She blushed wildly, feeling cheapened by the memory of how his experienced touch had plucked from her previously untouched emotions sweet, hesitant notes, swift trills, and rippling trebles that had scaled higher and higher towards the top octave, yet stopped just short of an ultimate, earth-shattering crescendo. When the music had died to a whisper she had felt shocked, startled, and bewildered by her reactions, but the Conde had left her in no doubt of his delight in the discovery of a virgin who had turned wanton at his touch, of an abstemious Eve who had sipped the wine of love and found its potency addictive.
His kisses had awakened her to love, a love that was unafraid, imposing no conditions. In spite of warnings from her father who, in the past, had become concerned about her tendency to return in abundance every overture of .friendship even from those whose motives he had often declared suspect, she had offered unreservedly every ounce of emotion that was inside of her to give—like an overlooked flower full of stored-up sweetness she had opened petals of innocence to a foraging bee and had been drained dry. Many times since she had sought to justify her reckless, completely uncharacteristic surrender to passion, but had finally been forced to grab at the straw of an excuse contained in the Conde's statement, 'Some say that to live here in Andalusia is to be slowly born again—sometimes as a stranger totally unknown, completely different from one's normal self!'
As if moved to pity by the dazed-eyed girl who had been transformed from a bride into a wife by a brief, hasty ceremony that might truthfully have been classed as furtive, the Conde took hold of her hand, raised it to his lips, then slowly and carefully kissed each frozen fingertip.
'I'm sorry you have been denied all the pomp and ceremony every bride is entitled to expect on her wedding day, cara.'
'It doesn't matter,' she swallowed painfully, braving his look with eyes saddened by the lie.
'But it does,' he contradicted gravely. 'The two best days of a woman's life should be the day that she marries and the day that she gives birth to her first child. Fortunately, there is a second ceremony that must be performed before we can be considered married in the eyes of my gypsy family. You may find their customs strange, but I can promise that there will be no shortage of happiness and good wishes, for they have taken you to their hearts with an enthusiasm I would not have believed possible.'
'I have gained great satisfaction from my involvement with my appealing, responsive, intelligent pupils, and had even begun to imagine that a bond of friendship had been forged between myself and their parents,' she reproached, her dignity offended by his incredulity.
'Your reasoning was well founded,' he answered gravely. 'However, gypsies—even more so than their Spanish bull-rearing neighbours—are fanatically insistent upon keeping their blood strain pure. In spite of my family's mingling of Moorish, Spanish and Romany blood, for generations past each firstborn son has been hailed by the gypsies as one of their own, basing their claim upon an inherited physical characteristic shared right up until the present day by descendants of young Isabella, the first Romany Condesa.' Absently, he brushed a hand across a temple where a sable wing of hair glistened with the silver-bright markings of the imperial eagle. 'Because of the very special relationship that has existed between my family and their tribe, the gypsies have tolerated, albeit resentfully, a succession of Condesas whose Spanish blood has offended against the strict gypsy law that requires a union between a gypsy and non-gypsy to be punished by automatic exclusion from the tribe. But in your case, my giganilla, they are prepared to break with customs relating to marriage that are as old as time by offering to perform the rites of a Romany marriage for the benefit of one who is not of their race.'
Her heart seemed to flutter in her throat as she sought for words to express the feeling of warmth and comfort she had gained from the knowledge that, at a time when she was feeling deprived of the support of family and friends, she was about to be adopted by the friendly, welcoming tribe.
Apparently finding the expressions chasing across her pale face as easy to read as an open book, he tipped a finger under her chin and looked deeply into her eyes still dazed with the solemnity of the recent ceremony, before offering guidance to his confused child-bride.
'I must warn you, Frances,' he frowned, 'that once you are adopted by the gypsies you will be obliged to follow their traditions, to submit to laws that demand prompt obedience. For instance, every Romany wife is expected to show absolute submission to her husband. Might such a law make me appear more of a warder in your eyes? Even cause you eventually to look upon your home as a prison?'
Bravely, she countered his attack of probing with a look of honesty that might have drawn a twinge of compassion from a heart of stone.
