Samantha James (15 page)

Was it himself he denied—or her? Held only by the fiery vise of his eyes, Olivia didn’t move. She couldn’t. All at once she felt as if the world were toppling all around her.

She heard the harsh, indrawn breath he took. His jaw was inflexible, his features hard.

He swore. “Go, damn you! Just—go!”

His tone scalded her. Tears sprang to her eyes—and to think she had commended him to Emily
only that morning! She didn’t wait for him to tell her again. She whirled and ran from the room, her pulse hammering—and the imprint of his mouth burned into hers.

Olivia didn’t go directly home. In the village she
turned down the lane that led to the outskirts of town—and the genteel old house that belonged to the Dunsfords.

The Dunsford home was two stories high, easily several times over the size of the cottage she and Emily shared. The Dunsfords had lived there for well over a century. Gleaming tendrils of ivy climbed the stone fireplace at the side of the house.

She halted before the door, faintly vexed that Lucifer continued to trot alongside her. “Lucifer, go home!” she scolded sharply. The hound merely wagged his tail, his tongue lolling at the side of his mouth. He lay down on the top step and wagged his tail, as staunchly attached to her as ever.

She turned her attention to the matter at hand. Grasping the brass knocker, she knocked loudly on the front door.

From within came the sound of hollow footsteps. The door opened and William stood there.

“Olivia!” He hailed her warmly. “How wonderful to see you! Please, do come in.” He motioned her inside and closed the door, then led her into
the parlor, a comfortable room decorated in shades of brown and gold.

“Would you like tea? No? Are you certain?” He was ever the gentleman as he gestured her toward one of the wing chairs before the fireplace.

Olivia was too agitated to sit, but before she could say a word, William peered at her closely. “Why, love, your cheeks are as red as apples. Are you ill? Of course, it’s this heat.” He reached for her hands.

Olivia snatched them away. It was not the heat, but the fiery resentment burning inside her that accounted for her high color.

“I’ve something to say to you, William.” She came straight to the point. “I’ll thank you to stop spreading it about that we are to be wed.”

His eyes flickered. “Why, Olivia, whatever do you mean? I cannot think what—”

She cut him off abruptly. “Spare me the denial, William. I know otherwise.”

He stiffened visibly. “I dislike your tone, Olivia.”

“And I dislike your presumption.”

He stared at her hard, then seemed to relax. He even laughed. “I apologize. Perhaps I was indiscreet and spoke when I shouldn’t have.”

“Of that there is no doubt.”

He gestured vaguely. “Come now, Olivia. What does it matter that it is not official?”

“It is neither official nor
un
official, William. I cannot imagine what possessed you to say such a thing!”

“What possessed me? Aren’t you forgetting I asked for your hand?”

“And aren’t you forgetting I did
not
give my consent?”

He pulled a face. “Look, I’m sorry if I misconstrued what you said—”

“You did indeed,” she said curtly. “Never did I say I would marry you.”

“You said not at the present time. Nonetheless, I thought it was understood that we would still—”

“It was not,” Olivia informed him stiffly. “Perhaps it’s best if we settle the matter here and now.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Never did I consent to marry you, William. Indeed, I did the opposite!”

His hand dropped to his side. He eyed her coldly. “Who told you?” he demanded. “Who told you what I said?”

The edge in his tone was unmistakable. Before she had a chance to reply, he swore. “That bastard! It was him, wasn’t it—the Gypsy earl! Of course, it had to be!” He raked her with a contemptuous glance. “Is that why you’re angry? Because of him? What the devil has gotten into you, Olivia? It doesn’t matter what he thinks, not to me or to you!”

But it did, an insistent little voice inside her whispered. When he would have reached for her elbow, she wrenched it away and tipped her chin high.

“What matters is that you would bandy it about that we are to wed when we are not! I will not marry you, William. Not now, not ever. And if you persist in spreading it about that we are engaged, I will have no choice but to announce to all that it is
not
true, that it was never true! And if that happens, you will surely look the fool.”

