by Madelyn Hill
“Please, Declan.” She turned, her body snug against him, fitting as if God created her especially for him. “I cannot marry one who isn’t my kind. I would be shunned. The clan would suffer.”
He cupped her cheek. “I love you.”
She sniffled. Her tears glistened in the moonlight against the high curve of her cheek. “Then show me,” she said softly.
He needed no more invitation as he eased her skirt down her hips and into a pile on the ground. The moonlight cast a golden hue over her long legs, the dark apex between her thighs. Unable to bear any more temptation, Declan devoured her lips as he nudged his manhood between her thighs and slowly entered into her wet silkiness. He hesitated as she gasped. “’Twill ease, my love.”
He laved her neck, her jaw. She shifted and together they moved, synchronized in their pleasure and thrust. A hot, demanding need drove them each to moan, gasp out each other’s name. Loving each other, groping, kissing, and flesh against flesh. Needing each other as if they had no salvation.
He slowly eased in and out of her, so tight and soft, slick. Ah, so drenched in her desire.
Never had she thought it would be like this. She moved her hand over his back. The hard plane of muscles shifted beneath her attention as she tickled, gripped, as Declan nuzzled the tender spot at the base of her neck. Ah, oh, tingling pleasure heated her deep within her womb.
“Declan,” whispered past her lips. He lifted, a cocksure grin tipped up his mouth and heady desire burned intensely in his eyes. The moonlight filtered around them, almost as if they were in a protective cocoon.
She cradled his face between her hands, shifted, then kissed him. There was so much pleasure and emotion surging through her. She lifted her hips to draw him deeper. The need to be closer, one and part of each other, drove her into a frenzy. Her heart pounded against her chest, pumping her heated blood to every limb.
Declan kissed along the round of her shoulder, feathered tiny kisses down her arm while he continued to slide in and out. Slow, long thrusts shifted into quick short thrusts. She arched, pushing her breasts against his chest. The soft covering of hair tickled her, thrilled her. He lapped the soft flesh of the crook of her arm, continuing up her toward her breasts. He nibbled and then cupped her breasts, dividing his attention between both of them. He lavished them with kisses until he pulled on her nipple, suckling. Heat and moisture flooded the apex of her thighs. Surely her body could only take so much pleasure?
He gripped her buttocks, holding her tight as tremors of pleasure cascaded over them.
“I never thought . . .” Martine said as she tangled her fingers in his hair and lifted her hips to continue to grind hard against his.
Martine climaxed, her lips parted and eyes widened. Awe whispered from her. Declan filled her until he reared back and growled his shout of release. He panted as he cradled her in his arms, both sated, both exhausted.
“I will love you until I die, Declan Forrester.”
He smiled into her hair and inhaled. “And I you.”
Declan awoke to the splash of water and the burgeoning ripples of daylight. His muscles protested as he lifted from the ground. Disappointment pierced him when he realized Martine was gone.
He picked up his wrinkled clothing and began to put it on.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
Declan gazed to the river. She stood in a deep pool, water caressing up to her shoulders. He threw down his breeches and tread into the water. Ignoring the coldness, he grasped her in his arms and captured her lips with his. His body immediately sprang to life, prompting him to push her legs around his waist.
“What a perfect way to take a bath,” she whispered into his mouth.
“Are you sore? Do you want me to stop?” Not that he could. He could feel the heat of her apex even in the cold water.
She shook her head and pressed against him. He entered her in one swift movement.
They groaned in unison as each brought pleasure to the other. Martine feasted on his neck, lapping the water, sucking his skin. Their actions were frenzied, manic, and totally insatiable. She gave as well as he did, amazing him once again with her passion. No matter, she was his, no matter.
He stifled her cry of pleasure with his mouth and succumbed to his own. Depleted, he lifted her out of the water and laid her on his clothing.
The sun had crested the horizon and began awakening the earth and its inhabitants. Birds sang and insects buzzed in rhythm to Declan’s heart and breathing. He watched her dry off with his shirt. Martine smiled. His gut twisted at the thought of losing her.
“Run away with me,” he demanded.
Her smile vanished and she stayed silent.
Declan knelt in front of her and swept her hands into his own. They were graceful, fine, yet showed the signs of hard work. He wanted to take her away from the nomadic life of the Rom, clothe her in luxuries, and bath her in jewels. It was his dream, one dreamt in the arms of a siren on the bank of a river.
“We’ll go to England. I have holdings there.”
Her gaze changed to one of sadness. “I cannot.”
“Your brother is smart. He will find a way not to lose face.” He needed her, it was right. His mind and body told him so. Most importantly, his heart was begging for her.
“These are my people. England won’t accept me. Ireland won’t accept me. How could we live like that?”
“We’ll go to Italy, France.”
She ripped her hands from his, rose and turned away. Still in naked glory, Martine turned her back to him. “I cannot.”
Declan starred at her back. Black rivulets of water trickled down.
He came forward and touched her hair.
