Free Taken by the Wicked Rake by Christine Merrill Page B

and gentle, and she felt the movement of his mouth on hers, and deep within her. It was as though he had found a way to be come part of her, to share his soul with a single kiss. She had nothing to fear from him, for he offered pleasure beyond anything she could imagine. She had but to go with him to the vardo, and give him her body, as she had her lips.
    Someone laughed, and there was a shout of approval. The sounds brought her back to reality: she remembered where she was, and who she was, and who she was kissing. And she began to fight him, turning her head from side to side to escape his mouth, and beating his chest with her free arm.
    He stepped away and released her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. But his angry expression was gone, replaced by momentary surprise and then a satisfied grin. He stared at her and reached up to touch his own lips protectively, as though she had been the aggressor and he the innocent victim of her lust.
    Her fists balled at her sides, rage towards him mingling with the shame of knowing that they had been observed. She looked at the people gathered in groups around her, longing to see a friendly face. If there was someone who was at least willing to speak English in her presence, then maybe they could talk reason to the dark man in front of her. But there was nothing but curiosity in the faces of the on lookers.
    “We will go to the vardo, now.” Her captor’s smile had changed. It was a knowing look, the smirk of a conqueror.
    The crowd around them stilled, as though she were nothing more than a player on a stage and they were as eager to see what would happen next. There was no indication that they would help her if she asked, or intervene in any cruelty that the Gypsy might inflict on her. Her struggles would be further amusement for the tribe, and would take from her what last bit of dignity she might possess. So she looked at the man in front of her, and said clearly, so that all might hear, “You will be sorry for this. I swear.”
    And her few words seemed to be more than enough to satisfy them. Although her enemy was unmoved, the others looked away, fearing to meet her gaze. She saw a flurry of hand signals, as some people around her threw up wards against her, while others fumbled in pockets and at throats, reaching for talismans or lucky pieces.
    And then, the fearsome Stephano Beshaley flinched. She was sure that his reaction was in voluntary, and so swift that he did not realize he had done it. But for a moment, he looked as shocked and as pained as if she had slapped him hard upon the face. Then he blinked, and formed his hand into a fist, before flexing the fingers.
    She thought for a moment that he meant to strike her for her impudence. But then she noticed the bandage wrapping the hand, and it seemed that his movements had more to do with the injury than any threat to her.
    It made her smile to think that she could turn their Gypsy superstitions so easily against them. And so it would be with the curse against her family. She would find a weakness and exploit it, giving him more reason to fear and obey her than to follow the mad ravings of his long-dead mother.
    If she lost her honour tonight, so be it. She would keep her self-respect, and do nothing to jeopardize her immediate safety. And she would survive to make this man pay for what he had done to her. She turned and walked ahead of Stephano Beshaley, toward the vardo.
    When they entered the wagon, he reached be hind her to shut the door, and she heard a bolt slide into place. Did he find it necessary to protect himself against his own people? More like, he knew that she could not open the door while he slept without his hearing the click of the lock. He could easily stop any escape attempts.
    He had gone to the other side of the wagon and pulled off his jacket, draping it over a nearby chair. Then he turned to her and stared.
    A shiver went through her as she looked at him. She could see the muscles beneath his thin