Samantha James
Authors: One Moonlit Night
Samantha James
One Moonlit Night
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered.
“He’s a Gypsy, you know, Olivia.” There was an elbow…
Her first thought was that be didn’t look like any…
“There was a terrible storm last night,” said Charlotte. “The…
Sunday dawned clear and bright and warm. Sunlight glinted off…
A cold wet nose nudged beneath her hand.
“There are Gypsies camped near the stream.”
Several days passed. Olivia was in a quandary. Nearly every…
The world seemed to stand on end. All around thunder…
A ripple of shock went through him. Dominic went very…
That evening, Olivia was of a very good mind to…
Olivia had only to turn her head to encounter the…
Dominic had the awful feeling he’d frightened her—that he’d trespassed…
Olivia didn’t go directly home. In the village she turned…
The scene with Dominic was taking its toll. Olivia was…
Dominic awoke in his bedchamber lying facedown on the bed.
There was much to be done in the final days…
Esther had come only an hour earlier, but Emily had…
Dominic woke to the sound of a lone bird trilling…
Olivia was worried about Emily. Each day she grew ever…
Somehow she had accomplished what no one else could.
Olivia regained consciousness slowly. The back of her head pounded…
It was the distant bowl of a wolf that roused…
They were married one year ago today.
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered
.
She was a beauty, with long, gleaming black hair that fell to her hips, slanted dark eyes and skin that was sleek and golden. But Madeleine was scarcely aware of her charms, though many a man had been struck by the vibrancy of her beauty, the radiance of her smile and laughter. And only one man had ever truly captured her eye. Her very soul.
This
one.
“James?” she whispered again. “I—I have something to tell you.”
This time, the slightly husky undertone—the remnants of lovemaking—had vanished from her voice, which carried a slight accent. But the hint of shyness remained, the…uncertainty.
The covers shifted. James St. Bride, Earl of Ravenwood, propped himself on an elbow. A dark brow cocked high.
“What is it,
petite?
” As he spoke, he ran a fingertip up and down the length of her bare arm.
Madeleine could not suppress her shiver of delight. God help her, but he was a handsome man!
He waited, his expression faintly detached. As he
caught her gaze, one corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
Madeleine took a deep breath. There was no help for it. She must simply say it and be done with it.
“I am with child,” she said softly.
His finger stilled. His smile withered. The room grew very silent, a hush she felt to the marrow of her bones. It was difficult to believe only moments before his heated cry of ecstasy had filled the chamber.
He snatched his hand from her and rolled from the bed. One lithe fluid motion and he was on his feet.
Madeleine swallowed as he turned away. She stared at the back of his head. Rich brown hair the color of mahogany glistened shiny and bright in the light from the fire. The muscles of his shoulders flexed and rolled as he reached for his robe. His movements jerky, he slid his arms into the sleeves.
Slowly he turned to face her. To her dismay, his features reflected nothing of his thoughts. His eyes, the deep blue color of sapphires, were cool and remote. His mouth was a thin straight line.
An awful feeling coiled deep in her middle.
“Surely you must know a potion.”
“A potion?” Her brows drew together over her eyes. She was confused.
“Yes, a potion! To get rid of the brat!”
Never before had he spoken to her so brusquely. He could barely restrain his agitation. She had to stop herself from cringing at his impatience.
“Come now, Madeleine! You are a Gypsy! Surely you know of a potion!”
Madeleine eased to a sitting position, clutching the coverlet to her breast. She was stunned to the
depths of her being that he would suggest she would kill her own child…
“James,” she said haltingly. “
James
.” She blinked back tears, tears that burned her very soul. She could only shake her head, over and over.
“What! Did you think I would be pleased?”
With her eyes she mutely pleaded with him. “I thought that you…that we…that we might be…”
He made a sound of disgust. “Good God! What are you saying…that you would have me marry you?”
Madeleine had gone very still. In truth, she had scarcely dared to hope…But she had prayed. Prayed nightly that he would marry her—oh, it mattered not if it was the Christian way. Even if it were only words, words that pledged their hearts together forever…
And so her answer lay in her eyes, huge and wide and dark as midnight skies, fixed mutely upon his. He remained where he was. So very distant. So very aloof. Everything within her cried out in pain. She’d given him everything. Her body. And her heart as well.
His lip curled. “I am the Earl of Ravenwood,
petite
. And you are a Gypsy.”
He taunted her—oh, most cruelly! Yet even as Madeleine longed to wither away and die, pride brought her head up high. “If I were one of you, you would not treat me like this!”
His tone was faintly bored. “But you are not, are you?”
No
, she echoed silently. She was not. She was a Gypsy. And of course, that was something he would never forget…
But
she
had. In her dreams, in her hopes, she had blinded herself…
They had met the summer past. She’d first noticed him one night. He’d allowed her people to camp on one of his estates. She’d been dancing, swaying in time to the soulful pitch of a lonely violin, a haunting tune that vibrated deep within her body. But there was a story to be told, a story as old as time. A story that echoed the pangs of heartache yet soon brought the promise of tomorrow—the promise of brightness and gaiety. And as the chords of the music escalated, her feet echoed the beat, atune with the rhythm of her heart. On and on it went, until she was laughing, her arms raised high, her skirts flying up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of lithe, slender legs. And it was while she was still caught in the aftermath of a whirling excitement that he had approached her…
Lovely, he had called her. The most lovely creature he’d ever seen.
He’d returned yet again the next night. And for the following six thereafter. Ah, but he was a most splendid specimen of a man! Oh, the others had warned her. That he was a
gadjo
who wanted nothing from her. But she had not listened. And on one starry, moonlit night he had made her forever his.
