The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) by Nicola Thorne

through the intricate movements of the dance.
    Such was the atmosphere, the appreciation of the crowd that all, musicians and dancers, gave inspired performances. But perhaps it was Randal who worked the hardest because he was trying, through the proximity of his body, the messages sent from his eyes, to tell Analee how he felt about her – how much he resented the amorous glances of the gadje who leered at her flying breasts, trying to catch a sight of her legs as the skirts whirled and twirled about her lissom form. And then when each dance finished they would crowd around her, trying to touch her with their hands, offering her drink and food.
    Selinda, at the edge of the crowd, was aware of the charged atmosphere, a feeling that had been absent from their previous performances since Analee had joined them. For the first time, she felt apprehensive and wished that they and Analee had never met. Somehow she felt she would bring an unwelcome change to their fortunes. Randal had admired women before, may have loved some of them, but he had never quite reacted as he did with Analee so that he seemed hardly able to bear her to be out of his sight. His temper had not improved either since she had come among them. He was short and snappish with them and everywhere Analee went his eyes followed her.
    Selinda sighed as her body swayed and her knuckles tapped the tambourine or she shook it above her head in a long trill. She knew that compared to Analee she was an unformed slip of a girl. She was neither as tall as Analee nor as well built; she lacked her swaying hips, the full bust and the luxuriant black hair that fell over her shoulders. And Analee’s eyes ... by any standards they were beautiful as they either flashed boldly or were modestly concealed by lowered lids while her thick lashes curled up even more enticingly, if that were possible, on her cheeks.
    Of the many gypsy beauties Selinda had seen, none were quite like Analee; she certainly far eclipsed her, Selinda, and she had been told many times she was beautiful. For the first time in her gentle life Selinda realized she was jealous – jealous of another woman’s beauty, and afraid of what she might do to the close knit family with whom she roamed the northern parts of England.
    Suddenly Selinda saw a tall, well-dressed man step out from the back of the tavern and join those who pressed forwards eagerly, scarcely able to restrain themselves, in the front row of the crowd. But, unlike the heaving lascivious men whose tongues had lolled out and whose foreheads perspired as their lustful eyes followed the leaping shimmering body of Analee he merely stood, his pot of ale in his hand, and gazed at her thoughtfully, his face unsmiling. There was something about the intensity of the look that intrigued Selinda and made her feel sure that Analee and the graceful young man with a fine broadcloth jacket and breeches and a crisp white cravat, had met before.
    Then the music stopped again and, as the crowd once more pressed towards Analee, the man, who stood a head taller than the tallest man there, gave an imperious gesture with his hand and stepped forward. Analee, who had been about to turn and seek refuge with the musicians, stopped in her tracks and gazed into the face of the blond stranger.
    ‘So we meet again.’ The man’s eyes bored into hers, but he was not smiling. Analee’s heart gave a lurch and she stepped back. ‘I know you not, sir.’
    ‘I think you must remember if I remind you ...’ he glanced round, his expression now roguish, and put his mouth to her ear. ‘The first female horse thief I ever encountered.’
    Analee felt her face redden under her dark tan despite the heat. She had recognized him immediately; the unforgettable sight of his young vibrant face lit by the bright moonlight peering into hers as he straddled her body.
    ‘My lord, I ...’
    ‘Don’t disturb yourself. I shall not betray you. I want to talk to you!’
    ‘But my lord I’m