Taming Her Gypsy Lover

Christine Merrill

Widow Emma Hammond had reluctantly accepted her place as a poor relation to be given away in an arranged marriage. She didn’t think she could escape her fate—until she meets gypsy Chal Pannell. Even though he vows revenge against her family for taking a gypsy boy from his tribe, he awakens Emma’s passionate fantasies…and a risqué tryst in the woods proves he desires her just as strongly! When the boy goes missing, Emma and the wild stranger set off to recover him as unlikely allies—and uninhibited lovers….

When it was offered, I jumped at the chance to revisit the Regency Silk & Scandal universe. I’ve tried to describe the miniseries to friends, and I generally start with “There were these three friends… and there was a spy… and a torrid affair… and then a murder… and a curse… and a hanging…

Or perhaps, a hanging… and a curse…”

Eventually, after a prolonged explanation, I have to admit that none of these things actually happen in the Silk & Scandal books, which take place about twenty years later. But after thousands of e-mails and over a hundred pages of timelines, family trees, and back story that the six of us created on the way to the finished series, the events surrounding the murder of Christopher Hebden seemed as real and important to us as the stories we wrote about the children of the men involved.

So for this Undone, I traveled back to Georgian England, to a time shortly after all Hell broke loose in our little corner of imaginary England. I hope you enjoy it, and that you come back to visit again when the miniseries begins in June with Louise Allen’s The Lord and the Wayward Lady.

Learn more about the Silk & Scandal miniseries at the back of this eBook….

To Havoc: for chewing through the router cables and making this project so much more challenging. Sit. Stay. Good dog.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1795

“Stop fussing over me. It is too hot in this room. I am stifling.”

Emma Hammond could sympathize with her poor cousin, for she felt the same. The air was oppressive, but she had been forbidden to open a window, lest the patient take a chill. She pushed the other woman gently back onto the bed, and reached for a damp cloth to cool her brow. “Amanda, do not trouble yourself so. If you lie quietly, you will feel cooler. The doctor says you are still too weak to go out.” If the murder of her husband had not been enough to madden her, then the loss of the child she’d carried had taken the last of Amanda Hebden’s sanity. After nearly six months of forced rest, continual bleedings and sedatives, the bright and beautiful woman was almost unrecognizable.

Amanda reached up and tossed the cloth aside, trying to rise again. “I am not sick. I loved him. And now I am alone.”

“We know you did. And it has been hard on all of us, loosing poor Kit. Perhaps a bit more laudanum…” Against her own judgment, Emma offered the glass that the doctor had left.

The woman on the bed looked up at her, with tears still streaming down her face. “You don’t understand. Not at all. It was not Kit that I loved. It was never Kit. But I married him, and now it is too late. William is dead as well, hanged for murder. How am I to go on?”

It was the scandal of the year. Amanda’s lover, William Wardale, had been found guilty of stabbing her husband, and had suffered the consequences. Emma’s heart ached for Amanda, who had to live with the dramatic results of her infidelity. “Do not think of him. It only upsets you. You will go on because you must. Perhaps, if you calm yourself, I can arrange for the children to come see you. Would you like that?”

At the mention of her children, Amanda regained some small amount of control. “Of course. You are right. I need to be strong for them, if no one else.”

Emma rang the bell to summon the nurse, and offered Amanda the cool cloth again, mopping her brow and brushing the damp locks of hair from her face to make her more presentable. “There. That is better. You will be pretty for Thomas. And for little Imogen.” There was a knock at the door, and a hesitant shuffling in the hall. “Nurse is here.”

The door opened, and Emma gestured to the servant to bring the children close to their mother’s bedside. The little girl was healthy enough, thank the Lord. But the young Baron of Framlingham was as pale as his mother, eyes large in his gaunt face, and breath rasping. He looked like a little ghost.

Amanda gave him a gentle hug, as though she feared her love would smother him, then laid her hand on the head of his four year old sister, as though drawing strength from the contact. But then she looked past them, into the hall. “And where is Stephen?”

Emma shot the nurse a helpless glance, and mouthed, “No one has told her?”

The nurse shook her head and shrugged.

Emma silently damned Lord Callandar for what he had done, when his poor daughter was still weak in childbed and too drugged to know what had happened.

Before she could stop him, little Thomas whispered, “He is gone, Mama. Grandfather said it was for the best, and that I mustn’t cry.”

“Gone? Gone where? And with whom? I must have him here with me. I promised Kit I would take care of him.” She looked again at Emma, and her glazed eyes turned mad again. “My husband meant to hurt me, to shame me with his Gypsy bastard. But I do not care. I love Stephen as my own. Where have they taken him?”

Under her breath, Emma offered another curse, this one to her betrothed for his part in the plans. By helping with them, Geoffrey Burton had proved himself to be nothing more than a toady to Lord Callandar. “It was thought best if Stephen lived elsewhere, Amanda. Your father only means to help you. In your present state, the child would be too much for you.”

“Stephen is no bother. He never was. Bring him here, and I will show you.”

Thank God they had given her extra laudanum that day, so that she had not heard the fuss her good boy had raised, biting and kicking and calling for his mama as Geoffrey had hauled him bodily to the Callandar coach, then driven hell-for-leather to the foundling home in somewhere in the north.

And Emma had stood by, helpless, begging Geoffrey to relent, until he had put his hands on her arms and moved her to one side, telling her in a harsh voice that she should waste no tears on half-breed Gypsy filth that should never have been allowed to soil the reputation of a noble family. Then he’d cuffed the boy hard across the cheek to quiet his cries, and handed his limp body up into the coach with Amanda’s father.

Emma’s last glimpse of Stephen Hebden had been his dark face, paled to the color of clay by shock, fingers twisted into the hangings at the window of Lord Callandar’s coach as it carted him from the only mother he had ever known.

“You must calm yourself. You are upsetting the children.” Emma waved a warning to the nurse, to take Thomas and Imogen away again, and then turned back to her cousin. “When you are truly better, your father will send for him, I am sure.” Emma prayed God would forgive her the lie. But she feared the shock of the truth would kill Amanda, should she learn it.

And yet she seemed to know. Her eyes were as hollow as her true son’s had been, and as full of death. “Thank you for trying to spare me. We know that is not the case, for we both know my father.” She reached out and gripped Emma’s hand. “But he is gone from this house now, is he not? With his lackey Geoffrey Burton?”

Hesitantly, Emma nodded.

“Then you must do something for me. You must go as well.”

“Go where, Amanda?”

“Anywhere. But get away from him and the man he has chosen for you. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be as happy as you were with Mr. Hammond. The only reason Burton offered for you is because I am still in mourning and far too mad to marry. He seeks to curry favor with my father, and my father wants you off his hands. He has no feeling for you.”

Emma busied herself with the water in the basin, trying not to look at the woman in the bed. The truth was painful. But Emma had long since reconciled herself to her place in the family, and the fact that she was tolerated rather than loved.

Amanda came halfway out of the bed to grab her by the arm. “Look at me, Emma. I stayed where my heart did not lie. Look what has become of me. You do not love Geoffrey, any more than I loved Kit.”

“I am a poor relation, and have little choice in the matter. Your father has been more than good to me, to arrange the match.” Another lie.

“He is good to no one. He has taken my son.” Amanda smiled. “And now I will pay him back, and do you a good turn as well. Run while you can. Take my jewelry with you and sell it. There is no future for you here, or with the man you are likely to marry.” And then she collapsed against the pillows, drifting into an uneasy, drugged slumber.

Emma backed slowly away from the bed, fearing to wake her. And without meaning to, her eyes shifted to the jewelry box on the dresser.

Then she looked away again, ashamed. It was difficult enough to be at the mercy of Lord Callandar’s charity. He would not hesitate to brand her a thief, should she take what his daughter offered.

