Brynn went to him that night, her emotions in turmoil, the wonder of having part of Lucian growing inside her body battling her fear of the future. But he kissed her with a slow, soul-destroying tenderness, sending passion, sweet and heavy, flowing through her, shattering her reticence. She melted against him, welcoming him with all the longing within her.
The intensity of their mating was stunning. Lucian took her body with fierce hunger, muttering hoarse, unintelligible words against her throat as he demanded her surrender, but he gave her indescribable pleasure in return. Her sobs of rapture were not only physical, though. Brynn felt a bond with him she had never experienced with any other human being.
Afterward she lay in his arms, her breath tangling with his, his fingers caressing her bare skin with soft strokes. She could feel the solid beat of his heart beneath her palm, feel her own heart aching. What they had shared had been, for her, beyond words.
He had made her feel thoroughly possessed, utterly desired, truly cherished. She had never felt so defenseless, so vulnerable. So filled with longing.
She wanted the child inside her, without question, but what was far worse… She wanted her child’s father. She wanted Lucian as her husband, wanted a real marriage. She wanted his love, wanted to love him in return…
Dear God, Brynn thought, shutting her eyes in dismay. She dared not love Lucian or he would die.
She sat at her dressing table the following morning, clutching her mother’s locket in her hand. Her nausea was just as strong today, dispelling any lingering doubts that she was carrying Lucian’s child-and strengthening her dread. What if their child was a daughter? If so, the curse would be passed down and the whole terrible cycle would begin all over again.
Please God, no, Brynn thought fiercely. Let it be a son. She couldn’t bear to think of her daughter suffering her fate.
She knew now how her mother had felt. Blindly Brynn stared down at the locket her mother had given her as a reminder of the peril she faced. Inside was the miniature portrait of her legendary ancestor, Flaming Nell, but it was her beloved mother’s face Brynn saw. A face ravaged by the pain of a fatal childbirth.
You cannot give in, her mother had whispered hoarsely on her deathbed. Promise me, Brynn. Swear to me you won’t let yourself love any man. It will only bring you terrible heartache. Though weak from the loss of blood, she had forced the locket into Brynn’s hand. Look at this… whenever you feel tempted. Look and remember.
Brynn felt tears burn her throat now at the memory. Her mother had succumbed to the temptation of love-and suffered untold grief as a result. Her final words had been of warning, a plea to beware. Gwendolyn Caldwell had understood all too well the unquenchable hungers of the heart. The aching need to love and be loved.
The soul-deep longing that was tearing at Brynn now.
She felt her fingers clench reflexively over the locket. She had sworn solemnly that day never to let herself love, but she was in danger of breaking her promise. She very much feared she was falling in love with Lucian. Her desire for him was becoming a torture she could no longer endure. No longer wanted to endure.
Setting her jaw, Brynn dropped the locket into her jewel case, banishing it from sight. She would have to leave Lucian at once, unless…
She went still. Unless she could find some way to fight the curse. She drew a slow breath, remembering the handbill advertising Gypsy fortune-tellers at the upcoming Westminster fair. Was it possible that Esmerelda was in London? Could the Gypsy woman offer her any hope?
Years ago she’d gone to Esmerelda, grieving over her dead suitor, seeking any sort of comfort, perhaps even some measure of absolution. At the time she had been too distraught by the tragedy to question the possibility of breaking the spell. Indeed, just the contrary, Brynn reflected. Because of James’s death and her own ominous dreams foretelling it, she’d finally accepted the destructive power of the curse and resigned herself to her fate.
But she was desperate enough now to grasp at any straw. If there was any remotely possible way for her to remain with Lucian without causing his death, she had to try.
Not wanting to give rise to scandal by attending a fair alone, Brynn seriously considered asking Raven to accompany her. Yet she would feel awkward discussing such intimacies as her marital relations and pregnancy with her virginal, unmarried friend. Besides, Raven was close to Lucian, and she might feel obligated to reveal the secret. And Meredith was too happily engrossed in her own family, Brynn felt, to become involved in her troubles. She took Meg instead, knowing it wasn’t totally uncommon or beyond the pale for an adventurous lady and her maid to enjoy such an escapade.
Fortunately the autumn day was overcast and chilly enough for her to wear a cloak without arousing comment. Brynn kept the hood drawn close around her face to prevent being recognized and hired a hackney to take them to the fairgrounds in Westminster.
The fair, she discovered, was typical of other ones she’d attended in Cornwall with her brothers, with jugglers and puppeteers vying with vendors hawking oranges and gingerbread and hot meat pies, as well as dealers in finer wares-satin ribbons and gloves and knives.
The grounds were not yet crowded so early in the day, but finding the Gypsy fortune-teller was more difficult than expected. Brynn passed numerous stalls and performers before finally reaching a tent at one end.
She was greeted eagerly by a young beauty garbed in scarves and bangles and colorful skirts who immediately offered charms and dried herbs for sale. Requesting instead to have her fortune told, Brynn left Meg to await her outside and entered the tent.
The interior was dimly lit with a golden glow cast by a handmade oil lamp. When her eyes adjusted, Brynn could see that an old woman sat on a carpet before a low table. It was indeed Esmerelda, Brynn realized, her heart beating faster.
The Gypsy was gray haired and nearly toothless, with a swarthy complexion the texture of leather. Her black eyes, however, were sharp as daggers.
“My lady,” she said in a cackling voice. “I heard of yer good fortune. Ye’ve become a countess.”
“Yes, Mother,” she said, using a term of respect the Romany people employed when speaking to their elders. “And yourself? Are you faring well?”
“Well enough,” Esmerelda replied with a grin. “‘Tis a good year for gullible Gorgios.” With a sweep of her bony, silver-beringed fingers, she invited Brynn to be seated before her at the table.
When the Gypsy reached for her hand, however, Brynn shook her head. “I have not come to have my palm read, Mother. Rather, I have a specific question.” Taking a deep breath, Brynn drew several guineas from her reticule and placed them on the table. “A matter of grave importance.”
“Yer dreams have returned,” the Gypsy replied solemnly, even as her eyes glinted at seeing the gold coins.
“Yes.”
“I see. And what is yer question, my lady?”
“I hoped you might tell me if… Is there anything I might do to end the curse?”
“Ye fear for yer lover,” the old woman surmised.
“Yes,” Brynn replied. “My husband.”
Picking up a coin, Esmerelda bit down on it with her few remaining teeth, testing. “‘Twill not be easy. The curse on Flaming Nell was wondrously powerful.”
“But can it be broken?”
For a long moment, the Gypsy scrutinized her. Finally she nodded. “Do ye love ‘im, yer ’usband?”
“I… I am not certain,” Brynn replied quietly, not wanting to face that question. “If I allowed that to happen, I would be endangering his life. I cannot bear the thought of causing his death.”
“But are ye ready to die for ‘im? That is what ye must ask yerself.”
“Die for him?”
“Aye, m’lady. Ye must love ‘im enough to sacrifice yerself. ”Tis the secret of true love. Are ye ready to give yer life for ’is? Only ye can know yer own ‘art.“