His expression turned ugly. “You’ll regret this,”
he said tightly. “And you’ll be back, Olivia. You’ll be back begging me to marry you and then we’ll see who plays the fool!” He sneered. “Who else would have you and your invalid sister?”

Olivia picked up her skirts and headed for the door. “Good day, William.” With a swish of her skirts, she was gone.

William’s hands balled into fists at his sides. A vile curse erupted. By God, she would pay for this. She would pay dearly! And so would he…

The Gypsy earl.

Never had Emily been so utterly confused. She treasured the time spent with Andre, for he made her feel special and cherished in a way she’d never thought possible.

Yet it was painful to be with him, for being with him was but a wrenching reminder of all that was gone from her life…the vibrancy of color and light and movement. She wondered if she had changed. What she looked like…what
he
looked like.

An endless ache pierced her breast. Before she had met Andre, she had finally accepted that she would be blind for the rest of her days. The hurt had at last begun to lessen—but now the hurt was sheer, unending torture.

Yet deep within her, some frail thread of hope refused to die. The crystal Andre had given her…he’d said it had great healing powers…She kept it with her day and night. Hidden deep in her pocket. Beneath her pillow. She ran her fingers across the smooth surface often, praying as she’d never prayed before.

But was it merely fool’s hope that nourished her?

She woke one morning after Olivia was gone. She knew the hour was late for she could feel the warmth of the summer sun slanting through the window. Her eyes opened. At first she thought she must still be asleep, for there came the flash of a sliver of light. She held her breath.

It came yet again.

She was half-afraid to breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to count. One. Two. Three…But when her lashes lifted once more, there was nothing.

Nothing but the hated, oh-so-very-familiar blanket of darkness.

Dimly she heard herself cry out. She wanted so desperately to believe that she might someday see again…Was it simply her imagination? Had her longing somehow driven her to perceive something that was not there?

She curled up into a tight little ball, unable to summon the heart to rise. She must have dozed, for she began to dream—the horrible dream where she relived the terror of Papa’s death. That horrid Gypsy leered, his black Gypsy eyes glinting as he raised his club high, though Papa begged for mercy…Then all was silent…a silence that was more terrible than all that had gone before. For she knew that Papa was dead…

She woke with a shudder, her palms clammy despite the heat of the day. Pushing the covers aside, she rose. Even when she was bathed and dressed, a shiver of dread shook her form.

Olivia had left bread and cheese in the kitchen, but she had little appetite. A short time later Andre knocked at the door and called a hello. She flung the door wide and hurtled straight into his arms.

“Now this is a welcome I’d not expected,” he said with a husky laugh. A tender hand tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear. “To what do I owe—” All at once he broke off, capturing her chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Emily, what is this? You’ve been crying!”

Emily tried to smile. The attempt was an abysmal failure.

Hands on her shoulders, he steered her into the parlor and onto the settee. “Emily, tell me what’s wrong! Is it Olivia? Is she all right?”

“Olivia is fine.” Despite her most stringent effort to the contrary, there was a slight catch in her voice. Andre said nothing, but she could feel his scrutiny.

“It’s the dream. You had that blasted dream again, didn’t you?”

There was little point in trying to deny it. She nodded.

He swore beneath his breath.

To her shame, hot tears pricked her eyelids. Though she despised her weakness, she couldn’t control it. “Don’t be angry with me, Andre! Please, I—I could not bear it if you were angry with me.”

“Emily! I am not angry with you.” The harshness in his voice had softened. He enfolded both her hands within his. “But this dream…it plagues you so much lately, I know it. Why, in this week alone, you’ve had it…what? Three times?”

“Four,” she said in a small voice.

He gave an impatient exclamation. “This is not right. You hold too much inside, princess. I—I cannot help but feel it might help, if only you would tell me.”

Emily wavered. To relive the day of her father’s
murder again—the prospect made her cringe inside! Yet was it possible he was right? Oh, if only she knew! Instead she knew only that these last days, she dreaded the night for fear of sleeping…for fear of dreaming!

