For Love of a Gypsy Lass

by Juliet Chastain

  For Love Of A Gypsy Lass

  Juliet Chastain

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Love of a Gypsy Lass

  Copyright© 2012 Juliet Chastain

  ISBN: 978-1-77101-805-0

  Cover Artist: Mina Carter

  Editor: Spencer Freeman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  Glossary of Gypsy terms

  The Gypsies (Roma, Rom, Romani) came to Europe from India a thousand years ago and kept to their own wandering ways for generations. They were always considered outsiders and often mistreated as a result. Some eventually found their way to England, where they referred to themselves as Romanichal.

  Baba—Grandmother

  Dadro—Dad, daddy

  Gadje—Non-Gypsies or adjective describing non-Gypsies

  Gadji—Non-Gypsy woman

  Gadjo—Non-Gypsy man

  Kori—Penis

  Prikaza—Bad luck, especially as a result of coming in contact with something impure (such as non-Gypsies)

  Puri Dai—Wise woman (usually older), who also takes care of the finances for her clan and whose advice is considered in any major decision

  Puro dad—Grandfather

  Rawni—A great (non-Gypsy) lady. An upper class Englishwoman

  Romanichal—The name the English gypsies use for themselves

  Romani—An adjective used to describe Gypsy-related people or objects

  Rom baro—The chieftain; the leader of a band of gypsies

  Vardo—Horse-drawn Gypsy home. Often resembles a small trailer

  Ves’tacha—beloved, darling

  Chapter One

  Bored with cards, bored with social rounds, bored with simpering, proper young ladies—bored even with the less proper ones—Lord Harry Beresford put his booted feet up on the balustrade of the enormous veranda behind Beresford Hall and leaned back. Should he stay here and watch the sun go down? Or should he call on the widowed Lady Jameson who had simpered only a little? Last time he saw her at a perfectly dreadful little concert at her house, she’d intimated that she was quite ready to give him her all. Or should he simply drink himself into oblivion?

  John Long’s lanky frame came around the corner and the front legs of Harry’s chair came down with a plunk as he got to his feet to greet his friend.

  “An unexpected pleasure.” He shook John’s hand enthusiastically. “I’ve been having the devil of a time with boredom.” He leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms across his chest as he looked up at his aptly named friend who was a good half foot taller than his own six feet.

  “Your problem, my friend, stems from the fact that you can so easily satisfy every whim or wish.”

  “Except the wish to not be bored.”

  “A band of Gypsies is camping on Grinell Green and they are, I hear, exceedingly entertaining,” John said.

  “Shall we have our fortunes told?”

  “That is always amusing. The fortune tellers always say that some great and beautiful lady will wish to marry me.”

  “Odd, they invariably tell me the same.”

  “In your case no doubt it will come true,” John said. “As for me, I paid court to some ladies, but none came to care one whit for me.”

  “Except Jane.”

  “Yes, Jane. But Jane, alas, although she is of excellent family, is no great lady. And my family will settle for nothing less than a woman with a title.”

  “My family wishes the same as yours, and perhaps one day I will oblige them—produce a suitable heir and all that.” Harry smirked.

  “Ah, but in your case you are exactly what the ladies of the ton wish to marry—the Beresford name and a fortune to go with it. To say nothing of your handsome countenance, your dark hair, and those blue eyes you have. As for myself, my fortune is small, I have no title, and only my Jane thinks me handsome.” John shrugged his bony shoulders. “One day my parents will be gone and I will be free to scandalize my siblings by marrying whomever I choose.”

  “Jane.”

  “Yes, I will make an honest woman of my Jane.”

  The two men were silent for a few seconds until Harry cleared his throat. “Shall we go to see the Gypsies?”

  “No harm in watching a pretty woman dance or sing.”

  Harry shuddered. “I am always pleased to see a pretty woman, but I prefer she not sing.”

  “I fear you are too particular about music. Perhaps, if she is pretty enough and does not hit too many false notes, you will be satisfied.”

  “I will endure for your sake.” Harry slapped his friend on the back.

  ***

  The ancient Gypsy, wrapped in a faded flowered shawl, studied Harry’s hand.

  “You’ll live long,” she said, “and happily.”

  “What about boredom?” He cocked his head—a guitar had begun to play—and play well, he thought.

  She shook her head. “That is your past, not your future.”

  She is more inventive than most. How I wish it were true.

  “I’ll marry a rich and titled woman, will I not?” he asked. Perhaps she’d come up with something different—not that he’d believe a word of it. He looked up at John, who stood patiently beside the Gypsy, and winked.

  She bent over his palm, frowning.

  “You will not,” she said, sitting upright and dropping his hand as though it had burned her. She scowled at him. Probably, he thought, as bored with fortune telling as he was. Suddenly a woman’s voice filled the night air.

  “’When Rosy May Comes In Wi’ Flower’,” he murmured to himself. He tilted his head and listened intently. “Lovely.”

