Chapter Eleven

CATHERINE AWOKE TO THE SENSUAL HAZE of hard arms around her and the musky scent of man. Dominic’s chest felt solid and warm, and he looked almost boyish with his glossy black hair tumbled appealingly into his eyes. Thick black lashes made dark half-moons on his angular olive-skinned cheeks.

Catherine wished she could lie there forever.

Dominic groaned in his sleep and rolled toward her, his hold instinctively tightening as she snuggled more closely against him. She wondered what he would do when he woke up, what he would say in the bright light of morning. She wondered what she would say.

Dominic stirred, beginning to awaken. Catherine closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. With a tenderness she wouldn’t have expected, he eased himself away from her, swung his long lean legs onto the wood plank floor, and reached for his breeches. He pulled them on, along with his boots, then grabbed up his shirt. Stopping beside the bed on his way out the door, he lifted away her tousled hair, leaned over and kissed her cheek. Still, Catherine did not stir.

She wasn’t ready to face him, wasn’t sure exactly what to do. She waited until he had left the wagon, striding off to take care of his horses, before she sat up and began to search for her clothes. After mending the tear in her blouse as best she could, she slipped it on along with her skirt, brushed her hair and tied it back with a scarf, then climbed down from the wagon. Pearsa had already started a fire and had the morning meal well under way.

“You are hungry, yes?” There was a knowing look in her aged black eyes, but not the censure Catherine had expected.

“Yes. But I’d like to freshen up first.”

“There is water in the barrel, or the trickle of a stream some ways off to the left.”

Catherine opted for the latter, taking a small linen towel, and heading in that direction. The marshy earth felt damp beneath her bare feet, and the early morning chill sent gooseflesh over her skin, but Catherine scarcely noticed. She needed time to think, time to decide what to do.

She thought of the wondrous hours she had spent in Dominic’s arms. She thought of his strength and compassion, the love she felt for him that she would never feel for another. He was special, this man. So special that for a fleeting moment in time, she considered staying with him. She could survive the life of a Gypsy. She had done it and she could continue.

She remembered all they had shared, the way he had protected her, cared for her. She wanted him. She loved him. How could she leave him?

Catherine’s heart constricted, squeezing her insides into a ball of despair. Even if Dominic loved her as much as she loved him, it could never work between them. She could exist in the world of the Gypsy, but she could never be happy living a life with no more purpose than survival from day to day.

She didn’t have their wandering spirit—never would have. And she couldn’t imagine raising a child to live that way.

Catherine found a secluded spot, took care of her ablutions, bathed as best she could, then sat down on a patch of dry earth behind a tamarisk tree. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let things continue as they were. Their one sweet night of lovemaking had already left her heart in tatters and her future in shreds.

There was little she could do about her heart, but the future was still within her grasp. Dominic would be taking her back to England, back to her home and family. She would never forget the man she had come to love, but once they got there she would leave him. She had to get on with her life—she really had no other choice.

Catherine was certain she could mend things—with enough money and influence, other young women of the ton who had fallen from grace had been saved.

Though her options would sorely be limited, once she returned to England and the scandal somehow buried, her wealth was bound to attract a number of less fortunate young nobles with the duty of marrying to save the family holdings. Uncle Gil could no doubt find one among them who was willing to accept her loss of virtue for the wealth and power the man would gain.

But what of Dominic? Just the whisper of his name in the silence of her mind set her heart to pounding. She would never forget the passion they had shared, the feeling of oneness. But she couldn’t risk other such moments—even now she might be carrying his babe.

Catherine felt a rush of warmth and a tender yearning she hadn’t expected. She had known the consequences of succumbing to Dominic’s charms, but she hadn’t known the heartache she would feel at the thought of giving him up.

Still, there was no other solution and the only way she could convince him of that was to tell him the truth—no matter how much it might cost. After the closeness they had shared last eve, she was certain that he would believe her. And knowing that she was a countess, a member of the nobility, would separate them as if they’d been cleaved apart with an axe.

