more.
Duvvel preserve her. It was true. She could not lie to him, thanks to the Devil’s magic.
Whit smiled, pleased with himself, pleased with her.
There was no way out. Not until she gave this dark stranger what he desired. “It’s card secrets you want? As you wish.” She ducked underneath the cage of his powerful arms and strode toward the gaming table. Deftly, she picked up a deck of cards and began separating out the aces through the sixes for piquet. As she did this, she noticed a card nearby lying faceup on its own atop the table. She frowned as she studied it.
“This queen of diamonds has no picture on it,” she noted.
Whit came to stand beside her. He tapped the card with one long finger, and his golden signet ring gleamed. “This is what binds you to me. You cannot be more than twenty feet from this card.”
The cards in her hands fell to the table, scattering like dead leaves, as she reached for the empty queen of diamonds. She tried to pick up the card. Yet she could not lift it. Nor push it across the surface of the table. It was as though it weighed ten stone.
With maddening leisure, Whit strolled over and picked up the card, then ambled toward the fireplace. He propped up the card on the mantel, as one might display a hunting trophy.
“Until I say I am ready to release you,” he said, giving the card a nudge to straighten it. “And no earlier.”
Zora grabbed the poker and swung it at him. His hand shot out and grabbed it with surprising speed and agility. She fought to pull it from his grasp, yet he was too strong, moving not at all as she struggled to wrest free the long piece of iron. Her teeth clenched with the effort. All for nothing. He might be a wealthy gorgio , but Whit was not soft, not pampered. He possessed strength in abundance.
Using every foul Romani word she knew, Zora cursed him. He merely smiled his devil’s maddening, arrogant smile, delighted with his spirited plaything.
“I’m not a toy,” she said through gritted teeth. “Not a doll. Thoughts and feelings and needs—I have them. And they’ve got nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me what I want to know,” he answered calmly, though menace threaded through his words.
Zora released her grip on the poker and stalked back to the card table. She gathered the fallen cards, snatching them up with hands that felt like talons. If only her fingers were tipped with cutting claws, capable of drawing blood. She would hurt the madness that held Whit, maybe drive it from his body, his soul. But she had only hands, no weapons against madness. Hot anger surged through her as she shuffled the cards, a bitter current through her body that pooled acridly in her mouth, as Whit came to stand beside her.
“To cheat at piquet is mere sleight of hand,” she spat. “The secret of it lies in the shuffling and dealing of the deck.” Her hands flew in neat circular motions, the cards in continuous motion.
His brows rose. “Not in marking the deck?”
Though she wanted to mislead him, the honest answer burst from her. “No, that will only get you caught, and is prone to failure if you are given a strange deck of cards. You must practice your shuffling to ensure you get precisely the cards you want at the deal.” She demonstrated, allowing herself the momentary diversion of the cheat rather than focus on the intolerable situation in which she was now trapped.
Whit whistled in appreciation as she shuffled and dealt three times, each time dealing hands that made her the winner.
“It takes long hours to get the technique right,” she said.
“Yet you’ve a gift for it.” He watched her, his gaze sharp and also admiring. “I have seen many cardsharps, some of the best in England, and you make them look as clumsy as bears.”
In his words, his face, he emerged, the same Whit he had been back at the encampment. Untouched by the Devil’s influence. It was like catching sight of the sun after a cold, mist-shrouded night.
Duvvel preserve her. It was true. She could not lie to him, thanks to the Devil’s magic.
Whit smiled, pleased with himself, pleased with her.
There was no way out. Not until she gave this dark stranger what he desired. “It’s card secrets you want? As you wish.” She ducked underneath the cage of his powerful arms and strode toward the gaming table. Deftly, she picked up a deck of cards and began separating out the aces through the sixes for piquet. As she did this, she noticed a card nearby lying faceup on its own atop the table. She frowned as she studied it.
“This queen of diamonds has no picture on it,” she noted.
Whit came to stand beside her. He tapped the card with one long finger, and his golden signet ring gleamed. “This is what binds you to me. You cannot be more than twenty feet from this card.”
The cards in her hands fell to the table, scattering like dead leaves, as she reached for the empty queen of diamonds. She tried to pick up the card. Yet she could not lift it. Nor push it across the surface of the table. It was as though it weighed ten stone.
With maddening leisure, Whit strolled over and picked up the card, then ambled toward the fireplace. He propped up the card on the mantel, as one might display a hunting trophy.
“Until I say I am ready to release you,” he said, giving the card a nudge to straighten it. “And no earlier.”
Zora grabbed the poker and swung it at him. His hand shot out and grabbed it with surprising speed and agility. She fought to pull it from his grasp, yet he was too strong, moving not at all as she struggled to wrest free the long piece of iron. Her teeth clenched with the effort. All for nothing. He might be a wealthy gorgio , but Whit was not soft, not pampered. He possessed strength in abundance.
Using every foul Romani word she knew, Zora cursed him. He merely smiled his devil’s maddening, arrogant smile, delighted with his spirited plaything.
“I’m not a toy,” she said through gritted teeth. “Not a doll. Thoughts and feelings and needs—I have them. And they’ve got nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me what I want to know,” he answered calmly, though menace threaded through his words.
Zora released her grip on the poker and stalked back to the card table. She gathered the fallen cards, snatching them up with hands that felt like talons. If only her fingers were tipped with cutting claws, capable of drawing blood. She would hurt the madness that held Whit, maybe drive it from his body, his soul. But she had only hands, no weapons against madness. Hot anger surged through her as she shuffled the cards, a bitter current through her body that pooled acridly in her mouth, as Whit came to stand beside her.
“To cheat at piquet is mere sleight of hand,” she spat. “The secret of it lies in the shuffling and dealing of the deck.” Her hands flew in neat circular motions, the cards in continuous motion.
His brows rose. “Not in marking the deck?”
Though she wanted to mislead him, the honest answer burst from her. “No, that will only get you caught, and is prone to failure if you are given a strange deck of cards. You must practice your shuffling to ensure you get precisely the cards you want at the deal.” She demonstrated, allowing herself the momentary diversion of the cheat rather than focus on the intolerable situation in which she was now trapped.
Whit whistled in appreciation as she shuffled and dealt three times, each time dealing hands that made her the winner.
“It takes long hours to get the technique right,” she said.
“Yet you’ve a gift for it.” He watched her, his gaze sharp and also admiring. “I have seen many cardsharps, some of the best in England, and you make them look as clumsy as bears.”
In his words, his face, he emerged, the same Whit he had been back at the encampment. Untouched by the Devil’s influence. It was like catching sight of the sun after a cold, mist-shrouded night.
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