Fire Lily (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  “Please.” The violin player held out the instrument. “Be my guest.”

  “Well … I …”

  “Yes, I’d like to hear you play,” Lily said, and only then realized how much she meant it. While the trio’s music had been lively and homespun, Lily had a feeling Griffon’s music would be melancholy and exotic.

  Griffon shrugged. “Very well. But don’t expect too much. You should know by now, Lily, that Zar tends to exaggerate.”

  “Not about this,” Balthazar insisted.

  Griffon stood and removed his jacket. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his white, gauzy shirt. Taking hold of the violin, he tested its strings, listening for perfect tonation. He adjusted one string, then tucked the violin under his chin and placed the pads of his fingers upon the frets ever so gingerly. In the other hand he held the bow between thumb and forefinger as if it were made of spun glass. His heavy gold ring caught at the lantern light overhead.

  Lily held her breath, waiting for the first notes. The room was silent, as if everyone dared not breathe. The bow stroked the strings and the notes were born and took wing, soaring into a tune of romance that squeezed the heart.

  She was immediately swept up in it. Memories of Gypsy tales, campfires, and folklore trailed through her mind. She glanced at Orrie, but Orrie had eyes only for Balthazar, so Lily returned her rapt attention to Griffon. While she’d known of his ancestry, this was the first time she’d seen him wear it so boldly. He fit her imagination’s portrait of a Gypsy wanderer down to the smallest detail—that circlet of gold glinting in his earlobe.

  Never had she seen anyone play an instrument with such passion, such verve. He poured his soul into it. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. He tossed his head, trying to fling a thick curl of hair off his forehead, but the lock proved tenacious. With his hair in his eyes and his skin glowing with the sheen of exertion, he exercised a wizard’s skill. Lily’s heart hammered and her palms became moist. She tucked her fists beneath her chin and hunched her shoulders as delicious chills raced up her arms and across her breasts.

  Griffon’s expression told the story of love found and love lost. He took a few steps in her direction until he was standing directly in front of her. She saw that his lashes were wet, his eyes luminous, as he caressed the final stanzas from the violin strings. The notes quivered, sobbed, cried. The final chord hung in the air and then diminished by degrees into silence.

  The other musicians broke into spontaneous applause. Griffon handed over the violin reluctantly, and its owner patted him on the back.

  “Where’d you learn to play like that?” the other man asked.

  “On my grandfather’s knee,” Griffon answered, affording the man a mere glance. His gaze rested on Lily and asked for her approval.

  “Wonderful,” she whispered, letting her hands float back down to her lap. “I’ve never heard such music before. It seemed to have a life of its own. So sad … so fraught with emotion.” Only a man of depth could conjure up such sounds, she thought, gaining insight to the one standing before her, legs braced apart, black hair hanging in damp curls across his forehead.

  “You a Gypsy fella?” the youngest of the trio asked.

  “Yes,” Griffon answered, but kept his gaze on Lily.

  Receiving his sole attention unnerved her, and she glanced sideways to find that Orrie and Balthazar were no longer seated at the table. She looked around the dining room, finding them nowhere in sight.

  “They slipped away,” Griffon said. “Perhaps they went upstairs.”

  “How could they leave? I was spellbound. A fire couldn’t have budged me from this chair.”

  “I believe the dining room is closing.”

  “Oh.” Lily stood, flustered by the tumult of her feelings.

  “May I see you upstairs?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She allowed him to take her hand and tuck it in the crook of his elbow. “You’ll be leaving quite early, I imagine.”

  “Just after sunrise.”

  “And when will you return?”

  “The next afternoon. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Lily made no comment. She climbed the stairs beside him as a plan formed in her mind. She’d toyed with it through dinner, hardly listening to the conversation flowing around her. Whether Griffon agreed to it or not, she fully intended to go to Devil’s Den tomorrow. She hoped to obtain his permission, but she certainly didn’t require it. However, the ride would be ever so much more pleasant if they could all travel together, instead of her and Orrie having to trail behind, keeping out of sight.

  “Good night, Lily.” Griffon seemed uncommonly courteous.

