A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce

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      Just then, he did not feel particularly English.

      And he hadn’t felt English at all last night.

      He had reached the outermost wagons. A baby was crying; it might have been his newborn cousin. His head was pounding so badly he thought it might split in two. His body was pulsing as terribly, a combination of desire and rage. He wasn’t even certain that he wanted to be English anymore. He only knew that he wanted to avenge Raiza, and, if he was brutally honest, a part of him was now regretting not taking the gadji princess to his bed.

      But he kept thinking about her wide blue eyes, not her face or her body. Her eyes disturbed him, because she had looked into his as if she might find some ancient truth about him there.

      He shook himself free of the fanciful notion. She claimed she wanted to be his friend. He laughed out loud.

      He had no friends. He had brothers—every Rom in the kumpa’nia was his brother. He had family—Stevan, his cousins, Jaelle. Even Robert, no matter how much he despised him and was despised by him, was family. He had enemies— almost every gadjo and gadji on the street could be thrust into that category. But he did not have friends. He wasn’t even sure what a friend really was or why anyone would want one.

      What was wrong with her? He slept with women; he didn’t befriend them.

      Maybe she was different from the gadjis he took to his bed. She claimed she did not judge him the way all the gadjos did. But she had sought him out for passion, just as his lovers did. Had she been married, he was certain she would have leaped into his bed. That made her no different, after all. And one day, he would turn his back and overhear her speaking of him with condescension and scorn. He had not a single doubt.

      His fury escalated. He hated the gadjos, every single last one of them—even her.

      “You look ready to break someone apart.”

      Emilian breathed, hoping to relax his tight muscles, and turned to face Stevan. “Do I?”

      “Before I ever told you about Raiza, I saw the dark clouds in your eyes. Do you want to tell me your troubles?” Stevan asked quietly.

      “I have worries at Woodland,” he lied. “All gadjo nonsense, really.”

      Stevan smiled, clearly not believing him.

      “But I want to speak with you,” Emilian said. His chest throbbed with pain. “I must go to Raiza’s grave.”

      “That is proper,” Stevan agreed. “She is buried at Trabbochburn, not far from where you were born. When will you go?”

      There had been no time to grieve and no time to think. Just as he had learned of Raiza’s murder, the celebration over the birth of his cousin had begun. And then Ariella de Warenne had appeared, distracting him. There was no question of his duty—he must go to his mother’s grave and pay his respects. But now he regarded his uncle, thinking of his young sister, who needed a guardian and a brother. Raiza would want him to take care of Jaelle. “I think I would like to join you when you travel north,” he said slowly.

      Stevan was surprised. “Your grief is speaking, is it not?”

      “Maybe.” But the idea had so much appeal. By choosing to stay with Edmund when he was only twelve years old, he had forsaken the Roma people and their way of life. He had been so young to make such a choice. Shouldn’t he attempt to understand the Roma way—especially when the Rom part of him was burning with hatred of the English and the need for revenge?

      And he could get to know his little sister, who needed him.

      “You know you are always welcome. But Emilian, why not take your fine gadjo carriage and your many servants with you? Why travel like a Rom, when you left us so long ago to become English?”

      Emilian spoke with care, trying to make sense of the urgings in his heart, his soul. “I have forgotten what it means to be Rom. I feel that I owe Raiza far more than I could ever have given her—and far more than paying my respects at her grave. Everything has changed, Stevan. I am enraged with the gadjos.”

      “You are her son—you should be enraged. I do not think you know what you want. But you are merely speaking of a visit with us, are you not?”

      Emilian stared. “I am as much Rom as I am English.”

      “Really? Because I see an Englishman standing before me—even if you dance like a Rom.” Stevan smiled, but Emilian could not smile back. “My sister was proud of the man you have become. She wanted you to have a fine life, with a fine house filled with servants. She would not ask you, if she were alive, to give up your English life for the Roma way.”

      “What am I giving up?” Emilian cried. “I know she wanted more for me than the life of the Rom. I remember very well that she wished for me to live with my father—but she grieved over my loss, as well. I made the choice to stay at Woodland when I was too young to understand it. Did I make the right choice? My neighbors scorn me, Stevan, just as fully as they scorn you.”

      Stevan was thoughtful. “I think I begin to understand. For half your blood is Romany and nothing will ever change that. But I still think you will tire quickly of the life. There have been too many changes made over too many years.”

      “Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. Maybe, after a month or two, I will spit upon the gadjos and their way and never wish to return home.” He trembled with his rage and his attention strayed back up the hill, toward the huge de Warenne mansion.

      Stevan looked at him and Emilian flushed. He had just called Woodland home.

      “I think we both know that the day the gadjo took you away from Raiza, your baxt was made.”

      Emilian stiffened. “I do not believe in fate.”

      “Then you are very much a gadjo, Emilian.”

      Emilian thought about how he had surrendered far more than his body to the intense, evocative Roma music last night. Briefly, he had been so consumed with the fiery passion of the dance, it had been as if the gap of eighteen years had ceased to exist. It had been as if he had never left the Romany people. “Last night I was Rom.”

      Stevan clasped his shoulder. “Yes, you were. When will you be ready to leave?”

      “I need a week, maybe more,” Emilian said. The lure of the open road beckoned, not just in his mind’s eye, but in his heart. He could not wait—he felt as if the moment the caravan left Derbyshire, he would be free. “I must hire an estate manager, a man I can trust. Can you linger that long? The kumpa’nia will be welcome on my estate.”

      “We will wait as long as is necessary,” Stevan said, smiling. “I am very pleased you will come with us.”

      Emilian was suddenly certain that, this time, the choice he was making was the right one.

      Because now, with the road lying in wait for him, he could look at his English life and question it. He was tired of the parade of gadji women who ogled him as if he was an exotic specimen of manhood, and who expected him to be insatiable because he was a Gypsy. If he became bored after an hour or two, his lovers were СКАЧАТЬ