When she saw Geoffrey again, she would tell him how his actions had upset Amanda, and her as well. Even if the boy was not Amanda’s child by birth, it could not be good for either of them to part at this time. Perhaps Geoffrey could appeal to Lord Callandar.

But her betrothed had no children of his own. Nor was he a woman. He did not understand. And although Emma would try, she suspected he would not listen to her now, nor was he likely to in the future.

And suddenly, she felt as though the madness in the room was infecting her. The atmosphere was still and thick, and she could not seem to breathe. She tugged at the fichu at her throat, as though the sheer scarf was the cause of the constriction in her lungs, and she ran from the room, down the stairs, out the back door and into the garden, not stopping until she reached the trees at the bottom of it.

If she stood behind them, between the trunk of the big oak and the wall, she was out of sight of the house, and could pretend, just for a moment, that she was back in the country where she belonged. At peace, happy again, and worthy of love. She took deep breaths of the garden air, letting the sharp green smells of summer calm her, closing her eyes to focus on the songs of birds, and the rustle of their wings through the leaves.

And something else. There was a subtle noise of a branch breaking, the sound of fabric shifting against fabric, and human breathing that was not her own.

Her eyes flew open, searching for the source.

A man was standing only a few feet away, in the shade of another tree, his back to the brick wall at the edge of the garden. His hair was unpowdered, thick and black, and tied back with a cord. His throat was bare above the white cotton shirt he wore, his red vest open in the heat, his doeskin breeches stretched tight across muscular thighs.

A Gypsy. He must be. For who else would have the nerve to invade Lord Callandar’s walled backyard? He seemed to emanate confidence, as though the world belonged to him and no wall could hold him in nor keep him from his goals.

She tried to look away. Her staring was most unladylike. But he was too close to ignore.

He stared back with an animal hunger at the bared skin above the neckline of her dress. His gaze made Emma feel even warmer. She stepped back to put distance between them, and tripped on a tree root behind her, stumbling.

He caught her by the wrists to keep her from falling. But then he restrained her, holding her a few inches from his body. He looked thoughtful now, as though he was trying to decide her fate.

When he did not let her go with an apology, her mind clouded with images of ravishment. But as the seconds ticked by, he made no move to hurt her. And her fantasies changed. Teeth upon her skin, and a man’s tongue in her mouth, thrusting until she felt faint with desire. Sudden, rough possession, dark skin, sliding against her, into her, spilling into her, shattering her, parting from her to leave her naked in the garden, cool, refreshed…

He released her arms suddenly, as though he could see her thoughts, and the graphic truth shocked him. His eyes unlocked from hers, glancing away as though the contact of their spirits was disconcerting him. Then he spoke. “You come from the house?”

She nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.

“Are you Amanda Hebden?”

“Emma Hammond. I am her cousin.”

“My name is Chal Pannell. I have come for the Romany child. Jaelle’s son, Stephano.” His eyes still blazed, but the rest of his face was as cold and hard as Geoffrey’s.

Suppose he was as cruel? Emma feared what this stranger might do to the boy if he found him, or to her if he did not. She gathered her courage and raised her chin to meet his gaze. “You mean Stephen Hebden. He is Kit Hebden’s son as well. What do you want from him?”

“To take him back to his people.”

“His people are here. He is Amanda’s son, too.”

The gypsy shook his head. “Not by blood. He belongs with his mother’s tribe.”

And perhaps he did. Surely it would have been better to send him back to the Gypsies then to a place where he would not be wanted or loved. “It no longer matters who his mother will be. You have come too late to help him. He has been gone for months.”

“You lie.” The stranger dismissed her with a sharp tilt of his head. “Go to the house and bring him to me.”

“I tell the truth. I watched him go. Lord Callandar took the boy away to a foundling home just after his father died.”

The man’s brow creased in confusion. “But the child is no orphan. He has kin who want him.”

“Lord Callandar said, his daughter need no longer bear the disgrace of a…half-breed bastard, now that Kit was dead. And the man I am to marry went along with the scheme as though it were not the least bit wrong, and hurt the boy when he tried to run.” Emma could feel the tears of shame choking her throat, and see, in her mind, the bewildered face of little Stephen looking back at her from the carriage window.

The face of Gypsy darkened even further as he glared at her. “Then you will pay for this betrayal.” He grabbed her wrist again.

CHAPTER TWO

As soon as the words left his mouth, Chal began to regret them, just as he had begun to regret his offer to help the Beshaley family retrieve their lost boy. Though he’d felt in his heart that it was the right thing to do, he had no evidence that the boy would come willingly. Not if he viewed Amanda Hebden as his true mother. Taking revenge for the loss of him was an unwelcome complication in a fool’s errand.

Emma Hammond struggled to escape him, and Chal tightened his grip to show her how useless it was likely to be. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Nothing that happened was my fault. It was not me that made the decision.”

“It was your family.”

“That means nothing. I had no power to stop him. If I could have, I would. I am but a woman.” She twisted in his grasp, stumbling yet again.

Without thinking, Chal released her wrist and put a hand to her elbow, helping her to regain her balance, then damned himself for his own softness. “If you are a woman, then you have more power than you know.” The power to make me behave like a fool, certain enough. What did he mean to do with her, now that he had her? “I will hold you, and Lord Callandar will bring the boy to me in trade.”

She laughed. “Then we are both thwarted. If you take me, even for a night, he will not have me back. He will be glad to be rid of me, for any reason. Even a hint of dishonor will relieve him of the obligation to provide for me. He will not give you the boy, even though it makes perfect sense. He hated his daughter’s husband. And he hates Gypsies even more.” She said the last softly, as though it embarrassed her.

“And he takes it out on the boy?”

“He cannot very well take it out on Kit’s heir.” She glanced back at the house, and said thoughtfully, “That poor boy is frail enough. He will not last long, I fear. The whole family is weak, and there is little to be done for it. At least Stephen was strong enough to survive.”

Chal nodded. “It is the Romany in him, I am sure, and not the thin English blood.”

The eyes of the woman next to him flashed. “We are not all weak, no matter what you might think. It is only circumstance that makes us seem so.”

Perhaps she was right. Although she was fussy and overdressed for his taste, and probably soft and useless, he was sure that those were considered virtues by the worthless gadjo who would marry her. She was a pretty creature under the paint and ruffles, with high breasts, a small waist, hair that was near to black, and eyes as large and dark as a Romany girl’s. It was unfair that she should be forced to accept the mean charity of Callandar, when those more worthy than he remained alone because their tribes did not have enough women.

Chal smiled at her, pushing his anger to the side and using his charm to good advantage. “I will give him reason to hate Gypsies, before I am through with him. But you might find you have a taste for them, if you wished to know one better.”

Her eyes went wide with pretended shock at the idea. But he had seen the way she’d looked at him when they first met, and the interest she had shown. And now, beneath the shock, he saw the faintest flicker of rebellion. She would lie down with him quick enough if he asked her to, curious to try a Gypsy.

Then she gained control over herself, and gathered her indignation about her again. “I don’t know what you mean.” But she was blushing beneath her powder.

He gentled his grip on her arm, softening it so his fingers barely touched her, letting the tips play along the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. “Really? Then let me show you.” He pulled her to him, for a kiss.

Just as quick, her hand came up to strike him, and he caught it before it could cuff his face. But it was a halfhearted slap, as though she’d given little thought to defending her honor once an opportunity to sacrifice it might occur. Her mouth opened easily at the first touch of his tongue, and he accepted the invitation. She tasted sweet, as he expected she might, and seemed just as eager for him as he was for her, answering his kiss with one of her own.