She exhaled, a long, uneven breath. “It’s just so—so difficult,” she confided. “I—I’ve never spoken of it, even to Olivia.”

His hands tightened around hers. “I don’t see that it can be any worse than it is now. Besides, sometimes remembering is the only way to heal,” he said gravely. “Just try, will you, princess? You can always stop, I promise.”

“You don’t understand, Andre.” Her mouth was tremulous. “This—this dream…’tis not just a dream…It really happened.”

His gaze was steady on her face. “I thought so,” he murmured. He took a deep breath and prayed he was not making a mistake. “The other night, you called out to someone not to hurt your father.”

Emily’s shoulders slumped. The memory of that horrible day had festered inside so that the pain was almost a part of her. Was Andre right? Was remembrance the only way she could ever truly forget? She no longer knew. And indeed, how could it possibly be any worse?

It was this which finally made her decide. Yet she had to reach deep down inside to some secret part of her she hadn’t known existed.

“Yes,” she said woodenly. It was the only way she could speak of it. “Papa and I were riding through the woods. We were on our way back from visiting Mrs. Childress, who was ill. But suddenly there was a man in the road. He waved at us to stop. Of course Papa did, because he thought
he might be injured. But the man—” A shiver shook her. “—he demanded that Papa give him his horse. Papa refused and—and tried to ride around him. But he grabbed the reins. He—he dragged both of us down…When I fell I—I hit my head on something. A boulder at the side of the road, I think.”

She gave a slight shake of her head, her voice very low, so low he had to strain to hear. “I was dazed. My head throbbed unbearably. I—I think Papa tried to stop him from stealing the horse. Then I heard Papa cry out for help…pleading for mercy. My head was spinning…it—it was so difficult to see.”

“Was that when you lost your sight?”

“No. When I woke up the next day, I—I couldn’t see.”

Andre frowned. How strange…“What happened then?” Gently he encouraged her.

Emily swallowed, steeling herself to go on. “All at once I saw them struggling. Papa fell to the ground. The man picked up a thick wooden branch.” Her voice began to shake—and so did she. “He struck him, Andre. He struck him…countless times.”

Andre felt sick inside. Dear God. She had seen it. She had seen her father murdered. No wonder these dreams haunted her still!

“I tried to reach him, but I—I couldn’t move! There was blood on Papa’s head…” She began to cry, heartrending sobs that wrenched at his insides. “He hit him, Andre, over and over and over, until…until Papa cried out no more.”

Andre didn’t hesitate. He brought her shaking body close and tucked her cheek against his shoul
der, holding her until the storm of grief inside her was spent.

“The man who did this, Emily. Was he caught and punished?”

Soft blonde hair tickled his chin as she nodded. “He was hanged,” she affirmed.

He sought to give what comfort he could. “Only a terrible man would do such a thing.”

“I know. He was a Gypsy.”

Andre froze. “A Gypsy?”

“Yes. They’re all beggars and thieves, you know. And I—I hate them. I hate them all!” The bitter denouncement was torn from deep inside her.

There was no doubt she meant every word.

Andre reeled. It was as if she’d dealt a blow at the very center of his soul. He had no one to blame but himself. He’d persisted, wanting to know about her dreams—about her father.

Now he did, he acknowledged bitterly. God, but he wished he did not!

He continued to hold her, one hand absently stroking her hair, but his eyes were bleak, his heart torn. Emily so desperately longed to regain her sight—and he’d wanted it for her as well. Now. Before the Gypsies left this place. But if she did…

She would hate him—hate him forever.

The scene with Dominic was taking its toll. Olivia
was not sleeping well. Not until the days that followed did the full import of what she had done that awful night take hold.