  “Good night.” Lily wanted to waylay him, but words failed her. She knew he was waiting for her to go inside her room before he retired to his, so she bobbed a curtsy and crossed the threshold.

  The room was dark. Lily felt her way to the bedside table and the oil lamp. “Orrie?” she whispered, running her hand across the bed where the woman should be slumbering. “Orrie?”

  The wick lit and cast a glow, showing Lily that she was alone. Crossing to the window, she looked out in search of the familiar figure. The pale moonlight illuminated the street below. Orrie and Balthazar strolled arm in arm down the center of it. Lily sucked in her breath when Orrie tipped her head to rest it against Balthazar’s shoulder. On a public street, no less!

  “Uncle Howard and Aunt Nan would give you a tongue-lashing if they could see you now,” Lily whispered to Orrie’s distant figure. “And if I’d done such a thing, why, you’d never let me hear the end of it!”

  Lily turned slowly from the window and stared in the general direction of Griffon’s room. Orrie’s suggestion about treating Griffon more sweetly drifted back to her. Could she entice him to take her with him tomorrow? Would she dare?

  She moved briskly from her room to his and tapped smartly on the door. It was ajar and opened under the slight pressure. Lily swallowed hard as the muscles in her throat contracted.

  “Griffon? I spotted our companions outside. Would you like to—” The rest of the words failed her, stolen by the realization that Griffon’s shirt hung unbuttoned, exposing a darkly furred chest. “Ex-excuse me.”

  “No need to apologize. You’re always welcome in my room.” His smile teased her. He propped his fists on his hips, his arms sweeping back his shirt to expose even more of himself. “What were you saying?”

  “N-nothing.” She found she couldn’t concentrate; her thoughts scattered like dandelion fluff. She’d only seen such masculine beauty carved in marble and displayed in museums. But this was no statue before her. He stood close enough that she could smell his musky scent. A queer sensation corkscrewed in her stomach, not unpleasant, not unexpected.

  “Don’t worry about Orrie. She’s a grown woman. Zar’s courting her, and I believe Orrie likes the attention.” His heavy-lidded eyes explored her. “Mutual attraction has its advantages.”

  “How’s that?” Lily asked, finding nerve enough to look at him again.

  He ran one hand absently down his chest to his flat stomach. “It is easier to milk a cow that holds still. That’s an old Gypsy proverb.” He gestured toward the lamp table and chairs near the window. “Besh.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sit. Please.” He gestured again, and smiled this time.

  “No, I should—can’t.” But at the door, she hesitated and turned back to him, suddenly remembering her mission. How would Cecille handle this man? she wondered. In the inconstant light from the oil lamp, he seemed ethereal, a vision from one of Orrie’s tales. The memory of his searing kiss flooded her mind, reminding her that she could arouse him. But could she control him?

  He made an impatient sign. “In or out? Make up your mind, Lily.”

  “You speak the Gypsy language?” she asked, blurting the first thing that came to her while she bartered for time. “You’re fluent?”

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “Anyway I used to be fluent. I
t was my first language. I speak Rom rarely these days, so I’m probably rusty.”

  “Say something for me in Gypsy—Rom.” Lily offered a smile, remembering that Cecille usually flattered a man until he was dizzy-headed with his own self-importance. “I think it’s wonderful that you know more than one language, and the Gypsy tongue sounds lovely. So romantic.”

  “Gorgios usually think so.” He noticed her confusion. “Outside the Rom. Outsiders,” he translated. “You all think our speech is pretty, that we’re fascinating creatures, but you don’t want us to get too close. We’re creatures, after all. Animals.”

  Lily shook her head. This certainly wasn’t going according to plan. In fact, he seemed to be on the brink of anger, just the opposite of where she wanted him.

  “When I was a tikno I learned to use the Rom to my advantage. My mother taught me. She taught me to beg. She’d say, ‘Leave the white people alone, child. Don’t ask them for money or food. They can’t be bothered by the likes of you.’ Then she’d say, ‘Mong, chavo, mong,’ which means, ‘Beg, boy, beg!’ ” He laughed, but the sound held little humor.

