then catch the edge of her father or brother’s blade? Thank you, no!” he replied, laughing as he gave up his resistance and followed Alden.
Lacey’s Retreat was only a day’s ride from Harrogate, but Gilen had broken his journey here with the ostensible excuse of spending time with his brother before Alden, Chase and their Oxford classmates returned to school. He had, he knew, been putting off the moment when he must confront Jeffrey’s sorrowful face—a sight which would only further inflame his temper against Davinia Battersley in particular and matchmaking females in general.
Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just an honest exchange of mutual passion that left each party satisfied. And if the parting was sometimes a bit…tempestuous, he mused, recalling the shrieks and breaking of glass that had accompanied his giving that delectable but fiery-tempered opera singer her congé, such uproar occurred infrequently.
Perhaps the gypsies also provided a straightforward bargain, he thought as he rode his skittish stallion behind the others. After all, if a man wished to throw away his coins listening to a pretty lass spout nonsense, that was his affair. In any event, observing the interplay should prove more amusing than the alternative—challenging himself to a solitary game of billiards while the rest of the party went off to the gypsy camp.
His doubts about the excursion returned after they arrived, however. Chase, Alden and their other friends turned their mounts over to some gypsy youths, who herded them into a brushwork enclosure already containing a number of other horses. His temperamental stallion Raven, however, could not be closeted with other beasts and would have to be kept separately.
While he hesitated, a tall gypsy lad approached. Before Gilen could warn him away, he came to Raven’s head, crooning softly. Instead of snorting, shying or baring his teeth at the intruder as Gilen expected, the stallion grew still, watching the boy, who continued to speak to him in a low, singsong voice. To Gilen’s surprise, Raven nickered and allowed the boy to stroke his velvet muzzle.
“He’ll come with me now, sir,” the boy said.
“You mustn’t put him in with the others,” Gilen advised as he dismounted.
“I won’t,” the lad replied. Then, while Gilen watched in astonishment, instead of leading the stallion by the bridle, the boy merely walked away, still murmuring, Raven following him docilely like a chick after its mother hen.
Shaking his head in wonderment at the spectacle, Gilen wandered into the encampment.
Brightly dressed gypsy girls rolled dice, or shuffled cards, or traced their fingers along the palms of eagerly waiting men. A large bonfire burned in the center of the circle of wagons, and at its edge the gypsy men stood looking on, one of them idly playing on a violin.
Gilen’s attention was drawn to the wagon closest to the bonfire, where a large crowd surrounded a slender figure seated in the wagon, dealing cards to three of the men.
A silky saffron scarf veiled all but the lady’s eyes, and silver bangles glittered at her wrists as she laid out the cards. “Stakes in the pool, gentlemen,” she said in a soft, lilting voice.
Not only was her accent oddly different from the tones of the other gypsies, she was the only lady veiled. Curious, he drew closer.
She looked up at his approach. A flash of something almost like…alarm registered briefly in her eyes before she lowered them back to the cards before her.
He stood frankly inspecting her. Perhaps the tallest girl he’d seen here, she was whipcord slender, just a hint of full breasts outlined beneath a woolen shawl that mostly obscured her narrow waist. She looked up again, as if conscious of his stare, and he realized with a start that her eyes were not brown, but an intriguing shade of violet. It must have been a trick of the firelight, but he would almost swear the pale sliver of cheek revealed above her veil had reddened at his survey.
As she met his gaze, an instantaneous and entirely physical energy surged between them. Her eyes widened, her hands stilled on the cards and for a moment she sat utterly motionless before once again dropping her eyes beneath a thick veil of lashes. Gilen inhaled sharply, his pulse racing, the rest of his anatomy stirring in turn.
No longer regretting his foray to the gypsy camp, with avid interest he watched her play out the hand. Silver loo was the game, he noted, enjoying the quick movements of her long fingers laying down cards and taking up wagers, the intimate gurgle of her laughter as she bantered in low tones with the men. Starlight flashing on her bangled wrist, she brushed off her forehead one errant lock from the wild tangle of black curls that cascaded out of her colorful kerchief and flowed down her back.
Thick hair a man could wrap his hands in while he drew that tempting body closer, crushed those teasingly camouflaged breasts to his chest and brought the saucy lips beneath that veil close enough to kiss, Gilen thought. Burgeoning desire and heightening anticipation broke a sweat out on his brow.
After the hand ended, Gilen pressed forward. “The next play must be mine, enchantress.”
Muttered complaints of “wait yer turn, gov,” and “I were next,” faded as the local youths, recognizing from his voice and attire his status as the Quality, grudgingly gave way.
The gypsy flashed him an annoyed look, then gestured toward the men. “Abandoning me, my lords?”
“Let them go, lovely one,” Gilen said. “Whatever stakes they offered, I will double.”
“Too rich fer me,” one said to her, while the others, after sidelong glances at Gilen, nodded reluctant agreement and drifted off.
The girl exhaled with exasperation, that slight movement lifting the breasts beneath her shawl. Gilen’s fingers itched to remove the woolen wrap so he might view the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, see fully revealed beneath the thin cotton of the low-cut gypsy blouse the shape of those lovely mounds as they rose and fell with each breath.
“If you deprive me of my game and my winnings, milord,” she said, “my master will likely beat me.”
He dragged his attention back to her face—wishing he could snatch away the fine cloth veiling her countenance as well. “Then I must see that your winnings are bountiful,” Gilen replied. “Shall we play piquet?”
“Your lordship has doubtless the superior skill. Better that I roll the dice.”
Gilen pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket and tossed them on the wagon bed. “Name your stakes, my beauty, and I will pay.”
Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the value of the gold and silver rolling across the scarred wood. “You must be drunk, milord.”
“Not yet, my enchantress, but I should like to be—on the honeyed mead of your lips.”
Her brows lifted in surprise at his boldness, the left one winging higher than the right. “My lord, where the honey-pot lies, lurk bees to guard their bounty. Take care you are not stung for your efforts.”
“To die in your arms, lady, would be worth the gravest sting,” he replied, grinning.
“You are bawdy, sir,” she reproved.
Surprised she’d apparently comprehended his Shakespearean allusion, he countered, “Nay, mistress, I do but give homage to your beauty.”
“I would rather you give gold to my purse. Now, do you play or go?”
“Oh, most definitely, I wish to…play.”
She arched again that delicate, high-flying brow. “Some games we do not entertain here, milord. I can offer but cards, or dice.”
The wench was not only lovely, but needle-witted, Gilen concluded with delight. “Could you not also read my fortune?” Smiling, he stripped off his riding glove and extended his hand.