Taming Her Gypsy Lover by Christine Merrill Page B

infecting her. The atmosphere was still and thick, and she could not seem to breathe. She tugged at the fichu at her throat, as though the sheer scarf was the cause of the constriction in her lungs, and she ran from the room, down the stairs, out the back door and into the garden, not stopping until she reached the trees at the bottom of it.
    If she stood behind them, between the trunk of the big oak and the wall, she was out of sight of the house, and could pretend, just for a moment, that she was back in the country where she belonged. At peace, happy again, and worthy of love. She took deep breaths of the garden air, letting the sharp green smells of summer calm her, closing her eyes to focus on the songs of birds, and the rustle of their wings through the leaves.
    And something else. There was a subtle noise of a branch breaking, the sound of fabric shifting against fabric, and human breathing that was not her own.
    Her eyes flew open, searching for the source.
    A man was standing only a few feet away, in the shade of another tree, his back to the brick wall at the edge of the garden. His hair was unpowdered, thick and black, and tied back with a cord. His throat was bare above the white cotton shirt he wore, his red vest open in the heat, his doeskin breeches stretched tight across muscular thighs.
    A Gypsy. He must be. For who else would have the nerve to invade Lord Callandar’s walled backyard? He seemed to emanate confidence, as though the world belonged to him and no wall could hold him in nor keep him from his goals.
    She tried to look away. Her staring was most unladylike. But he was too close to ignore.
    He stared back with an animal hunger at the bared skin above the neckline of her dress. His gaze made Emma feel even warmer. She stepped back to put distance between them, and tripped on a tree root behind her, stumbling.
    He caught her by the wrists to keep her from falling. But then he restrained her, holding her a few inches from his body. He looked thoughtful now, as though he was trying to decide her fate.
    When he did not let her go with an apology, her mind clouded with images of ravishment. But as the seconds ticked by, he made no move to hurt her. And her fantasies changed . Teeth upon her skin, and a man’s tongue in her mouth, thrusting until she felt faint with desire. Sudden, rough possession, dark skin, sliding against her, into her, spilling into her, shattering her, parting from her to leave her naked in the garden, cool, refreshed…
    He released her arms suddenly, as though he could see her thoughts, and the graphic truth shocked him. His eyes unlocked from hers, glancing away as though the contact of their spirits was disconcerting him. Then he spoke. “You come from the house?”
    She nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.
    “Are you Amanda Hebden?”
    “Emma Hammond. I am her cousin.”
    “My name is Chal Pannell. I have come for the Romany child. Jaelle’s son, Stephano.” His eyes still blazed, but the rest of his face was as cold and hard as Geoffrey’s.
    Suppose he was as cruel? Emma feared what this stranger might do to the boy if he found him, or to her if he did not. She gathered her courage and raised her chin to meet his gaze. “You mean Stephen Hebden. He is Kit Hebden’s son as well. What do you want from him?”
    “To take him back to his people.”
    “His people are here. He is Amanda’s son, too.”
    The gypsy shook his head. “Not by blood. He belongs with his mother’s tribe.”
    And perhaps he did. Surely it would have been better to send him back to the Gypsies then to a place where he would not be wanted or loved. “It no longer matters who his mother will be. You have come too late to help him. He has been gone for months.”
    “You lie.” The stranger dismissed her with a sharp tilt of his head. “Go to the house and bring him to me.”
    “I tell the truth. I watched him go. Lord Callandar took the boy away to a foundling home just after his