When Lightning Strikes by Cynthia Lucas Read Free Book Online Page B

face.
    "And as for my bathing habits, despite what you have heard or what you may believe, my lady, we are clean and well-kept as we are able to be. Yestereve we worked, unlike most of your kind. There is a lake not far from here, but the weather was quite foul and I had no chance to bathe; not to mention the fact I was caught out in the rain, which does not make one’s garments smell any less than rancid."
    With a bitter smirk he quickly added, "You on the other hand are an Englishwoman and it is a well-known fact that the English are quite notorious for their penchant for not washing. Most unfortunately the foul habit has spread across most of the conquered world. I should think any bodily odors or even being louse-ridden would not have much of an effect upon you. I must admit, though, you do not smell as sour as most of the English, including the wealthy and titled! No, my lady, you smelled quite sweet lying in my arms all night. Like flowers.”
    He smirked anew, gleefully this time, bringing that devastating dimple to his right cheek and again raising one if his perfect black eyebrows with practiced precision.
    “ Does he rehearse that look in the mirror?” she thought to herself as she seethed at his statement, although she had nothing to be offended at…and not likely he owned a mirror.
    On second thought, she supposed he had complimented her, if anything, on the fact that she smelled good. But, it was the intimacy of his words and his cocky attitude that bothered her. He enjoyed reminding her that she had spent the night with him even if it was only sleeping. He was the exact kind of man she had warned her mother about last night. A full-of-himself, swaggering, horse’s ass!
    But, she supposed she deserved his slightly nasty remarks just a little. She could tell she had offended him by calling him a Gypsy, a term which was derogatory and inaccurate.
    In modern times the term was loosely used even by some of the Romany themselves and so it didn’t matter so much. But here, especially in the midst of these people it most certainly did. It was an alteration of the word ‘Egypcien’, because the Romany were originally thought to be from Egypt. The word was associated with the belief that they were thieves, highwaymen and vagrants traveling from place to place trying to swindle people out their gold with their fortune-telling and selling of less than quality merchandise. Thus, the modern expression of ‘gypping’ someone in a less than honest transaction of some kind.
    In actual truth, most Romany kept completely to themselves and tried to avoid outsiders at all costs. Many were incredibly gifted artisans, musicians, acrobats and dancers. But, unfortunately there were some who did live up to the reputation that preceded them, as it was the only way they had to survive in these crude times. It was sad, but this was not the twentieth century with all of her creature comforts.
    She wished in that moment she could reveal to him her own Romany heritage and to somehow let him know that she understood their plight, but her safety depended upon her silence.
    Her mind snapped back to the task at hand. Staying alive and playing her part. What would an English damsel do in a moment like this? His last statement was meant to hit her where it hurt. And her extended silence had no doubt left him certain that he had the upper hand. He’d better think again.
    She smirked inwardly and feigned indignation. “I will have you know, sir, that I bathe every single day and I am well aware of the fact that I smell like the rose water that I am accustomed to soaking in. And as for this talk of being a highwayman or a vagrant, those are your words, not mine.”
    “So there!” she thought. At least her outrage over his petty statements would sound genuine like those of a true English damsel and he would continue to believe her to be a noblewoman. She had even tried to sound as English as possible and a little gracious too. And the part