on the cards and for a moment she sat utterly motionless before once again dropping her eyes beneath a thick veil of lashes. Gilen inhaled sharply, his pulse racing, the rest of his anatomy stirring in turn.
No longer regretting his foray to the gypsy camp, with avid interest he watched her play out the hand. Silver loo was the game, he noted, enjoying the quick movements of her long fingers laying down cards and taking up wagers, the intimate gurgle of her laughter as she bantered in low tones with the men. Starlight flashing on her bangled wrist, she brushed off her forehead one errant lock from the wild tangle of black curls that cascaded out of her colorful kerchief and flowed down her back.
Thick hair a man could wrap his hands in while he drew that tempting body closer, crushed those teasingly camouflaged breasts to his chest and brought the saucy lips beneath that veil close enough to kiss, Gilen thought. Burgeoning desire and heightening anticipation broke a sweat out on his brow.
After the hand ended, Gilen pressed forward. “The next play must be mine, enchantress.”
Muttered complaints of “wait yer turn, gov,” and “I were next,” faded as the local youths, recognizing from his voice and attire his status as the Quality, grudgingly gave way.
The gypsy flashed him an annoyed look, then gestured toward the men. “Abandoning me, my lords?”
“Let them go, lovely one,” Gilen said. “Whatever stakes they offered, I will double.”
“Too rich fer me,” one said to her, while the others, after sidelong glances at Gilen, nodded reluctant agreement and drifted off.
The girl exhaled with exasperation, that slight movement lifting the breasts beneath her shawl. Gilen’s fingers itched to remove the woolen wrap so he might view the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, see fully revealed beneath the thin cotton of the low-cut gypsy blouse the shape of those lovely mounds as they rose and fell with each breath.
“If you deprive me of my game and my winnings, milord,” she said, “my master will likely beat me.”
He dragged his attention back to her face—wishing he could snatch away the fine cloth veiling her countenance as well. “Then I must see that your winnings are bountiful,” Gilen replied. “Shall we play piquet?”
“Your lordship has doubtless the superior skill. Better that I roll the dice.”
Gilen pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket and tossed them on the wagon bed. “Name your stakes, my beauty, and I will pay.”
Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the value of the gold and silver rolling across the scarred wood. “You must be drunk, milord.”
“Not yet, my enchantress, but I should like to be—on the honeyed mead of your lips.”
Her brows lifted in surprise at his boldness, the left one winging higher than the right. “My lord, where the honey-pot lies, lurk bees to guard their bounty. Take care you are not stung for your efforts.”
“To die in your arms, lady, would be worth the gravest sting,” he replied, grinning.
“You are bawdy, sir,” she reproved.
Surprised she’d apparently comprehended his Shakespearean allusion, he countered, “Nay, mistress, I do but give homage to your beauty.”
“I would rather you give gold to my purse. Now, do you play or go?”
“Oh, most definitely, I wish to…play.”
She arched again that delicate, high-flying brow. “Some games we do not entertain here, milord. I can offer but cards, or dice.”
The wench was not only lovely, but needle-witted, Gilen concluded with delight. “Could you not also read my fortune?” Smiling, he stripped off his riding glove and extended his hand.
Ah, yes, he wanted her to rest his hand in her smaller one, feel those fingers tracing patterns on his naked palm. And on every other part of his body, he thought as hunger surged, thick and potent through his veins.
She studied him without reply, as if uncertain whether she wished to proceed. Gilen dug another handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them atop the others. “Have all those and more, for the future you would pledge me.”
“I will read what the stars have written in your palm, milord, but pledge you nothing else,” she parried.
“Then we shall agree on that—for now.”
Once again he held out his hand, but at a slight distance, requiring her to move closer to the edge of the wagon if she meant to take his palm—closer to him. Her brows knitting as if she’d figured out his stratagem, she hesitated.
So intently was Gilen watching her, the sudden movement from behind startled him. A tall, powerfully built gypsy with an air of authority strode forward and swept up the coins. “Tell,” he commanded the girl.
She dropped her eyes before the gypsy lord’s glare. After he moved away, she reluctantly took Gilen’s hand.
Shivers of delight ran through him as, with barely perceptible pressure, she traced a fingertip across his palm. “This is your head line, milord—see, it is long and straight. You are a man of much ability, born to do great deeds.”
“My head tells me that you and I together would do great deeds,” he murmured.
Ignoring the comment, she continued, “This is the life line, milord. It, too, is deep and straight. You will live long, have many sons, and watch grandchildren grow to bring you honor.”
“Come with me and share that life,” he suggested, grinning as another exasperated exhalation briefly lifted the silken veil above her lips.
“And this,” she said, jabbing her fingernail into his flesh, “is the heart line. You will know many women—”
“All I desire is you, my princess—”
“Whom you will bewitch and bedevil,” she concluded with asperity. Dropping his palm, she jerked her hand away.
“Can you tell me nothing else, my Delilah?” he asked. “Surely you know more of my future than that.”
Before she could reply, the melancholy cry of several violins filled the night, followed by the jangle of bracelets and a shout of acclamation from the crowd. Beside the fire, the other gypsy women had gathered and begun to dance.
Gilen seized his gypsy girl’s hand. “Dance for me.”
She backed away. “N-nay, sir. Dice I play, or cards. I do not dance.”
He released her, pulled the purse from his pocket and tossed it on the wagon bed. “All this and more will I pledge, if you will but dance for me.”
“S-sir, I cannot—”
Once again, as if conjured from firelight, the gypsy leader appeared behind them. With one quick stride he seized the purse. “Dance,” he commanded the girl.
Her veil trembled as she swallowed hard, but her gypsy lord’s stare did not falter. At last she nodded, and only then did
