Free Serialized Historical Romance: The Gypsy's Curse

Yeah, I'm giving it away for free. Just for the fun of it. A little love story that is situated in the Lake District of England, circa 1816, during the Romantic Era. A Historical Romance with a Paranormal Twist. Why ....... just because I can. And I love to give something back to my wonderful readers.

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter 9, part II   To read from beginning visit http://lilysilver.webs.com/

His hand imprisoned her wrist.

Zara’s instinct was to tug in order to free herself from his powerful grasp. Instead, she did the opposite, she went slack. If she tugged, she realized she would wake him and then there would be the devil to pay. She’d have to explain her reason for trespassing here in the middle of the night. She held her breath and waited, hoping he would not open his eyes.

The hand gripping her tightened about her slender wrist and she feared he might snap the bone. St. John moaned. His eyes remained closed.  “Julia . . .”

He was dreaming about his wife.

As quietly as she could, Zara released her breath, lest she pass out from lack of air. His hand remained in firm possession of her wrist. She stood before him, chiding herself for her foolishness, for getting too close to the wolf.

Wolf. Yes, that was his power animal. It was hers as well. Odd. The wolf was her protector, or so the old fortune teller claimed many years past. It was foretold when she was a child that she was a member of the wolf tribe and that her spirit animal was the fierce guardian of the woodlands.  And Stephan St. John had the power of the wolf within him.

The impression was quick, a flash of lightening in a dark room. Still, Zara trusted her vision as it was rarely wrong. She had the gift of the seer, and she had the curse of the wolf tribe upon her head. St. John had the mark of the wolf on him. She could smell it, smell his animal nature though it was hidden while in his human form.

“Julia.” He said again. This time, it was a snarl.

The hand circling hers relaxed, and then dropped to rest again on the chair arm.

Zara summoned all of her strength to remain calm and not flee the moment she was free.

Fleeing would cause a draft or worse, she would make a noise to startle him awake.

She did not want this man to be awake, not now, not knowing his true nature.

Hunter, killer, predator . . . and yet, channeled into the positive, protector, defender of the weak, guardian of the pack.

His leg moved. Zara bit her lip. She was now imprisoned between his splayed thighs. She had to retreat, but she had to do so with silence, without disturbing the beast lingering so near.

A soft moan emerged from the man/beast, almost a whimper.

Zara was immediately touched. She longed to reach forward and soothe that thick, tangled mane of dark brown hair. She still longed to kiss him. Fool, she was. Silly, bewitched little girl. Captivated by danger, the raw, sensual beauty of a man trapped in an ancient curse.

She made a sign to ward off the evil eye and stepped backwards, very carefully. Her eyes were fastened on his face, waiting, watching, fearing the abrupt opening of his shuttered eyes and the discovery by the lord of the manor; this wild lord of the wilderness.

He didn’t stir. It brought relief, followed swiftly by disappointment. The savage part of her longed to have him open his eyes and reach up to grab her and steal an earthy kiss.

The rational part of her realized she must bide her time here, take advantage of the shelter given for as long as she could and not tempt fate by giving in to her primitive desires.

One step back. And then another. She edged slowly backwards, toward the window and the hidden panel leading to the secret passageway. She was halfway to her goal when the eyes fluttered open and the man straightened in his chair at the sight of her.

“Spirit, you come again?” His deep, rich voice had a pleasing resonance, even in its roughened form from slumber. “What brings you to my lair, fair spirit of the night? Are there no sane men to haunt? I’ve left the safe shores of lucidity long ago. I scarce need your presence to remind me of my failing reason.”

Zara didn’t speak. She watched him, more curious than afraid as she noted his wavering form. He was drunk, drugged or both. He sat up straight in the chair, alert, yet his body tipped and weaved as if he were at sea.

“Why do you torment me?” He persisted. “Why have you come? What price must I pay to send thee away from me, spirit?”

She swallowed, almost smiled. “A kiss, good sir.” Zara said, almost before she realized it. “I would ask thee for kiss, before I fade away.”

His reaction was a lazy, sensual grin. Pleasure. His low chuckle echoed with her breast, and lower still to the hungry place between her thighs. “Have you had no such caress in life, beautiful wraith? Is that why you torment the damned?”

“Kisses are my penance.” She replied. “Kisses from the living to pay for a life of wickedness.” Oh, heavens above, where was all this coming from? Too much of Master Shakespeare, she guessed. The Widow Kendall favored the old bard and preferred to read him aloud to Zara in the evenings. “A kiss, from an honest man, spirit to spirit, to atone for a life of dishonesty and sin.”

            The man before her rose, wavered unsteadily and swaggered toward Zara with a meandering step. “Honest? You assume too much, little ghost.”

His quickness was deceiving. Zara was unprepared for his swift advance or for the abrupt embrace as he roughly drew her to him and captured her lips.

A kiss. Foolish woman to ask for a kiss from such a man. Zara’s lips fused with his as he inhaled her as if she were made of air instead of flesh and bone. And yet, she kissed him with all of her being, exalting in his sweet, brutal possession. His hand went behind her neck, cradling her head while preventing her retreat from his devouring kiss.

The addition of his rough tongue inside her mouth brought her senses to dizzying heights as she struggled to keep her wits about her. This was no gentle, playful kiss as she imagined when she made the bold request of the obviously drunken man. This was the sultry embrace of a man on fire, a man possessed with the primal need to mate, a need denied him for too long. 
Copyright Lily Silver, 2012
To read the next post in the serial novel,continuing this chapter or to start the novel from the beginning visit http://lilysilver.webs.com/