by Arial Burnz
The desire pulsing from her body betrayed her wide-eyed astonishment. “Just who in hell do you think—”
“Tsk, tsk, milady,” he scolded. “What foul language coming from such a tempting mouth.” Broderick admired her lips, full and slightly parted with surprise, and the heat increased between his legs. “Let us forego the charade. ‘Tis obvious you desire me.” He sent a wave of peaceful influence toward her and saw her visibly relax by a small margin. As he learned in the tent, the change must be gradual for her not to resist the seduction.
Davina scooted away from him, trying to take her bedcovers with her, but unable to pull them from under his demanding weight. She huffed and frowned. “You are arrogant to think I want anything to do with you.” Davina deeply inhaled through her nose. Her mouth dropped open. “‘Tis drunk you are!”
Fear filled her eyes and the peace he’d sent her vanished. He concentrated on sending another wave, which she responded to, much to his relief.
Another flutter of laughter rumbled from his chest. “Hardly drunk, but I have been drinking.” He trailed his fingertip down the length of her arm, giving himself the opportunity to touch her, thereby increasing his immortal influence. She shivered and more of the fear melted away. “You forget, the mystic gifts I possess tell me otherwise. I can sense your desire, milady.”
As he closed in, Davina threw a pillow at his face and pushed away. Yet within an instant, Broderick had her back on the bed, pressed beneath his thigh and arm. She struggled to break free, but gained no purchase against him. As he positioned his body over her, he nuzzled her hair away from her ear with his nose and breathed in her scent and warmth, sending more waves of peace and adding to his influence, currents of desire.
A retaliating flood of fear pulsed from her, and a menacing face of some unknown man flashed, before her mind closed like a trap. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. “Please, harm me not.”
Broderick eased down beside her, his leg and arm still holding her to the bed, and stared at her face, her eyes closed tight. She imitated a child trying to wish away a nightmare, reminding him of the freckle-faced lass of his dream. The peaceful seduction he tried to wrap around her faltered under the fear she experienced. His eyebrows knit together and he touched her face. His palm resting against the warmth of her cheek, he brushed his thumb over her full, trembling bottom lip. She shrank from his touch and Broderick felt a stab of regret in his heart. He pulled his leg and arm from her. “Who has taught you to fear such contact?”
Davina pushed out of his embrace and fetched her robe from the settee. Donning the garment for protection, she faced him across the room, her pose regal and defensive. “Are you so audacious and absurd to think I would leap at the opportunity to bed you, after you stole into my private chambers uninvited?” Her voice trembled, and Broderick could feel her efforts at maintaining a strong façade. “You, sir, are not welcome here. Remove yourself at once.” She gave him a final nod to secure her position on the matter.
Broderick rose from the bed, not at all pleased with this outcome. His muscles tensed as he stalked toward her across the room, ready to do what he hoped he didn’t have to. Davina gawked at the ethereal presence he emulated. She stood mesmerized by his actions until he stopped in front of her, his body so close he could feel her warmth. When she stepped back to avoid him, his hands grasped her shoulders, keeping her in place. His gaze locked with hers, he tried one last time to delve into her mind for what he wanted. Nothing. Blackness. A void.
He would have to feed from her.
Closing his eyes, he sent waves of influence, charming her senses. He caressed his lips against her cheek and drew her into his breath. The scent of this woman—a mixture of her blood, her womanly essence and the rose oil she wore—made him drunk with desire. He kissed his mouth over her skin to touch the tip of his tongue against the sweet shell of her ear. The pulsing of her heart, strong and rapid, matched the panting of her breath and pounded against his senses. She moaned and pressed her palms to his chest. The notion of tasting the nectar running through her veins ignited the Hunger and the familiar pain shot across his gums as his fangs extended and his mouth watered.
Chapter Five
Davina started at the sound of the door closing to her chamber. She sat up in bed.
“Forgive me for taking so long, Davina,” Rosselyn said as she headed toward her bedside with a tray of chamomile tea. “Oh, ‘tis fast asleep you were and I woke you. Well, methinks falling asleep won’t be so difficult, after all.”