'Prison is a place where happiness cannot thrive; a place of rogues, and most of all, a place where one is kept against one's will. My dearest wish was granted,' she admitted simply, 'when you asked me to remain here with you.'
When he bent his head to place a grateful kiss upon her downcast mouth the world suddenly dissolved into a warm, golden orb sparkling with brilliant sunshine.
'Let us go, Condesa,' he mocked her swift rise of colour. 'As if the acquisition of one title were not sufficient, you will soon be dubbed my Bari Rani!'
During the breathtaking ride in an open-topped car towards the ravine where the gypsies' caves were situated, Frances' spirits rose high as her wind-swept hair glowed sparkling as the glances cast in her direction by dark eyes lit by a glint of appreciation that seemed to indicate that he found her happiness infectious. As the car breasted a rise, then dipped to begin racing along the floor of the ravine, the sound of music rose in the air to greet them, a wildly welcoming salutation of strumming guitars, frenzied fiddles and clicking castanets.
The moment the car braked to a standstill on the edge of a clearing massed with flowers of every available colour, entwined around the branches of trees, crammed into large earthenware pitchers, set in vases ranged down the centre of trestle tables, even strewn upon the ground to form a fragrant carpet beneath the feet of the bride and bridegroom, the entire gypsy tribe rushed to greet them.
A roar of appreciation ripped from their throats when the man they regarded as their chief lifted his bride from her seat and then swung her aloft to display her blushing confusion to the tribe before setting her lightly upon her feet.
'Droboy tume Romale!' The greeting was shouted by a crowd of gypsies massed colourful as exotic butterflies, women and children wearing dresses of flaming pinks, vivid orange, yellow and innumerable shades of red, sleek-fitting and flounced below the knee, dotted and striped, flowered and sequined, with low-cut, off-the-shoulder necklines filled in with golden chains to match dangling earrings, bracelets, and rings crammed one. on each finger and, in the case of those who were barefoot, even on some toes. And men looking no less festive in colourful, wide-sleeved shirts worn beneath velvet waistcoats trimmed around the edges with gold coins; satin cummerbunds, and bright neckerchiefs knotted inside the collars of shirts slashed open to the waist.
'Nais tuke!' Frances' heart turned a somersault at the surprising discovery that the Conde was capable of displaying a wide, engaging grin, then soared almost out of orbit when, with her hand in his, he raised their arms together in a gesture of mutual commitment before proffering simply, 'I come to present my gitanilla, my little gypsy girl, and your future Bori Rani!'
In spite of her endeavour to retain a tight clasp upon his hand, she felt herself being swept away when the crowd of gypsies descended and then divided into two separate male and female factions. As she was urged in the direction of a tent that had been erected in total seclusion on the far edge of the clearing she sped a look of puzzlement across the bobbing sea of heads and was rewarded with a wave of encouragement from her husband, who seemed to have become involved in some sort of mild-tempered argument with his voluble gypsy brothers.
'Step in here, Bori Rani, if you please.' Sabelita was holding the flap door of the tent open wide.
Giving
in to the urgings of the widely smiling, elbow-nudging women, she responded to Sabelita's request, then gasped for breath when immediately she entered the tent she was assailed by a warm, heavy wave of perfume wafting from albahaca blossoms lining every inch of the tent from floor to ceiling.
'Heavens!' she gasped, overwhelmed by their beauty but almost overcome by the strongly narcotic effect of their perfume. 'If I'm to be forced to stay inside this tent for any length of time I must have more air,' she insisted, hastening to open the closed flapdoor. 'Why have I been brought here, Sabelita?' she puzzled, 'And why does everyone keep addressing me as Bori Rani?
'Because you are a great lady, wife of our gypsy gentleman, Romany Rye,' Sabelita explained patiently.
'I a great lady? I don't think so,' Frances laughed aloud, feeling unnerved yet flattered.
