Taken by the Wicked Rake

by Christine Merrill

  He stepped away and released her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. But his angry expression was gone, replaced by momentary surprise and then a satisfied grin. He stared at her and reached up to touch his own lips protectively, as though she had been the aggressor and he the innocent victim of her lust.

  Her fists balled at her sides, rage towards him mingling with the shame of knowing that they had been observed. She looked at the people gathered in groups around her, longing to see a friendly face. If there was someone who was at least willing to speak English in her presence, then maybe they could talk reason to the dark man in front of her. But there was nothing but curiosity in the faces of the on lookers.

  ‘We will go to the vardo, now.’ Her captor’s smile had changed. It was a knowing look, the smirk of a conqueror.

  The crowd around them stilled, as though she were nothing more than a player on a stage and they were as eager to see what would happen next. There was no indication that they would help her if she asked, or intervene in any cruelty that the Gypsy might inflict on her. Her struggles would be further amusement for the tribe, and would take from her what last bit of dignity she might possess. So she looked at the man in front of her, and said clearly, so that all might hear, ‘You will be sorry for this. I swear.’

  And her few words seemed to be more than enough to satisfy them. Although her enemy was unmoved, the others looked away, fearing to meet her gaze. She saw a flurry of hand signals, as some people around her threw up wards against her, while others fumbled in pockets and at throats, reaching for talismans or lucky pieces.

  And then, the fearsome Stephano Beshaley flinched. She was sure that his reaction was in voluntary, and so swift that he did not realize he had done it. But for a moment, he looked as shocked and as pained as if she had slapped him hard upon the face. Then he blinked, and formed his hand into a fist, before flexing the fingers.

  She thought for a moment that he meant to strike her for her impudence. But then she noticed the bandage wrapping the hand, and it seemed that his movements had more to do with the injury than any threat to her.

  It made her smile to think that she could turn their Gypsy superstitions so easily against them. And so it would be with the curse against her family. She would find a weakness and exploit it, giving him more reason to fear and obey her than to follow the mad ravings of his long-dead mother.

  If she lost her honour tonight, so be it. She would keep her self-respect, and do nothing to jeopardize her immediate safety. And she would survive to make this man pay for what he had done to her. She turned and walked ahead of Stephano Beshaley, toward the vardo.

  When they entered the wagon, he reached be hind her to shut the door, and she heard a bolt slide into place. Did he find it necessary to protect himself against his own people? More like, he knew that she could not open the door while he slept without his hearing the click of the lock. He could easily stop any escape attempts.

  He had gone to the other side of the wagon and pulled off his jacket, draping it over a nearby chair. Then he turned to her and stared.

  A shiver went through her as she looked at him. She could see the muscles beneath his thin shirt, the easy panther’s grace, the line of his mouth as he observed her. He moved towards her, closing the distance until she could feel the heat of his skin on hers. Then he was reaching past her, to take a blanket off the bed. He pointed.

  ‘You will sleep there.’ He dropped his own blanket on the floor, arranging a place for him self there. Then he reached to loosen the cloth at his neck, and turned his back on her, readying him self for bed.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She hoped that he did not take her statement for disappointment. But after what had happened by the fire, his be ha vi our was most un expected.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Would you prefer the floor? Or do you wish me to join you?’

  ‘No.’ She backed away from him, until her shoulders bumped against the curved wall of the wagon.

  He shrugged. ‘After the way you behaved just now, I thought, perhaps…’

  ‘You had no right to kiss me.’

  ‘I had every right. I do as I please. It pleased me to kiss you.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And now, it pleases me to leave you alone.’ He returned to his preparations for sleep.

  Then he truly did not mean to touch her? Yesterday, he had said that he would release her un harmed. Perhaps he had told the truth. The kiss by the fire had been shocking, but it had done no permanent damage to her. If he did not attempt to duplicate it, then she would forget it on her return to her family.

  If only she could ignore the strange feeling of intimacy, as she watched him undress, and the feeling that things were neither as simple nor as complicated as they seemed. It was as though they had already been lovers in some distant past and had no need to be coy. She was to be allowed into his life, completely and without fear or reservation. He was quite literally naked before her.

  And yet, he showed no vulnerability. But then, what did he have to fear from her? Her words by the fire had bothered him more than any of her actions could. She thought of the razor, on the other side of the little room, and wondered if she would have the courage to use it. Perhaps, if he was moving against her in some way, forcing himself upon her in the night. But would she have the nerve to cut the man as he slept at her feet, just so she could get away from him?

  It was wrong of him to keep her here. But it seemed wrong, as well, to respond violently, with out further provocation.

  She let her eyes drift away, to the bed behind her. It was piled with decadent layers of eiderdown that would keep out the night’s chill. And though it was large enough for two, he was going to sleep on the floor. Then she looked down at her own clothing.

  He did not look up. ‘Prepare for bed.’ It was a command.

  ‘I have no night clothes.’ Even as she said it, it seemed foolish, for she could see glimpses of his bare skin that his blanket did not hide.

