For the Love of a Gypsy

by Madelyn Hill

  He watched, transfixed by the astute intelligence of Martine. ’Twasn’t a womanly thing to do, training dogs, yet it suited her in its uniqueness.

  “Try,” she said. A challenge sparkled in her dark eyes, one he wasn’t going to forsake.

  Declan attempted a low whistle, yet barely managed a pitiful copy of Martine’s well-practiced one.

  “Here,” she said as she pinched in his cheeks. “Blow over your tongue and keep your cheeks in.”

  He tried again. No luck.

  She laughed a joyous peal of music that distracted him and the dogs. He wanted to pull her into his arms, feast upon her lips, feel her heart beat against his chest just to know they were both alive. “You’re trying too hard.” She leaned closer and grabbed his hands. “Feel my face.” He rested his palms on her cheeks. Her smooth skin beckoned a caress. She ducked her gaze, then placed her hand over his. The intimate gesture nearly undid him.

  A Lurcher came between them, as if the animal sensed to interfere with the moment. She grinned and tousled the dog’s caramel coat.

  Captivated, he said, “Show me again.”

  She complied. He smiled and grabbed her hand. He slipped her fingers into his mouth. Declan barely focused on the whistle as he suckled on her fingers. The brush of air in the form of a low whistle eased past his lips. Sensual, erotic. Him suckling her fingers, the sun heating the clearing, and the swift thickening of his loins.

  She pulled back, as if suddenly conscious of what she’d just done. Declan cupped the back of her neck and brought her in for a kiss. Damn, ‘twas worth it. If this were his last moment of freedom and the magistrate was back with the clan waiting to shackle him forever, the taste of her lips was worth it.

  He delved into her, matching the eagerness of her lips. Her ripe body leaned into him, the curves of her breasts and hips melded into his body, urging him to pull her even closer. His heart surged as if claiming Martine as its own.

  What a tangle of limbs and emotions. The deeper the kiss, the more his mind reeled at the thought of Martine in his arms. He nipped at her full lower lip. She moaned, sweet and soft, dragging his mind out of the embrace and back to the situation at hand.

  “Declan?” she asked breathlessly as he pulled away.

  He shook his head and whispered a curse. Bollocks, he’d forsaken all common sense and it compelled him to act beyond reason. “We can’t. Your brother would be as mad as the Devil himself if he found out.”

  A grin creased the corner of her eyes. “Pah. Are you afraid of my brother?”

  ’Twas his turn to grin. “Not afraid, just respectful.” Not to mentioned she was betrothed. Reluctantly, but betrothed regardless.

  Martine nodded and rose from the log. After brushing her skirt free of dirt, she called to the dogs. “Come, Lord Declan Forrester, we need to return to the camp.”

  He accepted her hand and they walked toward the caravans. Regret filled him as he glanced at her profile. Strong and lovely, he knew he’d never forget her and his time spent with the clan. But she’d do better to forget him, especially in light of her upcoming nuptials. What he wouldn’t do to trade places with Magor. To be the husband of such a passionate woman would probably send him to an early grave, yet with a full smile plastered on his face, to be sure.

  They hovered near the camp to see if the riders were still there. She eased him through the thicket surrounding the camp and he was satisfied there wasn’t a threat. Whatever the Kapo had said must have worked, for there wasn’t a magistrate, not even Trenmore to whisk him back to prison.

  Declan needed to leave, and quick. His mind had been too long from the important matters at Riverton and his past. Without discovering the reason for his imprisonment and Abigail’s death, he’d never have peace.

  Not even peace brought by the lovely Gypsy woman walking beside him.

  Chapter 11

  Mist lay heavy in the air as a boisterous wind blew across the encampment opening, trying to push it aside. Martine straightened her skirt and retucked her yellow blouse. The necklaces around her neck jingled along with her movements, mixing with the sounds of the night. A fire blazed in its pit, lapping into the darkness, warming some of the mist and the members of the clan surrounding it. She sat near her grandmother and a few children joined her. She wiggled her toes, unaccustomed to the tightness of her slippers, the golden silk damp from the dewy night.

  Martine placed a hand over her heart. It battered against her chest as fast as a hummingbird beats its wings. In and out, her breaths came in rapid succession, until she nearly swooned.

  The shadow of a man stirred across the fire. Tall and broad of shoulder, Declan broke through the darkness like an avenging angel. Firelight danced about his strong features as it kissed his skin with an amber hue. Martine sucked in her breath at his handsomeness, then expelled it at the glowering set of his jaw. Firelight failed to reach his eyes; they stayed dark and impenetrable.

  Rafe approached him and pointed to the nearest seat, a mere patch of grass with a woolen blanket thrown upon it. Declan complied, yet she sensed his displeasure, saw the stiffness of his movements.

  He found her with his gaze, intense, probing. She fingered her necklaces, attempting to ignore his attention. Failing miserably, she turned toward him and gave a weak smile. He tipped his head in her direction, then focused on her brother.

