Taming Her Gypsy Lover (3 page)

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.”

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.