  ‘Sleep in your clothes. Or your shift. Or nothing at all. It does not matter. Be quiet and lie down.’

  She glanced back at the door again.

  ‘And do not think you can run away in the night. I am a very light sleeper.’

  He was between her and the door. She would have to step over him if she meant to get any where. And the thought of getting close, only to feel his hand grab for her ankle…

  She sat suddenly down on the edge of the bed, overcome with a strange trembling, as though his fingers had actually touched her.

  She had to admit, the bed she sat on was comfortable. It was almost softer than her mattress at home. She reached down and slipped out of her shoes, stretching her toes and tucking her feet up under her, pulling a coverlet to her chin. It was too warm to sleep fully dressed. So with the blanket and the darkness hiding her from the man on the floor, she began to undo her clothing, wiggling out of dress, petticoats and stockings, and piling them neatly at the foot of the bed. When she had nothing left but the borrowed chemise, she crawled down beneath the rest of the covers and allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  There was no response from the man on the floor. He had turned from her, and not moved since she had begun to undress. Although they would be sleeping in close proximity, he was taking great pains to show no interest in her body. She wondered if that was the way of people forced to share a room, who did not wish to be intimate. They tended to their own business, and pre tended not to see what was right before their eyes.

  If so, it had been very rude of her to stare at him while he un dressed. Perhaps she should apologize. But that would call even more attention… She would know better in the future.

  But she had done it again, just now. He had stood on the other side of the room with his back turned to her, and stripped out of his clothes. And with lowered lashes, she had observed him. This time, she had noticed a pucker of skin at his hip that looked like an old scar. From the foundling fire, no doubt. That was where he had been burned as he escaped.
It must have been quite large, when he was young. If she reached out to touch it, she could barely have covered it with her hand.

  And now, she imagined doing just that. He was lying on the floor, with his back to her. But if he were on the bed beside her, in that same position, she would place her hand on his hip just where the burn was, press her body tight to his and lay her cheek against his scarred back. The idea of him lying impassively beside her was strangely com forting; it made her feel less alone. Perhaps because he was the only link she had to the world she knew.

  As she let her mind wander, she could imagine the warmth of him and the smooth ness of his body where it was not broken by the marks of old in juries. And as she drifted into sleep, she swore she could smell sandal wood and oranges on his skin.

  Chapter Five

  Stephano woke as the light of the rising sun reached his window, opening his eyes and finding himself fully alert. He did not move, savouring the moment.

  He was pain free.

  It was rare to greet a morning without even a twinge of the headache that was likely to come later in the day. He’d thought, after giving up his bed to lie on the rug that covered the wooden planks of the vardo floor, that the dawn would find him in worse shape than usual, not better.

  He had expected some punishment for the kiss he’d stolen. He had promised himself that he would not take such a liberty. But with her presence by the fire and the sham of a marriage, the evening had turned into an in creasing series of mistakes. Then she had tricked him into talking of his child hood, and feigning sympathy, only to re fuse his bed.

  For a moment, he had for got ten that it was the whole bed he’d meant to offer, and not half of it. A simple explanation of the sleeping arrangements would have prevented her response. But the sight of her with the fire light shining on her hair made him forget what was gentlemanly or sensible. Instead, he had done what he wanted.

  And remembering the sweet taste of her, it had been worth the risk of pain. All the more surprising to find that there was none. He took a breath and checked again. No, his head was definitely better. His hand still stung after yesterday’s cut. But his mind was as clear and peaceful as anyone else’s. He almost feared to move, for any change in position might spoil everything. He turned his head slightly to see the woman lying on his bed.

  As if she felt his return to consciousness, she started awake, as well. He closed his eyes to slits, so he might observe her. Apparently, she did not wake as easily as he. Her eyes were open, but she did not seem to see, or comprehend her surroundings. She reminded him very much of a startled fawn, a wild thing that did not yet know the need for fear. A fawn with eyes that seemed to change from smoky green to golden brown as he watched them.

  It annoyed him that she seemed to grow lovelier with each moment he spent in her presence. He had known she was a beauty when he had danced with her at Keddinton’s house. But that was to be expected. With the fine gown, the care she had taken with her hair and face, and the perfection of her manners and movement, it might have been merely artifice. Even a dull, plain woman could appear beautiful in the light of candles, when the observers had partaken of enough wine.

  But last night, she had been even prettier. The simplicity of her borrowed dress seemed to suit her, and her manner had been so relaxed that he had mistaken her from a distance for a Rom.

  As they’d eaten, she’d a soft smile on her face. She was unaware the insults Magda had paid her by giving her the chipped mug and the smallest bowl, and covering the plain wood bench with a scarf to keep it clean from Lady Verity Carlow’s gadjikani filth. Magda was sending a clear-enough message to everyone in the camp that she did not approve of Stephano’s guest. So he had responded to his grandmother’s scorn by marrying the girl in spite.

  The whole camp had laughed at the display, making snide comments in Romany that she could not understand. And she had responded graciously to the meagre hospitality.

