Across the Sea - A Romance

[Light Ice]

The last few months had brought with them consequences. Most, so far as he could reckon, were well-deserved and justified. The world had a way of righting wrongs one way or the other. It spun beneath a man's feet; it moved him even as he moved himself. Logic would dictate that as surely as you could not outrun the turning of the world or the passing of the days, you could not forever evade the consequences of your decisions. Jack McCall understood that. It was why he had stayed beside Archer. He knew that Archer did not.

Archer Worthington was a liar and a swindler. So far as Jack could tell he was not, however, lazy or stupid for stupid's sake. He'd looked on through the years as Archer had grown from the smallest of scandals to the most ambitious of cons. He'd watched as he'd gone from stealing what little spare dollars the helpless could spare to taking everything they had for themselves and more. As far as Jack could see it, Archer was doomed to hell. The man's ambitions for the criminal and dishonest were so extensive, so potent, that all but the most persuasive of preachers could not have softened his resume with the Lord.

Archer attacked cheating and conning with the vigor of a most diligent and capable of men and the methodical intelligence of a scientist. In those ways Jack had developed an almost grim admiration of his long-time friend and recent companion.

But he resented him also. He resented Archer for forcing Jack's hand in being his second in these things.

He'd taken on with Archer six years ago but had met him long before that. That day, the day this all started, Jack had found Archer Worthington by chance seated at a game of Five-Card draw in Desolation, Arizona. Archer had been caught cheating, dealing cards from the bottom of the deck to stack his hand. Four of his fellow gamblers would never had seen or known of it, oblivious and dusty-eyed enough that Archer's great talent of slight-of-hand would have easily passed as legitimate. The man that caught him, however, was not a sallow-faced rover or leather-faced cowboy. He was a gunfighter. A gun-hand for hire who had only recently left the employ of the infamous Pinkerton Agency and turned his talents into a private operation for the South Pacific Railroad company.

His name was Curtis Abergnathy. Jack knew him well from past circumstances and had realized quickly then that Archer's lone streak of foolishness came in a great overestimation of his own abilities. Curtis had a gun-fighter's eyes and spotted Archer's hands and drawn himself to a stand.

The argument intensified and Jack made then a decision that he warred with every day since.

After that he'd convinced himself to protect Archer from himself, stayed on to watch over the last friend he had alive. In the process he had killed and made a liar by omission as he watched the man he'd once known as honorable defile himself in the carpet-bagger's trade. The last month in the United States had gone poorly. Archer's face and name had become known and talked about, whispered from ear to ear and consequently from state to state, until at last they had run out of settlements in which Archer could operate properly.

The last had seen hands and guns drawn up against them and a fight of brutal proportions. Casualties had lay strewn up and down the street, buckled where they'd been shot, with such grim number that the matter would be known as a massacre in the papers where its tale was told.

After that, Jack had made his decision to abandon Archer; to move on. He had told him this over dinner besides their camp sight, looking deep into his friend's eyes with the hope that he saw the spark of pride that he remembered from long years ago. He had not. And Archer had hobbled him with words, assured him that this would be their very last effort together as criminals.

"Jack, you're right." He'd said. "After this I need to go straight."

And that is how he ended up in Romania; a country to which he had no familiarity. Archer had shown him where it lay on a map taken from a battered book on Geography. He'd thrust a narrow finger into the pages, amidst the darkened shadows that represent shaded wood amidst the great continent of Europe.

"There," he had said. "A little town in the woods. It could not be more simple."

The boat had left him weak. A long ride with grim food and grimmer conditions. The whore had brought hot water and poured his bath, watched as he stripped his clothes with a girl's interest. She'd watched him take the belt from his hips and fold it, laying the well-oiled leather on the chair beside the brass tub. She'd stared at the large brass cartridges threaded through the loops that lined the belt's side.

He had seen no revolvers in Brustav. The only long-guns that had been revealed were cap and ball muskets, massive guns that the villagers used to bring down deer and make noise for weddings and other revelries.

Jack felt as an alien to them. Peasants, mostly. They looked at his wide-brimmed hat with bold curiosity and a hint of mistrust. They compared the tough denim and dark fibers of his pants to the light, thin cottons of their own. When he spoke, they had leaned back and whispered amongst each other.

"American?" She asked him.

He nodded and lifted his hand, felt the thick and coarse stubble that flanked his cheeks and jawbones and found no motivation to shave. Instead, he passed a wet bar of soap beneath his rugged arms and watched the water turn murky. All at once she was at his side, drawing up a seat so that her small fingers could take the soap and pass it along his chest from behind him. She lingered on the broad, muscled stretch of it. She felt the small circular scars in his shoulder.

Jack had not known she could speak English.

"Cowboy?" She asked, gently lifting a small-fingered hand and pointing to his guns.

"No."

"You come with Mister Archer?"

"Yes."

She nodded, he felt her bob gently behind him. Her hands slipped down into the water, smoothing along the hard ridges of his belly. The soap was with her, passing lower as she found his thighs and the hardness between them.

"Long journey?" She asked, her lips against his ear.

Jack stirred and shifted. It had been. And a longer time before that. The desire to take a woman ran through him bold as her fingers ran over him, testing the great girth of his length and the smooth column of his flesh as it stood beneath her touch. He allowed himself a moment's indulgence while his thoughts turned inward, falling to memories and promises he'd long made. She circled him with her fingers and tugged once, twice.

"No, thank you." He answered, feeling her sigh as his strong hand pushed hers away.

"I'm very good." She assured him.

He nodded. He imagined she was. And while she wasn't beautiful she was pretty. He could have wanted her.

"I made a promise." He explained. The typical brevity of his words conveying their potent sincerity.

"To a wife? To God? Neither are here, Mister Cowboy." Girlish. Seductive. It was a game she had learned to play to survive, to make money. Before him, he imagined, dozens of men had succumbed willingly to her angler's trick.

"Or anywhere." He answered, beginning to rise. His hardness swayed as the water fell from him, sloshing in the tub's confines. "But I made one and it'll keep."

He paid her with two silver half-dollars. He did not know what else to give her. She curled her small fingers around the coins and traced their ridges with a thumb, beaming a broad smile.

She thanked him in their language. He nodded, waved her from the room and dressed. He was not happy to be there.

-----------------------------------------------------

Archer's scheme was to con the local Count. He was to play a client's attorney, sent from the hills of Colorado to the Wilds of Romania to sell his large claim for suitable money. He'd concocted the scam on the train after overhearing two men speaking, hearing the Count's name and writing it down. It was that determination and naturally opportunistic nature that Jack had found some admiration for. The man's ability to track down a man in some far away country using only a name and sheer determination had been startling.

Equally startling, but more concerning, was the intent in which his plan had been raised.

The inn was lit by candles. They hung from a large candelabra and sconces in the walls, covered in simple glass frames. A stair rose up from the far side towards the dozen rooms above. They were frequented mostly by the whores and their temporary guests, less so by the rare traveler. At one time it had been a luxurious place. The wooden floors were made of the dark wooded trees that surrounded the village and the bar was a glossy, finely lacquered counter with matching stools and a silver rail.

It was crowded. The night's crowd thicker than he anticipated. It was as though all the men of the village had descended upon the bar to drink. A few paid attention to the whores that passed by. Most did not. Jack saw it and found it curious, surprising even, as he attempted to cut his path through the dense crowd.

"Looking for Mister Archer?" A small hand touched his side. It was the whore.

"I am."

"He went upstairs with Misha." She said. Her brown eyes glinted as she looked at him. "Lets find a room of our own. You had a long journey."

He shook his head and looked upstairs briefly, past the railing to the rooms beyond. He could not see much of the doors, just their tops. And inside he could imagine Archer doing what he did in so many of the places they traveled. If Archer had a weakness, other than his own greed, it was women. His ability to charm and persuade had made them easy to find and easier still to con.

But it was Jack's presence that made him settle for the whores. An unspoken courtesy. A sliver of humanity in a man who had otherwise lost his.

