A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
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Ariella now heard him speaking to the Gypsies in their strange, Slavic-sounding tongue. His tone was one of command. Instantly Ariella knew he was their leader.
And then the Gypsy leader looked at them. Cold grey eyes met hers and her breath caught. He was so beautiful. His piercing eyes were impossibly long lashed, and set over strikingly high, exotic cheekbones. His nose was straight, his jaw hard and strong. She had never seen such masculine perfection in her entire life.
Of course he wasn’t English. He was too dark, too immodestly dressed and his hair was far too long, brushing his shoulders. Tendrils were caught inside his open collar, as if sticking to his wet skin.
She flushed but couldn’t stop staring. Her gaze drifted to a full but tense mouth. She glimpsed a gold cross he wore, against the dark, bronzed skin of his chest. In the fine silk shirt, she could even see his chest rising and falling, slow and rhythmic. Her glance went lower. The doeskin breeches clung to his thick, muscular thighs and narrow hips, delineating far too much male anatomy.
She felt his eyes on her; she looked up and met his gaze a second time.
Ariella flamed. Knowing she had been caught, she looked quickly away. What was wrong with her?
“I am Emilian. You will speak to me,” he said, a slight accent hanging on his every word.
Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed DEADLY series, which is set in turn-of-the- century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in more than a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half- Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her forthcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.
A Dangerous Love
Brenda Joyce
PROLOGUE
Derbyshire, 1820
HIS AGITATION KNEW no bounds. What the hell was taking the runner so long? He’d received Smith’s letter the day before, but it had been brief, stating only that the runner would arrive on the morrow. Damn it! Had Smith succeeded in finding his son?
Edmund St Xavier paced the length of his great hall. It was a large room, centuries old like the house itself, but sparsely furnished and in need of a great deal of repair. The damask on the single sofa was badly faded and torn, a scarred trestle table demanded far more than wax and a shine, and the gold and ivory brocade that covered the chairs had long since turned that unpleasant shade of yellow that indicated aging and a serious lack of economy. Once, Woodland had been a great estate, compromising ten thousand acres, when Edmund’s ancestors had proudly borne the title of viscount and had kept another splendid home in London. Now a thousand acres remained, and of the fifteen tenant farms scattered about, half were vacant. His stable consisted of four carriage horses and two hacks. His staff had dwindled to two manservants and a single housemaid. His wife had died in childbirth five years ago, and last winter, a terrible flu had taken their only child. There was only an impoverished estate, an empty house and the prestigious title, which was now in jeopardy.
Edmund’s younger brother stared at him from across the hall, as smug and cocksure as always. John was certain the title would soon pass to him and his son, but Edmund was as determined that it would not. For there was another child, a bastard. Surely Smith had found him.
Edmund turned stiffly away. They’d been rivals growing up and they remained rivals now. His damned brother had made a small fortune in trade and owned a fine estate in Kent. He regularly appeared at Woodland in his six-in-hand, his wife awash in jewels. Every visit was the same. He would walk around the house, inspecting each crack in the wooden floors, each peeling patch of paint, every musty drapery and dusty portrait, his disgust clear. And then he would offer to pay his debts—with a sizable interest rate. Edmund could not wait until John departed—leaving behind his high-interest note, which he’d signed, having no other choice.
He’d die before seeing John’s young son, Robert, inherit Woodland. But dear God, it wasn’t going to come to that.
“Are you certain Mr. Smith found the boy?” John inquired, his words dripping condescension. “I cannot imagine how a Bow Street runner could locate a particular Gypsy tribe, much less the particular woman.”
He bristled. John was enjoying himself. He scorned Edmund’s affair with a Gypsy and believed the boy would be a savage. “They winter by the Glasgow shipyards,” Edmund said. “In the spring they journey into the Borders to work in the fields. I doubt it was all that hard to find this caravan.”
John walked to his wife, who sat sewing by the fire, and put his hand on her arm, as if to say, I know this is a distressful topic for you. No lady should have to comprehend that my brother had a Gypsy lover.
His perfect, pretty wife smiled at him and continued to sew.
Edmund couldn’t help thinking of Raiza now. Ten years ago she’d appeared at Woodland with their son, her eyes ablaze with the pride and passion he still vividly remembered. He had been shocked to look at the child and see his own gray eyes reflected in that darkly complexioned face. The boy’s hair had been a dark gold, while Raiza was as dark as the night. Edmund himself was fair. His wife, Catherine, was in the house, pregnant with their child. He’d insisted the bastard was not his—hating himself for doing so. But his affair with Raiza had been brief and he loved his wife. He could not ever let her know about the boy. He had offered Raiza what little coin he could, but she had cursed him and left.
As if reading his mind, John said, “How can you be certain the boy is even yours, no matter what the wench claimed?”
Edmund ignored him. He’d been at a house party in the Borders, hunting with a group of bachelor friends, when the Gypsies had first appeared, camping not far from the local village. He’d walked past Raiza in the town and when their eyes had met, he’d been so stricken that he had reversed direction, following her as if she were the Pied Piper. She had laughed at him, flirting. Smitten, he had eagerly pursued her. Their affair had begun that night. He’d stayed in the Borders for two weeks, spending most of that time in her bed.
He’d wanted to stay with her even longer, but he had a floundering estate to run. With tears of regret in her eyes, Raiza had whispered, “Gadje gadjense.” He didn’t understand her, but he thought she was in love with him, and he wasn’t sure that he didn’t love her, too. Not that it mattered, for they were from two completely different worlds. He hadn’t expected to ever see her again.
A year later he had met Catherine, a woman as different from Raiza as night and day. The niece of his rector, she was proper, demure and impossibly sweet. She would never dance wildly to Gypsy music beneath a full moon, but he didn’t care. He had fallen in love with her, married her and become her dearest friend. He missed her even now.
He intended to remarry, of course, because he hoped for more heirs. He could not risk the estate. But he had learned firsthand how capricious life was, how uncertain. And that was why he had decided to find his bastard son.
Edmund heard the sound of horses arriving outside in the rutted dirt drive.
He