With a sign of resignation, Catherine walked back toward camp, skirting the dozens of wagons and black mohair tents that littered the open space behind the fortress church. Many had celebrated throughout the night and only now had begun to stir; others crouched on their heels, Gypsy fashion, eating the heavy morning meal; some still drank from bottles of wine or tin cups filled with palinka; and a few sprawled in their colorful now-rumpled clothes on the ground beneath their wagons.

Catherine had almost reached Dominic’s vardo when she heard some sort of ruckus in one of those nearby and recognized young Janos’s voice and that of his stepfather, Zoltan. Lifting her skirts up out of the way, Catherine hurried in that direction, arriving just as Zoltan jerked Janos up off the ground, boxed his ears, and slapped his face.

The small boy hit the ground hard and curled into a small protective ball against the swift kick his stepfather dealt to his ribs.

“Stop it!” Catherine commanded. “Zoltan, what are you doing?”

“Stay out of this, Gadjo. This is none of your concern.”

Catherine kept on walking until she stood between Janos, who crouched behind her skirts, and Zoltan, who towered well above her, his face dark with rage.

“Stand away!” he commanded. “I am warning you!”

“What did he do?” Catherine asked, refusing to budge. “What could be so terrible?”

“He stole money from me. Me! The one who feeds him, the one who buys his clothes!”

Catherine thought the dirty rags little Janos wore could hardly be described as clothes. “Surely there is some explanation.”

“You want to know what happened?” Zoltan bellowed. “He spent my hard-earned money on these!” He held up two tattered, leather-bound volumes.

“Books?” Catherine could scarcely believe it. He couldn’t even read.

Zoltan grabbed the leather strop he used on those rare occasions when he shaved, which certainly wasn’t today. In fact, with his wine-stained clothes and unkempt hair he looked as if he hadn’t yet been to bed. “I will give him a taste of this, and next time he will know better than to take what is not his!”

Catherine heard Janos’s sharp intake of breath as his small hands tightened on her skirts, but still she did not move. “I’m sure he had a reason,” she soothed, stalling for time. Dear God, where was Dominic?

“I am warning you, woman!” Zoltan took a menacing step in her direction.

“What the devil is going on here?” Those words from Dominic, who, to Catherine’s great relief, had just returned to camp.

“Take your woman, Domini. I will deal with the boy.”

“Janos took money from Zoltan to buy books,” Catherine hurriedly explained. “Surely if we loaned him the money to pay his stepfather back, then Janos would find a way to pay us back and everything would be all right.” She glanced from Zoltan to Dominic, willing him to agree.

“What do you say, Zoltan? If the boy worked to repay the debt, would that be punishment enough?”

“No!”

“What if he paid you back with interest?” Dominic asked.

“Interest? What is interest?”

“The money he owes you, plus money for the trouble he has caused.”

Zoltan fingered the thick leather strop, and Catherine held her breath. The big Gypsy’s word would stand, and even Dominic would not go against him. Zoltan grumbled something Catherine couldn’t hear, looked hard in her direction, saw she wasn’t about to move, and finally agreed.

“The boy has been nothing but trouble since the day his mother died. Why should I care if he turns out to be a thief among his own people?” With a shrug of nonchalance he obviously wasn’t feeling, he hung the razor strop back on its hook and accepted the coins Dominic tossed him, then he climbed up in the back of the wagon.

Dominic turned his hard gaze on Janos, who stood with his big dark eyes fixed squarely on the toe of one bare foot. “You know what you did was wrong.”

Liquid brown eyes looked up at him. Janos blinked at a well of tears. “Yes.”

“What did you want with the books?”

“They were so beautiful—all leather and gold. I saw books in your wagon. I saw you looking through them. I want to learn to read.”

Catherine’s heart wrenched. Sooner or later, she suspected, many Gypsy children had such notions. They were firmly squelched, just as Zoltan would have done if Catherine hadn’t arrived when she did.

“You know how your stepfather feels,” Dominic said, “how the others feel. When you’re older, you’ll be able to choose.” There was a hint of regret in his eyes. “For now, you must do as your stepfather says.”

“You could teach me.”

“I will soon be leaving,” Dominic said softly.

“Oh.”

Dominic straightened, looking even more stern. “I’ll expect you to repay the money I gave to Zoltan.”