Davina stared in disbelief at the bedchamber, void of the giant Gypsy, her position in her bed, the covers strangely cool about her body. Why were her covers so cool if she had been lying in bed? Rosselyn set the tray down upon the bedside table, and then proceeded to the hearth to throw a couple of logs onto the burning embers. The growing flicker of firelight cast shadows against the tapestries and fir wood panels on the walls, invading the hovering ambiance of Broderick’s presence. Davina touched her hand to her cheek where she could swear her skin still dewed moist from his hot breath. The incense and unique scent all his own still lingered.
It couldn’t have been a dream! And yet, her chamber seemed as if he had never been there. Not a single trace of him remained, save for his lasting essence she began to believe her mind gave birth to. Here she sat, in her bed, when before she had been across the room in his arms.
“My, Davina, the day looks to have weighed heavily upon you.” Rosselyn sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. “Oh, ‘tis chilled to the bone you are.” She rubbed Davina’s fingers between her warm palms and then put the warm cup of tea in her hands. “Drink this down. I shall put another log on the fire.” Rosselyn kissed Davina’s cheek, and went to the hearth to do as she promised. Her friend rattled on about the evening, telling Davina about her own exciting encounters in the Gypsy camp as she sat on the bed’s edge, ensuring Davina drank her tea. Davina tried to listen to her handmaid talk about a handsome young Gypsy she’d met, and how obvious he was about fancying her, too, but Davina’s mind blurred into numbness. Was she losing her mind? How could she be insane enough to still fantasize about him after his audacious behavior this night on that longed-for encounter? He spoiled everything.
Davina nodded absently at Rosselyn’s storytelling as she sipped her tea.
Broderick crunched the fallen leaves as he strode through the forest on his way back to the Gypsy camp, deep in thought. Davina’s handmaid didn’t seem like she would be leaving anytime soon, so he gave up for the night. He had been poised, fangs distended and the Hunger raging, when someone headed down the hall to Davina’s chamber. In an effort to avoid being caught, he deposited Davina back in bed and pressed his palm against her brow, willing her to forget his exit; leaving her to think she dreamt the encounter—he hoped. He hadn’t time for anything else.
Grunting, he cupped his manhood and adjusted himself under his sporran. The dream he had, their encounter in the tent, and now seeing her in that night dress put Broderick in a constant and unfulfilled state of arousal. Her fear caught him ill-prepared, suggesting she was more the victim than a willing participant. This game he played with Angus may be putting someone innocent in the middle.
He had nothing more to go on than when he’d first come to her tonight…and he clenched his fists at being in another position where Angus used a woman to try to get at him.
The music drifted toward Broderick as he neared the gathered crowd in the middle of the Gypsy camp, the chanting and clapping growing stronger. In the center of the cheering spectators, Amice’s granddaughter, Veronique, swayed her hips to the beat, arched her back and thrust her well-developed breasts forward, tossing her head about, losing herself to the melody and encouragement. Broderick stood at the edge of the circle, his arms crossed and scolding eyes upon her. When the music slowed, she sashayed toward him, her arms beckoning, a smile on her lips and mischief in her brown eyes. Broderick’s mouth twisted with annoyance and he focused on his boots to feign i
nterest in some mark or flaw in the leather, and then back to her again.
Veronique laid her hands upon his chest and stood up on her toes. “Dance with me, Rick,” she taunted and pushed away from him to turn her body in the dance. Her crimson skirt spread out and exposed her bare legs to the chilling night air.
Broderick remained where he stood, his eyes warning her to behave. The crowd encouraged him; the Gypsy men slapping his back in earnest and urging him to enter the circle. Glaring at the men around him, Broderick protested, and Veronique approached him once more. She unfolded his arms and slipped her hands into his, tugging on him, knowing he wouldn’t refuse and humiliate her.
