Read Online A Much Compromised Lady by Shannon Donnelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shannon Donnelly
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the worry came back. Had she shielded
them too much? Should she have told them the truth sooner? But
when? When could she have told them? When they were children and
their lives still in the shadow of danger? No, fate had woven the
pattern. She had kept them safe. She had taught them caution. She
had wanted them grown and strong, and so she had kept the truth to
herself because it had been the only path at the time.
But this gaujo lord brought new paths.
She could feel them stirring. Her Glynis was right to be cautious.
But too much caution now could be as fatal as too much daring. They
walked a rope over a chasm now. And the only way to walk on a rope
was to look ahead—not down at fears for what might or might not be,
or backwards to the past.
So Anna put away her own fears and her
unspoken regrets. She smiled at her daughter, and put her to work
cutting the carrots and potatoes bought from the village market
yesterday.
* * *
“An excellent meal,” St. Albans said. He lay
back, propped up on one elbow. He had been on alfresco picnics that
were far less enjoyable than this. The firelight warmed his face,
and while a slight chill lay on his back, the wine heated him from
within. But what warmed him even more was watching his Gypsy
girl—Glynis, the older woman had called her.
No one had asked for his name, so he assumed
they knew it. He was accustomed to having his reputation precede
him, just not in these unlikely circles.
In truth, the meal had been quite good. The
blind Gypsy woman managed to bake bread in a pot—heavens knew how.
The stew, if not a delicacy, at least provided decent fare. And
they finished with apples—stolen, St. Albans suspected, but ripe—a
sharp Stilton cheese, nuts and a strong but drinkable red wine.
Of course, conversation had been somewhat
lacking.
The older man—Bado, he seemed to be
called—sat beside the younger Gypsy, his covetous stare focused on
Cinder, who grazed contentedly beside the Gypsy horses. The younger
fellow—Christo—glared at St. Albans and said nothing.
The older woman seemed content to say little,
and his Gypsy, Glynis, glowered at him as if this situation was all
of his making.
So he did his best to amuse himself.
He told them how he had paid a fellow to
learn their Gypsy signs. His Glynis exchanged an uneasy glance with
the one called Christo, who shrugged back an answer, and St. Albans
wondered just what relation these two had to each other that they
could speak without words. A close one, he thought, disliking the
young Gypsy fellow even more.
His story wound down until there was nothing
but the crackle of young wood on fire. The scent of stew and smoke
hung in the clearing, a gamy, sharp pleasant smell. The wine danced
nicely in St. Albans’s head.
He did not want to leave—mostly because that
young Gypsy idiot seemed to be wishing him on his way. But also
because he had not hit upon a plan to pull his Gypsy girl away from
the protection of her kind and more firmly into his reach.
Unfortunately, she seemed quite close with
the older woman—her mother, he decided, after studying the
similarities in face and form. With all the freedom she seemed to
enjoy, she would have no wish to rebel. So she could not be tempted
into defying her elders. But he needed her indebted to him.
Gratitude was always such a useful emotion in a seduction. And he
wanted her in a setting that was more conducive to intimate
relations.
Pleasant as this spring night was, he was
also starting to get a crick in his back, and he had never been
fond of moonlit forests for trysts. Far too many insects, animals,
and scratching thorns.
Well, there was but one way to gain
knowledge.
Smiling, he sipped his wine from the pottery
cup provided to him, and he asked, “I take it that you travel to
London? Still after Nevin, are you?”
Glynis scowled at him. She had been poking at
the fire with a sick, and now her hand stilled. She glanced at
Christo, who looked as unhappy as she at
them too much? Should she have told them the truth sooner? But
when? When could she have told them? When they were children and
their lives still in the shadow of danger? No, fate had woven the
pattern. She had kept them safe. She had taught them caution. She
had wanted them grown and strong, and so she had kept the truth to
herself because it had been the only path at the time.
But this gaujo lord brought new paths.
She could feel them stirring. Her Glynis was right to be cautious.
But too much caution now could be as fatal as too much daring. They
walked a rope over a chasm now. And the only way to walk on a rope
was to look ahead—not down at fears for what might or might not be,
or backwards to the past.
So Anna put away her own fears and her
unspoken regrets. She smiled at her daughter, and put her to work
cutting the carrots and potatoes bought from the village market
yesterday.
* * *
“An excellent meal,” St. Albans said. He lay
back, propped up on one elbow. He had been on alfresco picnics that
were far less enjoyable than this. The firelight warmed his face,
and while a slight chill lay on his back, the wine heated him from
within. But what warmed him even more was watching his Gypsy
girl—Glynis, the older woman had called her.
No one had asked for his name, so he assumed
they knew it. He was accustomed to having his reputation precede
him, just not in these unlikely circles.
In truth, the meal had been quite good. The
blind Gypsy woman managed to bake bread in a pot—heavens knew how.
The stew, if not a delicacy, at least provided decent fare. And
they finished with apples—stolen, St. Albans suspected, but ripe—a
sharp Stilton cheese, nuts and a strong but drinkable red wine.
Of course, conversation had been somewhat
lacking.
The older man—Bado, he seemed to be
called—sat beside the younger Gypsy, his covetous stare focused on
Cinder, who grazed contentedly beside the Gypsy horses. The younger
fellow—Christo—glared at St. Albans and said nothing.
The older woman seemed content to say little,
and his Gypsy, Glynis, glowered at him as if this situation was all
of his making.
So he did his best to amuse himself.
He told them how he had paid a fellow to
learn their Gypsy signs. His Glynis exchanged an uneasy glance with
the one called Christo, who shrugged back an answer, and St. Albans
wondered just what relation these two had to each other that they
could speak without words. A close one, he thought, disliking the
young Gypsy fellow even more.
His story wound down until there was nothing
but the crackle of young wood on fire. The scent of stew and smoke
hung in the clearing, a gamy, sharp pleasant smell. The wine danced
nicely in St. Albans’s head.
He did not want to leave—mostly because that
young Gypsy idiot seemed to be wishing him on his way. But also
because he had not hit upon a plan to pull his Gypsy girl away from
the protection of her kind and more firmly into his reach.
Unfortunately, she seemed quite close with
the older woman—her mother, he decided, after studying the
similarities in face and form. With all the freedom she seemed to
enjoy, she would have no wish to rebel. So she could not be tempted
into defying her elders. But he needed her indebted to him.
Gratitude was always such a useful emotion in a seduction. And he
wanted her in a setting that was more conducive to intimate
relations.
Pleasant as this spring night was, he was
also starting to get a crick in his back, and he had never been
fond of moonlit forests for trysts. Far too many insects, animals,
and scratching thorns.
Well, there was but one way to gain
knowledge.
Smiling, he sipped his wine from the pottery
cup provided to him, and he asked, “I take it that you travel to
London? Still after Nevin, are you?”
Glynis scowled at him. She had been poking at
the fire with a sick, and now her hand stilled. She glanced at
Christo, who looked as unhappy as she at
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