The Gypsy and the Widow

by Juliet Chastain

  Tem spoke again and the woman nodded. One pointed at her ankle and said in the same lightly accented English as Tem’s, “Can you walk on it?”

  “It hurts too much to put all my weight on it.”

  “I would bind it for you,” said the woman, “but I have no cloth here.”

  “If someone could but help me to my house, I have cloth for a bandage.” She could not but wish that Tem alone would help her.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” Nash asked in an anxious voice.

  “Yes. I just hurt my ankle a little.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Noah pat Nash on the back. Little Eleanor took one of his hands and another pretty woman took his other, stooped, and murmured soothingly to him.

  Joanna couldn’t help but notice how pretty the Gypsy women were. Which one was going to be Tem’s next wife? she wondered, feeling a stab of pain at the thought.

  Nash looked up at Tem. “Will you take care of my mother?” he asked.

  “Yes, lad, I will. You don’t need to worry about that. If your mother says you may, perhaps you would like to stay and play with the others.”

  “May I stay?” Nash asked her.

  “I will bring him back when he wishes,” said one of the pretty women.

  “Yes, darling, you may stay.”

  The rom baro said, “If you don’t need our assistance, Mrs. Daniels, we will get back to work.”

  “I only need an arm to lean on,” she lied. In truth she needed more support than that, but she wanted to be alone with Tem.

  Limping along with his arm around her, she felt the fire of desire roar into being, its flames licking at her belly. She thought perhaps his arm tightened about her. Did he share her feelings? Did the fire flare in him as well?

  About halfway to her house, Joanna said, “We must stop.”

  “The pain is bad?”

  She nodded and sank to the ground. The pain in her ankle and the heat of her desire seemed to commingle. She wanted her ankle to stop hurting, but she also wanted Tem to make love to her. It had been years since the act of love had been anything but a most unpleasant duty, mercifully very seldom required, but now she wanted this man, wanted to caress him and she wanted him to do the same to her. She wanted to kiss—

  “Your ankle?”

  “It is of no matter if I am not standing,” she lied again.

  “Have you serving women at home who could tend it for you?”

  “I have only Mrs. Peters, who has gone to market for the day.”

  “I am well acquainted with caring for injuries and sprains,” he said. “Would it be improper if I suggested that I might bind it for you?”

  “No, please, if you could I would be most grateful. But I have nothing with which to bandage it.”

  “Perhaps we could use one of you stockings if you would be willing to do so.”

  She nodded. He turned his back and she undid the tie about her knee and carefully pulled down her stocking as far as she could without the pain becoming unbearable.

  “Perhaps you can remove it for me—it is too painful where I can reach. She tucked her skirt about herself, leaving only her injured ankle and foot exposed. Tem knelt and carefully took the stocking off her foot.

  “We can use the tie to keep it in place,” he said.

  He rolled the stocking and then carefully lifted her foot and, keeping the ankle well supported on his knee, he proceeded to bandage it tightly. Finally he secured the pink tie about the wrapping.

  “Very pretty,” he said and smiled up at her.

  “Indeed,” she said. “Thank you. I believe I can stand now.”

  He nodded and helped her to her feet.

  She tried not to wince with each step as they proceeded, but it was only a little way before she could not keep a groan from escaping her lips, and she sank to the ground again.

  “If you would permit me,” he said, “you might be more comfortable if I carried you the rest of the way.”

  She nodded and said, “Yes, please,” in a small voice.

  He lifted her as though she weighed no more than a small child and she twined her arms about his neck. He looked down at her and he moved as though to kiss her—oh God, how she wanted him to do so. But he pulled back, shaking his head slightly and the moment passed. He carried her to the door of her house, which he opened with one hand and brought her inside.

  Chapter Three

  The door closed behind them, and Joanna reached up and brought his head down so his lips met her own.

  Tem felt his blood heat as their lips touched. He had dreamed of this, but always believed it could be nothing but a dream. Could it be that she wanted him as he wanted her—or was she a wanton as his fellows had suggested?

  He pulled his head back and studied her face. His very heart and soul cried out for her as much as his body, but he would not be a plaything, a casual amusement for a Gadji. He placed her gently on a sofa and knelt beside her as she reclined against the pillows. Her amber eyes and black lashes stood out against her milky pallor and some of her deep golden hair had escaped its tie and curled against her neck.

  She reached out and took his hand. A flush crept into her cheeks. “Do you not want to kiss me?” He thought her voice shook slightly.

  He could not keep himself from bringing her hand to his cheek for an instant, although he knew he should not. “I do not make love with every woman who wishes it, not even when I myself wish it.”

  “Do you wish to make love to me?”

  “With all my heart I do, but there is no future for us and I care far more for you already than I should.”

  She ran her fingers softly, tantalizingly, through his hair. “And I feel the same for you. I—I think of you so often. I so often have dreamed that you would touch me or kiss me. I long for it.” She lowered her eyes as the flush on her cheeks turned darker and spread across her face, her neck. “We would harm no one.”

  He frowned and released her hand. “No one except ourselves, if indeed you feel as I do. I am already pained that I shall have to leave in a few days when our work is done here, perhaps sooner if Sir Edward does not pay as agreed. If you and I do what we wish to do, the pain of parting will be worse.”