He didn't spite Archer, though he should have. It was hard to disapprove of cheating, lying, and conning when you were a murderer. By his count he was sixty-times damned to hell, easily as many as Archer himself. The pair would most likely find the same end as well. Gun-Hands died young. It was one of life's many certainties.

The whore pulled a face at him, letting anger flash in her eyes. She spoke something in her language that reclaimed his attention if only for the venom that it carried.

"I can't understand you." He said.

She scoffed and folded her arms. "Mister Archer knows a good woman. He's upstairs now. if you were going to wait for the Gypsies you should have said so."

Jack understood why the bar was so crowded then. Gypsies. Mysterious girls in brightly-colored silks. Dancers. Some, he'd already been told, were rumored to be the very best courtesans in the world. He shook his head at her but she was angry and left him there. It was for the best. Because as she slipped away the crowd parted around the entrance and the gypsies arrived.

And the third one in, even veiled, was the most beautiful girl Jack had ever seen.

( This is a closed thread. )

 

[APassionateFlame]

“Delilah, hurry up and get dressed! If you make us late for the show again, I’ll see to your punishment personally!”

The roar of her father’s voice was accompanied by the pound of his fist against the bright orange door of the wooden, wheeled wagon. Of course, he had to sound tougher than he was actually willing to be with his youngest and prettiest daughter. Mikael was the leader of the gypsies, and that demanded a certain sort of demeanor from him. The life of a gypsy is not an easy one, one that you must be born into and you are bred to behave accordingly from birth. Thieves and vagabonds, dancers and charmers - they are who make up the majority of the gypsies and it is not an easy life for them. Yes, Mikael had to outwardly act strict with his daughter to set an example for the rest of the caravan.

Inside the wagon, Delilah was adjusting her top and giving her dark hair the last few minor adjustments.

“I am coming, Papa. We will not be late, I promise.” Besides, the men would wait for her.

The other gypsy dancer-women coming along were pretty. They were attractive and enticing and appealing - exactly as the men in town wanted them to be. But she was something different. And even at the ripe young age of only eighteen, she already knew she was something more than what the others were. And the men would wait for her most of all.

Pulling a dark cape around her shoulders and flipping the hood over her head carefully so as not to disturb her hair, she fastens the neck-clasp and then hurries to throw open the door to reveal to her father that she was ready. He, of course, was standing right next to the wagon, waiting. The other dancers were already around the fire, waiting for her. Reaching a hand out, Mikael helps her down the small set of stairs that leads from the wagon and then rounds up the rest of his girls with a sharp, barked command. Each of them was covered in their capes, leaving what they were wearing underneath tonight to be a surprise.

Two of Delilah’s elder sisters were dancers as well. Their eldest of the four of them was already married with children of her own to look after, far the elder to the youngest beauty. Mingling with the other women as they walked, Delilah found herself pointedly ignored by her sisters. It wasn’t unusual, in fact it’d been happening most of her life. She was young and beautiful in a way that they had never been. No, she had no permanent friends here in his place. Only her father truly valued her - and sometimes even she wondered if it was just because she made him the most money in the village. It probably was. She knew the only reason he pampered her more than the others now was because of her intended marriage to happen at the end of the month.

The Count was an elusive, cruel, iron-fisted man that ruled over both the village and the forest that lay beyond. He demanded things of the villagers and when the gypsies settled at the edge of the small village when Delilah was young - he’d demanded the same things of them. Now, the gypsies are heartier folk, more used to deal with threats and demands than the common villager. But there was something about their dictator that was both mysterious and dangerous. Something that made it hard not to comply. So for years they’d complied and given into his demands, dealing with his occasional violence and sometimes unruly temper. He hid up in his castle and sent his manservant down to gather information and make demands for him. And then, two months ago, he’d come personally to Mikael with a peace-offering of sorts. He’d demanded he be given Delilah in marriage, and in return he would forever leave the gypsy caravan in peace.

And her father! Her father had agreed. He’d just sold her off for the greater good of the caravan. So no, she needn’t make permanent friends here, but her husband-to-be would surely just cut her ties with the caravan as soon as they were wed. She detested him and what he’d done to their caravan over the years, and now she was expected to go and marry him, play the nice little housewife while he lorded over the villagers.

Ridiculous. Vile. Unfair.

She was young yet, and the world existed in a black and white sort of realm for her still. It was either fair, or unfair. And this? This was incredibly unfair. Her newfound husband, once they were wed, would not likely let her dance. And dance, above all else, was her passion. It was her escape and her refuge. Since childhood, she’d been gifted with the talent to dance. It was why she’d started as the youngest dancer in the show at a mere thirteen. It’s why her father never let her be courted by the boys - though she sometimes snuck out and explored on her own. And it was what had first drawn The Count in. No man was immune to the sway of her hips and the way that her back arched when she twirled and enticed. It’s why she was the star of the show, despite her young age.

Before she knew it, they were standing in the backroom of the inn, waiting for gypsy musicians to finish setting up their instruments on the other side of the curtain, just beside the stage. Just inside her cape, a tambourine is carefully fastened. Gently, she unties it and then unhooks her cape - dropping the dark material like so much garbage.

“She only gets to be the star of the show because she is Mikael’s daughter.”

She could hear the mean-spirited whispering behind her. If she were any other girl, she might have turned around and said something meant to bite back. But she wasn’t mean-spirited. She was sweet and void of most of the temper that came naturally with their blood. She was more like her mother than her father, and she knew when to hold her tongue. Besides, they were wrong.

“She is the star of the show because she is more beautiful than you, Cariyha.” The sound of her father’s growl was unmistakable and it -very briefly- brought a smile to Delilah’s face.

The sound of the crowd of men on the other side of the stage was intoxicating. She knew that there were male gypsies out in that crowd, pretending to be interested in watching. Really, they were there to pilfer and steal while the women enticed the village men into oblivion. The drunks wouldn’t realize that something was missing until the next day - and by then it would be too late to blame anybody but themselves. And then the fools would come back again next week for another show and another pilfering. The beat of leather-bound drums and the pluck of the lyre was their cue.

There was a single line of women for this dance. It was fast-paced and required a special sort of dancer that knew what she was doing. Altogether, there were seven of them. Delilah was the third out, as she always was. To go before her meant that you were only briefly noticed, and to go behind her meant that you were likely not noticed at all. Each of the seven had a tambourine that they beat in tune with the music already provided them by their kin, and their hips swayed accordingly. Three of the dancers wore silks of red and three wore silks of yellow. They were long skirts split up both thighs, so that as they danced, they revealed the flesh of their legs, and brassiere-style tops that barely covered their breasts and nothing else. Brown, black and red hair were most prominent, eyes that were mostly browns looked out from painted faces, and bright-red lips were puckered into pouts and smiles.

Delilah was like a lily amongst the daisies. Her outfit was orange, and if that alone did not make her stand out more - her outfit was also adorned with jewels. Around the hem and waistline of her skirt where silver and gold coins that jingled as she moved. Her skirt was cut low - just along her hipbone. And her brassiere top covered just as little as the others, except that there was a line of cool golden and silver coins along the bottom of it - jingling and tickling against her ribcage. Her hair was dark, a deep ravens black, and it came down to her waist - thick and straight and enough mass for a man to loose his hands in. There was many a man that imagined burying his hands in the depths of her hair, using it to get her back to arch just right as he buried himself inside of her. She always kept it loose and free for that exact purpose, to feed the fantasies of the masses. Her eyes were the bright, vibrant green of her mother - and her face was completely unpainted. Not in the pout of her lips was marred with paint. No, aside from the adornments on her clothing and the bell-adorned anklets and bracelets that she wore - she was completely natural. Her beauty didn’t need enhancement. She was barefoot, as they all were - their shoes back behind the curtain - and she moved with a grace that the other girls couldn’t even begin to keep up with or attempt to imitate. They circled her, they framed her, they made her look like the star of the show that she was.

