A Forbidden Love (3 page)

Poised on a rock, her bare feet immersed in the icy stream, her willowy fingers combing through the long, wet strands of her ebony hair, sat a legendary nymph.

A raffish grin tugged at the corners of Anthony’s lips. Here was the very reason why he had such a feeble disposition toward the fairer sex. Who in their right mind could resist such an unearthly being?

Folding his arms, he slumped a large shoulder against a tree, and with an admiring glint in his eye, studied the bathing creature in idle appraisal. The nymph’s goose-fleshed skin glistened with dewy moisture. She wore only a pale ivory chemise, the hem yanked up over her knees and wedged firmly between her thighs, exposing the soft contours of well-rounded calves. But those were not the only curves to draw his attention. Shapely hips tapered to a narrow waist before his eyes rested upon a pair of supple breasts tucked snugly between the tight confines of bodice lace.

Delightful thoughts scampered through his mind. Randy images made more vivid by the lovely display of bountiful breasts and dark, puckering nipples jutting through the thin, damp fabric of her chemise. Despite the warm zephyr ruffling through the blossoming branches, the chill of the water had provoked her body’s sensual response. And he couldn’t help but mull over the enticing image of a plump breast cradled in his hand, his lips hemming round the chilled areola in soft, feathery kisses, smoothing away the wrinkles of the tightening bud before he welcomed the generous mound of flesh into his mouth.

Anthony dropped his lashes, taking in the sounds of the gurgling stream and loquacious birds, and inhaling the rich scent of birch wafting through the spring breeze.

Satisfied the blood was flowing more steadily through his veins, he opened his eyes. The twinkle of a gold locket, nestled between the cleft of her swollen breasts, caught his attention next, and when she moved to stroke her moist fingers along her neck and bust, her gold hoop earrings glinted under the random shafts of sunlight penetrating the forest canopy.

A more winsome sight he had never beheld.

Her hands welded to form a cup and she scooped the shimmering water into her crooked palms. As she bowed forward, he noted the birthmark etched on her right shoulder blade in the shape of a crescent moon, and his smile broadened. He couldn’t resist wondering what other alluring secrets she had concealed beneath her wear.

The water splashed across her sun-bathed features, the residue raining back into the stream. Pearled globules dripped off high rounded cheekbones, dusted with a radiant shade of wind-whipped rose. Into the partially opened crevice of her mouth seeped some of nature’s juice, and she licked her full lips to take in all the moisture.

Anthony’s heart jounced, lurched right out of the confines of his chest, or so it seemed, at the tune drifting over the languid waters. He perked his ears to better hear the faint hum of her bewitching voice. The medley was foreign to him, but soothing, striking a vibrant chord in his heart, so each blood-pounding beat was a muffled thud. Hypnotized, he allowed her celestial voice to seep into his soul, to stir and rummage through the emotions buried deep within.

But the enchantment was not to last. As if sensing a penetrating gaze, the nymph’s eyes soon shifted and suspiciously scanned her surroundings until settling on the intruder regarding her from the sanctuary of the woods.

It was those glistening eyes that lodged his breath in his throat: a brilliant shade of cobalt blue, fringed by thick, sooty lashes, flicking in wariness. Those eyes harbored a myriad of emotions, experiences, dreams, trials…secrets.

She was up, scrambling to the opposite bank, and dashed for the shelter of the trees. Only the distant hail of her footfalls, stomping over moldering leaves and twigs, permeated the deserted terrain.

Anthony sighed longingly. A pity to have lost such a whimsical vision so soon. And yet, he was delighted to have had the chance to witness such a charming diversion. Vivid memory of his water nymph would keep his thoughts pleasantly engaged for the next little while, and that was certainly agreeable.

The motley patch of colors flitted by his wandering gaze, and he narrowed his eyes on the assortment of clothes, boots, and a bag, all piled on his side of the shoreline.

