A Dangerous Love by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

an intention she did not understand. He swept her a bow, as elegant as any courtier’s, but his eyes were blazing, ruining the effect. Ariella inhaled and turned away.
    What kind of man was that?
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    E MILIAN STARED after the gadjo and his beautiful daughter. His insides burned with dislike for de Warenne. The daughter’s defense of his disrespectful behavior echoed in his mind. His body rippled with anger and tension. He didn’t need her or any gadjo to defend him. She thought to be kind? He didn’t care that she was kind.
    His loins were full. To a man like him, she was so far above him she was a princess—the kind of beautiful, perfect, blue-blooded woman that no English matron would ever present to him. But in spite of the differences of class and blood between them, she had looked at him the way all the Englishwomen who wished to use him did—as if she couldn’t wait to tear off his clothes and put her hands and mouth all over him.
    He almost laughed, mirthlessly. He exchanged gadji lovers with almost the same frequency that he did his clothes. Those wives and widows used him strictly for carnal passion, and he used them for far more. There was a satisfaction to be had in sleeping with his neighbor’s wife, when his neighbor looked down on him with so much condescension and scorn. He may have been raised English, but he was still didikoi— half blood—and budjo was ingrained in his soul. A man who mowed his neighbor’s hay and sold it back to his neighbor was considered great. To take what belonged to someone else and reap a profit from it before returning it to its owner, perhaps for even more profit, was a great swindle. Every Rom was born with the need for budjo in his or her blood. Budjo was a Rom’s last laugh—and it was his revenge for the injustice every Rom had ever faced in the world.
    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.
    â€œEmilian.”
    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.”
    â€œI 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.