She scanned the audience, looking for the perfect target. She saw the gypsy men mingling in the crowd, their quick fingers pilfering a coin purse here, a wallet there. One of them even managed a watch right off the wrist of a man too drunk and lecherous to notice! She raked her green eyes past them, looking for a man that was worthy of her entire attention. That was the way their show worked. Focus on one man, make him want you so badly that he’ll pay anything to have you. Usually it was just another villager - a new man every week to entice and thrill and let down hard afterwards. But tonight...

As she tapped the tambourine against her rounded hip, and as she gave her breasts a little wiggle for show, her green eyes landed on the rugged, unshaven face of a man she’d never seen before. One of the local whores are stalking away from him pissed off, and Delilah’s lips curled into a sweet and feminine smile because she knew why the whore was angry.

The stranger with the brimmed hat and the cowboy-guns on his hips was looking right at her, watching her every move. Knowing when to take her opportunity, she quickly adjusted her dance so that she was looking straight back at him - dancing only for him, moving only for him, hopefully filling his head full of images of what he could do to her body given the chance. But while she danced for him, it proved to be a strange, double-edged sword. The rough stubble of his face, the lean angle of his body, the dangerous air about him - it set her mind into thinking what it would be like to have his hands running all over her, what it would feel like to be bent and pliant beneath him.

And just like that, her dark-skinned cheeks flushed as she danced for him.

Before too long, the dance comes to an end and the seven gypsy girls make their way from the stage via a small set of steps leading down into the main spread of the crowd. The next set of gypsy girls makes their way to the stage for a slower dance where somebody else gets the chance to be the star for a time. She dodges advances and hands with a deft and agile step this way or that, green eyes still focused on the cowboy-stranger. He’s the source of her curiosity - how could he cause such elicit thoughts to stir within her when he’d been standing across the room merely looking at her? There were hundreds of other men that she’d danced for that had never had as quick or as sure an effect on her.

And when she smiles at him in greeting, it’s a full-blown genuine smile. Delilah had never been one to fake anything - a smile, a wink, a laugh. Everything she did was genuine and one hundred percent her. The tambourine was held against her hip as she rested her hand there, her dark skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. When a waitress walked by, she ordered a glass of water - in their native tongue - and the waitress looked reluctant and cranky at the idea of having to serve one of the gypsies - until said gypsy reached into the waistband of her skirt and withdrew a folded piece of paper, money. Taking it, the waitress made a face behind Delilah’s back and then went to get her water as requested.

Stopping a few feet in front of the intriguing stranger, Delilah smiled again and parted her lips.

And then in perfect, if heavily accented, English -

“Hello. What’s your name, stranger?” Her voice was sweet, like her face, and carried the melodic sort of tune that only somebody deeply in love with music really has.

She’d already been learning how to speak English. How was she supposed to run away and find a home somewhere else if she couldn’t speak anything but Romanian? Yes, she’d already been learning how to speak English when The Count had insisted that his bride know it. It was the perfect excuse for her father. She wouldn’t stay to marry her intended husband, but Mikael didn’t have to know that. Delilah only needed to act like the perfect, obedient daughter long enough that she could find a way to escape successfully - from both him and The Count.

“My name is Delilah.”

 

[Light Ice]

Beauty was a weapon. It was one, if not the, most potent of killers that Jack had ever encountered. She wielded it with a girlish naivety to which he had never before encountered. In every sway of her hips another man lay hypnotized, spirited away to the walking dreams that all men succumb to at one time or another. The feminine arch of her back conjured visions of her body beneath them, of their dusty peasant hands upon her silken skin. It was a language that Jack understood, and found cruel. It was a seduction that he often found easy to turn aside.

And yet, tonight, he was certain that there would be nothing easy between them.

The world was like a great sea, liquid. The smallest of actions often created ripples, disturbances that carried far across the surface, manifesting in consequences of far greater import than the events that gave birth to them. Jack had witnessed the most inconsequential of things provoke a man's death. He had seen an act of kindness lead to a man's destitution. The cruelty and irony found within the sea of the human experience was mournful as it was predictable.

Around him, Jack saw the arrival of the gypsy girls akin to a great wave crashing towards shore. The consequences of their dance, of their dark hair and partially veiled eyes, manifesting immediately in two very distinct ways. The men were drawn in, almost without exception, with hungry eyes and hopes. They were captured by the seduction, by the dream, that the girls flaunted before them. The women of the tavern, the whores suddenly bereft attention, wore the expression of feral cats. A suddenly ugly snarl on their painted features, a tension in their tired forms. It sapped the prettiness from them all.

Jack looked past the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, beyond her elegantly-shaped features and bright eyes towards the crowd itself. The gypsy girls had peeled the faces back from this village, stripped it of the charm and pride it took from its traditional society, and revealed the animals beneath it all. He found a quiet appreciation for it, in a way. It was that gentle appreciation that brought his attention to Delilah, back to the smile her petal-pink lips wore and the honeyed notes of her voice beyond.

Well, it was his appreciation and also the gentle pass of a man's hands along his coat. The sudden absence of the three coins in his pocket, hardly distinguishable as it was, that allowed his eyes to cut briefly sidelong and track the escape of the gypsy pick-pocket.

"Evening." He said, content to hear that despite the aggravation of the pick-pocket and her proximity... his voice was its usual rumble. A quiet, grave tone that did not inspire levity or warmth. "Jack."

Instead, his eyes once again strayed sidelong, tracking the pick pocket's path amidst the crowd. The course seemed clear. A commotion, however justified, would do far more harm than it would good. There seemed to exist, either by design or implication, a quiet peace between the villagers and the gypsies. The tension within the inn had seemed elevated from the start, softened only by the dancer's spell and the lingering effects of vodka and wine and ale. Jack, instead, spoke quietly to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The pale intensity of his eyes fixed unerringly on the beauty of Delilah's own.

"You have until the first light of tomorrow to retrieve my silver from your friend, Delilah, in whatever manner you decide. If you fail to do so, I'll come take it back."

 

[APassionateFlame]

Seduction, like Beauty, is a very potent weapon. The right sway of the hips, a just-right flick of the tongue over full lips, a well-placed glide of a hand through long and luxurious hair. Seduction could illicit visions of fantasy, it could leave men and women breathless and panting for more before they even had any to begin with. Seduction was a very potent weapon indeed - and Delilah was learning a lesson she had not intended to learn this way.

Seduction was also a double-edged sword.

Her seduction of the men was intentional - it's what she was supposed to do, what her father expected her to do. She knew that they would dream of her tonight when their heads finally found their pillows. Some would find final satisfaction with the village whores, others would find release with their wives and girlfriends - but they would all be thinking about the dancers amongst her people. It was a potent and powerful feeling, and she embraced being able to lay it on all those unsuspecting but oh-so-willing men that came to watch her and the others.

But tonight, Seduction was being a cruel mistress. Tonight, for the first time ever, one of the men was quietly seducing Delilah. It was an effortless, full-frontal assault sort of seduction that took her breath away and left her head reeling with the sudden surprise of being so easily affected by him. In one part, she was embarrassed because she'd never been so easily seduced - especially not by a man that certainly didn't seem to be meaning to seduce her. But another part of her, a larger part, was intrigued and dying to explore more of this unknown feeling. She'd had plenty of suitors - most in secret due to her father's iron-fisted rule over her life - but she'd had plenty of them, and none of them had ever so fully affected her. Perhaps it was the rough scratch to his face, or the piercing look in his eyes. No matter the cause, she was undeniably attracted to him.

She felt compelled to speak with him, to share her voice and to hear his in return. It didn't matter that when he did speak his voice was quiet, grave and devoid of warmth. In fact, she found that added to the intrigue and attraction. She wanted to hear more of his voice, and was rewarded when he gave her the warning. She was so caught up in enjoying the sound of his voice that it actually took a moment for his words to register fully. And when they did, she felt her bright eyes inadvertently shift toward the offending pick-pocket to which he referred.