  “Your mother taught you to beg?” Lily asked, appalled.

  “My mother and grandmother taught me many things. I could dukker the vast with the best of them.”

  “Dukker the…?”

  “Read fortunes,” he clarified, holding out one hand, palm up. “I could see the future in these lines and creases. And, of course, that became my downfall. I was too good at it. I scared my own people. They cast me out.” He stared at his palm, dropping into a moody silence. He ran his other hand up and down his chest in a lazy motion that awakened something primal in Lily. “We were close—my clan was all I knew. Then suddenly they turned their backs on me and I was utterly alone.” His voice dipped, grew more hoarse than usual. “I remember the cold … and the hunger in my belly.”

  Lily sank her teeth gently in her lower lip. Her heart ached for the frightened boy he’d been. She wanted to tell him that she knew what it was like to be shunned by those who were supposed to love you, but then he blinked several times and cleared his throat, breaking the mood.

  “So, you like cigannyal mulatni?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. What’s that?”

  He pondered the question. “How do you say … dancing with Gypsies … no, reveling with Gypsies. You like that?”

  “I … I can’t say. I’ve only heard about them or … or seen them from afar. I never really knew any.”

  “You do now.” Then, with one long stride his body came against hers. Flattening his hand against the door, he closed it. Lily looked up into his slumberous blue eyes and wondered when he’d turned the tables on her. “Such hair. The Gypsy word for it is bal.” When he said the foreign word his breath came with it to caress her face. It smelled of brandy and sweet seduction. He reached behind her and plucked a comb from the russet mass before she could stop him. “Like autumn leaves. Dark fire. Beautiful.”

  She shied from him, twisting away and ducking under his arm. Lily clung to the bedpost, her knees shaking. Just who was enticing whom? She gathered her senses and strove to take control of the situation again. Flattery, she reminded herself. Drown him in flattery.

  “You—your hair is beautiful, too. It’s like midnight without stars or moon. And your eyes are a fetching color of—”

  His hand settled over hers on the bedpost. He circled her waist with his free arm and trapped her against him. Lily’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t even swallow.

  “What’s the word for … for nose?” she babbled, finding her mind scrambled with him so near.

  “Nak.” He rubbed her lips apart with his thumb and touched her teeth. “And these are dand. Your face—your lovely, flushed face—is mui.” His lips bussed her hot cheek. “I know the Gypsy words for all the parts of the body. Want me to continue?”

  “No … no.” She laughed lightly, haltingly. “Thank you, though.”

  “Nais tuke. Thank you.” He smiled and dipped his head. His mouth found a spot just beneath her ear. One by one, her combs slipped free and fell to the bed. Her hair cascaded to her shoulders in curling profusion. Griffon combed his fingers through it, then lifted one strand to his nose.

  “Ummm,” he growled. “I bet you smell this good all over.”

  “We make quite a pair, don’t we?” she murmured, enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin.

  “You’re so beautiful tonight. While I played the violin, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Your skin glowed. Your eyes spoke of love to me. You wanted me then. Do you want me now?”

  Lily steeled herself against the longing churning in her and kept her objective front and center. “It’s a pity we must be apart.”

  “This”—he brought her more firmly against him—“is not apart.”

  ‘No, but we shall be separated tomorrow and the next day.”

  “That’s tomorrow. What about tonight?”

  Lily gathered her nerve and pushed her fingers through his hair, lifting his head so that she could see his face. “How can you leave me behind? Don’t you think you should reconsider?”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Maybe I should.”

  She smiled, relieved that her feminine wiles were up to the challenge. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d tried to put stars in a man’s eyes.

  Rising on tiptoe, she whispered close to his ear. “Take me with you and I’ll make you ever so glad you did.”

  He tipped his head sideways, giving her a peculiar look. “Lily Meeker, what are you up to?”

  “I’m trying to make you see how much more enjoyable the trip will be with me along.”

