He could have de Warenne’s daughter, if he wanted to bother. More blood filled him, hot and thick. She would be wet clay in his hands. He was well aware of his powers of persuasion. But he had little doubt that Cliff de Warenne would murder him if he ever found out.
The temptation was vast, because she was so beautiful. He knew she’d whisper about him behind his back after leaving his bed, like they all did. His paramours couldn’t wait to discuss the sexual prowess of their Gypsy lover with their friends—as if he was a stud for hire. She was unmarried, but the way she’d looked at him told him she was experienced. It would be interesting, he decided, to take that one to bed.
Something niggled at him, bothering him—a sixth sense, warning him, but of what he could not decide.
“Emilian.”
He whirled, relieved at the distraction. Then the relief vanished as he stared at his uncle’s sober face. “The woman?”
Stevan made a sound. “The woman is my wife, and she is having your cousin.”
A warmth began, unfurling within his chest. Stevan had several children, whom he had met eight years ago, but he didn’t even know precisely how many cousins he had, nor could he recall their names. And another was on the way.
Suddenly he was overwhelmed. He felt moisture gather in his eyes. The warmth felt like joy. It had been so long since he had been with family. Robert did not count; Robert despised and scorned him. Stevan, his children, Raiza, Jaelle—they were his family. And although he was didikoi, these people accepted him in spite of his tainted blood, unlike the English, who had never really accepted him at all. Even Edmund had had his doubts. In that moment, he did not feel isolated or alone. He did not feel different. He was not an outsider.
Stevan clasped his shoulder. “You are a grown man now. Djordi tells me your home is rich.”
“I have made it rich,” Emilian said truthfully. He wiped his eyes. He could not remember Stevan’s wife’s name and that was truly shameful.
Stevan smiled. “A lot of budjo, eh?”
Emilian hesitated. He had made Woodland profitable through English work, not Gypsy budjo. He did not want to tell his uncle he had labored honestly and industriously, instead of using cunning for his gain. “A lot of budjo,” he lied.
Stevan nodded, but his smile faltered.
Emilian tensed. Knives seemed to have pierced his guts. He asked slowly, “Why have you come to find me?”
Stevan hesitated, but as he did so, a young Romni ran out from the wagons, her bright red skirts swirling. She paused, barefoot, not far from them. “Emilian,” she whispered, flushing.
It took him a moment to see Raiza’s beauty in her young, striking features. He gasped, realizing he was staring at his little half sister, except she wasn’t twelve years old anymore —she was twenty.
She smiled beatifically and rushed into his arms.
He felt himself smile widely, the kind of smile he hadn’t felt in years, one that began in his heart. He held her, hard, just for a moment, relishing the rare embrace—it was entirely different from holding a lover he did not care for. When he released her, he was still smiling. “Jaelle! You are a beautiful woman now. I am in shock!”
“Did you think I’d grow up ugly?” She laughed, tossing her dark mane of hair. He now realized it was tinged with deep red tones and her eyes were golden amber.
“Never!” he exclaimed. “Are you married?” He was almost afraid of her response.
She shook her head. “There is no one here that I want.”
He wasn’t sure if that answer pleased him or not.
Stevan said gruffly, “There have been good men who have asked for her. She has refused them all.”
“I will know when I wish to marry, and I haven’t wished to yet.” She touched his face. “Look at you—a gadjo now! With so much wealth—Djordi said so. But can pounds replace the wide road and the shining stars?”
His smile faded. Although he had tried to run away many times when he had first been brought to Woodland, he had finally chosen to stay. And he hadn’t thought twice about taking over the estate upon Edmund’s death. What could he say? Just then, surrounded by true family, he was uncertain his choices had been the right ones. “I am half blood,” he said, hoping to sound light. “Woodland is a good place, but I miss the open road and the night sky.” And in that moment it was achingly true. He missed Jaelle, Raiza and his uncle. He hadn’t realized it until then.
Jaelle tugged on his hand. “Then come with us, just for a while.”
He hesitated. There was so much temptation.
Stevan seemed doubtful. “Jaelle, you have heard it before— half blood, half heart. I don’t think our way will please your brother for long.” Stevan looked at him. “He has been raised a gadjo. Our life is better—but he cannot know that.”
His uncle’s words filled him with tension. The lure of the open road was suddenly immense. But he had duties, responsibilities. He saw himself hunched over his desk, attending to papers until well into the next morning, or standing in a great hall, apart from the ladies and gentlemen present, there only to discuss a business affair. He recalled the previous evening, when he had been in bed with a neighbor’s wife, giving them both rapture. How easily he could sum up his life—it consisted of Woodland’s affairs and his sexual encounters and nothing more.
“Maybe your life is the better way,” Emilian said slowly. That did not mean he could leave, however.
Jaelle seemed ready to hop up and down. But she teased, “Your accent is so strange! You don’t sound Romany, Emilian!”
He flushed. He hadn’t spoken the tongue in eight years.
Stevan took his arm. “Do you wish to speak with your sister now?”
Emilian glanced at Jaelle, who was bubbling with enthusiasm and happiness. He did not want to disappoint her. He hoped her good nature was always with her. It crossed his mind that he wished to show her Woodland at some point in time, before the kumpa’nia went north again. There was so much he could offer her now—except she preferred the Roma way.
He could see her in his gadjo home, in a gadji’s dress, and he stiffened because that was completely wrong. He faced Stevan. “Jaelle and I have all night—and many nights to talk to one another.” He sent her a smile. “Maybe I can find you your husband, jel’enedra.”
She made a face. “Thank you, but no. I will hunt on my own—and choose on my own.”
“So independent!” he teased. “And is it a manhunt?”
She gave him a look that was far too arch; she was no naive, virginal, pampered English rose. “When he comes, I will hunt him.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and darted off.
Emilian stared after her.
“Do not worry,” Stevan said. “She is far more innocent than she appears. She is playing the woman, that is all. I sometimes think of her as being fifteen.”
“She isn’t fifteen,” he said tersely. Romany mores and ethics were entirely different from