A Forbidden Love

by Alexandra Benedict

  Setting her own tea aside, she reached for the plate of food. “It’s as rich in there”—she indicated to the privy—“as it is out here.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She sounded incredulous as she dipped into her eggs, mumbling, “There’s a fireplace next to the tub. It’s no bush in the woods.”

  The tea skewed down the wrong passage. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

  Oblivious to his throat clearing, she wondered aloud, a wistful note to her voice, “It must be nice taking a bath in winter with a fire raging nearby.”

  He silently admitted the thought had never crossed his mind, but he assumed it was indeed more comfortable.

  “Aren’t you going to have breakfast with your family?” she wondered next.

  He shook his head. “Ashley will look after any questions regarding my absence, but with the house in an abhorrent state of uproar, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that no one took heed of my empty chair.”

  “You hate balls?”

  “I despise disorderly conduct. Just the sight of all those bustling bodies, aimlessly scurrying from room to room, gives me an excruciating headache. I prefer to be as little troubled as possible.”

  “Then why trouble with me?”

  He could feel those beautiful blue eyes carving up his soul in meticulous assessment, burrowing past his defenses, rousing within him what he was trying so hard to suppress.

  “There’s nothing cryptic about it,” he said. “I simply deal with trouble as it finds me.”

  “So I was trouble?”

  “I believe that label is more fitting for your assailants.”

  She nodded, her gaze averted to her plate, her voice taking on a more timid quality. “And does trouble often find you?”

  His smile was suggestive, his response more oblique. “Not too often.”

  She said nothing more on the matter and returned to her breakfast. He studied her for a while, casually drinking his tea, admiring her like a work of art. His eyes didn’t skip over a single detail, from the lone freckle on her neck to a short, stray lock of hair that curled under to tickle her chin. She was charming. She was lovely. She was every bit an alluring nymph…And she was in his bed.

  He took in a deep breath. He would conquer this. He was strong enough to resist the nymph’s enchanting call.

  But the more he admired her, the more he felt like a jewel thief in the royal vault, appointed to be his own sentry.

  Into the stretching silence he heard a throat clear, followed by a hesitant, “Um, how old is your youngest sister?”

  Good. A wholesome question. He needed a sound kick in the arse, a blow to rattle and realign his scattered senses. “Cecelia will be seventeen on the day of her ball.”

  “And she is now being prepared for a husband?”

  “Is she too young by gypsy standards?”

  She scooped up another mouthful of egg and swallowed. “Too old.”

  “At what age do you marry?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “That’s quite young.” And then his brows lifted at the prospect. “You must be near Cecelia’s age. Are you married?”

  She shook her head in response. “I’m one year older than your sister, but I’m not wed. The council of elders decided nothing should interfere with my training as a healer, even a husband.”

  “And when does your training come to an end?”

  “It already has.”

  “So you’ll be married soon?”

  “In about a fortnight.”

  The teacup hovering near his lips struck the saucer with a faint clink. For some daft reason, he was annoyed to hear of her upcoming nuptials, and to dislodge the aberrant thought from his mind, he gave his head a rapid shake. Didn’t do much good, though, the inexplicable irritation still lingered.

  He set the china on the nightstand. “Who are you marrying?”

  “My cousin, Istvan.”

  She said it so calmly, so indifferently, and certainly with none of the enthusiasm he’d expect from a prospective bride, that he had to wonder, “Do you love him?”

  She shrugged.

  “Then why marry the man?”

  “Because the council has arranged our union.”

  A betrothal! So that was the culprit of her apathetic disposition. He could certainly sympathize. What a ghastly fate to be reduced to.

  “Does your council of elders decide your future entirely?”

  She nodded. “The elders must keep tradition. Because my father is the tribal leader, and I his only child, it’s fitting that I marry my eldest cousin, who is destined to be the next tribal guardian.”

  “I see.” Though a betrothal was not unheard of by any means, it was increasingly scarce in his sphere of company. Granted, a lady may not have complete autonomy in the choice of her husband, but she certainly had a say and could reject a suitor. Anthony knew as a certainty his father would never force Cecelia to marry a man for whom she had no regard, even if social rank and income were highly desirable. Then again Cecelia would never rebuff a gentleman of impeccable breeding, but that was a moot point. That his sister had the option to first set her cap on a potential beau was the issue. That Sabrina had not the same option was a little unsettling. But then, she was not a noble lady and thus afforded any of the privileges that accompany the title. Still, being a gypsy, wandering the countryside as a way of life, he’d expected her to have greater freedom when it came to formalizing a lifelong union.

  “And you have no voice in such matters?” he wondered.

  “I must honor the will of my people, as you must honor yours one day.”

  “Yes, but unlike you, I will have the freedom to choose my partner in life.”

  She set her empty plate aside and retrieved her tea, her voice surprisingly flat considering the prediction she was about to impart. “I have already foreseen your future wife.”

  He crooked an intrigued brow. “Prophetic and a healer? Very well, Sabrina, who will be my prospective bride?”

  “A rich, titled gaji, respected by your people.”