He released her hand, and waited for a renewal of the attack. When it did not come, he touched her waist, then gripped it with both hands, spanning his fingers around it before moving them upward, waiting for her to take fright and break the kiss. But instead of fighting, she gave a small sigh of surrender and thrust her tongue hungrily into his mouth, pressing her body against his hands until they cupped her breasts.

He pushed her away, surprised at her brazenness, and the easy way she had manipulated him into giving her what she wanted. “As I said, you are weak. It takes only the sight of a willing man for you to forget yourself and spread your legs.” He had no proof it would have come to that, had he continued. But he could not seem to shake the image from his mind.

“I would not,” she argued. “It is just that it has been a very trying day. I am not myself, since I have come to stay here. And I should not be out alone in the garden, when I am needed to care for Amanda.” She glanced back at the house, yet made no effort to return to it. “But I could not be there. Not one moment longer. It is not a happy place, nor are the people in it destined for a happy future.”

It was a surprisingly astute estimation, and Chal wondered if Emma Hammond had some small gift of the sight. “They are cursed, you know,” he said. “It was Jaelle Beshaley, pining for her lover and her son. With her last breath, she cursed the Hebdens, their offspring, and anyone else involved in the crime. You are better off away from there, if you value your safety or that of your children.”

She laughed. “I have none to value. I am but a poor relation. A childless widow promised to Lord Callandar’s friend. And having to marry Geoffrey Burton to secure my future will be curse enough.” She was looking at Chal now, a puzzled frown on her face, as though she thought he might have some answer for her.

He dropped his eyes, for her gaze disturbed him, almost as much as her body aroused him. “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

“A shred of understanding would be most welcome. The boy you seek is gone. Amanda Hebden is beside herself with grief. She has lost so much that the poor woman is near unhinged. Her own two children will suffer for it, whether from your Gypsy curse or the loss and madness in their own family. If I could return Stephen to her, it might be some comfort. I tried to stop his removal, but without success. There was no reasoning with Geoffrey or Lord Callandar on the subject, nor is there any chance they will relent, should I ask again.” She opened her hands wide. “Nor can I bear, any longer, to be in the presence of a man who is so cruel as to punish a little boy for the accident of his birth.”

“Very well then. If Stephano is not here, I will go to this foundling home you speak of, to search for him.”

“Take me with you.”

CHAPTER THREE

When Amanda had first suggested it, Emma had thought it impossible to escape her fate. But the appearance of Chal Pannell had changed something in her. Or perhaps it was the stolen kiss that had filled her mind with strange ideas.

It would be easier to escape the city if she had an escort. If she could just get away from this house, into the open countryside, there would be time to think. She could take the jewelry that Amanda had offered, sell it and start her life over.

The Gypsy stared at her, as though searching the single sentence she’d spoken for some trap or hidden meaning. “Why would I take you away with me?”

“Because I can discover the name of the foundling home where the boy was placed. If you go alone, you might have to search the whole north of England to find him.”

“And when I do, your family will never see him again,” he said, easily finding a flaw in her logic.

“It is probably better for him, should Lord Callandar not know his whereabouts. But,” she said, “if you give me your word that you will return him here, just long enough so that he can say goodbye to the woman who raised him, it would be enough. She has done her best for him since he came to her, which is more than can be said for his father. Swear to me you will.”

“Swear?” The Gypsy laughed. “Are you telling me that you would take my oath?”

“Is there reason that I should not?” Perhaps she had proved she was a fool, since it had not occurred to her to think otherwise. But there was something about the man at her side that inspired her trust. He was hard, but he had given her no cause to think that he was not fair in his dealings.

“My word is as good as any, I suppose. And a damned sight better than this Geoffrey Burton that you speak of, if he could give the boy to stranger, rather than let him return to his true mother’s people. Yes. If you help me, you have my word that I will return him to this house, so that he might say a proper goodbye to it, and the people here.” Chal put his hand in hers to steal the bargain, and she felt a little jolt of heat, as her whole body responded to his touch.

He was looking at her now, slowly moving his gaze up and down, as though measuring her worth. “But why would I need your company?”

Because she wanted, suddenly and above all things, to go with him. To run, just as Amanda had suggested. Emma wanted to be away, just as much as she wanted the boy to return. “I already told you—I can lead you to the boy.”

His grip on her hand tightened, until it was almost uncomfortable. “I can have that information from you in a trice, should I choose to get it. The journey will take longer if I do not travel alone. What can you do that will make your companionship worth my effort?” He was looking at her with such intensity that she blushed.

“What can I do?”

“There is not much space in my tent or my life for a useless female. Do you have some talent or skill that would be of help in the journey?”

“I could pay you.”

“As you would a servant.” The corner of his mouth lifted in what could have been a sneer, but for him was just an ironic smile. “I can see that you have money.” He reached out and plucked the top stud from the front of her dress, as easily as picking a grape. He examined the simple mother-of-pearl button, another castoff of Amanda’s, when the family had deemed it time for Emma to put off her mourning clothes.

She felt the bodice gape, revealing the underdress beneath. “I could live happily for days, on the value of this one trinket,” Chal said. Then he tossed it aside. “But I serve no man, nor will I serve a woman. I am free.” He was looking at her again, with a wolf’s eyes. “Though there is one talent that all women possess.”

“And what might that be?” Although she knew very well, from the way he stared at her open bodice.

“You think you can buy your way into my life with money. But if you wish to accompany me, it will cost you something far more dear. The cot in my tent is big enough for two. I have no intention of sleeping on the ground, nor will you wish to forgo the comfort of a mattress. If you come with me, you share my bed. And I do not mean to sleep innocently with you, as brother and sister.”

More amazed than offended, Emma had no idea how to respond. He was totally without artifice or seduction. How could he even speak thus, with no preamble, to a woman he barely knew? She tried to imagine Geoffrey with the mistresses she knew he must have. She pictured his slyness, and the unctuousness of his propositions to them. They would be no different than his normal mode of communication. For somehow, he had managed to imbue even the polite and respectable offer he had made to her with something dark and unpleasant.

At least with Chal Pannell there would be no question of what would happen between them. The honesty of it was as refreshing as the summer breeze. So she replied with equal directness. “You wish to lie with me?”

He laughed. “You are a beautiful woman. Of course I wish to lie with you.”

“Thank you.” She responded to the compliment on her beauty, and then remembered that she should be insulted. She had not heard such words since her husband had died, nor thought that a man would ever find her person as desirable as her family connections.

The Gypsy laid the back of his hand lightly against her cheek, stroking downward in a way that was more than a little pleasant, and looked sympathetically upon her, as though he understood her dilemma. “While you are almost too quick to trust me, I have no reason to believe your words. The gadje have lied before to my people. You must prove that I can trust you not to lead me into the hands of your family, when it is time for me to take the child. Where will your loyalty lie then?” He placed a hand on the front of her dress, over the next of the pearl buttons.

She knew even before he moved what was going to happen. He undid the button, and the dress gaped further. She enjoyed the feeling of freedom, as the clothing opened and allowed her to breathe. “Think what you like,” she whispered. “But I cannot allow Lord Callandar to succeed in what he has done. It is wrong.” She closed her eyes and reached out to touch Chal’s hand. It was hard, not soft and overmanicured, as Geoffrey’s were. “If that is the price to earn your trust, then I am willing to pay it.”

His hands were strong. They pulled her close, into a rough kiss, that she was sure was meant to frighten her. She could feel her spirit awaken, groggy and confused, as though it had slept far too long. How long had it been since she had felt like this: desired, and exhilarated by the touch of another?

He pulled away from her, staring down with eyes darkened by passion, searching for hesitance or betrayal. “If you mean to call for help, you had best do it now.”