  “Tell me, Irishman, have you ever seen the light of the moon as stars sprinkled around it? Lit from above with sparks of gold and silver? Tell me, can ye see how we are the sun and you—you are the earth? Dark as loam sucking our rays from us.” Rafe’s voice lifted over the roar of the fire, commanding and filled with sarcasm. He threw his arm up and opened his hand. Sparks glowed against the night sky. The glimmers flitted down around him, making her brother appear magical.

  Declan appeared confused, or was it anger in the firm set of his mouth over her brother’s taunting?

  The clan’s musicians began picking away at a song. Ronal, the clan’s boshomèngro, played his violin. Dulcet tones eased around them, visibly relaxing many who witnessed the scene. Linka’s husband Wilhelm strummed a bouzouki, joining in Ronal’s song.

  Anya hummed beside her, slowly rocking back and forth to the rhythm.

  Her brother strode before the group, his hands fisted at his waist. Fury shook her as she watched his arrogant posture as he paced in Declan’s direction.

  “Do you wish to see my sister dance?” he prodded with a broad sweep of his arm.

  The crowd ignored her brother’s uncivil tone and applauded. Rafe cut them a nasty glare, then turned to Declan once again.

  “What say you, Irish?”

  Martine cringed. She knew the tone, the daring, accusation coating the words that displayed her brother’s rage.

  Declan stood, towering over Rafe in both height and brawn. If it weren’t for the animosity sizzling around them, Martine could appreciate the virile masculinity of Lord Forrester.

  She went to stand, yet Anya pulled her back. “Let them figure it out, the mule-headed goats.”

  Her grandmother chuckled, then rasped with coughing.

  She quickly wrapped her arm around her. “You should go to bed. ‘Tis too damp.”

  Anya shook her head. “And miss the excitement? Ye know me better than that, my bitti kom.”

  “Martine,” her brother called. “Our Irishman would like to see ye dance.”

  Mortified, she stood, heady consciousness looming over her. How could she dance before him as a spectacle to her brother’s animosity?

  She began stiffly, the dance so familiar she could perform the steps in her sleep. The tempo quickened as did the glide of her movements, the swirl of the stars above her as she turned and turned graceful pirouettes around the fire. Lost in the music, she ignored those watching, couldn’t care if they en
joyed the spectacle or not. The strum of the bouzouki fueled her desire to perform as if it vibrated within the beat of her heart and urged her soul to continue with energy and happiness.

  Declan gripped his hands as he watched the seductive rhythm of Martine’s dance. Sweat tricked down his back and wet his forehead as his breathing nearly halted. Never had he seen such a sensuous display, yet innocent as the smile now curving her lips. Her sheer enjoyment of the dance was obvious, as was the fact that every man surrounding him lusted after her.

  Her curvaceous figure moved tantalizingly in front of the clan. Some clapped, others just watched, amazement obvious on their faces.

  Declan controlled the urge to jump up and join her, carry her over his shoulder and back to her caravan. There, he’d ravish her in the small bed.

  His loins tightened, nearly exploding from months of unspent desire. Declan clenched his jaw tight as the song slowed and her movements did the same. He envisioned her doing the same with him. Their skin exposed, slipping against each other as they explored, enticed, and made love. With each second, he grew more uncomfortable. Physically, emotionally. How he wanted Martine to be his.

  How desperately, uncontrollably.

  A few men stood and circled around her. They clapped over their shoulders in rhythm to the drum and then snapped their fingers as they moved their legs in tandem.

  He rose and left the circle, aware of the stares and the sudden halt of the music. Though it pained him, he paced to the caravan in need of a cold dip in the river and a sound thrashing for his thoughts. He couldn’t, nay wouldn’t, ruin her.

  He was a haunted man. A hunted man. With many more secrets than emotional tangles. She’d soon wilt under his attentions because he wasn’t free.

  Declan threw open the door to the wagon, nearly unhinging it as he did so. He grabbed a change of clothing and headed toward the river he knew ran along the camp. He stayed in the shadows, behind the protection of the wagons.

  The gurgle of the river greeted him as he stripped down to nothing and waded into the icy coldness of the water. Desire was immediately doused and his heart beat rapidly because of the coldness, not the lust surging through his veins.

  The music in the distance tapered off and he could hear voices. Some shouting, laughter, and camaraderie. Then the music started once again.

  Bitterness tainted his tongue. What he wouldn’t give to be back at Riverton—all like it was before Abigail was murdered. He wouldn’t have decisions to make, temptations to forsake. But mostly, he missed the friendship of Nate and his men. Regret twisted in his gut, tumbling him into a melancholy mood.

  A dog bayed in the distance, pulling his attention to his impromptu bath. The wind still tousled the leaves and the crunch of footsteps sounded nearby. Declan stilled and pulled beneath the protection of an overhanging tree.

  He crouched in the shallow depths of the frigid water.

  “Lord Forrester,” a melodious voice called. A voice that had entered his dreams and now tormented his sanity.

  He raked his fingers through his wet hair. “Go away, lass.”

  “Are you well, then?”

  “That and more. If you stay, you’re likely to see more than permitted.” He remained beneath the branches.

  “Oh.”

  Declan chuckled. Then sobered. She’d be ruined, he argued. Yet the Devil tempted him beyond his sense of control.