Janos nodded.

“You may start by cleaning up after the horses. You’ll find a shovel and rake near their tether.”

Janos started to leave, then stopped and turned. “Thank you, Catrina.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Domini.”

Dominic only nodded. He watched the child walk away, then turned his attention to Catherine. “You like him, don’t you?”

“He’s a wonderful little boy. It’s a shame he’ll never get the chance to be more than—” She broke off, wishing she hadn’t voiced her thoughts aloud.

“To be more than just a Gypsy?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know,” he said, surprising her. “Sometimes I wish there were a way I could help them. But it wouldn’t work. For the most part, they like their lives just as they are.”

“What about you, Dominic? Do you like your life just as it is?”

He smiled at that and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of one strong arm. “Come on. I think it’s time we talked.”

Not yet, Catherine thought as they started back toward the wagon. Not when their bond of sharing was so new, so precious. But she climbed the stairs and Dominic followed. When she took a seat on the bed, Dominic sat down beside her and once more clasped her hand.

“About last night,” he began.

“It was wonderful, Dominic. The most wonderful night of my life, but—”

He looked as if he’d been about to agree, but the last word brought him up short. “But? But what?”

“But … but…” Catherine swallowed hard. She looked at his beautiful dark thick-fringed eyes, the sensuous curve of his lips. In the deep vee of his shirt, smooth brown skin rippled over taut muscle and she remembered how it felt beneath her hand.

She needed to tell him they could never touch each other as they had last night, that they were from two different worlds and whatever had passed between them would have to end. Instead her fingers came up to touch his cheek. She cradled his face in her hands, bent over, and kissed him. Dominic groaned softly into her mouth, then his arms went around her and he crushed her against him.

“Catherine,” he whispered, his hands already moving down her body to cup a breast.

While his tongue fenced with hers, he slid her blouse off one shoulder, reached inside, and used his fingers to pebble a nipple. He was kissing her throat, nibbling her ear, then trailing kisses down to her shoulder. When he took her breast into his mouth and began to suckle gently, Catherine knew a sweetness, a sense of rightness like nothing she had known.

Just this one last time, she vowed, she would give herself over to the feelings of love that would have to last her a lifetime.

“Make love to me, Dominic. I need to feel you inside me.”

He raised his head to look at her. “I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you.” He kissed her again, plunging his tongue into her mouth.

Catherine felt his hand beneath her skirts, gliding up her thigh till he reached the hot damp core of her womanhood.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, almost with reverence. “So small and tight.”

She opened to him, let him slide his fingers inside, let him work his magic. Nothing mattered but the heat that was building inside her, the feel of his hard-muscled body beneath her hands. When he broke away to shed his clothes, Catherine clung to him.

“No,” she whispered, “I don’t want to wait that long.” Her fingers worked the buttons on his breeches until he sprang free and her hand closed around his thick shaft.

“Easy, little one. We’ve got to slow down.”

“I want you,” she told him. “Now. This minute.” Knowing the risk she was taking only made her more desperate.

Dominic seemed to sense her need. He covered her with his big body, shoved up her layers of skirts, and settled himself between her thighs. She spread herself wider and felt his hardened length probing for entrance. His hands gripped her buttocks, he lifted her up, and in one deep, powerful thrust, drove himself inside.

Catherine moaned at the feel of it. She clung to his muscular shoulders and arched to meet each driving stroke. In minutes, he was carrying her to the peak of sanity, pounding into her with wild frantic thrusts, urging her higher and higher. She felt a wild need to be joined with him, to be one with him and never let him go.

Dominic’s body grew tense, and the rhythm of his movements increased. Catherine’s head fell back, she sank her nails into the ridges of muscle across his back, and writhed against him. When she could bear the sweet torture no longer, she cried out his name and soared out over the edge. Brightness swirled around her—and joy and love. She knew such sweetness, such incredible fulfillment.

How could she ever let him go?

Dominic whispered her name and his whole body grew rigid. He gasped as he reached a shuddering release that left both of them breathless and slickly entwined. Then he rolled to her side and pulled her against him.