Was the girl really so startled by his intrusion that she’d leave all her belongings behind and run barefoot and half naked through the woods? He couldn’t let her go like that, all frightened and undressed. God only knew what would become of her in such an indecent state, and with a gallant grin, he decided to set out after the skittish creature, the bundle of garments secured in his arms.

She was a quick nymph, deft in ducking straggling branches and leaping over rotting logs. But his legs were longer, his strides wider, and he swiftly closed the gap between them. He reached for her.

“Let me go!” Swinging round, she pounded on his arm, then yanked one of her boots from his hold and struck him soundly in the shoulder.

His good humor steadily dwindled as he averred between hits, “I mean you no harm.”

The hurdling boot halted in mid-air—for a second. She nailed her captor in the upper arm once more, and he was forced to dislodge the boot from her grip and toss it to the ground before she smashed his face in with the heel.

“I only wish to return your possessions.” He quickly shoved the paraphernalia into her chest, expecting an apology and perhaps a little gratitude. He got neither.

The girl slammed her foot against his shin, her one liberated fist connecting with his jaw, and sprinted back into the bush.

Bewildered, Anthony stared at the quivering branches, all that was left of his impudent little nymph, and slowly reached for his tingling chin. Now prudence would dictate he leave the matter alone, but the viscount had none of that at the moment. Pure indignation compelled him to give chase, though he took no more than a step forward before he noticed his quarry cautiously backtracking hers. A brief glimpse over her head enlightened him with the reason for her sudden retreat.

Two men were approaching, their rapiers drawn.

“Wonderful,” muttered Anthony, still fingering his chin.

Confronted with the nymph’s envenomed glare, he was met with the accusation, “You meant no harm, did you?”

And he was forced to defend himself with a curt, “I most certainly did not.”

Then to prove to her he was not a member of the villains’ circle, Anthony took a step forward, with every intention of protecting her from the advancing fiends—only he wasn’t swift enough.

The men lunged for their intended target. The girl’s scream pierced through the rattle of twittering birds, and all three went crashing to the ground.

Blindly grabbing the first collar in his reach, Anthony yanked the brute into the air. A sound crack to the face followed, and the man collapsed in an unconscious heap.

The viscount swiped the fallen sword and turned to dispense with the second assailant, only to find a blade careening toward his head. He nimbly ducked to the side.

“Stay out of our affair,” came the determined, and unmistakably lethal, warning.

“I think not,” countered Anthony, and with a sound blow, sliced his opponent in the upper arm.

The blood spurted forth. The startled man winced and grabbed his wound, though he maintained a firm grip on his weapon. Eyes round in indignation, he promptly returned the blow.

“This is none of your concern!” the contender blasted, with yet another failed swipe at his more skillful counterpart.

The rapiers clamored as the brandishing blades collided and the men stood locked in place.

Nose to nose, Anthony gritted through gnashed teeth, “I believe this is very much my concern,” and with a powerful shove, dislodged the entangled swords.

His opponent staggered back before regaining his composure. “That filthy gypsy is a criminal! You have no right to interfere with her capture.”

A gypsy? Yes, of course. He should have guessed. The colorful kerchief floating downstream, the style of her vibrant clothes, her exotic eyes, her long black hair. With her identity revealed, the threat to her life was even more apparent. There was no law prohibiting the mistreatment of gypsies, and therefore no repercussions should the men have captured her and done with her as they’d pleased.

Anthony’s jaw instinctively flexed at the abhorrent images that trampled though his mind, and he demanded darkly, “What is her alleged crime?”

“She is a thief, and I intend to bring her to justice.”

The viscount gave a soft snort. “A thief indeed.” It was a sham of an excuse, as far as he was concerned, to harass an innocent lass. It certainly wouldn’t be the first such attempt to persecute a gypsy.

“Move aside!” the fiend blasted. “That locket is mine!”

The locket?
That
plain bauble was the root of all the commotion? Surely not. Why, it was no more than a simple gold locket, easily replaced. Not much of a prize for a thief, and certainly not worth all the hysterics this particular scoundrel was making.