  He felt that prophecy to be rather obvious. “Is there any other option?”

  “You could marry a peasant.”

  Anthony looked at her, aghast, searching her features for signs of humor. But he found none. “That’s preposterous!”

  “So your wife must bring honor to your family?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then you are not truly free to choose anyone for your bride.”

  His expression grew thoughtful. “A man unwittingly in chains?”

  “Those chains bind us all. I could never marry a man not of gypsy blood or I would be cast away forever.”

  “Complete expulsion? Rather harsh, is it not?”

  “To bring a gajo into the tribe would taint the purity of gypsy blood. It is forbidden.”

  He offered a sympathetic nod. “That code of conduct certainly sounds familiar. It looks as though our worlds are not so very different after all.” A short pause, then, “Would you ever leave your world?”

  Their eyes met. Hers, a deep sea blue, darkened like a brewing tempest, drawing him into their stormy depths.

  “To leave my family means never to return.” She went to set the china on the nightstand, the teacup faintly rattling against the porcelain saucer. “I couldn’t bear that.”

  Anthony nodded and lifted out of his chair. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked the ridiculous question in the first place. He only knew her answer had triggered an unpleasant sensation to swirl in his gut.

  “Why don’t you get some rest.” He recovered the compress still saturating in the basin, squeezing it firmly before setting it over her brow. “I’ll wake you for luncheon.”

  Chapter 7

  L uncheon was almost upon them and Sabrina had yet to get any sleep. She’d spent the remaining morning with her eyes closed, pretending to rest, though her mind was anything but at ease.

  Anthony shuffled the papers on his writing
desk, disturbing her thoughts, forever reminding her where she was and who was her caretaker. Each time he rustled a sheet, or shifted in his chair, she lifted her lashes to study his broad back, his arm teetering gently, as he scribbled away on the parchment or dipped his quill in the inkwell.

  Her eyes skipped over his large frame and peered out through the row of tall windows to the cloudy sky beyond. The viscount had an unnerving effect on her. She didn’t like to admit it, but the fluttering sensations in her belly made it difficult to ignore. It was ridiculous really, that the paltry and unintentional gestures of a lingering look or the mere touch of his hand should incite such peculiar jitters. But they did. And she tried to dismiss the wayward responses as quickly as they came, believing them the muddled results of her head injury and nothing more. She met with ill victory, though. Dismissing Anthony from her mind would prove to be far more complicated than mere reasoning alone.

  She let out a faint sigh, careful not to attract the man’s attention toward the bed. To look into his gem-green eyes at that point would only fan her irrational nerves further. And they were irrational. Weren’t they?

  Sabrina delved deep into her troubled thoughts, searching for a more practical reason for her pulsating innards. And then it came to her. Perhaps her nerves were on edge because of the feelings Anthony had stirred within her. Feelings of anxiety…and guilt.

  It made more sense now, the tight thrumming of her heart whenever the viscount drew near. It was the man’s bewildered expression, his insistence to know why she was marrying her cousin, that had her all quivering inside.

  Lids heavy with shame, she closed her eyes. She had asked herself that very same rebellious question once before: Why did she have to marry her cousin Istvan? But she had felt guilty for even thinking it. She had to marry her cousin. Promised to each other five years ago, their marriage was postponed until her training in herbal lore was complete. That training at an end, she now had a duty to fulfill. If she didn’t marry Istvan, it would disgrace her father. And she would never do anything to hurt such a proud and wonderful man. Her obligation was clear…and yet, her dormant doubts were roused again. She thought she had reconciled herself to her wifely fate, but apparently she had not or she wouldn’t be feeling such absurd jitters.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Her gloomy thoughts disbanded at the sound of a guttural voice. She looked over to find Anthony had risen from his chair and was studying her intently from across the room. She didn’t like it when he looked at her in that way. With such…fire in his eyes. She didn’t like it at all. And then it happened again. The flurry of sensations mounted in her belly.

  Anthony advanced toward the bed and she became tenser with each step he took. He slumped a shoulder against the bedpost, the structure quivering in response to his weight.

  “Well?” came the rumbled query.

  Well what? Had he asked her something? She quickly thought back. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said hastily, indicating otherwise, which he was quick to pick up on.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “No.”

  A blond brow lifted in obvious disbelief.

  “I feel fine,” she insisted.

  He stepped away from the bedpost and went down on one knee, so close to her, she could smell the musk of his hair and feel his warm breath tingle her flesh as he exhaled.

  Goose pimples broke out all over her skin. But she wasn’t cold. If anything, she was stifled under the blankets, though she didn’t dare kick them off.

  He reached for her. Instinct intervened and she jerked away—too quickly. The spasms erupted in her neck. She hissed at the painful contractions.

  Anthony tisked. “I only wanted to remove the compress.”

  And he did just that, taking the moist cloth from her forehead and dropping it into the basin next to the bed.

  Serves her right, she supposed, for allowing her ridiculous jitters to rule her senses like that.

