Ariella almost relaxed. She knew nothing about Gypsies, but surely her father was right.
“Captain, sir. The best thing is to send them on, out of the parish. We don’t need them here. They’re Scot Gypsies, sir, from the Borders, up north.”
Cliff called for silence again. “I will speak to their chief and make certain they mind their business and continue on their way. I doubt that they intend to linger. They never do. There is nothing to worry about.” He turned and looked at Ariella, an invitation in his eyes.
She grinned. “Of course I am coming with you!”
“Do not tell your sister,” he warned as they stepped past the crowd and out of the house.
Ariella fell into step with him, happy to have left the supper party behind. “Dianna has grown up. She is so proper.”
Cliff chuckled. “She did not get that from me—or her mother,” he said. Then he gave her a closer look as they strode down the driveway. “She adores you, Ariella. She has been chatting incessantly about your visit to Rose Hill. Try to be patient with her. I realize no two sisters could be more different.”
Ariella felt terrible then. “I suppose I am a neglectful sister.”
“I understand the lure of your passions,” he said. “At your age, better the lure of passion than no lure at all.”
Her father so understood her nature. Then her smile faded. The shell drive curved away from the house before sloping down to the public road. Below her, she saw an amazing sight. The sun was setting. Perhaps two dozen wagons, painted in bold jewel tones, sparkled in the fading daylight. Their horses were wandering about, children running and playing, and the Gypsies added to the kaleidoscope of color, colorfully dressed in hues of scarlet, gold and purple. The mayor had been right. There were at least two dozen wagons present, and the Gypsies may well have numbered closer to sixty or seventy.
“Did you mean what you said about the Gypsies?” she asked in an awed whisper as they paused. She felt as if she had been swept away into a foreign land. She heard their strange, guttural language and she smelled exotic scents, perhaps from incense. Someone was playing a lively, almost occidental melody on a guitar. But there was nothing foreign or strange about the children’s happy laughter and the women’s chatter.
Cliff’s smile was gone. “I have met many Romany tribes over the years, mostly in Spain and Hungary. Many are honest, Ariella, but unfortunately, they are not open to outsiders. They distrust us with good cause, and it is rather common for them all to take great pride in swindling the gadjo.”
She was intrigued. “The gadjo?”
“We are gadjos—non-Gypsies.”
“But you told the mayor and his cronies not to worry.”
“Is there ever a reason to worry about the worst case? We do not know that they will linger, nor do we know that they will steal. On the other hand, the last time I encountered the Romany people, it was in Ireland. They stole my prized stud—and I never saw the animal again.”
Ariella looked at Cliff carefully. He was reasonable now, but she saw the quiet resolve in his eyes. If any incident occurred, he would not hesitate to take action. “Are you certain a Gypsy stole the stallion?”
“It is the conclusion I drew. But if you are asking if I am one hundred percent positive, the answer is no.” He laid his hand on her shoulder with a brief smile and they started forward.
They had reached the outermost line of wagons, which encircled a large clearing where several pits were being dug for fires. Ariella’s smile faded. The children ran about barefoot with barking dogs, and their pets were thin and scrawny. Women were hauling buckets of water from the creek. The pails were clearly very heavy, but the men were busy pounding stakes and laying out the canvas for tents, hurrying to get the camp made before dark. She looked more closely at the women. Their faces were tanned, lined and weather-beaten. Their colorful skirts were carefully patched and mended. They wore their long, dark hair loose or in braids. The woman closest to them had an infant in a pouch on her back. She removed items from a wagon.
This was a hard life, Ariella thought, and now, she realized that all the laughter and conversation had ceased. Even the guitar player had stopped strumming.
The women paused and straightened to stare. Men turned, also staring. The children ran to the wagons and hid there, peeking out. An absolute silence fell, broken only by a yapping dog.
Ariella shivered, uneasy. These people did not seem pleased to see them.
A huge bear of a man, his hair dark and unkempt, stepped out from the center of the camp in front of the wagons, as if to bar their way. His red shirt was embroidered, and he wore a black-and-gold vest over it. Four younger men, as dark and as tall, came to stand with him. Their eyes were hostile and wary.
Hoofbeats sounded. Ariella turned as a rider on a fine gray stallion galloped up to the outermost wagons, another rider trailing farther behind. He leaped off the mount, striding toward the Gypsy men.
She felt the evening become still. He wore a plain white lawn shirt, fine doeskins breeches, and Hessians that were muddy. He did not wear a coat of any kind and his shirt was unbuttoned, almost to the navel. Clad as he was, he may as well have been naked. No Englishman would travel publicly in such a way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built. He wasn’t as dark as the other Gypsies, and his hair was brown, not black, glinting with red and gold in the setting sun. She couldn’t see him more clearly from this distance, but oddly, her heart began to wildly race.
Cliff took her elbow and started forward. Ariella now heard the newcomer speaking to the Gypsies in their strange, Slavic-sounding tongue. His tone was one of command. Instantly Ariella knew he was their leader.
And then the Gypsy leader looked at them.
Cold gray eyes met hers and her breath caught. He was so beautiful. His piercing eyes were impossibly long lashed, and set over strikingly high, exotic cheekbones. His nose was straight, his jaw hard and strong. She had never seen such masculine perfection in her entire life.
Her father stepped forward. “I am Cliff de Warenne. Who is vaida here?”
There was a moment of silence, filled with hostility and tension. It gave her the opportunity to really look at the Gypsy chief. Of course he wasn’t English. He was too dark, too immodestly dressed and his hair was far too long, brushing his shoulders. Tendrils were caught inside his open collar, as if sticking to his wet skin.
She flushed but couldn’t stop staring. Her gaze drifted to a full but tense mouth. She glimpsed a gold cross he wore, against the dark, bronzed skin of his chest. Her color increased just as her heart sped more fully. She knew she should look away, but she simply couldn’t manage to do so. In the fine silk shirt, she could even see his chest rising and falling, slow and rhythmic. Her glance went lower. The doeskin breeches clung to his thick, muscular thighs and narrow hips, delineating far too much male anatomy.
She felt his eyes on her; she looked up and met his gaze a second time.
Ariella flamed. Knowing she had been caught, she looked quickly away. What was wrong with her?
“I am Emilian. You will speak to me,” he said, a slight accent hanging on his every word.
“I see you are already making camp. You are on my land,” Cliff said, his tone hard.
Ariella looked up, but the gray-eyed Gypsy was intent on her father now. She didn’t know why she was so flustered. She had never been as aware of anyone. Maybe it was because he was an enigma. He was dressed like an Englishman might in his boudoir—but he was not in the privacy of his home. His English seemed flawless, but he spoke the Gypsy tongue.
Emilian smiled unpleasantly. “Long ago,” he