Contrary to what most of the
gadje
believed, she was not a wanton; Madeleine had guarded her virtue well. James had been surprised—but oh, so very pleased—to discover he was her first lover.
And so when he left…she went with him.
For nearly six months she had lived here in the country with him. Waiting as he conducted his business in London and at his other estates. But
though he had oft spoken of passion, of the pounding need that burned his blood and thrilled her to the core of her being, not once had he spoken of love.
Madeleine could not help it. A single tear leaked from her eye.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Tears?” he scoffed. “From a Gypsy whore?”
Gazing at him now, his face scored with contempt, it was hard to believe he had ever been tender. That he had been kind. Yet now there was a darkness in him, a blackness she could not reach…could never reach.
Perhaps it had always been there.
Her hands were shaking—and so would her voice if she let it. She stilled both by sheer determination. Boldly she met his cold blue gaze.
“I am no whore, James. I gave you everything…everything! I’ve lain with no other man save you and you know it as well as I.”
“What does that matter?” he demanded. “I fed you and took you from that dirty Gypsy camp. You knew what I wanted from the very beginning, Madeleine. And you wanted it too. Dear God, you were as insatiable as I!”
Her fingers curled into the coverlet. She said nothing.
“You see!” he taunted. “You know I am right. I gave you satin and lace and furs. You ate from the finest china. I gave you things you’d never have had without me. You took it all, knowing I promised nothing in return.”
For the first time she knew shame. Shame at what she had done. Oh, but how rash she had been! She had thought she could change him. That
she could make him love her. Love her as she loved him.
Ah, yes, she had loved…while he had lusted.
Slowly Madeleine raised her chin. “You call me whore. But I am no whore. I am…what you made me.”
A tight smile curled his lips. “You were well paid for your services,
petite
. And you are what you are. A Gypsy whore.”
Her chest rose and fell. Each breath burned like fire. “And what about my babe?” she cried. “
Your
babe?”
“And how do I know there
is
a babe? This could be naught but a trick for me to marry you. But ’twill do no good,
petite
, for you see, I’ll never marry you. When I marry, it will be a woman with impeccable bloodlines, not a common Gypsy waif.”
Raw pain crowded her chest. She was a fool. A fool to love a man such as he…For he was right. A man such as he could never marry her.
His tone should have served as a warning. “Let us not quibble. The time has come for you to leave,
petite
. Let us not part in anger.” He strode to the highboy across the chamber, opened it and reached within. There was a satin, tasseled pouch in his hands when he turned.
“Here.” He tossed the pouch on the bed. There was a jangle of coins as it landed near her feet. “You Gypsies are fond of gold, are you not? I trust that is ample compensation.”
Let us not part in anger
.
But Madeleine
was
angry. A bitter blackness fired her blood, searing away her heartache. He would never know, she vowed. He would never know she loved him.
Her gaze traveled from the pouch to his face.
“I do not want your gold. I will not take it,” she said levelly. “And I promise you, James, you will regret this.”
“Will I?” He gave a bored shrug. “I think not. There are other women in the world, Madeleine, women just as beautiful as you.”
“I carry a son. The only son you will ever have.”
“You carry a bastard.”
His tone was scalding, yet his eyes were cold as ice. Dear God, did he possess not a shred of feeling?
Madeleine wet her lips. With one hand she swept aside the coverlet and rose from the bed. Heedless of her nakedness, she walked to him and stood before him.
Her hands lifted to his face. But she did not touch him. Instead, her native Romany flowed from her lips, as she let loose the storm in her heart.
James was disconcerted. She could see it in the way his eyes flickered uneasily.
Her words gained strength and volume. Hands beckoned. Fingers pointed accusingly.
The tension in the room grew ever more powerful.
Finally, as her voice rose to a crescendo, his hands shot out. Strong fingers curled almost violently into her narrow shoulders.
He shook her. He shook her until she was silent, until her head fell back like a broken flower on its stem.
Madeleine didn’t retreat from his fury but met his countenance with glittering eyes.
“What is this?” he demanded. “A Gypsy curse?”
Madeleine allowed a faint smile to grace her lips.
“So you believe…then so it will be.”
He released her with a scowl. “You’re mad,” he said baldly. “As mad as that Gypsy fortune-teller Adriana.”
A secret smile touched Madeleine’s lips. The old woman Adriana had told James that he was destined to a life of unhappiness. She’d said his wealth would buy him no joy in life.
“Perhaps I am,” Madeline said quietly, “but Adriana was right. You will never be happy, James.” Deliberately she touched her belly with both hands. “Behold your son, James, for you will father no more children, neither sons nor daughters…”
His expression turned to one of utter disgust. “Your Gypsy curse doesn’t frighten me, Madeleine. When I return this evening, I want you out. Go back to the streets. Go back to your Gypsies. I care not where you go. Do you hear, Madeleine? I care not where you go.”
He whirled and started toward the door.
But Madeleine had seen a glimpse of that which he feared, in the way only her people could see…and now it was her turn to taunt him.
“Remember, James. I take your son with me, your only son. So you believe, then so it is.”
The door slammed.
Her strident cry resounded through the room. “Damn you, James. Damn you to hell!”
Even as the words spilled from her lips, while the fires of hatred spilled through her veins, she could not deny the truth of her own heart…
Her strength failed her. She slumped to the floor. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, until there were no more tears left.
All was silent when at last she raised her head.
She touched her belly anew, but it was different now—her touch was light and reverent, almost worshipful. And all at once Madeleine knew…
It would be just as the music foretold the night they had met…From grief would come joy. From heartache would come happiness. Her people would welcome her back. This she did not doubt. She would bear her babe. Her son.
Her son
.
But James must never know. He would never know…For she was aware with a certainty that defied all belief…that just as she carried his son…
It was her own curse to love him…James St. Bride…always.
