A Dangerous Love

“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.”