over her silk drawers. She gasped with more wild pleasure. Vaguely, she knew that this was far more than a simple kiss and she did not care.

Without hesitation, his fingers slid into the slit of her drawers, against her bare, wet skin. Ariella whimpered, tearing her mouth away, pressing her face to his hard, wet chest. She was blinded now. She wasn’t sure what she wanted—other than more unbearable friction. She wept.

He spoke to her in his language, slid his entire hand inside her drawers, palming her, cupping her. She became dizzier. He spoke, rough and guttural, but in English now. “Come for me.”

She didn’t understand. Who cared? The trees whirled and she bit down hard, tasting his sweaty skin and his blood.

She was still spinning when she realized he had laid her down on the ground, in the wet grass. The terrible, wonderful spasms slowed and dulled. Her breathing remained labored. She felt his fingers on the bare skin of her back. She tried to understand the pleasure and passion she had just had. Now, she could comprehend why love was so highly coveted.

His fingers skimmed lower on her spine. Ariella blinked and opened her eyes. Emilian knelt beside her, his face strained with passion. He was attempting to divest her of her dress. She seized his wrist reflexively.

His smoldering gray eyes shot to hers. Surprise tainted the desire smoking there.

She breathed hard. “Wait.”

His eyes narrowed. Suspicion began.

“What…what are you doing?” Her skirts were tangled around her waist and she lay sprawled like a ragged doll. She sat up, and some sense of modesty began. She jerked her skirts down. Her bodice slid downward, but she pulled it up and looked at him.

He sat back on his heels, dangerously annoyed. “You wish to stop now?” He spoke far too softly.

“I…I didn’t come for this.”

“Of course you did.” Anger flared in his eyes. “You came for passion. You want to compare me to your English lovers. I am not satisfied,” he added in a dark tone.

The top buttons of his breeches had come undone, as if they could not bear the strain of what lay beneath the fabric. She wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“That pleasure is nothing compared to the pleasure we will have when I am buried inside your body.” He reached out and stroked her face. “Let me make you cry out in pleasure another time. Let me cry out in pleasure, too.”

She went still.

He began to smile. “We both know this is why you came to me.” He reached for her bodice and gripped it.

She clung harder. It would be so easy to give in to this man. His words, his look, were mesmerizing. But a kiss was one thing. This was another. She wanted to go further, but she also wanted to keep him at bay until she could understand what was happening. “This is a misunderstanding,” she whispered.

His eyes went wide.

“I didn’t come to compare you to my other lovers.” She held her bodice up fiercely now. “There are no other lovers.”

He just stared at her, his expression so uncertain it was almost comical.

“I’m not even married,” she whispered. Did she have to be more succinct? “No one my age has lovers. Women my age have husbands first.”

A terrible silence fell.

She became nervous. How had he assumed she was a woman looking for an illicit affair?

“Do not tell me you are a virgin,” he said. “Virgins do not wander about at midnight, to rendezvous with and tease strange men.”

She hesitated. He looked as savage as a lion awoken from a deep sleep while in its den. “I don’t know why I came…to see you…. I only wanted a kiss.”