She should never have slapped him, for then he would never have kissed her—perhaps now the aftereffect of that turbulent encounter would not haunt her still. Was it her fault? Or his? If she hadn’t provoked him, would he have reacted as he had? But he had insulted her most cruelly…Olivia was still shocked to the depths of her being that she had dared strike him. Such lack of control was so unlike her! Yet never in her life had she been so angry…but so quite obviously had he.

He wouldn’t have been angry unless he cared. No. No, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t as if he had a
tendre
for her. No doubt he’d sought out—and found comfort—in the arms of the Gypsy girl Eyvette.
You’re blind
, whispered a voice.
He was jealous of William, wasn’t he? Yes
, agreed another. ’Tis what precipitated the whole unpleasant incident…
Unpleasant
, scoffed the first.
’Twas hardly unpleasant during those mind-spinning moments when his lips lay hard and warm upon yours
.

On and on her mind roiled, first one way and then the other. Was it any wonder she avoided him? She knew not how she felt. She knew not what to say or what to do! She was lucky he hadn’t dismissed her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t the luxury of resigning her post. She was pleased with what she’d managed to put aside for a visit to a London physician, but it would hardly support her and Emily for long. Still, she had every reason to believe he was displeased with her. When she chanced to see him, he didn’t speak. If anything, his jaw was harshly unyielding, his eyes dark and inscrutable. Yet she could feel his gaze dwell long and hard upon her though she didn’t possess the courage to meet it. Indeed, she felt the effect of those ice-fire eyes long after he was gone, and his cold disdain pierced her to the quick.

Even the weather was a somber reflection of her mood. Gray, ominous clouds moved in from the north and east. A summer storm drenched the area with rain for nearly three days straight.

The household was in a frenzy preparing for the ball. Mrs. Templeton seemed to be everywhere, issuing orders, looking on. Even Franklin, usually so unflappable, seemed a bit harried. Olivia had not worked on Dominic’s accounts for well over a week. It was Franklin who reminded her and asked that she stay late tonight. A sliver of guilt shot through her as she replied that of course, she would stay and see to it. It wasn’t just the household duties that had kept her from the task. In truth, she was afraid Dominic might be there. But at least tonight, she would be alone. She’d heard Franklin mention that he’d been invited to dinner
at the Beaumonts, a wealthy merchant family who lived some miles distant.

Throughout the week, the servants had been rife with speculation about the earl’s invitation. It was rumored that John Beaumont sought a husband for his daughter Elizabeth, purported to be a blonde, irresistible beauty. When Olivia first heard, an odd little pang speared her heart. The servants were convinced the earl was his target. Gypsy or no, an earl would be an enviable match for his daughter—she already had an abundance of wealth, and if she were to marry an earl she would be assured of a place in society.

It was difficult to attend to her duties when all she could think of was Dominic—with Elizabeth Beaumont. She could not stop the wanderings of her wayward mind. Would Dominic find himself entranced with the lovely lady? The thought did little to hearten her.

All was quiet when Olivia slipped through the house, as most of the servants had retired for the night. The study was steeped in darkness when Olivia tiptoed inside. She lit the lamp on the desktop, then moved to close the door.

A blistering curse seared the air.

Olivia froze. She nearly cried out when, from out of the shadows, a towering male form suddenly loomed.

Dominic.

Her hand came up to cover her thundering heart. “I thought you were at the Beaumonts’.”

“So you came because you thought I was gone. How flattering, Miss Sherwood. I hate to disappoint you, but John Beaumont sent word that his wife is ill. The evening has been postponed.”

Olivia eyed him warily. He wore dusty boots and riding breeches. His loose white shirt was open nearly to the waist, revealing a startling wedge of wide, hair-roughened chest. Some little-known sense within her prickled in warning, for there was something alarmingly reckless about him just now.

And no wonder. There was a crystal glass in his hand—and the brandy decanter on the table next to the velvet wing chair was empty.

An unpleasant smile curled his mouth as her gaze traveled from his face to the decanter and back again. His eyes were bloodshot.

“You’re foxed,” she began, only to stop short. He’d turned to the side, and it was then she spied the portrait of his father.