Dimitri stood at the bar, working his charm on an all-too-willing young woman who was ready to take a walk on the wild side with one of the local Gypsies. Her keen eyes watched the slip of his hand as he brushed against the woman's hip while he smiled his charming smile - and the unsuspecting tourist didn't notice when his nimble fingers found a few coin to lift from her coin purse. Delilah couldn't help but smile - Dimitri was one of the most charming men amongst her people, and she couldn't help but feel a sense a pride at his ability to take so easily. But then - he hadn't really, had he? He's committed the first cardinal sin of the Gypsies - he'd been caught red-handed, so to speak, and now Jack was looking to get his coin back and would take it back himself if necessary.

It left Delilah in something of a predicament and she swiftly returned her eyes to Jack. She should lie to him. It was in her nature and in every single teaching the Gypsies followed. Lying was in everything they did. The way her hips swayed with false promise, the way her eyes gave hint to something that would never really belong to the men watching her, the way her barely painted lips curved with the seductive smile - it was all a lie.

But there was something about this man, about Jack, that made her hesitate just before the lie. She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't have a clue what he was talking about. She opened her mouth to deny the actions of one of her own people - perhaps even to even deny knowing Dimitri at all. And then she promptly shut it, clamping her pretty little mouth closed. But what is a Gypsy without lies? The very foundation upon which their lives were built relied on lies, seduction and deceit. They lied like their lives depended on it, and in most cases it did, and they lied because they knew no other way.

It would be a severe untruth to say that Delilah was nothing like her people - she was the very epitome of what her people were mean to be. She seduced far better than any other before her, she deceived far better than any other, and it was all tied together with a neatly wrapped ribbon of lies. She made it look effortless and smooth, she made it look like she'd been born to live the life of a Gypsy. Perhaps because she had been. She was the very idea of what a Gypsy woman aspired to be - and she knew it.

The problem wasn't that she was different. No, the problem was that he was different - and his way of quietly and easily affecting her made her want to act different. It didn't make her want to be a different person - naive and young as she may be, she knew that she was very powerful as she was now. No, it didn't make her want to be a different person - and if he'd asked her to do something for anybody else other than himself - the request would have been met with a resounding and definite lie. But he wasn't like all the other men before him. He wasn't easy prey for her charms. He had a rugged, rough handsomeness about him that caught her off-guard. He oozed danger and confidence in the way that the dusty, dirty men in the village couldn't even hope for. And the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through her very core left her feeling exposed and shaken.

She couldn't pinpoint why, but she would not lie to him this night. And the very thing that kept her from lying further told her that she could not pay him off with some other money to appease him. He would want his money back. He would want to see this wrong righted. Again, her green eyes shifted toward Dimitri and she couldn't help but curl her lips up a little at the corners.

Dimitri was one of her 'secret suitors' and often spent nights allowing her to 'practice' her seduction techniques on him. Though he was charming, and he was a very good pick-pocket - when it came to Delilah, he was something of an easy mark. And she intended to play him with the same speed and precision with which her hips played the crowd of men. Returning her attention to Jack, she took a step closer to him and lowered her voice.

"I will be right back, Jack, and I will bring your coins with me when I return." She didn't bother to offer some diplomatically worded promise with her heavily accented voice - figuring that her actions would speak far louder than her words could.

Dimitri was finished with the pretty young thing he'd been charming and was leaning casually against the bar like he owned the place. He was handsome in the way of her people, Delilah had to admit, but she seemed immune to his charms and boyish good looks. She couldn't come on too immediately strong or he'd get suspicious, but she couldn't get too soft either or he'd move on to his next mark. Picking a good medium-range technique, she stopped a few inches away from him, rising on her toes to press a fleeting kiss to his lips. It was a promise of things that could come, a promise of what he wanted from her - and it had a forbidden air. Her father was in the tavern somewhere, and he could have seen them - and she was trying to convey that she didn't care if he did.

"Awful bold greeting even for you, Delilah. Your father could see us." Dimitri's voice was smooth and charming, the complete opposite of Jack. In fact, Delilah found herself comparing nearly everything about Dimitri to Jack. His voice was different, his face was different - even the way he wrapped his arm around her waist with a sort of possessiveness that he shouldn't have been allowed was different. The atmosphere of the tavern made him bold, and she could feel his hand slipping for her hip so that he could tug her uncharacteristically close.

"I don't care if he sees us, Dimitri. I'm tired of hiding - I'm tired of waiting. I need you. Tonight, promise me it'll be tonight." The trick to getting Dimitri to do anything she wanted - was to make him feel like he was the one that was in control. She played into his fantasy - she the willing woman that just couldn't resist him. She batted her eyelashes and pouted her pretty pink mouth to further get her point across, leaning into him so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. She could see his face pale some, could see the sweat start to sheen his forehead. Most importantly, she could see that triumphant glint in his eyes - he was falling for it, and boy was he falling hard.

"Yes, tonight. You've been a good enough girl, I think you've earned it. Your father and The Count be damned - tonight I make you mine." He made it sound like he'd been making her wait - but the truth of the matter was the she was on the one stringing him along. He wished that he could have her for himself - and oh what a prize she would be. Too bad for him, he'd never have it. She had no intention of giving her innocence to him now or ever - not to him or any other Gypsy man. And certainly not to the damnable Count.

"Oh, Dimitri." She made sure to sound breathy and thankful, like he was giving her some great gift. All part of the game. And then she deliberately shifted her eyes past him toward a pretty little blond at the end of the bar. "But you have to keep working, right? There are still more marks - and you and I both know that nobody is near as good as you are." She ran a hand up his back so that she could deliberately shift her fingers through his hair, coaxing him. "I can meet you tonight - if you give me a few coin I can rent a room upstairs."

"Yes, I do have to keep working. And so do you." He sounded almost like a petulant child as he admitted that fact, and it amused Delilah greatly - but she did a good job of keeping that mirth out of her eyes. It was a little harder to keep the triumphant look out of her eyes as she saw his eyes and his hand shift down to the coin purse he carried. From within it he retrieved three silver coins - just enough to rent them a large room with a locking door for the whole night. He held them out palm-up for her, but closed his fingers as soon as she reached for him. "I want a large room, Delilah. And the door must be lockable. I intend to teach you many things tonight." There was something lecherous in his voice as he deliberately raked his eyes over her body, squeezing her hip in promise.

"I look forward to learning all you have to teach, Dimitri." She practically purred it, leaning up so that she could bring her lips just within inches of his. This close, he lost all resistance and his fingers fell open to reveal the money. She plucked it from his palm and then pulled away from him like she didn't belong in his arms - because she didn't. Flashing him a sweet smile, she motioned for him to head along down the bar, all the promise of the awaiting evening likely still bubbling in his head. Little did he know that it would never happy. Delilah almost, for a second, felt sorry for him. But then her green eyes fell back on Jack and all other thoughts were instantly gone.

Had he been watching her? Had he seen the show she'd put on for Dimitri? The mere thought of him watching her pretend to seduce another man admittedly made her heart beat a little faster. Had he heard her - did he wonder what she'd said to convince Dimitri to give her the coins? She found herself overwhelmed by curious thoughts about what could possibly go through his head if he'd watched her seduce Dimitri.

Once more she flashes a smile at him - the jingle of her bracelets and anklets announcing her approach. Once within close range - a step or two away - she opens her hand to reveal the three silver coins that belong to him.

"I'm grateful that you were willing to allow me a chance to remedy the situation, Jack. It was certainly a better solution than a fight." The tone of her voice indicates that she's being genuine and honest - which shouldn't really be a surprise. Everything she's done in regards to him tonight has been genuine and honest. "I apologize that it was stolen from you to begin with." Another genuine and sweet smile finds it's way to the surface as she waits for him to take his coin. That smile very suddenly fades, however, as a man bumps into her from behind. He knocks her right into the cowboy-stranger, Jack, but he doesn't stop there. She feels his drunken hands reach to grope at her ample behind because, well, it's there and so is he. It's highly likely that Jack sees exactly where the drunk's hands go - considering that he and Delilah are now suddenly far more acquainted than he might have originally intended - being as how she's pressed full-flush against him. And suddenly there's a fire in those bright green eyes and they start to narrow. If there's anything more dangerous than the seduction techniques of a Gypsy woman - it's the sharp tongue they're known for using to give a good verbal lashing.