Interruption would be her undoing, for she would share the blame for whatever the servants found. If she was to be branded a wanton by the family, better it be after the act than before. She pressed her shoulders into the bark of the tree behind her. “And if you mean to take me to seal this bargain, then be quick about it.”

“Are you sure?” He glanced up to make certain they were out of sight of the windows. “Lord Callandar’s servants are nearby.” His hand paused on the fastening of his breeches, and his heavy-lidded eyes watched her, gauging her response. “The slightest noise will bring them to your rescue.”

Emma felt a strange thrill at the thought. “Then we had best be silent.” She closed her eyes against the sight of his undressing. She could feel the tug of his other hand, lifting the hem of her skirts and petticoats. The gentle touches of his fingers on her body made her bite her lip to prevent the very exclamation she feared.

He brushed against her again. “Silent, eh? I can manage it, I am sure. But suppose you cannot help yourself from crying out?”

She bit her lip harder, then said with a gasp, “You flatter yourself, sir.

“Do I?” He traced the folds of her with his fingertips. “I think it is more than that. You could have insisted we find shelter before you complied. More likely, the thought of discovery arouses you.”

She tried to make her mind distant, and uninterested in what was happening. But he had found the betraying wetness of her response, giving a soft chuckle as he stroked a finger over her, then slipped it inside her.

She could feel a cry rising in her throat, and clamped her lips tight to prevent its escape. Without thinking, she tightened her legs upon his hand as well, which caused him to thrust harder and rub her bud with his thumb.

“Cry out,” he whispered. “You know you want to. Bring the house down upon me. I will not stop, for I know what I want. And I mean to have you.”

She covered her mouth with her hands to trap the scream, panting around them as the feeling increased. When she opened her eyes, he had freed himself of the breeches, and was fully erect before her, large and ready. And she lost control, with a barely audible whimper.

Then he withdrew his hand and settled himself between her legs, sealing her mouth with his. And it was not fingers that she felt, but his manhood, hard and proud, touching her, spreading her, pushing, stretching her as he entered.

He came into her with short hard thrusts of his body and his tongue. His hands cupped her bottom, pinching, pressing, steadying, holding her to him even when she was sure that her legs would give out beneath her.

She could feel his release, as silent as he had promised, shuddering through his body until he went still against her. Then he dragged his lips from hers, resting them close to her ear.

“Is this how your gadjo takes you? Is this how he makes you feel?” Chal moved slowly in her, to remind her of what had just happened.

“I have never done this with him. Or anyone but my husband. It has been so long.” She had forgotten how it felt. And how much she enjoyed it.

“Then Burton is a fool, and your husband was a lucky man.” Chal kissed the side of her throat, withdrew from her, doing up his britches and smoothing her skirts back into place. He reached to the ground and found the button that he had cast aside, and pressed it into her hand.

“Tonight, I will leave London to search for the boy, with or without your help. If you wish to accompany me, I will wait here for a few minutes, at midnight. Do not be late, for you will not see me again.” He glanced once at the house to make sure he was unobserved before swinging up into the lowest branch of the tree, mounting the top of the wall and disappearing from sight over the side.

CHAPTER FOUR

Emma waited in the garden that night, cloak wrapped tight around her and Amanda’s jewelry box tucked under her arm. It would be more than enough to last her, if she was careful with it, and did not let Chal Pannell take it from her.

Although she doubted it would be a problem. He had made it quite clear that it was not money he wanted. And though she stood perfectly still, it felt as if her whole body fluttered with excitement. Was the trembling a sign of her body’s response to the man? Or was it just her eagerness to leave the Callandar home?

She glanced back at the house, which was still and dark. She had bidden a final good-night to Amanda, saying nothing about her plans, but going to the bureau to take the velvet jewel case.

Amanda had watched her, giving a smile of approval and whispering, “Farewell, Emma. Farewell,” before leaning back into the pillows and closing her eyes, a peaceful smile on her lips.

Emma had gone straight down the stairs and out the back door, stopping only long enough to grab her cloak. She thought for a moment of her gowns, the shoes and soft stockings. And then she dismissed them. She knew she could not carry them, and doubted that Chal would offer to help.

Somewhere beyond the garden wall she heard the clop of a horse’s hooves and the rattle of a cart. And then Chal stepped from the shadows. “Traveling light, I see.”

“I thought it best.”

He smiled in approval. “You thought wisely.” He opened the garden gate and shepherded her through it, not bothering to secure the latch behind them. Then he led her down the street to his transport, which was little more than an open wagon drawn by a large, piebald mare.

He jumped easily to his seat. When Emma reached to haul herself up, he took her free hand, pulling her up until she sat close at his side.

A little breathless at the sudden contact, she murmured, “I did not think you would want to help me, for you said you were not my servant.”

“And in that, you thought wrong. While I am not your servant, after this afternoon I look eagerly for excuses to touch you.” He brushed her hand with his lips. And then he smiled as only a lover would.

The words had a strange effect on her. She had thought that giving herself so would make her feel small. But instead, she felt strangely free. And powerful, to have caught and held his interest.

In response, she did not flinch from him, but she lacked the nerve to tell him that she welcomed his touch as well. So she asked, “And what will we do now?”

“I do not normally travel at night. There is no need for it.” He sniffed the air. “But the weather seems about to change. With the circumstances of your departure, and a coming storm, I think it best we put distance between ourselves and this place, before I set up camp again.” He reached for the reins. “But you must tell me where we are going.”

“Yorkshire,” she said. “The London foundling hospital would not do, for it would be too near to Amanda.” They set off, and she glanced back at the Mount Street house, before turning her eyes forward. “I doubt anyone will look for me in the north. They will expect me to appeal to friends, and I know no one there. If they look at all…” She added.

He snorted. “You do not think they will look? I imagine your man would tell me otherwise.”

“You do not know him. His pride will not allow him to think I would leave. But when he realizes I have, nothing will induce him to take me back.”

“Then he is a foolish gadjo.” Chal turned to her, and she saw the flash of his white teeth as he smiled in the darkness. “Were you mine, I would search to the ends of the earth to find you.”

“And I suppose you would drag me back by force.”

“I would give you reason not to leave me again.” But there was a low rumble in his voice to let her know that force was the last thing on his mind. He was silent for a time, until they were out of the city in open country, and feeling the first drops of warm summer rain. “I think we have traveled far enough. There is a ruined cottage just off this road. Little more than a roof, but it will keep the rain off us.”

He followed a narrow track away from the main road. At its end, at the edge of a field, was a stone structure that was no better than he described. Emma climbed down to examine it as he secured the wagon and released the mare so that she could graze.

Inside was nothing more than a wooden table and a small stool. But Chal saw them and smiled, stripping off his coat and spreading it upon the boards. “Give me your cloak,” he said, sitting on the edge of the table and holding one hand out to her, patting a place at his side with the other. “Come.”

“You do not mean to sleep on a table,” she said in surprise.

“It is cleaner than many inns. We will wrap ourselves in your cloak, for comfort.” Then he looked at her in the same hungry way he had that afternoon. “And to sleep is not my intention.”

He stood again and pulled aside her cloak.

The jewel case slipped from her hand and fell to the dirt floor.

He reached for it. “What is this?”

“It is nothing.”

“I doubt that, considering the way you were clinging to it.”

“A gift from Amanda Hebden, so that I might afford to start anew.”

He pulled it away from Emma and set it aside without another thought. “It will be most uncomfortable to lie upon. Place it in the corner out of the damp but do not forget it when we leave. I will not turn back for it, once we have set off.” Then he reached for the buttons of her gown.

She batted his hands away. “Is that seriously all you care about?”