  He absent-mindedly dropped a coin in the old woman’s lap, stood, and walked slowly toward the sound, with John trailing behind. They joined the small group of farmers and laborers, some with their wives and children, who stood around the low wooden platform on which the singer and the guitar player stood. Lit only by a couple of pole-mounted lanterns on either side of the stage, the singer’s deep yellow dress flared against the dark of the night and the guitar player’s black attire.

  When the song came to an end, Harry clapped enthusiastically and cried, “Brava.”

  The singer took a step forward into the light and nodded gravely at Harry. By God, he thought, she is as pretty as her voice. Her black hair curled loose about her shoulders and the yellow dress, so unlike the pale, high-waisted dresses of the ladies of the ton, revealed a fine bosom and tiny waist above a full skirt.

  She began to sing again.

  “Exquisite,” Harry muttered to his friend. “She sings like an angel, but she looks as though she has a good bit of the devil in her.”

  When she finished he called out, “Never have I heard ‘Robin Adair’ more sweetly sung.”

  The singer smiled and her dark, heavily lashed gaze met his and held it for half a minute, setting his blood pumping thickly through his veins, making the muscles in his belly tighten.

  She closed her eyes and stepped back into the shadow and sang “The Slaves Lament.” When she stepped forward and looked directly at him again, he knew he wanted to have her in his arms. And those lips from which
such sweet sounds issued—he wanted to kiss them. To explore, to tangle his tongue with hers. He saw that her face turned serious and a blush crept up her cheeks as though she knew his thoughts, as though she wanted the same.

  She sang “Sweet Afton” and then Haydn’s “The Spirit’s Song.” Her gaze turned often to his, and then away. Every time she looked at him, he saw the blush come to her pretty cheeks again. And every time his desire for her increased.

  He took a gold guinea from his purse and held the coin to the light so she could see how large an amount he was giving before he threw it in the little pot on the edge of the stage.

  “Would you sing more Haydn?” He asked loudly.

  She frowned. Then she looked at him appraisingly, he thought, and as though she was unimpressed with what she saw. What had happened? Perhaps she was playing with him. But she nodded.

  “’Oh Tuneful Voice?’” she asked, her voice cool.

  “Yes,” Harry said, somewhat subdued. “Please.”

  She shrugged and turned away from him to favor a farm laborer, who, with a shy smile, had quietly put a farthing in the pot.

  “Does that song suit you?” she asked the man.

  “Aye,” he said, blushing. “I’d like it very much.”

  She smiled at him and curtsied. “Then I shall sing it especially for you.”

  Harry clenched his fists. He had an unreasoning desire to knock the laborer down. But when the Gypsy began to sing, his jealousy was forgotten. It had been a long time since he had heard music that pleased him like this did. He’d only occasionally heard singing to compare in the private concerts in the homes of his highborn, wealthy acquaintances.

  She did not look at him this time. Yes, she must be playing with him. That she wanted him had been clear when she had locked eyes with him and the color rose to her cheeks.

  Unbidden, he found desire rising in him yet again. Harry watched her bodice rise and fall with her breath. He longed to run his lips over the soft skin of her throat, to open that gold dress and caress what lay beneath. He had to have her.

  He would approach her after the performance was over. He was desperate to find out more about her, desperate to talk with her, to touch her, to hold her. What on earth had come over him? Had she cast some kind of spell on him? He would do anything—including ignoring his conscience and offering her money, every penny he had with him—a goodly sum—for a night’s pleasure. He would borrow from his friend, John, to make the sum more generous.

  As she curtsied and turned to walk off the stage, Harry called out “Oh please, some more.” She turned back and he held up another gold guinea and signaled to her to come closer. She came and bent to him, revealing the swell of her breasts above her dress, bringing them dangerously, deliciously close. He clenched his hands to keep from touching her. He longed to feel her warmth, her softness.

  He spoke softly. “Sing one more for me, my darling, and then let us two make another kind of music tonight.”

  Frowning, she stood up, ignoring the golden coin that shone dully in the light of the lanterns.

  “You mistake me, sir, for something I am not,” she said, her voice like ice, and turned on her heel and walked off the stage and into the darkness.

  John, who stood beside Harry, laughed heartily.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when a woman refused you. And I never thought I’d see a woman with a patch on her skirt and worn slippers turn down not only you but a gold guinea as well.”

  Harry scowled. It was true. No woman had ever really refused him. And he had never before behaved in such an unprincipled manner to any member of the fair sex. He cursed himself, telling himself he was an idiot. But his desire for her still raged within him. He carelessly tossed the guinea in the pot.

  Chapter Two

  “What did that handsome Gadjo with his fine clothes want with his gold coin?” Cambio pushed his guitar to his back.

  Talaitha tossed her head. “The same as so many others.”

  “But he is a great lord. I could see his carriage with four matched horses up by the road. There was a crest on the door and a footman in a powdered wig. And it is not everyday that we are given a gold guinea. And he would have given more if you—”

  “I am not a piece of goods to be bought and sold.”