For moments they lay quiet, the silence filled by the beating of their hearts. “I’ve been wanting to do that all morning,” he finally said, kissing the damp hair at her temple. “I was just afraid you would be sore.”

“I feel fine,” she told him. “Better than fine.”

He smiled at that. “I meant to go far more slowly.”

“It was wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

He softly kissed her lips. “I wish we had time to start over, but I’m afraid we don’t. I’ve got to leave, Catrina. Just for tonight. I’ll be back late tomorrow. In the meantime, I don’t want you to worry. Everything is going to be all right.”

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a tavern in the city, the Black Bull. The owner is Romane Gadjo, a friend to the Gypsies. He takes messages for us from friends, others who might pass by. Yesterday I got word that a messenger from my father will be arriving at a small town farther down the coast.”

“Your father?” Catherine sat up and adjusted her clothes, and Dominic did the same, buttoning up his breeches.

“It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you when I return.”

“Dominic—”

“In the meantime, I want you to know I have everything all worked out.”

“Dominic, you must listen.”

“I will, I promise. We’ll talk everything over and I’ll answer your questions just as soon as I return. For now, just know that I have plenty of money to take care of you. When we get back to London, I intend to arrange a town house for you. You’ll have fine new clothes and servants to see to your needs—you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Catherine’s mind spun until she could hardly think. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about being together, just as we are now. At least for the most part. I have other responsibilities, things that will take me out of town, but we’ll see each other often and you, my love, will want for absolutely nothing.”

Catherine’s scattered thoughts were beginning to come together. “You’re going to set me up in a town house? You have enough money to do that?”

“Yes.”

“In London.”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me you plan to make me your mistress?”

“Catherine,” Dominic said at the rising tone of her voice, his grip on her hand growing tighter, “the Englishman wouldn’t have married you. You’ve got to face that fact and deal with the choices you have left.”

“And what about you, Dominic? You don’t seem to be interested in marriage either—or am I missing something here?”

The tenderness left Dominic’s face, the hard planes looking even harder. “I told you once, Catrina, I never intend to marry. That fact hasn’t changed. What I’m trying to make you see is that it doesn’t matter. I’ll see that you’re protected, cared for—”

Catherine knew such incredulity that for a moment she found it hard to think. Then she started laughing, the highest, most incredible sound that had ever escaped her throat.

“You intend to make me your mistress? To parade me through all of London as your whore? How very kind of you, Dominic. I should have known you would handle things in a most expedient manner.” She laughed again, almost hysterically.

“Stop it!” Dominic demanded, beginning to get angry. “I had thought you would be pleased … or are you worried someone will know I’m a Gypsy? If you are, you may rest assured they will not.”

Catherine kept right on laughing. How could she have believed for a moment that his feelings for her ran deeper than merely lust? How could she have been such a fool?

She thought of Yana and the way Dominic had discarded her. He will tire of you, just as he has me. She heard Pearsa’s words of warning: My son will never marry, and the bitterness of betrayal rose up in her throat.

To Dominic, she was just another conquest, another woman to bed until he grew bored. He had accomplished exactly what he’d set out to from the moment of their first meeting. She thought of the way she had begged him to make love to her—he had succeeded even better than he had planned.

“I’m sorry, Dominic,” she said, pulling herself under control, determined to hold back her tears. “It isn’t a matter of your heritage. It’s just that—” She broke off, laughing softly again, so close to weeping she wanted to run from the wagon. How she had suffered, dreaded telling him the truth that would drive them apart. Now she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’re right of course,” she continued. “This is wonderful news. And it will indeed solve all my problems.” The first thing it would do, outside of destroying her life and her family, would probably be to get her killed. There was still the matter of the man responsible for her abduction. He wouldn’t be pleased when she returned. God only knew what he might do.

“Of course it will,” he said, but he looked at her with a face full of doubt. “You’ll be happy, I promise you. Just trust me, and this will all work out.”

“I trust you, Dominic.” Once she had meant it. “I always have.”

He watched her a moment, trying to read her, apparently not liking what he saw. “I’ve got to leave. I want to be back by tomorrow night. If things go smoothly, we’ll be ready to leave a day or two after my return.”

“Whatever you say.”