Resisting her, he dragged his feet into the circle and the tempo climbed once more. He half-heartedly clapped and tapped his foot as Veronique twirled about him, touching her hands to his back, then his chest, then his hips. She pressed her back to his, molding her body against him, then pushed away and danced around to face him. Broderick clenched his jaw, his face growing flush. Though Veronique had an enticing body full of youth and energy, she had been the image of a little sister too long for him to feel any attraction toward her. Having his passion still ignited from Davina, though, Veronique’s intimate contact didn’t do much to cool his fevered and unresolved desire.
The music’s exotic beat climbed faster and faster, her body trembling to match the cadence, her eyes locked to Broderick’s; then the music stopped, throwing Veronique to her knees before him, her body arched back as if in offering to him. The crowd exploded into applause and cheers. Broderick helped Veronique to her feet. He turned and stalked away, heading for their caravan.
Seconds later, her hot hand slipped into his, her chest heaving from the exertion of her dance. Broderick could also sense her embarrassment from being abandoned in the circle; but her intense determination dominated such embarrassment. Patting the back of her hand before releasing her, he scowled and said, “Behave, little sister.”
She stopped and punched her fists into her hips. “Petite soeur?” she hissed.
Broderick whirled around and faced her. Before he could utter a scolding word, she leapt into his arms and planted a firm and possessive kiss on his lips. With ease, Broderick pushed her back and gripped her shoulders. “Veronique, Amice will blister your bum. Now behave.”
Veronique giggled and licked her lips with a seductive sweep of her tongue.
Broderick spun her around and swatted her derriere hard enough to make her yelp. “Je vais te donner une fessée!” he said, threatening the same punishment.
Before Broderick disappeared into the caravan to escape from Veronique, Amice emerged from the tent. Though he wished he couldn’t, Broderick heard the exchange in French between Amice and her granddaughter.
“Come here!” Amice ordered. “You are fortunate I did not march into that circle and pull you away, kicking and screaming in front of all those people!”
“Grandmother—!”
“Hush! Broderick is not for you! You are too young for him. You chase after him like a bitch in heat and make a fool of yourself! I will not have any more of this!”
“You know very well he can hear you!” Veronique hissed.
“He can hear you now, so stop your whispering. Go to bed! We have much to do on the morrow and you need your rest.”
Broderick shook his head. Veronique made her attraction toward him very obvious, proving she was more than willing to bed him. He just wished Amice had scolded her at another time. She embarrassed the lass in front of Broderick to teach her a lesson. Broderick didn’t know if such tactics would work with Veronique, and hoped this open reprimand did not encourage her to pursue him even harder just out of rebellion.
Veronique pushed past Broderick as he stepped out of the caravan, and slammed the door behind her. Broderick faced Amice and crossed his arms. That was unnecessary, he told her through a silent communication, implanting his thoughts within her mind so she could hear him.
Amice glared at him. She needs to know where she stands. You do not tell her that. Your gentle rejections only make her more determined.
But embarrassing her is not going to stop her from pursuing me, either. Broderick sighed. She has a childish infatuation for me. Nothing more. She’ll meet another man one day, more her age. She’ll forget about me.
Amice shook her head. No, my son. There you are wrong. She has too much of her mother in her. I have seen this passionate determination before.
Broderick turned away, knowing very well how that situation turned out. The heartbreak of Amice’s daughter was something he did not want to be a part of. You may be wrong about her. Give her time.
A heavy sigh weighted upon the old woman and she said aloud, “Think what you wish, my son, but I know different.”
Heading toward the woods, Broderick stomped away from the camp, not wanting to be around the tension in the air—from both the caravan where Veronique slammed and punched cabinets, as well as Amice, cleaning up the tent for the morrow’s preparations.
In the isolation of the forest, he stood in the darkness—eyes closed, head back, arms out—and inhaled a deep breath of frosty evening air. The cold of winter drew near, and Broderick embraced these longer nights approaching. The summers left him little time to experience the world around him. Winter gave him the opportunity to revel in his immortality. Opening his eyes and dropping his arms, he stared up at the sliver of a moon in the blackened sky. Would she look the same in a hundred years? Would she be faithful and follow him through the coming centuries? The corner of his mouth turned up.
You may be the only one, my Goddess, who would be true. Always loving. Always there. Always watching over me.