He glanced at the velvet box and gave a puff of dismissal “Trinkets. The world is full of them.” He held his fingers up, and made a gesture, as though plucking fruit from a tree. “I can have them anytime I want. But there is only one woman like you, and I must make good use of my time.” He pulled her bodice down her arms and settled his mouth on her breasts, still confined by the corset.

She tried to push him away, so that she could catch her breath. “Do you mean to let me undress this time?”

“You wear far too much clothing,” he said, around a mouthful of her breast, as he undid the knots and pushed the stays away. Then he made her gasp in shock as his teeth closed on her nipple in sweet punishment.

“The Callandars insisted that I put off my mourning and wear what is proper for a lady of my station.” And Emma had never been so glad to be free of the fine London fashions. She cradled Chal’s head against her bare skin, rocking gently and stroking his hair as he suckled her.

He looked up, pinching her kiss-damped nipples with his fingers. “You can barely manage without a servant. But you will have no maid in a Romany camp. Allow me to help you.” He released her and efficiently stripped the rest of the clothes from her body, laying them upon the stool, until she stood naked before him.

She waited to see what he would do next, willing her hands to remain at her sides, and telling herself she would not cover her body, for she had no reason to be ashamed.

He looked on her for a moment, and she could see the approval in his eyes. Then he said sternly, “Better. But still too much. Your hair is curled. Your face powdered.” His lips twitched with amusement. “I have a solution.” And he pushed her out of the hut, and into the rain.

“Ugghhh.” The shock of it left her without words, for the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour. When she wiped the water from her eyes and pushed the collapsing curls from her face, she saw him just inside the doorway, pulling his shirt over his head. When he had freed himself from it, he smiled back at her. “Do not fuss so. I will join you in a moment. There is no thunder, and the summer rain is warm. It will cool us after the heat of today. Raise your face to the sky and see.”

And she did. She closed her eye, and let the water stream down upon her. It took the powder from her face and hair, leaving her clean and new.

“See?” His voice was close, hoarse in her ear, and the same rough hands that had grabbed this afternoon, touched her gently, smoothing the water down over her body. “All good folk are in their houses, and you will never again be so alone.”

“I am not alone,” she whispered. “You are here.”

“So I am.” His fingers were in her hair, spreading it, letting it fall in wet ringlets down her back. He traced the path of a droplet from her shoulder, over the slope of her breast, to the very tip, circling the nipple with his finger to wipe the water away. Then he touched his fingertip to his tongue.

Her breast puckered in response. It was as though she had become one with the rain, and could feel that mouth on her body again, where his hand had touched her. She reached out and touched him in turn, tracing a droplet on his own shoulder, then grew more daring and caught it with her mouth as it rolled down his chest.

“You are much more than you seem, my lady.”

“Your lady?” She had no title. But the words in his mouth were about possession, not courtesy.

“You might be. If you have the nerve.”

He was daring her again. As was the rain, for the water on her skin felt like hundreds of fingers touching her, urging a response. “Let us see, shall we?” She turned her head and lapped the water from his chest, licking each of his nipples in return. It was a wonderful body, now that she could admire it. His shoulders were broad and his skin was dark and smooth. And he smelled of fields and forests, fresh and wild. She ran her hands over him, down to his narrow waist, pulling her body close to his until she could feel his erection rubbing against her belly, ready for her.

He groaned and put a finger under her chin, lifting her lips to his. And then he was kissing her again. The flavor of his mouth mingled with the taste of raindrops and the salt from his body. His hands smoothed the falling water over her, over the curves of breasts, waist and hips, pushing her down until they knelt together in the grass.

She felt no shock when he urged her to her hands and knees. Only eagerness to offer herself like a wild thing, in the rain, to a man she had just met. He was kneeling behind her now, leaning over her to caress her breasts as she felt the slow and delicious pressure of him entering her from behind. The warm rain ran down their bodies, carrying away the last of her inhibitions as it awoke each nerve. She arched her spine and leaned back into him, feeling her body trying to close around his as he began to thrust. He was very deep inside her, so deep it almost hurt, and the gentle tickling of the raindrops was a counterpoint to the much more earthly feel of his manhood’s slide against her contracting muscles. She was immersed in his lovemaking, feeling with her whole being, inside and out. It felt good, beyond good, to be joined with him, and the sky, and the rain, as though her hold on her old life was slipping away, leaving nothing but the pleasure of his body, in hers.

And then he braced himself on one hand and slid the other between her legs. At the first touch she lost herself, shaking against him, moaning, and then crying out, arching her hips, pulling away and then pushing back against him to deepen his thrusts.

“Give yourself to me,” he muttered. “Again. Do not fight it. Hold nothing back.” And then he groaned, past the ability to speak, primal in his response.

He wanted her. Not jewels or family, or even the pleasureless joining that she had feared would be her future with Geoffrey. Chal wanted her to feel as he did, and to love him back with the intensity he brought to the act.

“Chal.” First she whispered. Then she cried out loud. “Chal, I am yours.”

He gave an answering cry of triumph as they broke together, shaking with passion and the coolness of the rain.

When they were finished, he rolled off her, onto his back in the grass. She collapsed on top of him, laughing, kissing, and at peace.

Too soon, he sat up, and offered his hand to help her to her feet. When she gave a small groan of protest and held out her arms to draw him back to her, he said, “It is warm enough now, but too long and we will take a chill. It is too wet to unpack the wagon and light a fire, but I will find a blanket, so that we might dry ourselves. And then we must keep each other warm and try to sleep.”

It should have been a hardship, she was sure, managing without a proper bed. But instead, it made her smile. All she could hear in the last sentence was that they would be lying close together, in each other’s arms for the whole of the night. As he went to the wagon, she entered the cottage and placed his coat over her clothing to create a makeshift mattress. When the two of them had dried off and settled into it, spreading her cloak over all, it was almost comfortable. Though they both laughed at the tendency of his feet to poke, uncovered, off the end of the table.

“I must find some more suitable clothing.” She smiled and stretched against him, and fitted her body to his. “I do not think this dress will do for travel as well as it does for bedding. But it is the plainest I had.”

He wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes. “In the morning, we will find something.”

CHAPTER FIVE

In the morning, the weather had cleared. And after a hurried breakfast of bread and cheese from his pack, Chal had harnessed the mare and they’d begun their journey again. Emma sat at his side, so close that her hip touched his, and the contact made his spirit feel light. Bella had been gone for over a year, and he had forgotten the easy feeling it gave to have a woman beside him, company on his travels.

He glanced at the beautiful gadji beside him, riding in his poorly sprung wagon as though she had been born to it. Emma Hammond’s eyes were alert, taking in every detail of the countryside as though it was a novelty to her.

“You spent your life in London?” he asked.

“Not until this last year.” She smiled. “Until Robert died, I lived in a small village in Kent. And then my family wanted to help me.” She was frowning now, as though the help had been more of a hindrance. “They meant the best for me, I am sure. But it was cold charity to have no say in my own future.”

And then Emma put it behind her, smiling again and hugging herself. “But to be in the country again, when the weather is fine like this?” She lifted her face to the sky, and he saw the first freckles of sun on the bridge of her nose. “I have missed it, very much.” She looked at him. “Thank you for taking me with you.”

It surprised him to see her so happy. She had no clue as to what might become of her at the end of the journey. But she did not mind it. In his experience, the gadje buried their roots deep wherever they were planted and clung to that patch of earth to their last breath.

This woman was either exceptionally stupid or merely exceptional. He would know soon enough.

He read the patrin at the side of the road: scraps of ribbon tied to tree branches, left as an indication that a tribe of Rom were in the area. “We will be stopping soon,” he told her. “With my people.”

“Your family?” she asked.

“In a sense. Not by blood. But they are Roma. They will shelter us for a few days, give us food and clothing, and advise us on the safest routes north.”