  “I don’t care,” she cried. “I would willingly suffer later if that is the price I must pay.”

  Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it as though to still it. He could resist no longer, and he brought his lips hard against hers, his arms tight around her. He felt as though the floodgates controlling his pent-up desire for Joanna opened, and he drowned in his passion for her. He wanted nothing but to kiss her, to caress her, to love her in every way a man can love a woman.

  He felt her arch toward him, her arms about his neck, her fingers raking through his hair. He ran his hands along her sides, across her back. He stroked her neck, her cheeks. He murmured “Joanna” against her lips and then ran his tongue along the seam between them and she opened to him. He entered her mouth almost brutally, so strong was his desire for her and she met him, her tongue tangling with his, welcoming him with her own.

  They pulled back and their gazes locked. Her golden eyes seemed bottomless. He could see her desire for him there. She took his head between her hands and kissed him again, first on the lips then on his cheeks, his forehead, and his chin.

  “I do believe I love you,” she said, her voice unsteady.

  “Love is not a word to be used between a Gypsy and an Englishwoman,” he said, his voice gruff as it pained him to say these words.

  “Why not, if it is the truth?”

  “Gypsies have died for less than that. And my children…”

  “I will not let any harm come to them or to you because of this,” she said fiercely. She sat up. “Gypsy, will you help me up the stairs to my boudoir?”

  “Yes, Englishwoman, I will do so.” He picked her up and carried her up the stairs as she ran her hands over his shoulders and arms.

  “This room.” She pointed to the door that stood half-open. He
entered and laid her gently on the bed and she pulled him down with her so he lay beside her.

  He let his hand wander over her body, over her fine breasts, her belly. He brought his arms about her and caressed her back, her bottom through the soft layers of her pale clothing.

  She untied the laces of his shirt and kissed his neck. They sat up and she pulled the shirt over his head and ran her hands over his chest, through the dark hair there. He untied the pink ribbon that held her hair back, then ran his fingers through the silky tresses.

  He stroked the sweet dip of her waist; he kissed her neck and then her shoulders and her breasts where they rose above her dress, loving the feel of her beneath his lips.

  After a while he pulled back and cocked his head. “I have never undressed an Englishwoman before.”

  Laughing, she turned her back to him. “You must undo the hooks and eyes.”

  He struggled with the tiny hooks, and finally the bodice of the dress was undone, but he was met with the lacing of her corset, which he untied, only to be met with yet another row of hooks and eyes on her petticoat.

  “Now I see why the English don’t have as many children as we Gypsies do. By the time a woman is undressed, a man may have lost interest.”

  “It is not necessary to remove a woman’s clothing to make a baby,” she said, her voice sounding bitter. He turned her toward himself and studied her unhappy face, then took her in his arms and began to stroke her hair.

  “Joanna,” he said softly, “life has not been kind to you.”

  She nestled against him. “I have been most fortunate in material ways,” she said, still sounding bitter.

  “But not in the immaterial? Like love and joy?”

  “I have Nash,” she said. “And he brings me such joy.”

  “He is a fine boy, a child one cannot help but love.”

  “Could you love Nash?” She looked up at him with her glorious golden eyes.

  “How could I not love Nash? How could I not love his mother?”

  She made a small surprised sound and her eyes grew wide. “And how can a woman such as I not love a man such as you?”

  They sat there a minute, their gaze locked and their arms around each other. He thought his heart might burst from the combination of joy and desire that rose fiercely within him.

  He helped her up and when she stood he removed her clothing.

  “You are lovely,” he murmured, stepping back to see her better from head to toe. “Even lovelier than I imagined.”

  Her cheeks turned crimson as she said, “I am glad you find me so, for I think you most handsome.”

  He pulled off his shoes and coarse stockings and then his breeches. He felt her gaze on him and heard her sigh softly as his member, his kori, sprang free.

  She stepped close to him and he put his arms around her, holding her tight against himself. He felt her breasts pushing against his chest, his kori hard against her belly. He stroked her naked back and flanks. The fire within him flared upward to his belly, to his heart and higher yet.

  He pulled her onto the bed on top of himself. They kissed deeply as they touched and caressed each other, learning each other’s bodies, rejoicing in them.

  Her breasts were cool and yielding as he stroked and fondled and squeezed them. Finally he brought his lips to her dark nipples and licked and sucked first one and then the other as she writhed and sighed and told him how good it felt. Her hands were firm against his back and sides, her breath fast and rough.

  “Please,” she said, “I want you so much, I can wait no longer.”

  He had not intended to enter her so soon, but he could not refuse her plea, although it pushed him to the edge of his self-control. He parted her legs and knelt between them. First he drank of her lips again and then, slowly, he entered her. Their gaze locked and she smiled. A feeling of love comingled with the consuming fire of lust engulfed him.

  He rocked back and forth and her hips came to meet his, stroke for stroke. Such sweetness, such joy. When he felt his crescendo nearing, he withdrew and, holding her hips, he brought his lips to her gentle folds, ruddy now and wet with her arousal, and kissed, licked, and sucked as she arched and moaned and finally cried out.