  She reached for her neck, but his hand was there first, diving through the mess of her untamed hair, making its way over to her throbbing muscles. She stiffened at his powerful touch. But her nerves soon gave way to the pleasurable feel of his warm fingers rocking back and forth, his palm rising and falling, his grip tightening.

  Her eyes fluttered closed. The man had a masterful touch, so soothing, so disarming. In slow, circular movements, his fingertips kneaded, the heat building on her skin, her body sinking into peaceful oblivion.

  Her jitters were back, only this time more profound. And she couldn’t help but reflect that there was something odd about the man. It had to be his character. She found it off-putting. A dutiful aristocrat she could fathom, but beyond that, she found undue empathy and consideration far-reaching. Anthony should more closely resemble his prim and guarded sister. But he was nothing like his twin. He was nothing like any gajo she had ever met before—or any gypsy.

  “Do you feel better?”

  The gruffness of his voice jostled her from her languid daze. Her eyes snapped open to connect with his. Those passionate green orbs seemed to dance with energy, and she found herself sighing again for no known reason.

  She nodded.

  Anthony gently withdrew his fingers to avoid the tangles in her hair, and she was conscious, all of a sudden, that her hair was in a frightful state. What a ghastly sight she must be!

  “What was that melody you were humming by the stream?”

  She quickly brought to order her scattered wits. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was only curious. The tune still plays in my mind and I’d like to give it a name.”

  “It has no name. None known to me,” she corrected in a weak voice. “I heard it as a child.”

  “Who sang it to you?”

  Ebony lashes sunk like wilted rose petals. “I can’t say.”

  “And why not?”

  “It is forbidden to speak of the dead.”

  There was a short pause, then, “Why?”

  More questions? More poking and prodding into her life? She should be asking him that very question. Why? Why did he care to know anything about her?

  Her heart was thumping, loud and fierce. “Because a ghost can return from the beyond and cause mischief if summoned by name.”

  “And you are afraid of ghosts?”

  She couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and looked away. “I would not be afraid of this one…but it is still forbidden.”

  When another pause settled between them, she thought perhaps Anthony had lost interest in the subject. But he soon offered her a suggestion that had her heart knocking a bit faster.

  “Then whisper the name quietly so the ghost cannot hear.”

  He smiled when he said it. Such a beautiful smile meant to disguise such a devious suggestion. To break away from tradition? Could she really do such a thing? Sabrina longed to say the name. It had been so many years since she’d spoken it aloud.

  Although she couldn’t bring herself to say the name outright, she did admit it was her mother who had sung her the lullaby.

  “When did she die?” he asked.

  “Eight years ago.”

  She sighed, relief sweeping over her. It felt so good to speak of her mother again.

  “How did your mother die?”

  “Sickness took her away.”

  He nodded. “So you decided to become a healer.”

  She blinked at the concept. “It is my destiny,” she repeated softly.

  His voice was just as soft. “I think you had a hand in that destiny.”

  Those deep green eyes seemed to melt into her. The fluttering sensation in her belly was back, more overwhelming than ever. Anthony could bring peace or chaos to her heart at any given moment. She never knew which. Nor did she understand why he found anything about her ordinary life even remotely interesting. Now she had her curiosities about him, but the man claimed to be her protector, so her interest in him was natural. But he had no such reason to care anything about her. And other than
the occasional inquiry into her health, he didn’t need to speak with her at all.

  There was a light rap at the door.

  Sabrina twitched at the abrupt sound, for it was more akin to a blast in her tightly wound state.

  She watched, leery eyed, as a lingering Anthony finally rose from his knee and headed for the entrance. She took that moment to compose her befuddled senses before Ashley bustled inside the chamber.

  “I have the apple cider and vinegar.”

  The woman set the vials on the writing desk, along with a tray of food, pushing aside the parchment her brother had written upon, sparing it a curious glance.

  “To whom are you writing, Anthony?”

  He closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “To my butler in London.”

  “But you will see him in a few days.”

  “No, I won’t. I intend to escort Sabrina home.”

  A quick glimpse toward the said patient, and Ashley returned her attention to her twin. She didn’t respond to her brother’s intended detour, though the tightening of her lips revealed her opinion of the excursion.

  “You had best get below and join the others for luncheon,” suggested his sister.

  He shook his head. “I cannot leave Sabrina unattended.”

  “I will attend her.”

  Sabrina stiffened at the prospect of being left alone with Ashley.

  “Forget it, Ash,” he said. “You go ahead and make my excuses, as usual.”

  “Anthony, if you don’t make at least one appearance before the ball, Mama will be beyond herself with worry.”

  “I often skip meals when Cecilia is in the room. Mother is perfectly aware I can’t stand to listen to anymore drivel over debutante details.”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t expect you to avoid all meals! She’ll panic if she thinks you’re ill and cannot attend the ball. And she will search the entire house for you.”

  “All right.” He sighed in defeat and approached the bed, offering the occupant a rueful expression. “I must go below. But you will be safe in here with Ashley.”

  Sabrina doubted his conviction, but restrained her qualms and merely nodded in response.