Read Online Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) by Diane J. Reed - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane J. Reed
Tags: Romance
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leave.
Creek wraps his arm around my shoulder and holds me still.
“Let him go,” he urges, sensing my nerves about proceeding without a guide. It makes me feel like we’re lost without a compass, in search of a strange gypsy band we don’t even know. Will they really offer us protection—can I believe the promise of a creepy ghost who looked eerily like some guy in my vision? I never mentioned it to a soul, not even to Creek. But the gondolier seems to think so, because his plan was to walk us halfway to what he called the
cherchie zingari
, a caravan of gypsies who are known to harbor fugitives.
“That man’s done enough for us already,” Creek points out, giving me a squeeze. “He wouldn’t have brought us this far if he didn’t think we’d make it okay.”
I nod, knowing it’s true. But when I glance back, just to call out a
grazie
to the guy before he disappears into the thicket, I realize there’s no one there.
Nothing but a gold gypsy earring that lies on a bed of leaves on our path, sparkling in a patch of sun.
Had it been there before, and I simply didn’t notice?
Just then, a warm breeze caresses my cheek and gently swirls around me like a protective spirit. As it fades away, I spot a blue-gray bird that alights upon an old, rotting fence post nearby.
You will know
, I hear a low voice hover between us like a mist.
The blue bird leans back its head and releases a raspy cry. Then it lifts its wide wings and takes flight, heading north and vanishing from our sight.
Chapter 8
“Creek,” I manage to sputter, breathless, “am I going nuts, or are we being haunted?”
We’ve managed to climb a steep hill and it’s nearly dark, but ever since we left the gondolier my mind’s been a swirl. It doesn’t help matters that all around us the trees have started to look black and gothic like something from an old horror movie. Any second, I expect one to reach out and grab us. But like usual, Creek is totally in his element in nature, calm and cool as the granite boulders that have begun to crop up on the hillsides. Near as I can tell, we’ve reached a rolling stretch of vineyards that back up against the blue outline of a mountain range at dusk. Every once in a while, I pluck a few raisins leftover from last year’s grape harvest that didn’t make the cut. They taste insanely sweet on my tongue—a sure sign that I’m exhausted and we haven’t eaten for hours.
Creek stops for a moment and gazes at the sunset that bleeds through the trees. He seems unfazed by the hunger he must be feeling and ignores my small handout of raisins.
“To answer your question,” he sighs, keeping his focus on the red-gold color in the west, “You’re nutty as a fucking loon.”
He turns and gives me that lop-sided smile that always makes my heart soar.
“But here’s the thing about loons,” he threads his fingers over my head and gently through my wild, curly hair. “They’re highly sensitive creatures. Granny Tinker nicknames them the ghosts of the lake, with the way their calls echo across the water and haunt the air when they’re hidden in the mist. Whenever you hear a loon, she says, make a wish, because your dream will soon come true.”
He brushes his lips past my temple and cups his hand to my ear. Then he makes the softest, loneliest bird call I’ve ever heard, like the voice of someone mournful hailing from beyond the grave.
“Don’t blame the spirits for reaching out to you, Robin,” he whispers in that low, smoky voice of his that sends my nerve endings on fire. “They’re just lonely—and you are very, very beautiful.”
With that, his lips press against mine, his palms cradling my jaw as though he were drinking from a cup, long and slow. Then his hand reaches to the small of my back, and he arches me over his arm and tenderly lays me down on the forest floor.
As hungry as I am, the rest of my body is starved for so much more—
I want to rip his clothes off this minute, be
Creek wraps his arm around my shoulder and holds me still.
“Let him go,” he urges, sensing my nerves about proceeding without a guide. It makes me feel like we’re lost without a compass, in search of a strange gypsy band we don’t even know. Will they really offer us protection—can I believe the promise of a creepy ghost who looked eerily like some guy in my vision? I never mentioned it to a soul, not even to Creek. But the gondolier seems to think so, because his plan was to walk us halfway to what he called the
cherchie zingari
, a caravan of gypsies who are known to harbor fugitives.
“That man’s done enough for us already,” Creek points out, giving me a squeeze. “He wouldn’t have brought us this far if he didn’t think we’d make it okay.”
I nod, knowing it’s true. But when I glance back, just to call out a
grazie
to the guy before he disappears into the thicket, I realize there’s no one there.
Nothing but a gold gypsy earring that lies on a bed of leaves on our path, sparkling in a patch of sun.
Had it been there before, and I simply didn’t notice?
Just then, a warm breeze caresses my cheek and gently swirls around me like a protective spirit. As it fades away, I spot a blue-gray bird that alights upon an old, rotting fence post nearby.
You will know
, I hear a low voice hover between us like a mist.
The blue bird leans back its head and releases a raspy cry. Then it lifts its wide wings and takes flight, heading north and vanishing from our sight.
Chapter 8
“Creek,” I manage to sputter, breathless, “am I going nuts, or are we being haunted?”
We’ve managed to climb a steep hill and it’s nearly dark, but ever since we left the gondolier my mind’s been a swirl. It doesn’t help matters that all around us the trees have started to look black and gothic like something from an old horror movie. Any second, I expect one to reach out and grab us. But like usual, Creek is totally in his element in nature, calm and cool as the granite boulders that have begun to crop up on the hillsides. Near as I can tell, we’ve reached a rolling stretch of vineyards that back up against the blue outline of a mountain range at dusk. Every once in a while, I pluck a few raisins leftover from last year’s grape harvest that didn’t make the cut. They taste insanely sweet on my tongue—a sure sign that I’m exhausted and we haven’t eaten for hours.
Creek stops for a moment and gazes at the sunset that bleeds through the trees. He seems unfazed by the hunger he must be feeling and ignores my small handout of raisins.
“To answer your question,” he sighs, keeping his focus on the red-gold color in the west, “You’re nutty as a fucking loon.”
He turns and gives me that lop-sided smile that always makes my heart soar.
“But here’s the thing about loons,” he threads his fingers over my head and gently through my wild, curly hair. “They’re highly sensitive creatures. Granny Tinker nicknames them the ghosts of the lake, with the way their calls echo across the water and haunt the air when they’re hidden in the mist. Whenever you hear a loon, she says, make a wish, because your dream will soon come true.”
He brushes his lips past my temple and cups his hand to my ear. Then he makes the softest, loneliest bird call I’ve ever heard, like the voice of someone mournful hailing from beyond the grave.
“Don’t blame the spirits for reaching out to you, Robin,” he whispers in that low, smoky voice of his that sends my nerve endings on fire. “They’re just lonely—and you are very, very beautiful.”
With that, his lips press against mine, his palms cradling my jaw as though he were drinking from a cup, long and slow. Then his hand reaches to the small of my back, and he arches me over his arm and tenderly lays me down on the forest floor.
As hungry as I am, the rest of my body is starved for so much more—
I want to rip his clothes off this minute, be
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