Song of Sorcery by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Author:Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1981-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

10

The gypsy had his love nest all arranged. Since he shared his mother’s wagon, he found it convenient to prepare such trysting places wherever their band went. It made an interesting game, to find a suitable spot to woo, and, naturally, to win, his loves. The locations were varied enough to titillate his sense of adventure: a hay mow, an outbuilding, an open field, a deserted woodcutter’s hut, or, as it was tonight, a comfortable bed of fragrant spruce boughs and soft moss, all ready for him to lay the lady down beneath the rustling willows.

Leaves and laying down, however, appeared to be far from the lady’s mind. He was finally forced to give her a shove. Awkward, true, but effective.

“You louse-ridden, horse-dewed son-of-a-” she began before he caught her in his arms and hushed her with a hard kiss. The harshness of it became satisfyingly soft and melting and mutually nibbly and she surrendered sufficiently to allow him to go on to the next phase and locate a limb to caress. The nearest was a velvety thigh.

He murmured softly, as usual, “Your skin—oh, darling, it is so very soft.”

She broke his hold and looked at him with astonishment, then burst into a fit of laughter totally inappropriate for the mood of the moment and offensive to his sense of fitness.

“What is so funny?”

“Me—me and my soft skin. What did you expect, anyway?” she was so amused by her own joke she collapsed once more before she could continue. “I mean to say, did you imagine I would have scales, or what?”

For such a ravishing girl she clearly didn’t understand the first thing about being ravished. She was shockingly unaware of the protocol of such matters. That was a classic compliment! Offended, Davey decided that perhaps she preferred a more basic approach, which also happened to suit him at the moment.

He grabbed the front of her bodice and pulled. It ripped apart long enough for him to catch a moonglow swell of copper skin, then it wove itself primly back together again.

“Ching was right,” the girl muttered to herself, “a stitch in time would have indeed saved nine this time.”

Though her perfume was driving him mad, he thought it prudent to employ more circumspect tactics with young women who caused their clothing to automatically mend. “However you did that,” he grumbled, “you’re certainly a lot more modest than you were a while ago.” He had relinquished his embrace, but retained her wrists.

She glared at him.

“Of course,” he added quickly. “On you, my lovely, modesty and immodesty are equally becoming.”

Seeing that he was making no headway, he reverted to persuasion. “Come, now, my sweetheart. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Not until you’re ready. I’m sorry I tore your dress—I am too impatient to taste your charms. I can’t help myself, you know. Passionate gypsy blood, and all that.” He pulled her back into his arms, where she lay for a moment against him while he kissed her neck and munched her earlobes.

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