A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
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“Have you found my son?”
Smith was a big man who clearly did not like to shave on a daily basis. He spit tobacco at him and grinned. “Aye, me lord, but ye might not want to thank me yet.”
He had found the boy.
John came to stand beside him. He murmured, “I don’t trust the Gypsy wench at all.”
His gaze glued to the carriage, Edmund retorted, “I don’t care what you think.”
Smith strode to the carriage, pulling open the door. He reached inside and Edmund saw a lean boy in patched brown trousers and a loose, dirty shirt. Smith jerked him out and to the ground. “Come meet yer father, boy.”
Horrified, Edmund saw that the boy’s wrists were tightly bound with rope. “Untie him,” he began, when he saw the chain and shackle on his ankle.
The boy jerked free of Smith, hatred on his pinched face. He spat at him.
Smith wiped the spittle from his cheek and glanced at Edmund. “He needs a whipping—but then, he’s a Gypsy, ain’t he? Flogging’s what they understand, just like a rotten horse.”
Edmund began to shake with outrage. “Why is he bound and shackled like a felon?”
“’Cause he’s treacherous, he is. He’s tried to escape a dozen times since I found him in the north, an’ I don’t feel like being stabbed to death in me sleep,” Smith said. He seized the boy by the shoulder and shook him. “Yer father,” he said, gesturing at Edmund.
There was murderous rage in the boy’s eyes, but he remained silent.
“He speaks English, just as good as you an’ me.” Smith spit more tobacco, this time on the boy’s dirty bare feet. “Understands every word.”
“Untie him, damn it,” Edmund said, feeling helpless. He wanted to hold his son and tell him he was sorry, but this boy looked as dangerous as Smith claimed. He looked as if he hated Smith—and Edmund. “Son, welcome to Woodland. I am your father.”
Cool gray eyes held his, filled with condescension. They belonged to an older man, a worldly man, not a young boy.
Smith said, “She gave him up without too much of a fuss.”
Edmund could not look away from his son. “Did you give her my letter?”
Smith said, “Gypsies can’t read, but I gave her the letter.”
Had Raiza agreed that his raising their son was for the best? As an Englishman, a world of opportunity was open to him. And he was entitled to this estate, his title and all the privilege that came with it.
“But she wept like a woman dying,” Smith said, unlocking the shackle on the boy’s ankle. “I couldn’t understand their Gypsy speech, but I didn’t have to. She wanted him to go—and he didn’t want to leave. He’ll run off.” Smith looked at Edmund in warning. “Ye’d better lock him up at night an’ keep a guard on him by day.” He seized his arm. “Boy, show respect to yer father—a great lord. If he speaks, ye answer.”
“It’s all right. This is a shock.” Edmund smiled at his son. God, he was a beautiful boy—except for his eyes and coloring, he looked exactly like Raiza. So much warmth began, flooding his chest. He should have never turned Raiza away so many years ago, he thought. But surely they could get past what he had done. Surely they could get past this terrible beginning and their differences. “Emilian,” he smiled. “Long ago, your mother brought you here and introduced us. I am Lord Edmund St Xavier.”
The boy’s expression did not change. He reminded Edmund of a deadly, darkly golden tiger, waiting for the precise moment to leap and maim.
Taken aback, Edmund reached for the ropes on his wrists. “Give me a knife,” he said to Smith.
“Ye’ll be sorry,” Smith said, handing him a huge blade.
John murmured, “The boy is as feral as I expected.”
Edmund ignored both comments, cutting the ties. “That must feel better.” But the boy’s wrists were lacerated. He was furious with the runner now.
The boy stared coldly. If his wrists hurt, he gave no sign— and Edmund knew he wouldn’t.
“Better guard your horses,” John murmured from behind them, a snicker in his tone.
Edmund did not need his smug brother’s presence now. Getting past his son’s hostility was going to be difficult enough. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d turn him into an Englishman, much less become a real father to him.
The boy had become still, staring closely, his expression wary. Edmund almost felt as if he were looking at a wild animal, but John was wrong, because Gypsies weren’t beasts and thieves—he knew that firsthand. “Can you speak English? Your mother could.”
If the boy understood, he gave no sign.
“This is your life now,” Edmund tried with a smile. “Long ago, your mother brought you here. I was a fool. I was afraid of what my wife would say, do. I turned you away—and for that, I will always be sorry. But Catherine is gone, God bless her. My son Edmund—your brother—is gone. Emilian, this is your home now. I am your father. I intend to give you the life you deserve. You are an Englishman, too. And one day, Woodland will be yours.”
The boy made a harsh sound. He looked Edmund up and down with scorn and shook his head. “No. I have no father— and this is not my home.”
His English was accented, but he could speak. “I know you need some time,” Edmund cried, thrilled they were finally speaking. “But I am your father. I loved your mother, once.”
Emilian stared at him, his face twisted as if with hatred.
“This has to be a difficult moment, meeting your father and accepting that you are my son. But Emilian, you are as much an Englishman as I am.”
“No!” Emilian snarled. And he said proudly, head high, “No. I am Rom.”
CHAPTER ONE
Derbyshire, the spring of 1838
SHE WAS SO ENGROSSED in the book she was reading that she didn’t really hear the knocking on her door until it became pounding. Ariella started, curled up in a canopied four-poster bed, a book about Genghis Khan in her hands. For one more moment, visions of a thirteenth-century city danced in her mind, and she saw well-dressed upper-class men and women fleeing in panic amidst artisans and slaves, as the Mongol hordes galloped through the dusty streets on their warhorses.
“Ariella de Warenne!”
Ariella sighed. She had been able to smell the battle, as well as see it. She shook the last of her imaginings away. She was at Rose Hill, her parent’s English country home; she had arrived last night. “Come in, Dianna,” she called, setting the history aside.
Her half sister, Dianna, her junior by eight years, hurried in and stopped short. “You’re not even dressed!” she exclaimed.
“I can’t wear this gown to supper?” Ariella said with mock innocence. She didn’t care about fashion, but she did know her family, and at supper the women wore evening dresses and jewels, the men dinner jackets.
Dianna’s eyes popped. “You wore that dress to breakfast!”
Ariella slid to her feet, smiling. She still couldn’t get over how much her little sister had matured. A year ago, Dianna had been more child than woman. Now it was hard to believe she was only sixteen, especially clad in the gown she was wearing. “Is it that late?” Vaguely, she glanced toward the windows of her bedroom and was surprised to see the sun hanging low in the sky. She had settled down with her tome hours ago.
“It is almost four and I know you know we are having company tonight.”
Ariella did recall that Amanda, her stepmother, had mentioned something