It had been ripped from its berth above the mantel and now leaned precariously against the hearth—but that was not the worst. The canvas was tattered and torn—as if a knife had been plunged through it again and again.

“Dear God,” she said faintly. “Who on earth…” The question was singularly ridiculous, a fact borne out by the glint in Dominic’s eyes.

She took a deep, steadying breath, shaken to discover that he was capable of such violence. “You’re foxed,” she said again. “Otherwise, you’d never have done such a thing—”

“You’re right. I’ve had quite a lot to drink. But contrary to what you think, when my drunken stupor clears, I won’t regret it. Indeed, I find it much more palatable, for now I need not endure that bastard’s prying eyes on me.” His voice rang with false heartiness. “Ah, how remiss of me to forget.
I
am the bastard, am I not?”

Oh, but he was arrogant! Olivia was suddenly
angry. “How could you? How could you do such a thing? You have no respect for anything—for anyone! You care about nothing,” she accused.

“Is that what you think? Is it?” His jaw hardened. He flung the glass aside; it shattered into a hundred pieces on the hearth. He crossed to stand before her, so close she could see the darker ring of blue around his eyes—eyes that seemed to burn clear inside her.

“You’re wrong,” he said fiercely. “I care about you.”

She stared at him numbly.

His mouth twisted. “What! You don’t believe me? It’s true. I care about you. I care about you more than I should.”

Her mouth grew dry, her breath unsteady. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” His hot gaze fastened on her lips. For one fleeting instant, she was swept back into that magical moment when she was spun adrift in the fiery tempo of his kiss. But all too soon reality intervened.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I cannot believe it. I cannot believe that you are capable of any emotion, save one—hatred for your father.”

“Believe it, Olivia, believe it. Oh, I know you will not, but he would never let me forget what I was…what I am…a Gypsy.”

Her stomach clenched. He was tense, so very tense. The very air around him seemed to crackle and sizzle.

Her indignation faltered. “You say it as if it were a curse,” she said slowly, then hesitated. “Why do you hate him? Why? Despite all, he was your father—”

“You would defend him? To me? To me?” He was outraged. “You stand in judgment of me,” he said tightly, “when you know nothing of me—nothing of him. Let me tell you of him, of the man you call my father, of James St. Bride.

“From the time I was very young I’d heard the stories of how he refused to marry my mother when she discovered she carried a child,
his
child. When he came for me, she told me that I’d spent these many years with her, but now it was time to go with him, with James St. Bride.”

In some distant part of her mind, Olivia noted that he never called him “Father”…it was always “James St. Bride.”

“He sent me to school, a boarding school in Yorkshire where wealthy men like him sent their illegitimate offspring.”

“But—you were his heir.”

“Only because he was desperate. Only because he had no other choice. He had three wives, but no children. Nor did I know until he died that he had my birth legitimized even before he came for me. He didn’t tell my mother because he knew it would have pleased her! He cared more about his title—his estates—than he cared for me. I ran away from school countless times, yet he always found me and dragged me back. Finally he had no choice but to engage a tutor, for he was determined to see that I was educated, to mold me into someone like him, a proper gentleman…his heir.”

His tone was no less than bitter. “Not once, in all those years, did he touch me,
not once
. He let me know, in any way he could—in
every
way he could—that I was never as good, never as intelligent, as a
gadjo
boy. He was austere and harsh,
while I was rebellious and troublesome. I savored the times when my tutor ran to him, bemoaning the fact that I could not read, that I refused to listen and learn. Oh, I suppose I should have been grateful he didn’t beat me. Instead he had a far better means of punishment—Lord, but his tongue was vile! To him, I was just the little Gypsy rat—God knows he called me that often enough!”

Olivia listened in mounting horror. How could the old earl have treated his son so abominably? How could he have been so cruel to his own flesh and blood?