No, the brute was after the girl for more nefarious reasons, and Anthony wasn’t about to let him anywhere near her.

His blade swooping across his rival’s chest, Anthony came dangerously close to slicing his opponent from navel to nose. The antagonist jumped back, but not before Anthony’s sword nicked him in the cheek, leaving yet another noticeable mark.

Bristling, the man slowly reached for his face and felt the drops of blood.

“I suggest you depart these grounds.” Though the viscount’s stringent remark could be construed as anything but a suggestion, especially with a blade aimed directly for his adversary’s throat.

But the villain took no heed of the baleful monition and charged recklessly. “I’ll not rest ’til I have that locket!”

Anthony, having had enough of the tiresome skirmish, briskly stepped aside, extending only his fist to soundly connect with the ruffian’s face.

The man stumbled and plowed headfirst into the forest bed, joining his motionless comrade in unconscious bliss.

Jaw thrust forward, tense with the exertion of the afternoon skirmish, Anthony dropped his arm at his side and pivoted, expecting to find the gypsy had fled, but what he saw instead shoved his heart right up into his throat.

There she was, sprawled on the ground, completely still.

He drove the blade into the dirt and fell to his knees. Gently lifting her into his arms, he touched the bleeding wound at her forehead, then glanced down at the large bloody stone she’d struck her head against. With his ear close to her lips, he heard the shallow breathing and sighed.

“Well, my gypsy,” he murmured, “let us hope I can carry you despite the swelling you so kindly bestowed on my shin.”

Carefully, he lowered her back to the ground and shrugged his greatcoat off his shoulders, blanketing her. He then went over to collect her discarded clothing and boots, shoving the garments into the bag she’d been carrying before he slung the bundle of paraphernalia over his shoulder. Once more at her side, he gathered her wet body into his arms, and cautiously made his way back downstream and on toward the haven of the main house.

Chapter 3

S
abrina Kallos was lounging on a cloud—or so it seemed. Softness and warmth were all around her. A shaft of sunlight kissed her skin, rousing her from a deep slumber. No sooner had the stirrings of wakefulness touched her dreamy senses, than the rhythmic thumping swarmed her head.

She grimaced and cracked opened her eyes. It took some time for her misty vision to adjust and focus. The glaring light of the setting sun, shooting in through the row of tall windows, cast a fiery glow over much of her unfamiliar surroundings.

Titling her head to the side to avoid the brilliancy, she was struck by the sheer size of the room. It was massive. Everything inside it was massive. High ceilings, soaring windows, a giant bed with its sweeping canopy of fine dark fabric hovering above her. Why, the bed alone was of a greater size than the entire wagon she and her father lived in. Finely carved furniture filled the gaping space, as did figurines of polished bronze horses and many other knickknacks. Flames snapped in the hearth off to one side, the fireplace framed by glossy wood shelves, littered with books and other curious ornaments. The colorful walls displayed magnificent scenes of woodlands and a distant patch of hunters and hounds in pursuit of one unfortunate fox.

Sabrina didn’t care much for the image. She felt like the very fox in the mural, and thoughts of the danger she was in suddenly overwhelmed her.

It was the
gajo’s
shadowed figure standing by one of the windows that now seized her attention. His hefty body shifted to block out most of the sun’s direct rays, allowing her a better opportunity to study him without having to strain her eyes too greatly.

Memories came rushing forth. She’d been attacked in the woods, that much she could recall, but beyond that, her mind was clouded in darkness. Where was she? Who was her captor? A quick glance to her wrists confirmed she was not bound. Blankets covered her body, and she sensed the linen coiled around her head, but her clothes were nowhere to be seen.

Heart battering in sync with the pulses in her skull, she tried to sit up, raising her head no more than a few inches off the pillow before a wave of discomfort attacked her senses and she dropped back with an anguished cry.