And though Delilah is far more mild-mannered than her kinfolk, even she has boundaries - and the drunken man groping her from behind has just brought her to her breaking point.

 

[Light Ice]

In an instant she was against him, crushed against the rugged stretch of his frame until the softness of her body was pliant to the hardness of his own. The potency in the moment lay in the way it boldly, and absolutely, served as confirmation that she was in so many ways the very antithesis of who and what he was. It had been a long time since Jack had been this close to a woman, longer still that an embrace had provoked him to feel want. Through the girl's gauze-like attire, and his rougher denim and leather, he felt the warmth of her frame and the supple willingness of her body against his. Full breasts crushed to his broad chest and the sudden hardness of his prick crushed into the smooth surface of her belly.

Jack had watched her navigate the other gypsy boy with a cat-like playfulness, betraying not only the means towards retrieving his coin but a bold willingness to play a game with the thief's want-addled brain. It served as due instruction to him, a reminder of just dangerous beauty could be. It made him wonder if there had been something between the pair before, off in the dark of their camp. For a moment his mind had wandered to visions of her little body poised atop the gypsy's own, hips levied with sudden and violent intent.

Delilah was crushed against him, her slight weight pressing the softness of her body close enough that he could feel the gentle heave in her breasts that followed every breath she took.

He was both glad, and surprised, that she had seen the pale intensity of his eyes and decided not to lie. The blabbering of liars had never appealed to Jack. The easy drawl of a con man's lie had always made his skin crawl. But he had come to expect dishonesty in the same way he had come to expect trouble, as a certainty, because the last friend that he had left on this earth was Archer and Archer was seldom, if ever, inspired to speak the truth.

Crooks and thieves. There had been a time in Jack's life when criminal minds were the myths of legend, far away from the world in which he had lived and the far smaller and natural evils of the men that were around him. He had been naive to much then. Things had certainly changed.

And the girl had not learned her lesson, not entirely. He was reminded of it in the way she arched suddenly against him, leaning deeper into the warmth of his rugged frame as an unwanted hand slipped beneath her skirts and made all the eyes that were fixed to her suddenly, and abruptly, jealous. She writhed against him, as if to shake the intruding touch, and for a long moment Jack did nothing.

"You told him you were renting a room. I will not make you a liar. Rent one." And, even distracted, her eyes snapped up to search his wolfish features as he looked down to her.

For a moment they shared that glance, there in the dim light of the tavern. He saw only uncertainty in her eyes, flashes of something else, hints of frustration perhaps that she was unable to clearly read for his own intentions. Words had so often failed him, they were the least reliable means by which Jack reached into the world. And so she was finally given a hint of his meaning when he abandoned the warmth of her body and stepped around her. Immediately, the great strength of him was inserted between the offending drunk and Delilah's shapely form.

He was a man not much older than Jack, but hobbled by drink and his own clumsy size. The kind of man whom fights seemed to find, always, if he did not manage to find them first and for a moment he looked at Jack and seemed certain to fall on his regular recourse. But, finally, their eyes met and Jack watched as the man sobered some. He pawed at his dark hair and turned, abandoning the pair at the base of the stair.

The man had seen Jack as a killer, recognized it in the way a rabbit recognized the look of a coyote. It was enough to make Jack wonder what the girl had seen and if she had divined for herself some hints as to what she had gotten herself into.

 

[APassionateFlame]

If this had been any other situation, Delilah might have been inclined to take a moment to enjoy being pressed against the rough expanse of Jack's frame. The young innocence she retained urged her to be curious, urged to her languorously stretch against him with feline grace. If only it had been any other situation that would have granted her the leeway to explore her curiosity. But it wasn't any other situation, it was this situation. It was a forced full-frontal confrontation, it was unwelcome hands up the back of her skirt, it was anger flashing her eyes as she prepared to turn around and give that drunk a piece of her mind.

And then his words hit her ears and she snapped her gaze up to him like there was nothing and nobody else in the room. There were equal parts uncertainty and apprehension in her eyes. She had told Dimitri she'd get a room upstairs - but she hadn't really expected Jack would insist that she actually get the room. Which begged the question - why did he want her to get the room? What did it matter to him if she lied to Dimitri? The uncertainty of it, and the inability to read his face left her feeling both maddeningly frustrated and admittedly intrigued.

And then that hand wiggled beneath her skirt again and out of instinct one of her hand reached back to slap at it with all the force she could muster from the angle she was standing. She wasn't destined to punish the drunk for grabbing her inappropriately, and she was robbed of her desire to turn and berate him - when Jack suddenly let got of her and stepped around her lean body. Her training as a dancer allowed for her to quickly catch her balance and whirl around to see what he intended to do.

Watching Jack stand as a barrier between her and the offending drunk, a local she recognized the lecherous face of but could not place a name, she was stricken immediately with the likeness to a Knight-in-Shining-Armor. Jack was rougher around the edges, she could see that in his stance and his eyes and hear it in his voice. But the spark was there. He was acting as her very own protectorate and something swelled inside of her - a feminine pride, perhaps, that a man - a mostly-stranger, would defend her honor.

The small section of tavern that they stood in, near the base of the stairs, was met with a sudden and abrupt lack of sound as Jack stared down the drunk with eyes that spoke of what sorts of things he could - and would - do to a man with enough provocation. Delilah couldn't see that look in Jack's eyes in that moment - but she could see the way the drunk looked intimidated, scared and confused all in quick succession. She could see the way that he completely avoided looking at her like she was suddenly forbidden fruit to the most extreme - like she no longer even existed. Whatever was in Jack's eyes in that moment sobered the drunk nearly immediately and he couldn't even bask in the glory of having had his hand up Delilah's skirt.

For a long moment, Delilah was left pondering over what exactly there was in Jack's eyes that could have caused such a reaction. She lingered behind him, close enough to feel his body warmth - but no so close that they were touching, and she thought back on the look that she had seen in his eyes. She tried her hardest, in that moment, to decipher exactly what she'd seen in his eyes when their bodies collided, or when he told her to go and get a room. The trouble was he was so damnably difficult for her to read that she couldn't really tell what the look meant or what intentions he had. He wasn't like the Gypsy boys that she had wooed and charmed, he wasn't easy to read and easy to seduce and sway. No, he was different. Perhaps the distinction was easier to make than she was making it on herself - maybe it was as simple as the differences between the Gypsy boys and the Cowboy man.

Once she came to that conclusion, she hurried to the bar and beckoned the barkeep close. Leaning over the counter top, she whispered her request to him and passed the silver coin. She wove some tale about how she was renting the room for the Cowboy because he didn't speak their native language and he'd asked her to do it. They exchanged coin for a key and soon enough she was back before Jack, once again with her hand extended palm-up. She wasn't really one to make assumptions, so she didn't assume he wanted anything more than exactly what she'd told the barkeep. She offered him the key the same way she offered him the coin - though this time her eyes searched his face with an open curiosity.

"The room is upstairs and all the way at the end of the hall. The barkeep assures me there is a large bed and a locking door - so you will have your privacy whilst you sleep tonight." The noise in their small little area of the tavern is starting to return to normal, and because she cannot help it - her green eyes shift toward the drunk he'd scared away and then back to Jack's face.

"You didn't have to take care of him. I probably could have handled it. But ... thank you anyways." Her voice is softer, and there's a genuine tone of gratitude. Him taking care of the situation between Delilah and the drunk meant that it did not become a blow-up between the Gypsy-folk and the locals.

The Gypsy music was a slow song this time and she could see the other girls out of the corner of her eyes - dancing and swaying onstage. The waitress chose this moment to bring Delilah her glass of water - finally - and shoved it at her disdainfully. For her part, the pretty bright-eyed gypsy just smiled sweetly and thanked the other woman in their native tongue - the women in this place might not like the Gypsy women, but Delilah held no such animosity for them, and even understood their frustration to some extent. The glass in her hand shakes a little, and she tucks it in close to her body in an attempt to hide that fact - she's shaken by the encounter that happened between her and the drunk, but she'll never admit it.

