Taken by the Wicked Rake Read online

  And without even turning to look, he could feel Magda’s little bori coming to talk to him. The currents of pleasure and pain in his head shifted as though they were dust on the wind and she a fresh breeze. ‘And what do you want from me?’ he said, and turned quickly to see her startle.

  But she stood her ground, and lifted her chin in defiance, holding the potatoes in front of her, as though she feared that he might come too close. ‘I wish to know something.’

  He held out his empty hands to her, and then pulled them back, for they were stained with the blood of the animals he had killed. ‘What more could you want from me? I am already like an open book to you.’

  ‘You claim you want justice for your mother and father. Is that correct?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But how is it just that I am to be tried and punished along with my family, without knowing the charge against us. You say we have been cursed by your mother. But I have never heard my family speak of it.’

  ‘Never?’ He had grown so used to hearing the words, and their fatal nature, that it had never occurred to him he might be alone in the knowledge.

  ‘Why should we speak of it? Only the guilty would have something to fear from such a thing. If my father knew of the curse, he did not dwell on it, nor did he worry us children with it.’ He could see the truth in the depths of her wide hazel eyes.

  So the Carlow children did not think them selves cursed. It made a strange sort of sense, when he thought of it. They had grown into happy, confident adults, no matter the stain their father had passed to them.

  But the Wardale family had grown in a different way entirely. Nathan Wardale had known of the curse, even before Stephano. It had been at his father’s hanging that Jaelle had said the words. And poor, innocent Nathan had grown into a superstitious man, convinced that his life was tainted by Gypsy magic.

  ‘Mr Beshaley.’ She said his name sharply, to break into his reverie. ‘If my family is truly cursed by yours, I would like to hear the words, please.’

  It was a reasonable demand. But why, now that he had the opportunity to deliver the curse in person, was it so hard to say the thing? The skin of his cut palm burned, as though pricked by hundreds of needles. He wrapped the fingers of his good hand around it, trying to numb the feeling long enough to think.

  ‘Stephano, I am waiting.’ Now, she put aside the bowl and stood before him, hands on hips, as though she would not let him pass without answering.

  He closed his eyes and recited from memory. ‘I call guilt to eat you alive and poison your hearts’ blood. The children will pay for the sins of their fathers, till my justice destroys the wicked.’

  She frowned. ‘And you think that this refers to my family?’

  He nodded. ‘It refers to all who were involved in the death of my father.’

  ‘But surely, it was meant for the Wardale family, if anyone. It was William Wardale that did the murder.’

  ‘I have visited each of his children, in turn. Not only have they survived, they have prospered. My attempts to lay the guilt and blame at their feet have left them happier and more prosperous than at any time since their father’s death.’

  She laughed. ‘Then I suppose we Carlows should welcome your coming. How bad a curse can it be if it brings success?’

  It annoyed him that she found amusement in something that had been the very bane of his existence for so many years. ‘You will learn better than to mock this. If the curse is real, then the reason that the Wardales remain un touched is plain enough. If their father was innocent of the crime, then the Wardale children have suffered to no purpose. Since their previous misery was the result of your father’s false accusation, it is a wonder they do not curse you, as well.’

  Verity waved her hand. ‘I know the Wardales. And while Nathan might have some of the same outlandish notions you do, they are far too sensible to curse us over this. If they have a serious grievance, or were in pos session of evidence that would prove my father a murderer, they would have gone to the courts with it by now.’ She smiled. ‘Since they have not? Then we have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Not all wrongs can be settled by law, Lady Verity. If your father deserves punishment, there is nothing he can do to escape the end my mother wished for him.’

  ‘If you understand the curse correctly,’ she added.

  ‘And I do. I have lived with the words for most of my life.’

  Verity Carlow’s smile turned to one of triumph. ‘Do you? Truly? For there is a family that you have not mentioned in this. A man who wronged your mother more than any other did, and whose children, by her own words, need to be punished.’

  Had he missed someone, after all this time? If there was another, then he could set her free. If there was the slightest chance that her father was innocent, he would turn from the Carlows and not look back. For after staring into her strange green-brown eyes, he had lost the heart to per se cute her. ‘Another family? And who might there be that de serves this curse, more than you?’

  ‘Why, you of course. You are the son of the man who seduced and abandoned your mother. It was his treachery in taking you that led to her madness and death. And if what you say is true, you have suffered more than any of us. I suggest, Stephano Beshaley, that before you come to my family with these threats, you listen to your own curses, and put your own house in order.’

  Chapter Seven

  After supper, she sat by the fire, enjoying the peace of the woodland changing to night around her, and the pleasant hum of conversation. More people were willing to speak English around her, since she had proved her worth. And now that they had stopped excluding her, she found Stephano’s people to be good company.

  They took great pains to impress upon her how lucky she was to have found favour with the great Stephano Beshaley. They could not say enough about his strength as a fighter, his wisdom as a leader, his shrewd ness as a trader, and his travels to the Orient and India, from which he had returned with great wealth. And all this from one who had the misfortune to be born half gaujo. They spoke as though having a baron for a father was a disability that he had overcome. But they had forgiven him his pa rent age and assured her she was most fortunate to have captured his attention.