“No,” she yelled as she twisted out of his grasp.
He frowned and looked at the color staining his fingers as his heart pounded in his throat. “What’s this? Is your hair dyed?”
Martine looked to the ground, avoided his gaze. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Why do you dye your hair? Why?”
Tears overflowed her lashes as panic filled her gaze. “I never meant to deceive you.”
He gritted his teeth as he tangled his fingers in her decidedly auburn hair. Black dye continued to run down the length of his hand and over his wrist. “Tell me? Are you Rom?”
Her eyes widened, fear and pain mixing within her gaze. She tried to pull away from him, but he held steady.
“Are you Rom?” he demanded.
“I am Rom,” she said as she pounded her chest.
If that were true, why did she not look him in the eyes? “Martine, are you Rom?”
She looked toward the ground. After what seemed like an eternity, she whispered, “No.”
Although softly spoken, the words roared through his mind. No? If she wasn’t Rom, why was she so intent on this marriage? Why would she insist that she wouldn’t be accepted outside the Rom? “You played me. I’m such a fool,” he ground out.
Declan released her and grabbed his clothing.
“You don’t understand,” she pleaded as she tried to grab his hand as he turned from her. “They are my family, my clan. I have nowhere else to go.”
“You could’ve come with me, to be sure. Didn’t I offer such to you?” Anger, sharp and bright, blurred his vision. He’d given her a chance. If she truly loved him, ‘twould have been simple, instinctive. Her heart would have made the decision easily.
She waved her hands. “Pah, I will never be accepted in your society again. I’ve lived with the Rom for too many years.”
Declan shook his head. “You’d rather marry a stranger instead of the one you love?” The thought seemed incredulous to him. “You’d rather sacrifice yourself for a brother who’d barter you like cloth.”
She rubbed her brow in frustration. “You don’t understand!” Again she tried to grab him, pull him closer to her. “I do love you. But with the Rom, I am the Kapo’s sister. I am respectable. I can have children and not be ashamed. I will be accepted!”
He narrowed his gaze, tipping his head to the side as he contemplated what he wanted to say. “Are you certain?” he countered. “Do you really think deep down they grant you the same respectability as your brother?” His tone held the blunt edge of sarcasm. He didn’t care about his harshness. She must realize that life with him would be better than marrying a man she didn’t love. “We can be together. In England they don’t know you as a Rom. The dye is already washed from your hair.”
She reached for him and rested her hand on his arm. “How? The way I talk, the way I dress—it is Rom. The way I think, what I eat, is Rom. Even my name, Declan—‘tis the only name I remember—is Rom. I’ve been with them for more than half my life. I cannot remember the ways of the Irish, and the English loathe us.” She tipped her chin at him, challenging him with her darkened gaze. “The magistrate is looking for you and I do not even know why.” She moved away and began dressing before she stilled and said, “We both have secrets, Declan. Secrets we are willing to protect, no matter the cost.”
She rubbed her brow before she looked at him, deeply gazing into his eyes. “What we have shared will never be far from my thoughts. If I die tomorrow, ‘twill be worth it.”
Declan cringed as he realized life with him was worth naught to her. He couldn’t force her or obviously change her mind. It was set. Now all they had to do was live with the consequences. Whatever they might be. He knew he’d continue to live in purgatory. Deep in hell on earth.
Bollocks. He had to hope, keep the hope Abigail had insisted love was his for the taking. She knew there was another woman for him and here she was, slipping away from him.
“Please,” he attempted once more, “come with me. We’ll find the answers together.”
She shook her head. “We both have secrets, Declan, as I said. You’ve yet to share yours with me. How do I know what awaits us if you don’t trust me, share your secrets?”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. To tell her would mean he’d have to leave no details out, and the details were harsh, grisly. “I . . . I must prove my innocence and then I’ll share all.”
“Innocence for what?” she cried. “See, you can’t even tell me. You do not trust me.” She pounded a finger into his chest.
He gripped her shoulders and looked directly into her sad eyes. “I want to protect you.”
She wrenched away, disgust filling her gaze as she forced her mouth into a straight line. “I do not need your protection, Declan. I need you to trust and love me.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Without his innocence, he was nothing to her. They’d never be safe. “I will, I promise, but first I have to leave you.”
She turned to the water. Her spine rigid and unyielding. “Go,” Martine said with tears in her voice. “Go and find your happiness elsewhere.”
“Wait for me, Martine.” He stood behind her, reached out to touch her shoulder, then let his arm fall to his side. “Wait to marry until I have proven my innocence—trust me. If I have your trust, I know you’ll wait for me.”
She remained silent. The pain in his gut intensified as if someone had taken a knife and twisted it. How could he leave her behind?
She was wrong. He did trust her, far more than he’d trusted anyone else. Once he had his innocence, he’d move heaven and earth to make others accept her. Once he went to England and cleared his name, they could each begin anew. Together. Didn’t she see this?