  “Step away,” he warned once again. “I’ve to get my clothing.”

  The rustle of leaves indicated her retreat. Declan lifted from the river and shook his head free of water. The invigorating temperature had cooled his ardor, yet the thought of Martine seeing him naked fueled the fire once again and his blood raged with a lusty fervor.

  He glanced up. There she stood. Her gaze brave and watchful. Blood rushed through his veins as if it were on fire.

  “I warned you,” rasped from his throat.

  “Aye,” she whispered as she stepped closer, her gaze never veering from his. “I’m tired of warnings and apprehension.”

  Declan reached past her for his shirt and pants. Her breath, warm and sweet, tickled his neck. One swift movement and she’d be in his arms, then another and he’d be deep within her. God, how he wanted to quench his desire in the goodness of her.

  The very thought had him searching for her lips, giving nips and kisses down her jaw. Along her elegant neck, pulsing and soft. She eased into his arms, pressed against him, and ground her hips against his arousal. Ah, God, he was home.

  “Martine,” he said with reverence. “Please, I’ve only so much strength.”

  She turned her head as their mouths met in a gentle war of lips and biting. Heat and passion. Longing and need. Martine moaned as he tangled his fingers into her thick mane of hair, slid his tongue into her hot, moist mouth. She parried with him as she raked her fingers along the back of his neck onto his bare shoulders. Lightly, then kneading, they pressed into his skin, alighting the fire within him so intensely he nearly howled with pleasure.

  He splayed his hands along her back, then lower over her slim waist and down the swell of her hips.

  “Please,” Martine whispered, “please don’t stop.”

  They tumbled onto the ground, onto the clothing he’d never put on. Declan eased her chemise over the round of her shoulder, down past her glorious breasts, peaked and begging for his touch. “Beautiful,” he said in wonder as he suckled.

  Martine writhed beneath him, moaning with pleasure. Her hands gripped his head and pressed him deeper. Her enthusiasm surprised and delighted him. Never had he dreamed she’d react with such abandon.

  Declan’s pulse surged through him, setting his body on the undeniable edge of losing all control. Such desire and longing fueled him, pushing him to continue the gentle onslaught.

  An owl hooted in the distance. Declan stopped, his gaze soaking in the beauty before him, the creaminess of her moonlit skin. The passion shining in her eyes. His body begged for release, her touch. His mind saw clearly. He couldn’t go any further. She’d be ruined.

  “Damn,” he swore as he rested his forehead against hers.

  “Declan?” Martine dragged a finger down his face and tipped up his chin.

  He sighed, torn between delving into heaven and being honorable. Even as his body trembled with desire for her.

  She cupped his face in her hand, her gaze searching his, her voice pleading. “Do not stop. I want this, am asking for this.” She traced a finger along his shoulder, down his arm. She moved to his back and cupped his buttocks. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  “Do you like that?” she asked as she gazed at him.

  “Aye,” was all he could muster.

  She slipped her hand between them, tentatively tracing his aching cock. When she grasped the hard length of him, he lost all control. Declan grit his teeth. “Martine, you know not what you do.”

  She laughed, husky, sensual. “I want this, Declan. How else can I convince you?” She continued to grip him, sending him close to oblivion.

  He shook his head, panting with need. “I can’t. You’re to be wed.” In his short time with the Rom, he’d learned of their code of honor, something totally unexpected and enlightening. “You’d be marked. I can’t do that to you, lass.”

  “My sweet, sweet man,” she crooned as tears shimmered in her eyes. “How can I face a marriage lacking of love without first experiencing what love is with you.”

  The rope on his reserve began to unravel. Temptation lay in his arms. How right her body felt—soft, giving. So seductive in pureness.

  “Make it your gift to me.” She spoke so sincerely he’d grant her anything. “A gift I will treasure always.”

  “How can I take such a precious gift from you and then leave you?” Could he stay? The thought fettered about in
his mind, tangling with his present state and the mess he’d left at Riverton.

  Could he offer for her?

  Declan pulled up at the very thought of marrying Martine. Keeping her for himself, taking from another of her kind.

  “Marry me.”

  Martine gasped. “I’m betrothed. You don’t understand our ways. How it would be impossible for me to marry a Gajo?” She looked away, severing the passionate moment.

  He stiffened. “But you wish to make love with a Gajo.”

  She looked at him, serious, determined. “Aye. ‘Tis shameful. Shameful in the eyes of my clan. Not to me. But I . . . I have to experience our love. Can you understand?”

  He tried to, but the thought of her marrying Magor made him furious. “We do not need to remain in Ireland.”

  She shook her head. “Nay, my clan would be shamed. My brother has signed an agreement. We would never be accepted. Our children would never be accepted in either of our worlds.”

  He watched her, read the pain in her gaze, the confusion creasing her brow.

  God, how he wanted her—forever. The thought of loving her snuck up on him like an attack from an enemy. Yet this enemy would save his soul.

  They lay together, silent save for the babbling creek and hoots and chirps of the animals of the night. The night came alive around them, blanketing them with a cloak of darkness.

  “Marry me,” he repeated as he trailed kisses along her brow.