  No matter how she tried, she could not seem to convince anyone that she was the captured and not the capturer. They could not fathom the idea that she had not come willingly to them, and did not wish to remain. In their eyes, nothing was better than the life of a Rom. They explained that, al though she might not realize it, she did not need rescuing. She had, in fact, already been rescued from whatever unfortunate life she had been forced to lead.

  It was annoying to think that they might be right. But for the problem of her captivity, and coming un willing to it, she had to admit that she was enjoying her time in their camp. The everyday running of a house hold was quite different, when the house was a tent or a small wagon and one had to do all the work for it oneself. But the freedom to take one’s shoes off and wade in the stream if one wished was a novelty that she was not likely to experience at home.

  She frowned. It was very worrying to realize that she did not think of her home with the same longing as she had while with the Veryans. Another day had passed, and there was still no sign of her brothers. She had not thought of them at all since morning. And now that she had, it was only to worry that a sudden rescue would give her no time to say a proper goodbye to the Rom women she had met, or to arrange for further visits with them.

  Once she returned home, she would never see Stephano Beshaley again. In a strange way, it was flattering to be the captive of a man who others held in such high esteem. She had to admit that, if the stories were true, he did seem to be most intelligent. And from the first, her own two eyes had shown her that he was the most handsome man she had seen, either in polite Society or in a Gypsy camp.

  Considering the tragedy of his child hood, it was easy to see why he would be angry with people of her class. But beyond all the pain and ang
er, he must be a very resourceful and quick-witted man to have survived all that had happened to him. And then, there were his many travels and adventures. He had been every where, done everything, and moved easily amongst all types of people. She had been curious to hear his story, when she had thought him Lord Salterton. And her desire had not dimmed.

  But no matter how intriguing she found him, she must not lose her head. There were a hundred reasons that she did not wish him to pay her court, to hold her hand, whisper affections or kiss her again. And she most definitely did not want him to come to her tonight, when they were alone together in the vardo, and do the sorts of things that she had feared from the first, but in gentle ness instead of anger.

  She put the thought firmly from her mind. A group of children had crowded around her feet, and watched in rapt attention as she began to draw the alphabet in the dirt. She offered the stick she had been using to each in turn, letting them trace what she had written. They mimicked her writing, and then smiled at her, fascinated by her teaching. She smiled back, gratified at how quickly they learned. When she looked into their dark eyes and happy faces, she was glad to have come here, whatever the reason had been.

  The only person in camp who did not seem to be pleased with her was the man who had brought her to it. Stephano stood a short ways off, leaning against a tree and glaring in her direction. After this morning, she was sure that he did not intend to hurt her, no matter what her father did. But there were times when he got that curious expression on his face, and her surety faltered. Perhaps he objected to the children learning to read English. Or reading at all. Although why he should wish his people to remain ignorant, she could not understand.

  More likely it was something else that made him stare at her as though he wished her to be any where but where she was. He had taken the bread that she had made, tasted it and then thrown the rest uneaten into the fire. He must have known that it was safe to eat, for his own grand mother had watched her make it. She had eaten it herself, and knew that there was nothing wrong with the taste. But apparently, the touch of her hands was enough to render it inedible to him.

  If he hated her so, then why could he not have taken someone else? Or why did he not just return her to her home? If he beat her, or shouted—behaved as a villain should—then she could hate him with impunity. But the hospitality of the camp, coupled with his cold courtesy and utter disgust of her, was more than a little up setting.

  And that led her to her greatest fear: that his dislike of her arose out of a weakness of her character more than from hatred of her family. She had followed the instructions of mother, nurse, sister and chaperone for years, until she could perform the rituals and courtesies of Society as easily as breathing. But at some point in all the instruction, she feared she had lost whatever wit and vitality she might have owned. And now there was nothing left to tempt the sort of man that might interest her. She had become an empty, vacuous shell.

  One of the Rom, who had introduced himself to her as Valentine, came over to tease the children and comment on their lesson. She smiled up at him with relief. Val had made great effort, during the day, to make her laugh with tricks and stunts. She’d have found his attentions a trifle too warm had he not paid them equally to everyone around him. It seemed he was as naturally happy and outgoing as his kinsman was sullen and hostile.

  He returned her smile and said, ‘How are you get ting along with our dear leader?’ Val glanced in Stephano’s direction, and then turned back to give her a brilliant, white smile.

  She looked down at the ground and traced a few more letters in the dirt, pre tending it did not matter. ‘He hates me.’ It felt better being able to voice the truth.

  Val snorted. ‘Hates what you do to him, more like.’

  ‘Me?’ She looked up in surprise. ‘I do nothing to him, I swear.’

  Val laughed again. ‘And that is the heart of the problem, I am sure. But do not worry. For all his temper, he is a good man. If his attentions are unwelcome, you have but to tell him so, and you will have nothing to fear from him. Great though his pride might be, he is unlikely to die if you wound it.’ And then, Val put his hands into his pockets and walked away.