He looked at her with a hint of concern. “We’ll talk about this again when I get back,” he promised. “It’s going to be all right.”

She nodded, forcing herself to appear sincere. “I’m sorry, Dominic. It just came as such a surprise. I’m certain you’re right. Once we return to England, everything is going to work out.”

He bent down and kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss without a great deal of warmth. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. Then I’ll take you home.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’ll be good to get back home.”

*   *   *

Dominic rode Rai, his big gray stallion, along the narrow dirt road toward the meeting place outside Palavas, a small village farther down the coast. The first message from England had arrived several weeks ago, though Dominic had not known it until now, saying his father’s condition had worsened and that he should return to England forthwith.

If he had known, it would not have mattered. Dominic had been receiving the very same message for the past four years.

The second message said nothing about his return, but asked him to meet a courier from Gravenwold at the Inn of the Seven Sisters near Palavas. The man would arrive on the twenty-sixth and remain until Dominic’s arrival. It was crucial that they speak.

Dominic reined the huge gray horse on down the winding road toward the inn. It was just another ploy, he was certain, but the man had come a long way—to say nothing of crossing into a country with which England was at war. Dominic owed him the courtesy of listening to what he had to say.

Besides, the time of his return had finally arrived, and this would give him the chance to make the necessary preparations for the journey.

Dominic almost smiled. Now that he had settled things with Catherine, he found himself looking forward to going home. He could hardly wait to get her settled, could already imagine the leisurely hours he would spend in her bed. He wanted to teach her dozens of ways to make love. He wanted to buy her beautiful gowns then see her wearing them just for him. He wanted to lavish her with presents and pamper her with luxury.

That she hadn’t taken the news as well as he had expected shouldn’t really have surprised him. Catherine was a proud young woman. He should have eased her into the idea of being his mistress instead of dumping the notion on her all at once. He should have explained why he could not marry. That providing the father he loathed with an heir to the Gravenwold fortune was the one thing in life that he would not do.

Dominic smiled grimly into the darkness. From the moment he had been swept away from his family fifteen years ago, his father, Samuel Dominic Edgemont, Fifth Marquess of Gravenwold, had plotted and planned for his bastard son to carry on the family name. It was a desperate move born of the death of the marquess’s eldest son, Gerald, lost in His Majesty’s Service.

It was why the marquess adopted his illegitimate half-Gypsy child, why he schooled him, provided for him, why he tolerated him at all. The marquess knew that with the birth of Dominic’s son and his son’s sons, the Edgemont name would be ensured. Gravenwold would go on as it always had. All he had worked for would not be in vain.

Except that for the past fifteen years, Dominic had sworn that it would not happen.

Reining up in front of a two-story brick building with a faded wooden sign reading Inn of the Seven Sisters, Dominic dismounted, handed the gray to a stable lad, instructing him in French to see the beast well cared for, then opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. It was smoky in the dim, low-ceilinged interior lit by blackened whale-oil lamps, and noisy with laughter and bawdy songs.

“Good evening, m’sieur. What is your pleasure?” asked a buxom barmaid with graying once-blond hair. Her light blue eyes ran the length of him, taking in his simple but well-tailored clothes.

Tonight he wasn’t a Gypsy. He wore a crisp linen shirt and snug black breeches tucked into a pair of polished riding boots. No flashy silk, no coins, no earring. He didn’t want to attract attention to the Englishman his father had sent.

“Wine,” he said, “and hurry. The long ride has given me a thirst.”

“Oui, m’sieur.” The woman walked away, hurried by a pat on her broad behind from a man at a table nearby. As soon as she was gone, a stocky, balding man with careful gray eyes approached.

“Lord Nightwyck?” he asked softly.

“Not in here. In France in these times, a wise man has no name besides his birth one. Dominic will do.”

“Yes, sir.” The man spoke French as if he’d been born to it, and in his worn woolen breeches and simple homespun shirt blended in well with the peasants and few landed gentry who ate and drank in the taproom. “My name is Harvey Malcom. I’ve come about your father.”

“He isn’t dead, is he?”

“No, sir. But I fear he is gravely ill.”

