For Love of a Gypsy Lass Read Free Page B

her gaze away from his, and the spell was broken.
    “Cambio is waiting. It is time for you to sing, granddaughter.”
    “Yes,” she said huskily. “I will sing.”
    She walked quickly to the stage and climbed onto it. She stepped forward and let her gaze slide over the lord and out over her small audience. Before Cambio could begin to play and thus dictate what she would sing, she began “Robin Adair”, the song the Gadjo lord had said he’d never heard more sweetly sung.
    She kept her gaze from him, but she was sure he stared at her. And when the song ended she heard him call out, “Brava.” She did not want to be able to recognize his voice, she did not want the intimacy of knowing his voice, but she did know it, and against her will her gaze went to him. He was staring at her intently; she could see the hunger for her in his face. He had not looked thus at Delilah. He nodded slightly and mouthed, “Robert Burns.”
    And so she sang “ Montgomerie’s Peggy” and “The Winter It Is Past” , as well as some other songs by Mr. Burns. She sang for him, the handsome lord with his fine Gadjo clothes and his Gadjo blond hair and his Gadjo fair skin and blue eyes. She sang for him alone.
     
    ***
     
    She was exquisite, he thought, and her voice was that of an angel. At first he had thought she was distressed to see him and then he was sure she ignored him, leaving him puzzled and unhappy. Yet, when she sang Mr. Burns’ songs she met his gaze, and he was certain that she sang for him alone
    He was overwhelmed with gratitude that she no longer seemed to despise him. He would have stepped forward after every song and placed a coin in the pot, but he seemed unable to move.
    Never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted this Gypsy singer. He loved each song she sang more than the one before. He longed to hold her, to tangle his fingers in that black-as-night hair, to kiss those dark eyes, to run his hands over that delectable body.
    He would give anything—everything—to have her continue to smile on him, to have her willingly bring her lips to his. He desperately wanted her and, just as desperately, he wanted her to want him in return.
    As she sang, her gaze came to his own more and more often, and he began to feel more sure of her, more certain that she wanted him. By the time she curtsied and stepped off the stage, he thought she could be his for the asking. And he was determined to be wildly generous. He would give her a house of her own, perhaps two—one in town and one in the country—each near his own, of course. She would have her own carriage and as many servants as she wished. He would keep her as his mistress in the utmost luxury. No longer would she live in a shabby wagon, or have to travel from town to town to perform publicly like this for a few coins. He would give her anything and everything she wanted. He would take the best care of her. She would be his.
    She finished singing, curtsied and ran offstage. He threw coins in the pot—everything in his pocket—uncaring of what they were or their worth.
    He hurried after her, anxious to tell her his plans. She walked quickly to a small stand of trees and once there turned to him. He stepped forward intending to address her. Instead he found his arms around her and hers slipping around him as their lips met hungrily.
    Her lips were as inviting as he had imagined and her kiss as arousing. He ran his hands up and down, loving the sweet curves of her back, of her bottom. He pulled her even closer to himself until her breasts were crushed against his chest and his cock hard against her belly. Her body was soft and yielding against his own, and her lips—her lips were opening to him.
    His tongue slipped within and met her own. The flames of desire, hot and bright already, flared—wildfire spreading through him, consuming every part of him.
    Suddenly she pushed him away and stepped back.
    “Sir,” she said, her voice soft and shaky, “this is unseemly. We