Shaking his head, he sighed and observed the camp. Though Veronique may accept everything about Broderick, she gave in too easily to her emotions. Upset her too much, and she could be a handful. He released a soft, reflective laugh. He didn’t think he could handle a few years of that, let alone a span of centuries. They were not compatible. This was all just a childhood infatuation for her, in spite of what Amice told him. He refused to believe she would follow the path her mother did. Given time, Veronique would lose interest in him if he remained consistent with his rejections. She would eventually see reason.
* * * * *
“Whatever you’re doing, Rosselyn,” Seamus said as he trailed behind her determined pace, “be quick about your deeds. I have too many things to buy at the market this day to waste time at a Gypsy camp.” He snorted. “And extra honey to purchase to satisfy a sweet tooth.”
Rosselyn snickered over Seamus’s grumbling as they made their way into the camp, the sun rising in the late morning over the forest tree tops. Seamus shook a scolding finger at Rosselyn and continued his complaining. “She has a jar of her own honey and enough to keep any normal person happy for at least a month! But not Mistress Davina! She finishes the entire jar in half the time!”
Rosselyn rolled her eyes. “You know why she does it, Seamus. Can you not be somewhat sympathetic to her plight?” Seamus had the decency to look ashamed, and nodded. Stopping at the edge of the camp, she scanned the area. “Over there,” she said, pointing.
As they passed a merchant arranging his jewelry upon a gray, wool blanket on the ground, he leapt to his feet and intercepted them. “Ah! You come to buy my jewelry!” He took Rosselyn’s hand, leading her to the bulk of his treasures. “I have a beautiful necklace of peridot to match your golden eyes!”
“Nay, thank you.” She pulled away from him and glanced at Seamus’s impatient glare. “We seek the fortune teller. He’s a large man with red hair and—”
“What would you want with him?”
Rosselyn turned to a dark-haired Gypsy, who stepped from behind a blue-painted caravan and appraised her with his black eyes. Her heart skipped at the sight of his handsome features and olive skin. “Nicabar,” she breathed and stepped toward him.
His graceful, trim form stepped forward and he bowed a greeting. With a seductive sparkl
e in his eyes, he sauntered toward her, stopping just close enough for her to want to reach out and touch, yet too far away from her body to do so. “Rosselyn,” he whispered in return. His eyes roamed over her figure, bringing heat to her skin everywhere his gaze touched. His delicious Spanish accent sent flutters through her belly. “The giant dukker is a strange man of dark secrets, not someone you should seek.” With a raised eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turned up in a devilish smile. “But my warnings may not deter a woman such as you, with fire in her eyes and passion in her heart.” He closed the distance. “Pursuing a mysterious stranger may be exactly what you seek.”
Seamus made a dramatic display of clearing his throat. “Rosselyn?”
Rosselyn pursed her lips at the dapifer as he spoiled the mood. She returned her attention to the handsome man before her.
Nicabar chuckled at Seamus and shook his head. “His tent is there, mi dulce,” Nicabar pointed over her shoulder. “You will not find him there, though. He never returns until nightfall.”
“Nightfall? Why?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Odd hours indeed, but necessary. The old woman reads during the day and he relieves her at night.”
Rosselyn thanked him and departed with hesitation, staring at the dark Gypsy over her shoulder before she tore her gaze away and caught up with Seamus, who already headed for the fortune teller’s tent. A small fire burned within a circle of stones and the old woman, Amice, stepped out of the tent dressed in a rainbow of colors. “Ah, you have come to have your palm read!” She reached for Seamus.
Seamus jumped away and clutched his hand to his chest. “Rosselyn, I have no time for mystic diversions.”
“Everyone has time to indulge in their fantasies, monsieur,” Amice said, taking Seamus by the hand and pulling him into the tent after her.
Rosselyn stifled her laughter behind her hands. Seamus’s protests sounded from the tent, but the old Gypsy won with a noisy babble of French. Rosselyn waited with a smile, craning her neck to hear the mumbling of the fortune being told. Seamus emerged from the tent with a sheepish grin, trailing Amice behind him.