"Do you need any help finding your room, or do you think you can manage?" Out in the crowd, behind Jack, she can see her father. His dark head pops up above the others as he stands on a chair - looking for his star dancer, his daughter. She is not ready to face him, and though he doesn't know it yet - she has no intention of returning to the Gypsy Caravan tonight, or any other night. She's small enough that with the right maneuvering she manages to hide in just the right spot behind Jack - but that will not last for long and she knows it.

And before he can answer her previous question she reaches for his hand abruptly and starts to tug him up the stairs in the direction of the rooms up there. As they go, she keeps glancing in the direction of her father - who has not noticed her yet - and hurriedly explains, "I'm really sorry, Jack, but we've got to hurry or he'll see me. And I really don't want that to happen." She doesn't explain who, she doesn't explain why - but she is quick on the steps, taking them two at a time to escape notice.

"I'm really sorry to drag you into all of this, and I promise I'll be out of your hair before you know it." Whether that's true or not has yet to be seen.

 

[Light Ice]

Jack was reminded of the many different visions of panic he had known in his time within this world. The color and impact of each left its own distinct taste; a flavor by which experience seemed destined to design an interpretation of its own. He had learned to read those interpretations quickly, often within distress, and found the skill one so invaluable it had often surprised him how frequently he came across fellow gun-hands whom either by ignorance or sloth had never seen fit to develop such an instinct for themselves. She took stairs with such a rapidity that the dancer's grace that until this moment had defined all of her movements broke down, dissolved into a more primitive gait that in a way made her more beautiful to him.

Try as he might, Jack could not make out the full nature of her promise. They were lost, amongst so many other things, to the din of the crowd below and the gentle thud of his boots on the weathered hardwood of the stair. His mind had drifted, slipped away in that moment and found itself fixed upon the realization of just how attractive she appeared to him. A blush had spread itself across his cheeks, spreading a soft and feminine pink in the otherwise fair tones of her skin and shining beneath the dark waves of hair that framed her face.

Had it not been his intention for her to join him in his room to begin with there would have been cause for concern. Jack paid one last look over his rugged shoulder before he heard her fingers work the key into the room's lock and felt her small fingers tug at his large hand until he stepped into the dark behind her.

For a moment, Jack let his other hand rest on the battered walnut butt at his hip. Within the dark he remained, quiet and steady, while sinuous muscles coiled tight throughout his rugged frame. In his mind he imagined three of her gypsy companions, dark-haired and barrel-chested. But she lit the wall-lamp and its soft glow revealed the room empty, the pair alone in the shadow of the large four-post bed that dominated its confines.

Jack did not indulge himself in the lusty visions it sought to provoke.

Instead, he turned to the girl who had spirited him away and removed his hand from the soft warmth of her own.

"You owe me twice, now, girl." His voice was steel and he was glad for it. He was more glad when he found himself able to to levy the full weight of his pale stare onto the gentle green of her own. "I need information."

 

[APassionateFlame]

There had been many different thoughts running through Delilah's head as she hurried up the stairs with Jack's hand held fast to his large hand in her much smaller one. The turn of the key in the lock was a welcoming sound - the sound of the door closing behind them an even more reassuring sound. For a brief moment, while she worked to light the lamp, she swore she heard phantom footsteps on the stairs and in the hall - and she expected there would be a loud banging on the door.

But there was nothing.

When he pulled his hand from her own, she felt quietly bereft of the touch - and turned so that he couldn't see that brief flash of loss in her eyes. Searching for something to busy herself with - a few steps are taken to allow her to line up with the side of the bed and slide the key onto the bedside table. It doesn't take long for her green eyes to track back to his pale gaze and she finds herself caught off guard at his demand for an explanation, for information. She'd expected it. Of course she'd expected it. She'd absconded away with him in an attempt to escape her father downstairs - she'd dragged him into something that he really didn't need to be a part of. Of course he wanted an explanation.

Settling on the bed because it is the closest - and only - seat, she puts her bare feet up on the sideboard and buries her face in her hands for just a few seconds. This allows her a chance to compose herself, to compose her thoughts and feelings about the whirlwind of events that have transpired so far this evening. There's an internal struggle - she has to tell him something, but how much is she obligated to tell him? How much is too much, how much is too little - and can she really keep her promise to be out of his hair before he knows it? She's already inadvertently drug him into this mess, does she really want to drag him further into it? Furthermore, does she really have a choice in the matter? He's the one that's demanding answers and information. And to some extent - she's got to decide how much information is just enough and how much is too much.

She lets out an audible sigh and runs a hand through her hair before looking up at him again. Despite her innocence and her naivety - there is a fire in her eyes, a strength that resides there as she explains her situation. That fire says clearly: I am not a victim, and I do not need sympathy or pity. Her situation might well be an unpleasant one - but she will not play victim or damsel for anybody. Setting her shoulders, she folds her hands into her lap and draws in a breath.

"My father has arranged a marriage for me that I do not intend to follow through with. I am expected to be a dutiful daughter and do as he dictates and I am finished doing what he demands." She glances past him to the door, as if she expects to hear her father's booted feet. When there is no such sound, she looks back at Jack.

"I want to decide who I marry, I want to have a choice in the matter. And I want to love the man that I marry. The Count isn't even a Gypsy! He couldn't even try to arrange for me to marry a man amongst our own people." She shakes her head and then motions to the door with one of her hands.

"That was him downstairs, looking for me. He'll give up soon enough, thinking that I already went home. And then I'll be out of your hair, I promise. I'm leaving tonight, after all the others have returned to the Caravan. I just need to wait for him to not be waiting for me downstairs."

There it was - her entire explanation laid out for him to hear and possibly criticize, for him to mull over and pick apart. She settles the full weight of her bright green gaze on him and waits to hear what he says in regards to her explanation. Amidst all that fire and strength in her eyes, there's the slightest hint of self-doubt. She didn't have the slightest clue how to survive on her own - but she knew for damned sure that she wasn't returning to the Caravan and her arranged marriage. Not to mention the obvious thing that was going to happen - the thing she refused to fully acknowledge. Her father would send family to come look for her - it was likely he would come looking for her himself. And there was no doubt in his mind that The Count would do the same. He'd picked his prize and he intended to be given what he'd chosen - at whatever the cost.

 

[Light Ice]

She gave him plenty of time to roll a cigarette. The tobacco was overly dry from the journey over and promised to burn fast, too fast to enjoy. It reminded him of her hurried words, the endless outpouring of her explanation as he let his rough fingers reveal their secret dexterity and roll a remarkably tight smoke. His steely silence was broken only by the sound of the match as he struck it against the cedar-planked wall, filling the room with the sharp scent of sulfur before the milder hints of the tobacco took over.

Through the haze of slate grey smoke he watched her face. The elegant lines and smooth features creasing with worry as she trailed off, waiting like a girl in the confession booth at church. He was no Preacher. He was a gun hand. The only judgment he was fit to lay upon anyone came with the big irons he wielded and while he did not believe in the man Jesus or the Christian concept of heaven there was no denying that he had shuffled his share of innocent men off the mortal coil. It'd be fair to say that a part of him had hoped that he was wrong about heaven and that they had found their way there.

"Tell me more about the Count. Is he formidable?" He asked abruptly.

There was no denying the Count's taste in women. Chaste as it was, her seat upon the bed had allowed her shapely legs to stretch from beneath the veil of her gauzy skirts. Flawless, feminine lines that lead into gently rounded hips and a trim belly. The girl was young but she was not the kind of beautiful that soured with age. He had never been a betting man but if pressed...

he'd have wagered that in ten years she would be a stunning beyond her current state.