“Nor did he ever bring me here, to Ravenwood, to the home of his ancestors. Of course I knew why. To bring me here would have been a sign that he’d accepted me, when in truth, he’d acknowledged that I was born of his seed—but I wasn’t his
son
. Not the way I should have been. I tried to go back to the Gypsies, but it wasn’t the same. I discovered there were things I liked, comforts that the Gypsies didn’t have. I—I felt as if I’d betrayed my people.

“When I was fifteen, my mother sent word that she was ill. He wouldn’t let me go to her. He locked me in my room. I—I discovered later that she died alone, near the stream one day—” A shadow passed over his face, a fleeting pain that made her ache inside. “The Gypsies believe that no one should be alone when they die. I hated him for that, most of all.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she couldn’t withhold. There could be no doubt that he had loved his mother deeply. Only now did she begin to understand the depth of his hatred against his father—and the reasons for it. Her chest ached with the force of the emotions scrambled in her breast.
Not
once did he touch me, not once
. The life he had endured with his father had been so very, very cruel! She saw through the layers of pain…to the hurt beneath. The hurt of a boy, young and scorned and so very alone.

“When he died, I was tempted—oh, so tempted!—to turn my back on him, on my inheritance, to shun the life he was determined I live. But I’d already learned I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t have both, and so I had to make a choice. The solicitor in Stonebridge, Robert Gilmore, hates me for being one of them, a Gypsy. But I’m distrusted by the Gypsies because of my
gadjo
blood. And I’m despised by the
gadje
because of my Gypsy blood. I’m damned for what I am…what I am not. I asked you once to look at me, to tell me what you see. You had no answer, Olivia. Nor do I. Am I a Gypsy who’s lost his way?” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or a
gadjo
who’s lost his way?”

He nodded toward the portrait. “I think you are like him, like James St. Bride. He would not let me forget who I am…what I am. Nor can you.”

Her breath caught. Everything within her cried out in fevered denial. “No! That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it? Go ahead and say it, Olivia. You did it once before. You despise me. You despise me because I’m a Gypsy. Say it!” His features were a mask of stone. “Say it!”

An odd little pain knotted in her breast. Despite the tragedy of her father’s murder and Emily’s blindness, her childhood had been filled with many happy days of love and laughter. But for Dominic, those days had been all too few.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I cannot—” Her throat clogged painfully. “—for I
do
not.”

He said nothing. His mouth thinned, a taut, straight line. The plane of his jaw was so grim, so very, very grim. What was he thinking? she wondered wildly. Her gaze took in the stiff, unyielding lines of his shoulders, his proud, rigid posture.

Unbidden, she reached out, her only thought to offer what comfort she could.

Fingers of iron shackled her wrist, thwarting her, stopping her cold. Slowly she raised her head, lifting tear-bright eyes to his.

He stared down at her, his features dark and forbidding. “Don’t,” he warned tautly. “Don’t pity me. Don’t cry for me.”

There was a sharp, rending pain in the region of her heart. Why was he so cold, so distantly aloof?

Olivia didn’t answer; she couldn’t. All at once she was caught in a paralyzing uncertainty. Her rational mind urged her to flee. Yet she stood rooted in place, held by a compelling force more powerful than she—a force she didn’t entirely understand.

Yet she couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t leave him alone. Not now. Not like this.

Her mouth was as dry as bone. “You’re wrong if you think it’s pity I feel for you,” she whispered.

His eyes seemed to blaze. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said tautly. “Go back to your beloved William.”

Realization dawned in a flash. Olivia was suddenly very aware of what he was doing—trying to drive her away. Something painful caught at a corner of her heart. She’d been given a glimpse into the dark, lonely side of his soul, a side she’d never dreamed existed. Despite his strength, despite his pride…he was vulnerable. James St. Bride had
hurt him unbearably, a wound that the years had not erased…a wound that had never healed.

Perhaps it was time that it did.

Her heart in her throat, she shook her head. “I—I don’t love William,” she whispered.

Something flared in his eyes. He moved so quickly she nearly cried out, snatching her against him. “Swear it.
Swear it
.”