For the Love of a Gypsy by Madelyn Hill Page B

nose as she spoke in their native tongue. “Ye’ve given yer life up for this clan. Are ye certain it is worth it? Snatch a bit of happiness for yerself, despite the loyalty ye feel for Rafe.”
    Her heart pounded against her chest as she fiercely whispered, “I can’t forsake the clan. Surely you can see that.”
    Anya patted her arm. “Aye, you can, my bitti chovexani .”
    Martine cringed. She wasn’t a little witch, but her grandmother insisted on calling her such.
    If only she were, she’d be able to find a way out of her impending, loveless marriage.
    He felt rested, almost peaceful. No doubt Anya had tainted the medicinal draught with an ingredient to induce sleep. Yet, Declan wasn’t angered. No. It had been years since he’d slept without the haunting reminder of his father’s treachery and the years spent in prison.
    He rolled onto his back, much relieved after the salve Anya had slapped upon it. Startled, he pulled the sheet over his bare chest.
    There sat his Gypsy.
    Calm, even amused, if her raised brow was any indication. For a moment, he enjoyed the twinkle in her eyes, not the black pits like her brother’s, but lighter—brighter, reflected the light with golden flecks.
    She tipped her chin at him with a haughtiness that now satisfied him instead of vexing him. God, she was lovely. Her skin a mix of honey and gold, soft and satiny. He wanted to kiss his way from the arch of her winged brow to the hollow of her elegant neck now peeking from her white blouse.
    Such thoughts rocked him. He must dismiss her beauty, turn his head toward proving his innocence, not taking hers. Nay, his focus couldn’t be turned by a comely lass.
    “Good afternoon,” she said, her smile flowing into her tone. “You slept well?”
    “Aye.” Declan stilled the grin tilting his lips.
    Martine’s brows knitted, then they smoothed as she rose from her chair. “My grandmother prepared a broth for you.”
    “Please allow it to have meat in it,” he grumbled.
    “Pah, ‘tis filled with venison and wild onion.” She placed the bowl on the small table beside the cot. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength. And then this evening you can eat bolkoli .”
    “ Bolkoli ?” he asked, butchering the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word.
    “’Tis a tasty pancake filled with meat.”
    Declan nodded and raised up on his elbows, conscious of his bare chest and how unseemly it must be for her to even be in his presence. He noticed how her gaze lit on everything but him, and how roses blossomed on her cheeks. The sight was captivating and endearing all at once.
    “Here’s your shirt,” she said with her arm extended toward him.
    His shirt dangled from the end of her long fingers, mended and laundered, smelling fresh as the outdoors, not the blood that had saturated the linen.
    He grasped the material, purposely allowing his fingers to graze hers, relishing the slight shiver that trembled her hand.
    No matter how she tried to hide it, his Gypsy had fire within her just waiting to ignite and flame her passion. Desire like he’d never known flared in him just from the touch of her hand.
    “You’re to join the clan in two days for our entertainment.”
    Her statement doused all desire. He lifted his brow. “Entertainment?”
    She nodded. “My brother leads the clan in music and dancing.”
    He frowned. “Dancing?”
    She chuckled and he couldn’t help but grin at the lovely sound. When she laughed, her eyes lit up with such joy.
    “Music, dancing, storytelling, food.” A furrow appeared between her brows. “’Tis tradition.”
    Join them around the fire? Eat with his enemy, the very man who mocked his authority and challenged his innocence. Her Kapo , her brother, and the man ready to send her away to a stranger? Aye, Declan had heard her grandmother gossiping with her cohorts. Rafe Petrulengo would see his sister wed to a man whom Anya claimed treated women like dogs and she could do naught to stop it. All to