part of his body, he thought as hunger surged, thick and potent through his veins.
She studied him without reply, as if uncertain whether she wished to proceed. Gilen dug another handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them atop the others. “Have all those and more, for the future you would pledge me.”
“I will read what the stars have written in your palm, milord, but pledge you nothing else,” she parried.
“Then we shall agree on that—for now.”
Once again he held out his hand, but at a slight distance, requiring her to move closer to the edge of the wagon if she meant to take his palm—closer to him. Her brows knitting as if she’d figured out his stratagem, she hesitated.
So intently was Gilen watching her, the sudden movement from behind startled him. A tall, powerfully built gypsy with an air of authority strode forward and swept up the coins. “Tell,” he commanded the girl.
She dropped her eyes before the gypsy lord’s glare. After he moved away, she reluctantly took Gilen’s hand.
Shivers of delight ran through him as, with barely perceptible pressure, she traced a fingertip across his palm. “This is your head line, milord—see, it is long and straight. You are a man of much ability, born to do great deeds.”
“My head tells me that you and I together would do great deeds,” he murmured.
Ignoring the comment, she continued, “This is the life line, milord. It, too, is deep and straight. You will live long, have many sons, and watch grandchildren grow to bring you honor.”
“Come with me and share that life,” he suggested, grinning as another exasperated exhalation briefly lifted the silken veil above her lips.
“And this,” she said, jabbing her fingernail into his flesh, “is the heart line. You will know many women—”
“All I desire is you, my princess—”
“Whom you will bewitch and bedevil,” she concluded with asperity. Dropping his palm, she jerked her hand away.
“Can you tell me nothing else, my Delilah?” he asked. “Surely you know more of my future than that.”
Before she could reply, the melancholy cry of several violins filled the night, followed by the jangle of bracelets and a shout of acclamation from the crowd. Beside the fire, the other gypsy women had gathered and begun to dance.
Gilen seized his gypsy girl’s hand. “Dance for me.”
She backed away. “N-nay, sir. Dice I play, or cards. I do not dance.”
He released her, pulled the purse from his pocket and tossed it on the wagon bed. “All this and more will I pledge, if you will but dance for me.”
“S-sir, I cannot—”
Once again, as if conjured from firelight, the gypsy leader appeared behind them. With one quick stride he seized the purse. “Dance,” he commanded the girl.
Her veil trembled as she swallowed hard, but her gypsy lord’s stare did not falter. At last she nodded, and only then did her master walk away.
She jumped down from the wagon and took a step toward the other women. Gilen grabbed her elbow. “Stay,” he said softly. “Dance here—just for me.”
For a long moment he held her gaze. Then, pulling away from him, she began to dance.
Hands above her head, arms arched and gracefully swirling, she dipped and swayed to the wild call of the fiddles, the clamor of the crowd clapping. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and she shrugged it off and kicked it free. Gilen caught his breath as, eyes closed, breasts straining against the cotton of her blouse, hips undulating in sinuous rhythm, she became one with the passionate beat of the music.
He scarcely heard the roars and cheers of the men, the clink of the coins they tossed at the gypsy girls by the fire. His entire being focused on the violet-eyed temptress dancing for him alone.
At last the music ended. The girl finished with a final flourish of outstretched arms, her neck arched and her head back. Without thought or conscious volition, Gilen pulled her pliant body in his arms, brushed the gossamer veil aside and kissed her.
No doubt shock immobilized her for an instant, and then for the briefest moment her clenched fists pushed at his chest. But as he moved his mouth over hers, just nuzzling at first, then adding the gentle entreaty of lips and tongue, her resistance dissolved and she swayed against him, opening to his persistent advance.
Exhilaration flooded him when he captured her tongue and she moaned deep in her throat, her slack fingers clenching at his shoulders and her nipples peaking against his chest. He pulled her closer still, voracious, starving to taste every surface of her tongue and every contour of her mouth, his ears throbbing to the hammer of her heartbeat against his own.
So lost to reality was he, there was no predicting how much further he might have gone had not a sudden jerk at his shoulder loosened his grip on her. Before he could reestablish his hold, strong arms seized him and dragged him away.
“No! Forbidden!” the outraged gypsy lord screamed in his face.
Thrown off balance, Gilen staggered a little before righting himself. The blast of cool air rushing into the void left by the loss of her passionate body and the cold fury of the man before him finally doused his overheated senses, making Gilen realize where he was and what he’d been doing. The girl stood where he’d been forced to release her, one trembling hand holding the veil to her face.
For a moment, Gilen thought the gypsy lord would strike him. However, apparently deciding that attempting to mill down an aristocrat would bring him more trouble than satisfaction, the leader stepped back.
“Go!” he shouted at Gilen, gesturing out of the camp. “All, go!” He motioned again, encompassing this time the entire crowd. “Evening is over.”
At a sweep of his arm, the gypsy women slipped back toward the wagons. A line of grim-faced gypsy men, hands poised over the knives at their waists, advanced to stand beside him.
With a few muttered oaths, the milling group retreated from the fire toward the enclosure that contained their horses. When Gilen turned from the leader to catch one last glimpse of his gypsy enchantress, she was gone.
He looked back at the gypsy lord, who stood with feet planted, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes radiating menace.
Obviously he had overstepped the bounds. Giving the man a deep bow by way of apology, Gilen turned and walked away with the others.
“Well done, brother,” Alden threw at him as Gilen caught up with their group.
“S-sorry if I put a premature end to the night’s activities,” Gilen replied, still rattled by the intensity of the reactions he had just experienced.
“’Twas the close of the evening anyway,” Chase replied. “They always finish it with the wenches dancing. Though I must say, you’re lucky you cut so commanding a figure. Had one of the farm lads touched a woman, I swear that heathen would have knocked him down and carved out his eyeballs.”
“You were right after all, Gil,” Alden said with a grin. “You nearly did end up with a gypsy’s knife in your ribs. Next time, I shall be more careful what I wish for.”
Though he’d gone back with Alden and his friends for a convivial evening of cards—winning yet more from his hapless host, as he took himself up to bed, Gilen still could not shake from his mind the image of the gypsy girl’s veiled face…or the feel of her in his arms, her honeyed lips yielding to his.
With so enchanting a body wedded to so keen a wit, what a mistress she would make! His blood heated anew at the thought. He’d give a king’s ransom indeed to claim her. Perhaps he should return to the gypsy encampment in the morning, make an attempt to discover the correct protocols so he might negotiate an agreement with the gypsy lord. Given the