Beneath them the dance had taken up again, louder this time. The cheers and whistles of the local men became melody to the rhythm of stamping boots. The commotion did not interest him. It never would. The time for dances and women had passed in his life, long by a gun hand's standards, and he had time only for the work that lay ahead. Archer was an ambitious man. He was a talented liar.

But he was also greedy and overconfident in his abilities, dismissive of the keenness often found in others. Jack did not have a good feeling about his friend's plan, or in this place and the people that resided here. Jack and Archer were strangers, outlanders beyond even the mistrusted Gypsy Caravan, tolerated and welcomed as though they were walking a razor's edge.

A part of this grim forecast, he reckoned, was due to his profession. He had become so accustomed to violence, so quick to use it for the sake of settling matters, that a part of him was already readied for bloodshed.

And as she answered him, Jack looked to her and found that those beautiful eyes were no longer searching his own. They were weighted on the walnut grips of his irons and their darkened barrels, foreign tools within these parts. Jack knew that their foreign look, however, did not disguise their purpose. He saw understanding in her eyes, dark curiosity as her stare turned from the guns themselves to the shells looped along the belt. Large, ominous cartridges of clean brass.

"Tell me his manner, his measure, as a man."

 

[APassionateFlame]

At a loss for words, Delilah found her eyes drawn to the foreign weapons that Jack wore - trailing her gaze along them with equal amounts curiosity and understanding. She found herself wanting to touch them - to feel the cold metal beneath her fingers. She briefly flashed on the thought that it might be easier to understand Jack if she understood the strange weapons that he carried with him. She might better be able to decipher his face, to read his voice and his expressions - if she could have an understanding for the weapons. But that thought was a fleeting one - and one that was out of her head as soon as she heard him question her about the Count's measure as a man.

Almost immediately, a look of disdain crossed her features. She disliked the Count, the disliked him greatly. And though she was a girl who did not dislike often, or strongly - she broke both of those personal rules when it came to instances regarding the Count. She was pleased to find, however, that despite her strong dislike of the Count - her voice was even and devoid of any loathing or contempt as she spoke about him. This pleased her greatly, as she did not want to appear bitter.

"He is a cunning man. He knows how to manipulate people in order to get what he wants. He frightens my people with his mystery and his secrecy. He believes that he is a gift for all womenkind and they should all be glad to serve him as do as he pleases. He is well-educated and he is a master of deception and trickery. I would not trust him if he were the very last man in this world that I could possibly trust."

She is curious to know why he wants to know about the Count. But not curious enough to ask. Not yet anyways.

Settling into silence after her explanation about the Count, she listens to the music downstairs. Unable to help herself, her feet start to move a little with the upbeat melody of the music, the little bells on her anklets filling the room with the merry sound. While her feet move, her eyes are once more drawn to Jack's face. She finds herself searching it, searching him.

He is handsome, by any standards. The rugged scratch of his face appeals to her in a way that nothing else ever has. And she can feel the blush dance across her cheeks as she imagines that rough scratch of his face brushing against the soft, pliant curves of her body - scratching along her inner thighs, grazing across her ribcage just beneath her breasts. She feels her breath quicken some at the thought and forces herself to look away from him - hopefully before he notices the hitch in her breath or the flush on her cheeks.

Trying to cover up exactly what thoughts just danced through her head, she moves to gracefully slide her way off the bed. There is a window in this room - albeit a small one - and she moves to peer out that window and at the happenings on the outside of the tavern below. Her hips move back and forth with a gentle sort of movement to the beat of the music, the dancer in her unable to resist the enticement it offers. She watches as Gypsy folk come and go, watches at her own father storms out of the tavern looking for her. She watches as one of the tavern wenches gets into an argument with one of the regulars. They're like ants down below her as she watches them, and it makes her feel quite disconnected from the world itself.

It's not really a new idea for her - feeling disconnected. It's a familiar feeling, one that fills her with warmth and understanding. It's like an old friend that's been away for awhile and has come back for a visit - a constant companion, that feeling. While she stands there, swaying to the music - and hiding her thoughts from Jack - a stray thought strikes her and she's unable to keep from asking it.

"Why are you here, Jack?"

 

[Light Ice]

It had never been Archer's mind to ply his "trade" against the more capable of men. Since the pair had started off together he had looked for the helpess or in the least, the weaker, of marks in an effort to ensure success. When it came to the Confidence Man's line of work the prospect of failure was a dangerous one. The world had changed from that which their parents had known. America, what the papers would call a civilized nation, was still as wild as any place known to God out West. The law's method of dealing with Carpet Baggers and men like Archer was to turn a blind eye for the sake of the mob.

But out here?

Jack wasn't entirely certain what the pair would be up against. The villagers, at first glance, did not seem particularly impressive. They enjoyed a peasant's comfort. Yet, in this short time, he had not seen any of the Count's men. He had seen no soldiers. And, by vision of the Count's home, he thought it certain that there would be some. Archer had called it a "Manor".

The reality was that, like a vision from the books he had read as a child, the Count's home loomed atop the hillside and was the very picture of a Medieval Castle.

Jack watched as the girl began to move, betraying now in the privacy of the room a more sincere seduction. It was not the exaggerated exhibition she had given downstairs but a girlish, subtler sway of her rounded hips and tamping of her tiny feet. Within the room's confines there was an intimacy between them, a magnetism that sharpened as she framed her gorgeously sleek self within the window. The lights from down lit her body, the gauzy silks of her wrappings taken with the breeze as she pushed it open and looked down.

"Go back to your father tonight." He said.

And she wheeled as her question went unanswered and he approached her. stretching one hand to capture the window's frame and brace himself as he leant over her. In this proximity she filled his senses, threatening to intoxicate him on subtle hints of lavender, and still he loomed taller and followed what had been her stare until he could see the gypsy man beginning what would become a frantic search throughout the town.

"Take this with you. Tell him that I wanted to see you dance, and more, but that you only would dance for me." He instructed her. The words were level, even, even if the warmth of his breath played through her dark hair and across the back of her neck. "Keep appearances so you can see me again tomorrow and tell me more of the Count. We will see if we can help you in return."

Inside, Jack acknowledged to himself that it was not the only reason that he wished to see her again. The temptation to deny it to himself, to avoid what was becoming unavoidable, would dull his senses and his mind. It was impossible, even as he drew from the window and the warmth of her figure beside it, and made his way towards the room's door before looking back to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

A day within the village and Jack felt the ominous weight of foreboding rest heavily upon his shoulders, aware suddenly that within his mind Archer's plan was doomed entirely to failure. It lay in the soft turn of the girl's rounded hips and in her words of the Count, in the way his prick already strained against the denim of his jeans and how heavy his desire made the guns feel upon his hips.

He would speak to Archer in the morning. It would most likely do nothing to change the course they were set upon.

 

[APassionateFlame]

She wasn't keen on the idea of returning to her father and the Gypsy Caravan. It ruined all of her carefully laid plans, and it made her very very nervous. But when she wheeled around to question him and his sanity - had he not been listening to her story? - he was suddenly leaning very near her. She went very still, like a mouse that knows the cat is watching it and does not want to become the meal.

He smelled of clean soap, and it took all of her self-control to not reach a hand up and feel at the scruff on his face curiously. Her body leaned ever so slightly closer to his - it wasn't an attempt at seduction, but rather a magnetism that she couldn't understand. She was drawn to him, like a moth to the flame. It left her feeling both instantly bereft and suddenly relieved when he walked away from her, leaving her standing near the window.

And then she was left to wrestle with the idea that he'd presented to her, left frowning as she started to shake her head with a hurried motion.

"You don't understand. He gives me to the Count in two days time. If I do not leave soon - I will not have a chance to leave again."

Once more her eyes tracked toward the window and toward the great Castle that belonged to the Count. It was a well known fact amongst her people that he kept soldiers up there. They would keep her locked away in the castle once she belonged to their master, and she would not have another chance to escape. It was a thought that panicked her, that emotion seeping into her eyes as she turned to look at him the way a rabbit might look at the hunter before he shoots. There's desperation in those eyes, and she can feel it.