  Immediately he turned her about, lifted her onto her knees, and entered her from behind. Now he was a man possessed, overwhelmed with his desire, his love for this woman. He plunged into her again and again and yet again until she cried his name aloud and the soft folds tightened about his kori.

  He was lost then to anything beside the need to drive into her deeper, harder, faster. His cries joined with hers as he emptied his very soul into her.

  Chapter Four

  Soon after Tem had left, Joanna heard the back door open and Mrs. Peter’s heavy tread in the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Peters entered the drawing room and stopped short when she saw Joanna sitting on the sofa with her leg on a stool.

  “Madam,” she sputtered, “how came you to be undressed and in your wrap?”

  “I, um, I wanted to prepare for bed early and I managed to open everything on my own.”

  Mrs. Peters stared at her. “Well you look uncommonly well. I’ve never see you smile so, or your color so high. Perhaps with your cooking and shopping and dressing yourself, soon you’ll not be needing me.”

  “Oh no, please, Mrs. Peters—”

  “What is wrong with you ankle?” The woman scowled at the bandaged appendage.

  “I fell. It is not too bad.”

  Mrs. Peter’s scowl deepened. “Who wrapped it for you? Surely you could not—”

  Someone knocked at the front door and Mrs. Peters went to answer it, leaving Joanna sitting in the drawing room wondering what she should say should the woman question her further.

  Seconds later, Nash came barreling into the room and she swept him into her arms.

  Mrs. Peters appeared at the doorway. “There is a Gypsy girl at the front door. She says she must talk to you.” She scoffed and added, “Doesn’t even know that the likes of herself should go to the back.”

  “Bring her in.”

  Mrs. Peters sniffed. “Best see her at the door. Those Gypsies,” she said with disgust, “cannot be trusted. Be careful she does not steal that gold bracelet right off your arm.”

  Joanna, sighing, decided not to argue with Mrs. Peters and limped to the door.

  The young girl, dressed in bright green and yellow, stood fidgeting on the porch.

  “I thank you for bringing Nash,” Joanna said. “I can see he had a happy time.”

  “He did not play today,” said the girl. “Even the smallest had work to do. And he worked too.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Nash chimed in, “we were picking up the hay that had fallen on the ground after the men lifted big bunches onto the wagon with their pitchforks. I picked up bundles and bundles! Tem said I worked well, that in just a few years I might be big enough to use a rake.”

  The girl smiled. “He was a good worker.”

  “May I work again tomorrow, Mother? There is still more good hay on the ground.”

  Joanna laughed. “You may indeed,” she said, “but we must do lessons in the morning.”

  Nash pouted and mumbled that he did not care to do lessons.

  “Tem says that he will return when we are finished in the field this evening,” the girl said.

  Joanna could feel the heat in her cheeks and hear the happiness in her own voice as she said, “Ah, yes. Tell him I will be glad of that. Thank you.”

  She watched the girl skip down the path. When she closed the door and turned, she saw Mrs. Peters scurry away down the hall.

  Chapter Five

  The frantic knocking on the door awakened Joanna. She rolled to her side and put a hand on the sheets beside her. Were they still warm from Tem’s body? They were cold. She had been dreaming.

  There was a loud knock on her own door, and Mrs. Peters poked her head in and announced that Sir Edward awaited her below.

  �
�So early?” Joanna was surprised. As a rule, friends did not call before breakfast.

  Mrs. Peters just looked at her.

  Joanna swung her legs to the ground. “Perhaps I best dress.”

  Mrs. Peters shrugged and looked balefully at the stocking bandage on Joanna’s ankle, but she came into the room all the same and helped Joanna into her petticoat, corset, and dress.

  Holding tight to the banister for support, Joanna limped down the stairs, but stopped to kiss Nash, who was playing with his two lead soldiers in the hall.

  “Sir Edward’s face is all red,” the boy whispered. “When he goes, may I go out to the fields? Can we do the lessons in the afternoon?”

  “Let me think about it.” She smiled.

  Still smiling, she entered the drawing room where, in his riding clothes, Sir Edward paced to and fro tapping at his boot with his riding crop.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I fear I have kept you waiting while I made myself decent.”

  He turned to her. “Decent?” he hissed. “Decent? You dare use that word when referring to yourself?”

  Shocked, she responded, “I don’t understand your meaning, Sir.”

  “Yes, you would not understand the meaning of decency. And to think you made me consider placing my affections on you; made me consider marrying you.” He stuck his frowning red face close to hers, continuing to tap the crop against his boot.

  “Sir, I did nothing to persuade you to feel affection for me or to marry me. If there was any affection, it was of your own making.”

  “Until Mrs. Peters came to me and revealed your doings, I trusted you. I would have given you servants, houses, carriages, jewels—whatever you wanted.”

  “I never asked you for any of these things.”

  “And you shall receive none from me. Your Gypsy lover can provide none of these things, I assure you.” He stepped away from her, tapping his crop even more furiously.

  “I have never asked for these things from you or any man. And I neither need nor desire them.” She felt her face grow hot with anger, but she kept her words calm and aloof.