  Now, in the morning light, there was no trace left of the woman he thought he had taken. Her hair was down, and hung around her shoulders in ripples of gold. Of the elaborate coiffure, only a few tiny braids remained, scattered amongst the loose waves. Her cheeks were pink from the touch of sun she had taken on the previous day, and her mouth needed no rouge to be a soft, kissable red.

  She’d taken his advice and shed her garments under the blankets. As the sheet fell away, he saw her perfect white shoulders, the swell of her full breasts and just the hint of a rosy nipple, showing above the edge of the simple shift she wore.

  He kept his breathing still and shallow, so she did not know he saw, but he felt his body stirring at the sight. What might it be like to climb into that bed, touch those lips gently with his own and let first his hand, and then his mouth close over the tip of that perfect breast? To spend a carefree morning making love to her, as gently as the sun was rising.

  Again, it was as though she had sensed his thought, for she woke fully to her surroundings. The look of sleepy peace on her face disappeared as she realized where she was, and her composure crumbled. Her shoulders slumped, and there was a hasty, fearful gathering as she brought the sheet to her chin and scram bled further back on the bed, her own back tight to the wall as though she expected that she would be beset from behind. She was staring at him, and he struggled to remain still and give no sign that he was awake, that he might have seen her body or be a threat to her safety.

  It did not matter that she thought he was unconscious at her feet. She recoiled from him in terror and disgust. A shudder ran through her body, and she closed her beautiful eyes tight. For a moment, the lashes grew wet with the tears, and he heard a hitch in her breath like the beginning of a sob. And then she thrust her knuckles into her mouth, biting down and letting the pain drive away the weakness. She lifted her chin. When she removed her hand from her mouth, her breathing was steady, her face placid, her eyes scornful, and her terror of a moment before skilfully hidden.

  The proud English beauty had returned, but dressed as a woman that looked as at home in his bed as a fair-skinned Rom girl. But hidden deep under it all was the truth. She was the frightened captive he had seen, and he could never be anything to her but the brute that had kidnapped her, her tormentor, the kind of animal that would force her to remove her clothing, then steal glimpses of her bared body and fantasize about joining with her.

  The pain in his head returned then, a flash through his temples that brought with it a wave of nausea. He opened his eyes and rolled quickly away from her, almost retching before he could regain control of himself. Then he got up with his back to her, as though her presence in the wagon were no more important to him than a fly on the wall. He reached out for his trousers and pulled them on, and went to the basin, pouring water to wash. The cut on his hand was an angry red and screamed as the soap touched it. But he washed it carefully and re wrapped the wound. Then he ran a hand along his chin and reached for his razor.

  He heard a quickly stifled gasp behind him as the blade glinted in the rising dawn.

  He glanced into the mirror, meeting her eyes in the reflection, and brandished the razor. ‘You think I mean to use this on you, I suppose. I would not bother to dull the blade. I am quite capable of controlling you without it.’

  ‘If you dare to lay a hand on me…’

  He laughed. ‘You will scream for your brothers. And they will not hear you. If you do not give me cause to hurt you, as I promised, you will remain unharmed. Has your brother the soldier explained to you the concept of parole?’

  She gave a small shake of her head.

  ‘If you behave, you are free to do as you like while you are here. But if you try to leave the camp, you will not get far. And then I will find you, drag you back and tie you to the bed. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear or not, it does not matter. You have no right to keep me here. And no reason. I have done nothing to you. If you have a legitimate complaint with my family, you should behave as a gentleman and settle it rationally. Instead,
you are threatening to tie me to a bed. I do not deserve punishment.’

  ‘Neither did a little boy deserve to be separated from his mother, and then turned from the only home he ever knew when his new family tired of him. Crying and pleading for mercy will not change the facts.’

  ‘I am not crying, and I have no intention of begging. If you wished to ruin my reputation, you have kept me more than long enough. I demand that you return me to London.’

  She was not crying. It had been he who had cried for his mother, until the masters at the found ling home had beaten him into silence. He had managed to go for years without dwelling on that time. But now it seemed ever fresh in his pain-addled mind. ‘Your reputation means nothing to me. If your family has any sense, they will not trumpet your disappearance about; and you will be returned to them, unharmed, once they have admitted to their part in my father’s death.’

  She tossed her head, doing her best to appear un concerned. ‘More likely, they will pretend to capitulate, and then hunt you like a dog. My brothers will kill you for this.’

  ‘Perhaps they will. But it does not matter to me, as long as the truth is known and the curse is settled.’

  ‘The curse again?’ She sighed. ‘Stephen Hebden, I cannot decide if you are mad, or just foolish.’

  He closed his eyes, for the sound of his old name when it was used in the camp brought the pain to an un bear able level. ‘If you expect me to answer you, then you will call me Stephano Beshaley.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Beshaley. But in my opinion, such an assertion tips the scales towards madness. I understand the pains of your child hood, and that you might be angry with your own family for abandoning you, and mine for standing by and allowing it to happen. But can’t you see that this talk of curses is nothing more than that—talk? Words spoken long ago, by a woman you never met, need have no bearing on your actions today.’ Her words were rational and soothing, and he wished he could believe them.