“My father’s been gravely ill for the last ten years. If you’ve come to urge me home, you needn’t bother. My time here is ended. I’ll be leaving France in the next few days.”

“Thank God,” Malcom said.

Dominic arched a brow. “You sound truly concerned. My father’s been bedridden off and on for the past four years. Are you telling me he has in truth taken a turn for the worse?”

“I believe he has, sir. As you will soon see.”

“Yes, I suppose I will. In any case, you needn’t concern yourself further. You may expect me in a fortnight or less.”

“I beseech you, sir, to come to your father straightaway. It isn’t certain how much longer he will last.”

Dominic searched the man’s face for some sign of falsehood, but found none. Sooner or later, the old marquess’s uncertain health was bound to take its toll. It appeared the time had at last arrived.

“You may convey my impending arrival.” Dominic smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t want to miss my father’s parting words.”

Harvey Malcom declined Dominic’s invitation to sup and instead climbed the stairs to the lodgings he had let for the evening. Dominic made arrangements of his own, slept a few short hours on a lumpy feather mattress, then saddled the gray and rode hard back the way he had come.

The festivities were in full swing when he arrived late that night. The crypt of Saint Sara had been opened and swarms of Italian, French, and Spanish Gypsies had made their way inside to take up their two-day vigil. Inside the crypt, Gypsies would be sleeping on the floor amidst a sea of guttering candles in front of the statue of Sara.

Outside, mounted Camargue guardians, carrying their three-pronged tridents, escorted throngs of revelers. Wearily, Dominic threaded his way through them, steadily making a path back toward his wagon—and Catherine.

For hours he had replayed the scene in the wagon, this time attributing her odd behavior to the hurt she must have been feeling. You intend to parade me through the streets of London as your whore? How kind of you, Dominic. He should have taken the time to explain, should have made her understand that was not the way he felt at all.

His eyes searched the crowd, past flamenco dancers, knife-swallowers, a man playing a mandolin and another who cranked a hurdy-gurdy while a tiny trained monkey turned circles on his shoulder. But he saw no flame-haired minx, even as he neared the wagon.

Instead, his mother met him before he had time to dismount. Dominic saw by the strained look on her face that something was wrong.

“What is it, Mother?” He swung a long leg over the stallion’s rump and stepped down to the ground. “What’s happened?” But even before she said the words, he knew.

“Catherine!” He started toward the wagon, but his mother caught his arm.

“She is gone, my son. She left just moments after you rode out. I was working, and with the excitement of the festival no one discovered her missing until nightfall.”

“Tell me what you know,” he said, gripping Pearsa’s thin shoulders.

“Thanks to your friend, André, at the Black Bull Tavern, we know a great deal and yet we still know nothing. He came looking for you after she had been to see him—it appears she knew he was your friend—”

“Yes, I mentioned that the owner of the Black Bull often took messages for passing Gypsies.”

“She went to him. Told him you had sent her and that you had said he would help her. She was no longer dressed as a Gypsy, my son, but as a Gadjo lady.”

Dominic swore an oath, crossed to the wagon, and climbed the stairs. The money he kept in his trunk—all of it—was gone. In a way he felt relieved. “She has plenty of money to get home,” he said, returning to his mother. “She took what I kept in my trunk.”

“André said she hired a young woman from the tavern to go with her. She asked him to arrange safe travel to Marseilles.”

Dominic’s dark look darkened even more. “She’s bound to find a ship there. If I hurry, maybe I can stop her before she sails.”

“It is possible. But I believe your Catherine will do all she can to keep that from happening.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Damn her treacherous little heart.”

“There is more bad news,” Pearsa said. “Last night in town, Zoltan got into a knife fight with a big Spanish Gypsy named Emilio. Zoltan is dead.”

Dominic closed his eyes against his growing despair. “What of the boy? Who will take him?”

“He wants to go with you.”

Dominic hesitated only a moment. “Bring him to me.”

“Why did she go, my son?” Pearsa asked. “I thought you had agreed to take her home.”

“I handled things badly. I’ve got to find her. Explain things.” He started to turn, but his mother caught his arm.

“This time, my son, I do not think you will.”