'A gypsy is guided only by his own instincts. No one, not even Romany Rye, could order the members of my tribe to scour the woods for the rare, secreted flower of matrimonial bliss if they had not thought you deserving. We need no gift of second sight to recognise the love you feel in your heart for our children as well as for our chief. Our tribe is poor, but we wished to show our gratitude and did so with the only power in our means, a power gained through knowledge of plants and their uses that has been gathered from the four corners of the earth and passed down through untold generations. This is our wedding gift to you, Bori Rani,' her wave encompassed the curtain of white, star-shaped flowers lining the walls of the tent, 'the herb with magical properties that will transport you this night to paradise where you will conceive a fine, healthy son!'
Aware from past experience how little there was to be gained from arguing a point with Sabelita, Frances bowed to the inevitable, even to the point of donning the dress made by the women of the tribe especially for her gypsy wedding. Whether guided by luck or by a flair for matching colour to character, the soft blue material they had chosen cast deep violet shadows over her grey eyes so that they looked mysterious and infinitely appealing. The design of the dress followed their favourite theme of tight-fitting bodice dipping low to meet a ruffled ankle-length skirt that had a slit up the middle to allow a glimpse of rounded knees and to provide a tempting display of shapely calves, and slender, finely boned ankles.
The one thing that Frances found troubling was a neckline cut low enough to make her feel brazen whenever she glanced down upon milk-white curves that seemed in danger of overflowing a band of blue velvet so tightly constricting it had the effect of making her breasts swell, curve, then plunge downward to form a deep, mysterious, glance-enticing valley. After futile seconds spent trying to tug the bodice upwards, she frowned and gnawed her bottom lip.
'Sabelita, I can't possibly wear this dress, it makes me feel too… too…'
'Seductive?' Sabelita suggested slyly, casting a look of approval over curves bulging over the top of her dress like milk-white pomegranates. 'To please a woman in the first place, a man must undress her,' she chuckled, 'therefore it does not make sense for a bride to make the task more difficult for her bridegroom on their wedding night!'
Frances swung round, her cheeks made fiery by the earthy remark, intending to insist upon being provided with a shawl, but was just in time to see Sabelita hurrying out of the tent to make way for a strange gypsy male.
'Would you kindly not walk into my tent unannounced,' she began sharply, then took a quick step backwards when she realised that the flashing-eyed, sable-haired man wearing tight breeches tucked into the tops of knee-length leather boots, and a silken shirt with wide sleeves gathered tightly at the wrists, was the aloof, rarely smiling Conde.
But whereas she was startled, he appeared stunned as silently he eyed her appearance, his gaze travelling slowly from the crown of her silvery blonde head down to the toes of buckled blue slippers, then swiftly and inevitably upwards, to linger with an intentness that caused her body to feel suffused by a hot embarrassed scorch.
'Madre de Dios!' he murmured with an audacity that was pure Romany. 'Have I the courage to flaunt such temptation before a tribe of macho gypsy males? You look so delectable, mi gitanilla, I feel it would be unfair of me to tantalise men accustomed to a diet of boiled turnip with the sight of a tender young fowl dressed and prepared for my own private relishment.'
A tender-skinned chicken could not have reacted more sensitively to the fiery blast of embarrassment that sent heat racing through Frances' veins as she was made to feel plucked, trussed and dressed in a manner designed to add savour and piquancy to his jaded appetite.
'I'll save you the trouble of having to make a decision,' she lashed out in temper. 'I will not be paraded in front of your gypsy friends wearing a dress that's positively indecent!'
'Bared breasts appear beautiful to honest gypsy eyes,' he rebuked coolly, increasing her aggravation by training his glance upon breasts supplying pounding proof of outraged modesty. 'They scorn man's invented indecencies and accept as one of the bounties of Nature the unselfconscious beauty of girls washing their naked bodies at the riverside. As a matter of fact,' he glinted wickedly, 'I am the only person whose behaviour is likely to cause adverse comment. According to custom, I ought to be using this interlude to round off my education by seeking the counsel of older and wiser members of the tribe who are accustomed to being approached by novice bridegrooms in search of practical explanations designed to help them achieve a state of conjugal bliss.'
'But you have no need, of course!' Frances tilted recklessly. 'No doubt you feel you've gained ample knowledge of an experience enjoyed until its pleasures have become exhausted!'