Declan left, determined more than ever to prove he didn’t kill his wife and solve the mystery of his imprisonment so he could claim the woman he loved.
Martine crumpled onto the bank of the river. Tears racked her body as grief consumed her.
She stayed there, attempting to find solace in the last place she’d ever find happiness.
As the sun crested and heated the earth, she wept. Clouds invaded the sky and her mind, bringing torrents of harsh thoughts. She was a fool, she kept saying to herself. She’d never find the love Declan offered her again. She couldn’t help but think it was the price she’d pay for her sins.
Near midday, she finished dressing, yet stayed along the bank of the river. She hated the thought of returning to the camp, fearful others may guess her sinful actions. But also, she didn’t want to leave the place in which she’d given herself to Declan.
“Martine?”
She cringed and braced herself. “Aye, Grandmother.”
Her grandmother paced near, her aged movements hindering her steps. Martine rose to help her and guide her to sit on a stump.
Deep lines etched her face in an expression Martine knew as concern.
Anya peered up at the sky, brooding or thinking, she wasn’t sure.
“I didn’t think ye’d still be here, my bitti kom.”
Martine shrugged. The action careless, so contradictory to how she was truly feeling. “Declan has left.”
“That I know. I can feel yer despair.” She lifted a gnarled hand and gripped her arm with surprising strength. “You should have left. ’Twas yer destiny.”
She reined in the words she wanted to spew. God, how she hated the duty she felt, the gratitude. Aye, the clan had rescued and saved her. But the pain of the obligation weighted her shoulders with unrelenting force as her heart broke, shattered.
“I can’t sacrifice the clan for my destiny alone.” She shuddered, a warning tremor skittering up her spine. “Does the Kapo know I am here?” She glanced around, trying to find what prompted her sudden unease. A breeze crossed the river and chilled her further with a bracing wind.
“Nay, bitti kom. He’s in his vurdon talking with Lord Forrester.”
She gripped her grandmother’s hand. “What?” She stood and straightened her clothing. “I must go to them.” She helped Anya stand.
“Go,” she said with a wave. “See if you can make your brother see reason.”
She narrowed her gaze as she glanced in the direction of the camp.
Aye, see reason. But first she’d have to tell him—tell him she’d lost her innocence with his foe, the Irishman.
Chapter 12
Declan paced toward the Kapo’s caravan. He banged his fist against the heavy wooden door, then shoved it open as a voice bid entry.
Rafe Petrulengo sat at a large table strewn with papers. He scowled at Declan, then nodded toward a chair. Declan refused the offer and remained standing before the Gypsy leader.
“Why is she here?” he raged as he clenched his fist. “Why?”
The Kapo leapt from the chair, scattering papers onto the floor. “What has she told ye?” A suspicious gleam entered his dark eyes. He was a formidable man, to be sure. Declan didn’t give a damn. He wanted Martine as his wife.
He glared at the tinker. “She is not Rom.”
Rafe cocked his brow. “That is all she told ye, Irish?”
Declan raked his fingers through his hair and he expelled a grunt. “’Twas enough.”
Rafe began picking up the scattered maps. Declan was surprised once again at the intellect of the Gypsies. How the man had been measuring, marking the maps. Perhaps planning their next move.
As he adjusted the maps, the man stayed infuriatingly silent.
“Ye have no sense of what she’s been through,” he finally said. “An orphan—no, an angel, she was to us in our time of need.”
Confused, Declan just listened and prayed the man would reveal something useful. While he listened, he paced back and forth in the small home.
“So many had died. Pah, murdered.” Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, his dark eyes unreadable. “Tel
l me, Irish. What is yer interest in my siskaar?”
Declan pulled up to his full height and fisted his hands at his waist. “I want to wed her.”
His eyes widened, then suspicion narrowed them. “Nay. Never. She belongs to another of her kind.”
Declan scoffed. “Your kind?”
“Aye,” he replied with a quick swipe of his hand. “She is one of us.”
“Nay. She is not Rom.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Why the deception?
“She has little memory of her old life.” Rafe sat in the chair by a table littered with maps. “Her family is dead. She is as Rom as I.”
Dear God.
He narrowed his gaze at the Gypsy leader. “How is she with you?”
Rafe indicated the chair across from him with a sweep of his arm. “Sit, Irish, and I will tell ye.”
He sat and waited. He had to know why she would refuse him for a marriage without the hope of love. He’d lived that and wouldn’t subject her to such an ambiguous union, even though his had been filled with admiration and a comfortable sense of friendship.
“A carriage accident took her mother, father, and brother.” He shrugged. “We do not know why she was saved from death, but my father deemed her an angel.”
Declan shook his head. He still didn’t understand why she stayed all these years.
“We’d lost my grandfather, the Kapo, my mother, and the clan were mourning such a great loss. It was a terrible fight between the English and my clan. They tried to banish us, wanted to kill us all.” He waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. She was injured and we healed her. Anya healed her and she wouldn’t leave my grandmother’s side unless it was to be with me.”