Going back to her father almost certainly meant going back to a life with the Count, a life she was seeking to escape. But at the same time - there was something about Jack that made her want to trust him. It wasn't in his face, this promise of trust, and it certainly wasn't in his voice. But it was in the way that he hadn't harmed her, it was in the way that he hadn't attempted to force himself on her the way that other men might have. Despite the coldness in his eyes, she'd caught a very brief glimpse or two of something there - something that she didn't really understand - when she caught hm looking at her.

She was crazy for thinking that she could understand Jack. He was a stranger, a cowboy, a man who knew nothing of her people and their cultures. But maybe that's why he was the perfect person to trust. He didn't have a hidden agenda - the way many of her people did. He didn't have anything to gain from betraying her, other than the satisfaction of the betrayal. And Jack struck her as more of a man of action - the political play of betrayal didn't seem like his game.

"The Count is a very resourceful man. You don't understand. If he is allowed to have me in two days time, he will claim me as his own - and then there will be no escaping. He will search to the ends of the world for me, I'm sure of it. I will be but a possession to him, and he does not strike me as a man that likes to lose his possessions."

There's a hint of fear in her eyes, and she does her best to hide it. But she cannot stop her feet from carrying her across the floor, bells jingling as she hurries toward him and reaches to stop him with a hand on his upper arm. There is no pleading in her voice, no desperation in her eyes, but there's something to the way that she speaks. She tries to appeal to him.

"Please do not make me regret trusting you." She trusts so few people - that is obvious in her eyes, in the way that her gaze weighs heavily on him as she beseeches him to give her a reason to continue trusting him. "My staying means that my life is in your hands, now."

She wants him to be fully aware of that. She wants him to understand that her being with the Count might as well amount to death as she'll never really have a life. And she wants him to understand how hard it would be for her to ever trust anyone else if he betrayed her - how hard it is for her to trust him now. Her little fingers squeeze at his arm, as if holding onto a lifeline, and she waits for him to give her something to go on.

Her mind is reeling with some thoughts, though. She would have to lie to her father about who she was with - he would never let her return to town or anywhere near Jack if he knew the cowboy had wanted dancing - and more - from his daughter. She would have to lie to her father, but it wouldn't be the first time.

And it wouldn't be the last.

 

[Light Ice]

She would not go. She clung to him. The soft, thin circle of her fingers on his arm constricted against sinuous muscle and found it unyielding and, yet, she clung still. Desperation was a powerful thing. He saw it, flickering through her features. She was beautiful. That was powerful, too. And all at once a part of him started to wake that he didn't entirely understand. Jack was a killer. A gun hand. There had been few things in life he'd known better than the mastery of a man's life and how to take it. The world he'd left behind was filled with tragedy upon tragedy. He was a scoundrel of the highest order. He let folks down. In the end his reputation as a cold-hearted, quiet-mannered killer wasn't entirely deserved.

But neither was her trust in him.

Her blind, desperate, pleading hope.

The knot in his belly grew. His prick surged to new hardness as her touch lit up every nerve in his body with sudden sensation. It did not matter how near or far she swayed; his awareness of her only sharpened by the instance. The fall of her hair and how it swayed against her cheeks, dark and thick and shining softly in the room's dim light. There was nothing to stop his eyes from dipping and taking stock of her mouth, it's gentle curve and those full lips. He imagined them against his own. Sweet and sultry things pouring from them.

She was too delicate for the game she was caught in. He knew it. There was no mind in the gypsy girl for politics or schemes. They shared that, really. He'd never been much for it, either. Instead, with his fists or his irons, he'd always taken a brutally direct path in life. It'd ended badly. Almost always. The grim certainty that it would do so here hung over him, around him, even as she lit him up on the inside.

The hell was going on? Who was this girl?

A part of him, so off guard with the power of his want for her, wondered if it was on purpose. He half-expected men to burst into the room to rob him or for her to deliver him later to the Count. No woman had ever turned to him as a hero before. They'd taken his money, sure, and enjoyed the feel of his rough body against their own. But they'd never counted on him for much. He'd scared them, it'd seemed. Just enough, anyway, that they'd never put their faith or stock in him.

She gripped his arm and his opposite hand fell, found itself a familiar place to hold her. He'd meant to shake her off. Snap her out of it. He'd meant to repeat his instructions and get her to go on. Instead, as his large hand settled on the feminine arch of her hip, Jack simply let his strong fingers sink down and feel the warmth and softness there. He gripped her, the way a man grips a woman, with intimate ferocity. His prick ached, twitched hard at him again. Her eyes, smoldering under dark lashes, stole his.

And he doomed them both, it seemed, as he spoke with grim certainty. "Alright. Then stay."

 

[APassionateFlame]

Who knew that three little words could hold so much weight to them?

She does not want to return to the Caravan and the future that awaits her there, it is a future that she does not want. That she does not believe she is destined for. She is predisposed to trust nobody, but she blindly places her faith and her trust in him. To return to her father, and by extension - the Count, she steps onto territory that is unknown. They could decide to up the timetable and trade her fate tomorrow, or even tonight, and she is wary and frightened of those possibilities.

Though she does not know Jack very well, at least here her future is more certain than it is with her father. She'd meant to release him after pleading her case, meant to hurry out the door to do as he'd told her because she trusted him and his open honesty with her. But her fingers did not unwind from his arm, and her feet did not move across the floor to take her out of the room. Instead she stood there in front of him, holding to his arm like it was a lifeline, staring up at him as if she expected that he would save her from all the terrible things the world could offer.

She watched as his lashed lowered to indicate that he was looking at her mouth, and she felt her heartbeat hasten against her chest. When the wide expanse of his hand fell to encompass her hip and sink into the warmth of her flesh there, her breath hitched audibly - a soft little whisper of a gasp as she lifted her other hand to press against his chest and steady herself.

All the Gypsy boys in her camp have smooth, women's hands. They are meant for caressing and seducing and wooing. They are not work-hardened, and rough. Though her experience is limited with the Gypsy boys - just the way she likes to keep it - she can feel, and appreciate, the difference between their hands and Jack's. His hands are rough, work-calloused, and the weight and feel of it against her hip is a different thing than she is used to. It is not possessive, the way he holds his hand against her, but instead it holds an intense intimacy that speaks to things done without clothing or words between them. Warmth paints her cheeks a soft pink as her mind flashes on pictures of his hands caressing other places, skimming over her skin and tangling in the thick strands of her hair.

She hears him tell her to stay, momentarily loses herself in the way that his eyes stare back at her with a fierce intensity. And those three little words hold so much power and sway over her, she is hypnotized by the prospect. If she stays with him, she will escape her father and the Count - but does he know at what cost? They cannot stay in the village, or they will find her. She will have to run, the way she'd planned all along, but would he risk coming with her? Running poses great risks, but staying poses even further risks - like the certain marriage to the Count she faces if she stays in the village past sunrise.

All of this swirls through her head, yet she struggles to find the words to explain this to him. Struggles to do anything beyond standing here, wrapped up in the sudden heat that surrounds them. The sudden thickness of the air is new to her, the palpable feeling of lust in the air. She is not used to such a sudden, strong reaction to a man - especially one that she does not know. And though she is a Gypsy born with the innate art of seduction, she is by technicalities - innocent. For all her frivolous play with the Gypsy boys behind wagons and tents in the deep of night - she'd never felt anything like the way that she does now standing here with Jack. It is, by an outside glance, an innocent enough situation. They are fully dressed, and nothing inappropriate has passed between them. However, here with him - with all of her truths laid out bare before him - she feels as exposed as if she were wearing no clothing. His affect on her is sure and certain, and she struggles to understand what is going on - in her head and with her body.

Her tongue darts out across her lips, wetting them in preparation for her lilted voice to follow. "If we stay in this village beyond sunrise, my father will find me. And my fate will be sealed."

She is not begging him to accompany her, asking him to travel along with her. But she is not denying him the chance to do so if that is what he wants. She must be gone by morning, with or without him, however.