  “Yes, yes, but you could have been more gentle. I think some sweet and flattering words and he would have—”

  “No.”

  Cambio looked past her and gave a slight nod of head. “He is coming— the Gadjo lord. From his face I think he wishes to make peace with you.”

  Before she could flee, Cambio took tight hold of her arm and turned her to face the Gadjo who doffed his hat and bowed so deeply that his blonde hair fell forward.

  “I wish to extend my apologies, madam,” he said, straightening and pushing his hair back with his free hand. “It was not my intention to offend you. Forgive me, I beg you.”

  Talaitha looked up at him. His deep blue eyes did not look remorseful but rather bemused—unbelieving, no doubt, that a poor Romani lass would refuse him more than once. No doubt he thought after this pretty apology, and perhaps another gold coin, she would be his.

  “My singing is for sale. My heart and my body are not.” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. After all, a man like this could spend a lot of money while he was here. Perhaps even come back tomorrow with rich friends. The gold coins could buy good food for the children and her grandmother needed a new horse to pull her vardo. So many things were needed, even the stool the old woman sat on to tell fortunes, which had been mended a hundred times, needed to be replaced, and several of the vardos were in need of the services of a wheelwright.

  “Then perhaps I could buy some more of your sweet songs.” Smooth, this Gadjo! She inclined her head, but the anger was still there. And some of the anger was at herself—this Gadjo lord who had insulted her, who thought he could buy her favors, made her heart constrict, made her body flood with desire.

  ***

  Carrying a tambourine decorated with silk ribbons that were definitely showing their age, Talaitha climbed onto the stage with Cambio. She saw the lord standing a few feet away, leaning with one arm on an ancient apple tree with his thin friend beside him. His broad chest and narrow waist showed to advantage. He was a handsome man. Unsmiling, he nodded at her and reluctantly she nodded back.

  Against her will, liquid fire filled her belly. She commanded her body to stop; this man was not for the likes of her, but her body would not listen. She felt a savage desire for him. Had he cast a spell on her?

  As she sang the songs the lord requested she tried to smile in his direction, but she felt so resentful and so confused. When she looked at him the liquid fire crept into her veins, and flowed right down to the tips of her toes and the ends of her fingertips. She felt the heat in her face. Inwardly, she cursed herself.

  When she finished, her cousin, Delilah, climbed on stage beside her and they shook their tambourines to signal that the entertainment was about to change.

  Cambio stroked his guitar. Delilah began the intricate dance steps and after a minute Talaitha joined her. It was a dance their mothers had taught them, but they knew no name for it. Delilah wore a close-fitting green blouse and skirt of multicolored layers and Talaitha, in her deep yellow dress, thought herself no match, but rather a foil to her colorfully attired cousin.

  Might the Gadjo decide he preferred Delilah? Vicious jealousy swept over her—jealousy of Delilah’s generously curvaceous figure and of the grace with which she moved. She glanced over to where the Gadjo stood. He was not looking at Delilah, but at herself. Again, her rebellious body allowed the flames to spread like wildfire through her, but this time she did not fight it.

  Talaitha gave herself to the dance, allowing her unreasonable passion for him to overcome her as she glided and turned, following the steps. She was aware of the sway of her own hips, the twist of her waist, the way her breasts lifted as she took her arms above her head
and touched her fingers to the tambourine.

  She could feel her thighs brush gently one against the other, the delicious slip and slide of her dress against her skin. Even the touch of the frayed silk ribbons of the tambourine against her naked arms was arousing.

  She could feel his eyes devouring her, though she would not, did not, dare look directly at him. She could feel his desire on her skin, on her breasts, even in that most secret part of her between her legs.

  She let her own desire mix with his to move her, to consume her. When she looked out at the audience she saw an answering desire obvious on the face of every man there, and the women’s faces were flushed.

  As the dance climaxed, she felt herself aflame. And then it was over. Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, she and Delilah bowed—no curtsy would be appropriate for a dance like this one—and then ran from the stage.

  “I never saw you—anyone—dance like that,” Delilah said. “Every eye was on you.”

  As Talaitha swiped at the sweat on her brow with her hand, the Gadjo lord’s shadow fell over her.

  He asked solemnly, “May I?” He handed Talaitha a fine white linen handkerchief. She took it before she had a chance to think whether to accept it or not. As she wiped her face with it she remembered that Delilah had once told her that the Gadje believed women should not sweat.

  Too late, she thought, as the linen was now quite limp. And she could not in decency return it, could she?

  Among her people, the Romanichal, sweat—or any bodily secretions, for that matter—was never spoken of. It was something to be kept secret, to be hidden, and here she stood with her own sweat on this Gadjo lord’s handkerchief. She didn’t want to return it damp, as it was now, and yet she was too aware of the Gadje’s opinion that all Romanichal were thieves. If she kept it, would she seem a thief? Or might he think it meant that she wanted a keepsake?