He found the little camp on the edge of a field, nothing more than a gathering of tents and cooking fires. But the sounds of music and work and laughing children made it feel like a homecoming.

Emma looked around her with polite curiosity, trying not to stare. It made him smile to see her widened dark eyes. Each sight was like the first to her, as though she were an infant, new to the world and still amazed by it.

Chal spoke quickly in Romany to the head of the family, outlining the reason for their journey and his choice of companion.

He was offered a place to set up his tent, and promised a fine meal in the evening. Then they found him a girl of about Emma’s size, and he explained his companion’s wish to travel in comfort.

The Romany girl examined the interloper with narrowed eyes, trying not to show her covetous desire for the fine dress Emma wore, and gave a small, disinterested nod. Chal beckoned her closer, and the girl reached out to touch Emma’s sleeve.

Instead of flinching, Emma smiled encouragingly at her and held out her arm as Chal haggled with the girl in Romany until they settled on a fair price.

When they had reached an agreement, he felt for his knife, and Emma stepped back in alarm. He held up a finger to assure her. “We are keeping two of the buttons. They are worth much more than the cost of a few Gypsy dresses. Before you run from the life you knew, you had best learn to appreciate what you had.”

She glared at him in answer. “I know what I had, and it is not as much as you thought. I would sacrifice all my buttons to get away.” She glanced at the Romany girl, and he could see the dawning light in her eyes that the girl they bargained with might know English. “But not for a few Gypsy dresses. As you say, the buttons are worth more than that. I wish to make a fair trade for them. But I would not want to be forced to return to my cruel gadjo lover because I wasted what I took away with me when I ran.” She gave a defiant toss of her head, as though she could reject her past and put it behind her with a single gesture.

The girl nodded in approval at this, and Chal worked to hide his amazement. If he had taught her, Emma could not have found a better way to respond. And she had used the only word of the language that she knew.

He removed the buttons and the girl gestured to a nearby tent, and Emma went with her without question. When she returned a short time later, she was properly attired in a plain blue gown and sensible shoes. Her beautiful hair was tied back and out of her face, and the simple dressing of it accented the perfect skin, and the elegant length of her neck. A second dress was draped over her arm.

Chal saw the admiring glances of the other Rom men as she left the tent, and felt sudden jealousy.

It was an emotion that he had no right to, no matter what she had said the night before, when she’d claimed to be his. She had said those words during their lovemaking. He wondered if she remembered, or if she’d meant them as anything other than idle talk in the throes of passion.

He had believed them, because he had wanted to. And the strength of his body’s response had left him near mindless.

But now what was he to do with her?

The answer was obvious. They would travel together as far as Yorkshire, and he would take what pleasure he could from her on the way. Then she would go wherever it was she meant to go. And he would forget her. That was what she truly wanted, and what he had planned from the first.

But he should know by now that such plans for an orderly future were rarely successful. He had planned to be a married man, with a family. And nothing had come of that. Now that he had met Emma Hammond, his plan to be content alone was ruined as well.

But what would happen would happen. They would search for the boy, and find what they could. And then she would be gone, either back to Burton, or to some other man of her race and class. She would forget Chal. And he would be alone again.

Emma looked around her at the busy camp, listening to the hum of conversations in a language she did not understand. Chal had pulled the little wagon close and was removing rolls of oilcloth and hazel tent poles from it. He handed her a broom to sweep the debris from a flat area under a tree.

She did as he bade her. And then she stood by, waiting for instructions as he unrolled the oilcloth upon the ground. He walked around its edges, pounding holes into the earth with a cast-iron spike, then pushed a pole into one of them, teaching her to steady it as he bent it, forced it through the center spine, and pushed the other end into a hole he’d made in the other side. Soon, they stood inside a hazel skeleton, and he went back to the wagon for more oilcloths, tossing them one by one onto the frame and pinning them in place with thorns.

He gestured her inside.

It was gloomy, but surprisingly snug. She turned to him and smiled.

“You have never seen a tent, I wager, nor slept inside one.”

She shook her head.

He grinned back. “I have lanterns, a cot, blankets and a feather bed. It can be quite as comfortable as you wish to make it. Many women have some small furniture, and decoration. Flowers.” He looked away for a moment, as though thinking of something else. “If you feel a lack, while we are together, tell me. I will do what I can to make you comfortable.”

The offer was casual, as though he intended to blunt its meaning. But he was offering her the hospitality of his home, and the chance to make it hers. When his gaze shifted back to her, she asked, “And you set the thing up yourself, wherever you go?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. It is easier with two, of course. And now that I am alone…” He shrugged again, and busied himself with the bedding.

“But you were not before, were you?”

He did not look up. “I had a wife, once. She died in childbirth, a year ago.”

“What was her name?”

“We do not speak the name of the dead,” he said, rather coldly. “It is not the way of the Roma. When a person dies, we sell their possessions or bury them with the body. And do not speak their name, for fear that their spirit will follow us, and do us ill.” He looked around his tent, as though searching for something. “Since she left me, everything I have is new—the tent, the bedclothes, everything. There is not a trace of her left. I was told it would be better that way.

“There was not an evil bone in her body. She would do no harm to anyone, in this life, or the next.” Chal sat down on the edge of his cot, bewildered. “Even if she wanted, she could not find me again. Her name was Bella.”

Emma sat down upon the bed he had made with his own hands, big enough for two, though he slept alone in it. She put her arms around his neck and drew his lips to hers. He kissed her hungrily, as though the contact could drag him back into the present.

And she returned the kiss, wanting desperately to ease his sadness. “You are right,” she whispered. “Your bed is very comfortable. And your house is warm and dry.”

“You like it?” he said hoarsely. And she wondered if he spoke of the bed, or the things that might happen in it.

“Yes,” she answered, to both questions. “But is it sturdy enough to make love in?”

“I do not know,” he admitted with a sly smile. “As I told you, it is a new bed.”

“And you are a vigorous lover. Perhaps it would be better if you allow me to test the strength of it.”

His eyes held a kind of amazed relief as he let her reach for him, pulling the shirt out of his breeches, and working it up over his body, over his head. Tossing it away. She ran her hands over the smooth skin of his chest, massaging the muscles of his shoulders and back as he groaned in satisfaction.

“That feels,” he grunted in relief, “very good. When you work, you get sore. There.”

“I will make it better,” she said, rubbing harder, feeling him relax.

He pressed his face into her shoulder, kissing the bare skin at her throat, and she laughed. “How do you like me as a Gypsy girl?”

“I like you very much. I like you any way I can have you. And even more, when you do what you are doing to me.” He gave an uneasy laugh as she caught at the buttons on his breeches, opening them.

Then he stared past her, at his shirt where she had dropped it, as though trying to distract himself. “When the earth is your floor, you learn to take better care with your clothes than that.”

She grabbed his member in her hand and stroked. “You will teach me. After. And some of your language as well. For example, what am I to call this?”

He gave a groan. “That is my midjloli. And it is near to midday. There is little time to be playing with it.”

“Perhaps you should be silent, as I was in the garden on the day we met.” She stroked him, finding him hard and yet soft as velvet.

“We are in the tent together, in the middle of the afternoon. People will wonder what we are doing.”

“They can wonder if they like. But if you do not tell them, then no one will know for sure.” She ran her hand along him again, using the other to cup his testicles. “And I mean to be very quiet.” She slid down the bed, kneeling at the foot, settling between his legs and dipping her face forward to trail her hair over his body. “Let me show you.” Then she leaned forward again and brought her mouth down over him, tightened her lips, and lapped once, with her tongue.

“So keres?” His body gave a sudden jerk and he tried to sit up, then realized his vulnerability and relaxed again. But he was muttering an almost steady stream of Romany, either curses or entreaties, she was not sure.