  She stood up, ready to follow him and argue that the problem was nothing of the sort. She had no reason to fear Stephano’s attentions, since none appeared to be forth coming. And if they were, she certainly would not have deemed them unwelcome—

  She stopped in her tracks. Why was she thinking such foolishness? Stephano Beshaley was out to prove her father a murderer. Any animosity to wards her was rooted there. She should not spin fancies about him, but should answer his hatred with her own. Although her father had many faults, she was sure that murder was not amongst them. The Gypsy’s plans of vengeance would lead to nothing more than the ruin of her reputation.

  Although she suspected that in her case, a ruined reputation might make for an easier life. If any word of this escapade leaked out, another Season would be impossible. No amount of explanation could persuade potential suitors that she was an acceptable choice. Mother would be destroyed; Father, enraged. Marc would blame himself, just as he had over Honoria.

  And she would be packed off to Aunt Foxe to rusticate, and be for ever free of the obligation of husband hunting. The thought suited her well. She had no desire to wed the sort of older, more appropriate man that Diana Price had encouraged. Nor was she eager to accept Alexander Veryan, no matter how happy it might make the family. So far, none of the candidates who claimed to want her hand had shown any interest in the rest of her. They had been ready with a proposal before trying to steal even a chaste peck on the cheek.

  Perhaps that was what attracted her to Stephano Beshaley. If and when he chose to marry, he would not base the decision solely on the prominence of the girl’s family. He would choose the woman because he wanted her. It would not matter to him who his father-in-law might or might not be.

  He only cared about the Carlow family because of this silly curse. And even though she did not interest him beyond that, he had at least bothered to kiss her before making the decision. That was something, she supposed. She frowned into the fire. If she had not been so in experienced at kissing, perhaps things might have been different.

  He had noticed her watching him. As the children ran off to play, he pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning on, and came slowly toward her. He paused a few feet short of her, watching as she sat back down and scrubbed the words out of the dirt with the end of her stick, and then felt foolish for doing it. She was acting as if she had something to hide. She must get hold of herself immediately. ‘Is there something the matter?’ She threw the stick into the fire and stared up at him, waiting for his response.

  He stared back at her. And she got the same light-headed feeling she’d had when she’d first met him: as though they were having some intimate and word less conversation. And now, it felt as if he were touching her body, although he had made no move towards her. Her breasts tingled as though his hands were upon them, and her nipples went hard and achingly sensitive. She wondered if he knew. For his breathing had changed, growing slow and shallow. He seemed to be fighting to keep control of his emotions.

  He broke the gaze first, with a small shake of his head as though it had taken effort to get free from her. ‘Do not stare at me with those eyes. They cannot make up their mind to be green or brown, any more than you can decide between gadje and Rom. You are a prisoner here. Do not forget it.’

  ‘I was doing nothing objectionable. And as I remember, you had given me parole. But if you have changed your mind, and wish me to remain in the vardo, or to avoid the company of the children—’

  ‘I said, it does not matter to me, what you do,’ he barked back at her.

  She stood up and prepared to walk away. ‘Very well, then.’

  ‘Nor does it matter what I do, apparently. It was all decided by Jaelle, years ago. I have no control over anything that is happening here.’ And he dragged her into the shado
w of a nearby wagon.

  This time, she had a moment to prepare. She should have struggled or run from him. But she did not. She went willingly and waited for what she knew would come. And she shut her lips tight, to be ready.

  But it did not seem to matter, for he forced them open again and thrust his tongue into her mouth. There had to be another word than kiss for what was happening to her. It was a claiming. A possession. One of his hands was twined in her hair, locking her mouth to his. And the other hand cupped her bottom, pressing her against his body so tight that she could feel him grow hard as he thrust into her mouth. There could be no doubt that he was teaching her about the physical act of love, in its most primal form. In the silent communion between them, he told her with his kiss, This is how it will be when I take you.

  In response, she opened herself to him, and let him do as he wished. She went limp in his arms, kept on her feet by the pressure of his hands and his lips. She imagined their bodies, joined as they could be, in the way that her body ached for. And she could feel the actual moment of surrender—passing through her in a shudder, and leaving her as a gasp—and the silent cry, I am yours.

  He heard it. Or perhaps he felt it. But it was clear that he knew what had happened. For in the next moment, he pushed her away and wiped at his mouth with the back of his injured hand. ‘And now, you try to bind me to you by lust? I do not want your body, gadji witch.’ He spat upon the ground at her feet.

  She could not decide what about his actions made her the most angry. Was it that he pre tended to have no control over what had happened between them? That he blamed her for it? That he lied about wanting her? For it was quite obvious that he did. Or perhaps it was the way he spat, as though the taste of her was something vile that he could not wait to be rid of.

  Without thinking, she spat in response, just as he had. ‘If you do not want my body, then take my curse. That is all you seem to understand. This morning, you complained that your head hurt you. If it does, then I am glad of it, and I do not care if it kills you.’ She pushed past him, and ran across the camp and into the vardo, slamming the door behind her so that he would not see the beginnings of her foolish tears.