When he strode towards her the blossom-scented air became agitated, encompassing them both in a cloud of heady sensuous perfume.
'You have so much to give, child heart,' he murmured, scanning her naked shoulders with a look akin to that of a starving man who has been invited to a banquet. 'Your cup of innocence is full, mine has been drained, and when a man is thirsty enough, cara, he will accept any drink, however innocuous the brew!'
Frances shuddered with sudden exquisite pleasure when he pulled her into his arms and began stroking a caressing hand along the length of her spine, then felt aching need building up inside her as he began plucking upon her nerves like the strings of a harp, tracing every curve and swell of her body before stamping a fiery, branding kiss upon the cool tender curve of her shoulder. She sighed immediate surrender, arching closer to slide trembling hands inside a shirt falling open across a broad chest with muscles knotting beneath skin rippling smooth as polished mahogany beneath her stroking fingers.
'Seňor Conde! Seňora Condesa!'
Sabelita's voice acted like a douche of cold water upon Frances' fevered emotions, wrenching her out of the arms of the man who had chosen her not as a man chooses a wife, but as a lonely eagle might pounce upon any available mate.
Unaware that she was intruding, Sabelita bustled inside the tent like an over-anxious duenna, then halted suddenly, obviously conscious of the Conde's resentment and the powerful sense of comova, a term gypsies used to express intense physical desire.
When the Conde swung on his heel to condemn her appearance with a glint of icy displeasure she backed away, but then, as if stiffening her resolve to ensure that conventions were observed, she drew herself erect and reprimanded with the asperity of a duenna conscious of her responsibilities towards a lady of high rank, 'Everything is ready. The tribe waits impatiently for the ceremony to begin!'
Grateful for her reprieve, Frances made a rush towards the door of the tent, but was pulled up short by a whiplash grip upon her wrist.
'Sabelita may have taken upon herself the duties of a eunuch in a harem,' he derided coldly, 'nevertheless, I refuse to allow you to run like an outraged virgin from my presence.'
Withering Sabelita with a look, he commanded with the arrogance of a gypsy chief who used a triple-thonged whip as his badge of office. 'Go! The wedding ceremony will begin when I decide.'
But as swiftly as Sabelita sh
ot outside the tent, he regained control of his temper, the Romany rake usurped by a familiarly aloof grandee with a proud manner, expressionless features, and eyes dark and fathomless as night—with only an occasional spitting spark to remind her that the fire she had so foolishly helped to kindle had not been extinguished, merely dampened and left dangerously smouldering.
CHAPTER NINE
When Rom stepped outside the tent dressed as his tribe had longed to see him in the traditional garb of a Romany chief with a heavy golden ring of rank prominently displayed upon the hand gripping a triple-thonged whip of authority, a great cheer of approval rose to greet him, and the girl whose shy, gentle eyes were incapable of concealing the love she felt for the man holding her close as a shadow to his side.
Two youths strolled forward to meet them, strumming a sweet serenade upon gypsy violins as they sang praises of the bride's charm and beauty and of her lover's devotion.
Nervously, she quivered when the swaying, smiling crowd parted to admit Floure's youngest daughter bearing a coronet of flowers upon a velvet cushion, but managed to stoop gracefully when the child disposed of the cushion and lifted the beribboned garland high, indicating that she wished to place it like a crown upon the bride's head.
'Take the red cord, also,' Rom instructed when Frances hesitated, uncertain whether or not to accept the child's second offering of a skein of red string, 'then hand it to me, thereby signifying your consent to our marriage.'
Immediately Rom accepted the gift from his blushing bride a murmur of approval rippled through their audience, which then began reassembling to form a guard of honour that wended out of sight towards the perimeter of the clearing. At the sound of a rapid, throbbing drumroll, Frances felt a shiver of trepidation chasing up her spine, but as if her sense of panic had been communicated to him, Rom gave her hand a squeeze and tucked it into the crook of his elbow before guiding her forward to begin a long, slow procession between the ranks of eager, expectant-looking gypsies.
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