She pulled away. “If you wish me to stop, you must tell me in English, for I do not understand what you are saying.”

To this, he said nothing. So she took it as permission to continue. She kissed him again, on the tip, spreading the drop of moisture there with her tongue, then rubbing his shaft between her cupped hands, enjoying the length of it, tracing a raised vein with her fingernail. “I know only know a few words. But I know that you will have this midjloli again for me tonight, when we have more time. And you will put it where my body aches to have it.”

When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel it there now. She tightened the muscles in her legs until she felt her body tingling with excitement at the memory. “And it will feel so good that I will hold it tight, as you move. Like this.” She rubbed him harder, and heard him pant with excitement in response. She flexed her inner muscles, imagining him inside her, where he belonged, willing herself to release.

“And then, I will come for you, as you do for me now.” And she put her mouth on him again, and finished him.

When she opened her eyes once more, he was staring at her, shocked and dazed, but smiling. Saying nothing.

“Well?” she said, placing a hand on her hip and waiting for a response.

“You wished me to be silent. And now you wish me to speak. You are a difficult woman, Emma Hammond.”

“Not so difficult as some, I am sure.” She surveyed the tent. “The accommodations you offer are Spartan. But I will be quite happy with them.” And with you. If you want me to stay.

He shrugged as though her happiness mattered little to him. “I do not need more. And much of the actual living is done by the fire, not in the tent.”

He was avoiding her, talking nonsense to change the mood. Perhaps she had given too quickly and too freely. He had said nothing about wanting her for more than a bed warmer, as they traveled north. And now she was on her knees before him, every bit the servant that he had refused to be for her. She stood up, straightened her new skirt and said, “Of course, I will need some kind of chest for my clothes. Or at least a stool to put them on, at night. And perhaps a mirror, so that you could shave and I might do my hair.”

He fell easily back to sparring with her, as though nothing had just happened between them. “The things you want cost money. And your hair is fine the way it is.”

“And you said that I have buttons worth more than the price of the clothes on my back. You are a sharp trader. Surely you could turn those into furnishings for our tent.” The word our had come easily to her, and she wondered what right she had to claim a place she had known for only a few minutes.

“And I told you, I do not need more. Nor should you need a mirror, to know that you are pretty. If you doubt, then ask me. And I will tell you how beautiful you are.” His voice was sharp, amused, scolding. But the look in his eyes was soft and warm, as though he wished to say much more.

And yet, he stopped speaking before revealing anything of importance. It was as if he thought he could control her with the silence. Perhaps, if she were married to him, she might have permitted such games, and yielded to his judgment as a matter of course. But not yet. Not so soon.

Emma tossed her head, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. “If I must ask before I receive a compliment, then clearly, I am not pretty enough to hold your attention. You will think me foolish and vain, I suppose. But that is neither here nor there. First, I lost my husband. Then I surrendered my freedom, to appease my family. Do not think that my running away with you means I will give up my pride as well, and submit without question to your stubbornness. I wish to comb my hair. You speak the language of your people and I do not.” She reached into her pocket and tossed one of her remaining buttons onto the mattress beside him. “Please take this, and buy me a mirror.”

Without another word, he did up his breeches, dropped the button into his pocket and left her alone in the tent.

CHAPTER SIX

Chal went to the stream to get fresh water, stripped off shoes and shirt and waded into the shallows to splash some temperance into his hot blood.

She had been right, though he did not want to admit it. A mirror was a useful item and he had been frustrated by the lack of one each time he shaved. It had been no big thing to barter for one.

He had seen her leave the tent as he’d talked with another Rom by the fire, and now Chal was dawdling in the water until he was sure she’d returned to where he’d left her, not wishing to show the gadji that she had any control over his comings and goings. He leaned forward and dunked his head below the surface, loving the icy chill of it. He rose, shaking droplets from his skin and hair, and thanked God that his response to her lovemaking had been in Romany so that she could not understand it. In his own tongue, he had told her too much of the truth: that he loved her and wanted her. He had begged her not to stop, never to leave. And when she had finished with him, the emptiness that he’d carried with him for almost a year had been filled with thoughts of their future.

And all this after little more than a day together. He was allowing himself to want too much, and too feel too deeply for a woman who had no intention of staying with him. He had not realized how alone he had been, since Bella had died. Perhaps, if he had availed himself of a whore, this fire in him would not be raging so now.

Or it could have been just the same. For he suspected there was no other woman in the world so perfect for him as Emma Hammond, nor would she find a better man than him. She’d blossomed like a rose the further he took her from London. She belonged in the country, and on the open road, wild and reckless, and happy. And he needed a mother for his children, and someone to laugh and talk with, to make the hours pass.

The thing she had done just now, in the tent, had driven him near to madness. And in the storm. And in the garden. He needed more of that as well.

Chal shook off the last of the water, pulled the shirt back over his head and filled the bucket he’d brought with him. Then he walked back to his tent, keeping an even pace so as not to spill the water.

When he drew back the flap, Emma looked up at him from where she sat upon the bed. She had been to the field and gathered flowers. Daisies and buttercups and cornflowers sprinkled her skirt, as she twined the stems to make a garland, and draped it at the head of the bed they would share. “You do not mind this, do you?”

His throat tightened. “No. It is fine.”

“Because I thought it would look rather cheerful.” She looked down at the flowers in her hands.

“And I brought you your mirror.” He set the bucket at the doorway of the tent, and pulled the small piece of glass from his pocket. “It is not much, of course. But all that could be had in this camp. Perhaps when we are passing through the next town…”

“I am sure it will be fine,” she answered. “I do not need much.”

“And it is yours,” he reminded her. “You can take it with you.”

“Take it?” She seemed surprised.

Why had he mentioned parting? It was not as if he wished to think on it. “When we arrive in Yorkshire. I assumed you had some plan, once we find the boy.”

She frowned down at the flowers. “I do not know. At one time, I had thought to travel back to London, so that Amanda could say her farewell.” Emma looked up at him and then down again. “But now that I have met you and your people?” She shrugged. “I think it would be better if he remained with you. I will write to his mother. To Amanda,” she corrected, acknowledging the difference. “And explain to her.”

It was all of surprisingly little interest to him. “But what do you mean to do with yourself?”

She sighed. “I am not sure. I suppose I shall sell the jewels and set up housekeeping somewhere. If I live frugally, there will be enough money.” She looked at him with sorrow. “If word of what I have done with you becomes known, I shall become infamous for my behavior. But the time I have spent with you? Please remember it with kindness. For it was not as it must appear to you.” And then she fell silent again, and looked away.

What was she trying to tell him? Probably that it would soon be over, and that the affection she had shown was nothing more than expedience on her part. And that while she wished it to be a sweet memory, it could be no more than that. Whatever her future held, it did not include a Gypsy lover.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the weeks since they’d left the Gypsy camp, Chal had spoken less and less. While the silence seemed tense, it was probably just as well. She had no idea what to say to him.

When they stopped from their travels, they seemed to have no need for words. If it was cool, she would help him pitch the tent. If it was warm or they were tired, they might lie on the mattress in the wagon, or set the bed up under the stars.

And they would make love for as long as they were able, before falling into a happily exhausted sleep. While they were in each other’s arms, he would tell her of her beauty and her sweetness, and that he could not live without her. But in the morning, when they sat side by side on the wagon seat, he would say nothing at all.

And certainly not the words Emma was longing to hear. He was not likely to make a conventional offer to some gadji he had just met, after all. If that was the way Gypsies behaved. She was not sure, and was afraid to ask. There must be some form of courtship, some permanent bond between couples. But she doubted the precursor to it was a brief liaison with a stranger.

Her stomach felt sour when she remembered how she had behaved in the first days, trying to coax him into an admission of love, leaving the contents of her heart open to him, thinking he must feel the same.