  “You’d let me sport with you?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She ran her fingertips across his shoulders. His arms tightened like bands of iron around her waist. “You do something for me”—she smiled suggestively—“and I do something for you.”

  “We’re talking about making love, yes? You’d remove your clothes, I’d remove mine, and I’d fondle your breasts and—”

  “Hush!” Blood scalded her cheeks and she pushed at his arms, trying to break his hold. He let her go and his shoulders shook with laughter. Lily smoothed wisps of hair from her hot face. “That is no way to talk to me and you know it! I’m not … not common!”

  “I do believe you’re trying to turn my head. Are you? Is that what this is all about?”

  She glared at him, then gathered her hair combs off his bed. “You’re the Great Goforth. Read my mind.”

  “I don’t have to. You’re transparent.”

  Lily couldn’t tolerate him laughing at her. She threw the hair combs at him, so furious she couldn’t control her fit of temper. He turned a cheek and they bounced harmlessly off him.

  “Stop this foolishness and tell me the truth.” He collected the combs, grabbed one of her fists, and pried her fingers open to receive them. “Why are you so desperate to go with us tomorrow that you’ll make promises you have no intention of keeping?”

  Reluctantly, she brought her gaze to his, knowing she was bested in this battle of wills. “I just know Cecille is there—in that Devil’s Den country. I want to see her. That boy—Jasper—he likes me. I can get him to tell me where to find Cecille. I’ll be more use to you there than here.”

  He smoothed his fingertips down her cheek. “If Cecille is there, I will find her and bring her to you.” He pressed his fingertip to her lips, preventing her next words. “Zar told me that I wouldn’t be able to think clearly with you along, and he’s right. It might be dangerous out there, Lily, and I won’t be able to concentrate if I fear for your safety.”

  She jerked her mouth away from his damming finger. “Oh, posh! You sound as if you’re marching off to war.”

  He smiled. “Will you keep a candle burning in the window for this soldier?”

  “Certainly not! I’ll go back to Fort Smith before I keep vigil for the likes of you. I think you’re vile.”

&
nbsp; He searched her face with an intensity that sent an uneasiness through her, then he shook his head. “No, you don’t.” With that, he took her by the elbow and steered her to the door. “Good evening, Lily. See you again in a couple of days. Stay out of trouble, won’t you.” His mouth came down hard on hers as he stole a kiss from her. Before she could slap him, the door closed in her face. His laughter floated to her in the hallway.

  “Go ahead and gloat, Mr. Goforth. Enjoy your meager victory while you may!” She whirled, skirts billowing, and went to her own room. The door slammed behind her with a satisfying boom. Lily folded her arms tightly against her rib cage, warding off her seething anger at being laughed at, at being treated like a child, at her own failing. She should have known better than to try and be coy with him. Batting her lashes and fashioning inane bits of flattery were as foreign to her as a sidesaddle was to a cow.

  Setting aside her anger, she busied herself with packing her bedroll. Tonight he’d been the victor, she thought, then smiled slyly. But tomorrow’s spoils would belong to her.

  Chapter 8

  Lily tugged on the reins and brought the buggy to a stop beside the two horses tethered beneath a weeping willow. Saddles and blankets were nowhere in sight, and Lily assumed they’d been hidden somewhere close by.

  “Where do you reckon they got to?” Orrie asked beside her. “Think they stopped to rest?”

  “I believe they’ve gone on afoot.” Lily maneuvered the buggy closer to the grazing horses and set the brake. “Help me unharness the team. We’ll leave them with these others.”

  Orrie stared at her, dumbstruck. “You’re not figuring to follow them on foot into the woods!”

  “Griffon and Balthazar have obviously forsaken their mounts, and so shall we. We haven’t any choice, Orrie. As you can see, the woods are quite thick here. We couldn’t get the buggy through.” Lily bent at the waist to peer into the tangle of leaves and branches. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this road meanders into nothing a few yards ahead.”

  Orrie remained in the buggy even as Lily lighted from it. “I’m not about to tramp through that wilderness. And neither are you. I won’t allow it. I’m your chaperone, and I got to watch out for you.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “We’ll wait right here for them.”