But her hints at what she’d felt for him had fallen on deaf ears. He had used her. And she had let him, for it felt wonderful to lie with him, pleasing him and being pleasured.

The journey had taken much longer than it might have, had she traveled on the regular coaching routes, with inns and frequent changes of horses. When she’d asked about the lack of speed, Chal had said gruffly that he was but one man, and his horse was but one horse. The roads were difficult, and it would take as long as it would take. And then, in the evening, he had taken her to bed again, and she had wondered if he was delaying in order to have more nights together. But now that their journey was almost over, he did not care what happened to her.

Finally, they had passed the last village before their destination, and she could see the outline of the foundling hospital on the horizon.

“Oh, dear God.” She had not known, when Lord Callandar had made the first idle threats about sending the boy away, what it would truly mean to him. This place, now that they had found it, was farther away from the comfort and luxury of London than she could imagine. The moors had been bleak enough, with their bogs and desolation. But the building on the road before them was a cheerless hulk of gray stone that did not strike her as a fit habitation for men, much less children. It reminded her of a prison.

Then the first whiff of acrid smoke hit her nostrils. And she could see, amid the gloom of the overcast day, something darker and more foreboding. Chal could sense it as well, for he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as though, after all this time, he did not wish to finish their journey.

They were close enough to see the truth. The building that had seemed malevolent from a distance was little more than a burned out shell, a pile of charred timbers and cold stones darkened by soot. There were only a few dirty puddles of water left to show that someone had tried without success to douse the flames. Chal stopped the wagon, tying the horse to a nearby tree, and they went the rest of the way on foot, into an atmosphere still heavy with the smoke from burning wood, and the sickly sweet smell of death.

They slowed as they approached, for people were crowded thick around the ruins of the building that had been the St. John’s Home for Orphans and Foundlings, clearing rubble and picking through it for items of value. Even the normally raucous scavengers were hushed by what was before them.

Emma gagged and raised a handkerchief to her nose to try and block the scent. Chal put a hand on her shoulder, signaling her to wait, then pushed his way through the crowd, questioning those nearest, looking for someone with enough authority to tell him what had happened to the inmates.

“Make way. I am on important business for Lord Callandar.” From behind her, Emma heard the familiar voice of Geoffrey Burton, and she felt the little knot of spectators shift as a man pushed his way to the front.

She cringed, dreading to think what her erstwhile betrothed would do when he saw her here. Most like, he would carry the news back to his employer, and remove any hope of her returning to family. She glanced around for somewhere to conceal herself. But he was only a few steps away, and it was too late to prevent discovery.

For the moment, he had eyes only for the wreck before them, taking a bit of snuff to block the smell from his nostrils. He gave a sneeze, and then accosted the man beside them. “You, sir. Do you know? Were there survivors?”

“Damn few,” the man muttered back. “What children they could find have been taken in by the vicar. His wife will treat them, until their burns have healed.”

Geoffrey gripped the man’s arm, shaking him as though he could dislodge the truth. “Was there a Gypsy boy in that lot? Do you know?”

The man laughed. “And what would the likes of that have been doing here, instead of with his people? Say what you like about them, they take care of their own.”

“But did you see a dark boy, about so high?” Geoffrey held out his hand.

The man glared at him. “What children they found were white-skinned, under the ash and the burns. If you care so much, go to the church and see them.” The man glanced at the fine cloth of Geoffrey’s coat. “Perhaps you could take one home with you.” He gestured toward the burned building. “For you can see what happens to them without friends or family.”

Geoffrey sniffed and took another pinch of snuff. “Certainly not.”

“Please.” Emma could not help speaking out, and reached to touch his sleeve. For the man was right. Geoffrey had more than enough wealth to take care of as many wards as he might like. And his house was empty. Even to bring someone home for Amanda, another child to take the place of Stephen…

Geoffrey glared coldly down at her, eyes empty of recognition, and yanked his arm from her grasp. “Get off me, you filthy beggar.”

For a moment, her mind went utterly blank at his response. Cruel though he had seemed to her, she had at least expected he would temper his dislike of her to curry favor with Lord Callandar. But this current malice was without form or thought, just a taste of the general hatred he had for everyone in the world he deemed different, or inferior.

He did not look at the woman who stood before him at all. He saw only the plain gown and colorful scarf of a Gypsy, the lack of powder on her face, the undressed hair. And he dismissed her as unimportant, unfamiliar and far beneath notice.

Rather than the familiar sting of rejection that she had expected, Emma felt the command to leave as a final call of liberation. “Of course, sir. If you truly wish it.” She said it slowly and plainly, in a voice that he should recognize. Giving him one last chance.

He raised his hand as if to cuff her, in a way he never would while visiting Mount Street. “Be off with you, whore.”

“As you wish.” She turned away from him, pushing into the crowd after Chal. When she found him, she slipped her arm into his.

He looked down at her and smiled absently, squeezing her hand before turning back to the grim sight before him. “They took survivors to a church. But no one knew of Stephano.”

“We will look for him there,” she said.

“And if we do not find him?” Chal’s face darkened. “And I fear we will not. No one can tell me what has become of him.”

Looking at the ruins before her, Emma tried not to think about how the end had been for the boy. “Then what will you do next?”

“Continue to look, I suppose. If there is some proof of his fate, I must bring it back to his family. They will want to know.” Chal gazed at the ruins, as though there was a way to see the fate of the inhabitants, and then back at her. “Do you wish me to return you to your people with the news?” But as he said it, he held her hand tighter.

Emma shook her head. “They will discover it soon enough, I fear. I will write to Amanda, though I hate to pass on bad news, given her fragile state. Still, it is better that she hears it from me and not Geoffrey. He has come up from London to investigate for Lord Callandar.”

“Burton.” Chal spat the word like a curse, and then added a string of Romany that Emma was glad she could not translate. “Do you wish to speak to him?”

“I have already done so.” She smiled. “He did not know me.”

“Even when you were right in front of him, he did not know you?” Chal was holding both her hands now, so tight that her fingers hurt. “But I do.”

“And I know you.” She squeezed back until their grip was an unbreakable bond. “I am free of Geoffrey now, if I was not already. My life is my own. What do you wish me to do with it?” She caught Chal’s eyes at last, and held them, looking in daylight for the love that he had shown her in darkness.

“Come with me.” He said it suddenly. Shyly. As though he feared rejection as much as she did. “Please, Emma.” He raised her hands to his lips, and although he was still somber, there was a trace of the roguish smile she had seen before.

“And if I do, what will become of me?”

“I will keep you, of course. I will take you as my own.” He grinned at her now. “Burton was rich. But he didn’t know the value of what he had. I have little. But I take care with what is my own.” Chal pulled her close and kissed her, and she noticed yet again how wonderful his kisses were. Rough, yet tender. And each kiss was different, as though the man who gave them treasured each moment and wished to celebrate it. For when the time passed it would never come again. And then he said, in a voice hoarse with emotion, “Be mine. Travel with me. Share my tent. Share my bed. Join my family. Let me love you till my dying breath.”

“Yes. Take me with you. Again.” And she knew that she had answered him truly, and right. For in that moment, her future became certain, and she was flooded with profound relief. She let her body fall into his, in an embrace so close that people near them tutted in disapproval at the wild Gypsy lovers.

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Paying the Virgin’s Price by Christine Merrill — July 2010

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Christine Merrill lives on a farm in Wisconsin with her husband, two sons and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail.  She has worked in theater costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books.  Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out the window and make stuff up.  You can visit her Web site at www.christine-merrill.com

ISBN: 978-1-4268-5284-8

Taming Her Gypsy Lover

Copyright © 2010 by Christine Merrill

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