Christopher tensed, filling with a rage the likes of which he’d never felt before. “Which Gypsy?”

“The handsome one there leaning against that tree—who will be dancing the tanana with her tonight. It is very, very rare for a Gajo to ever witness the tanana. You are blessed, Englishman, to have come at the right time to see it.”

That “dancing with her” seemed to have some significant meaning that he couldn’t figure out in his drink-befuddled state. He did find the man she had waved toward, and saw him leaving the tree. Following the direction he headed in, he saw the girl who’d been haunting his mind and drew in his breath at her sensual beauty.

She wore a low-cut, off-the-shoulder white blouse, the deep scoop of it bordered with a lacy ruffle, dotted with tiny gold sequins. Her full skirt was a shiny gold, and glittered even more with large gold bangles sewn about the hem. Her only jewelry was the long earrings that flashed and tinkled with her slightest movement. A shawl-like white scarf, also dotted with gold sequins, draped over her gleaming black hair and down her sides.

She was shining from head to toe. She was beautiful. She didn’t notice that Christopher was there. She was staring at the Gypsy as her arms lifted, beginning the dance . . .

The young man was indeed handsome, tall, slim, graceful in his leaps and movements. Christopher felt too big and utterly clumsy in comparison. The dance was mesmerizing. They never lost eye contact with each other, no matter how frenzied the tempo and movements became. It was a dance of passion, of temptation, of two lovers flirting, teasing, denying, offering, promising . . .

“He can’t have her. I forbid it,” Christopher said adamantly, proving just how intoxicated he was.

Not surprisingly, the old woman laughed at him. “You can’t forbid it, English. All you can do is prevent it by marrying her yourself.”

“I can’t marry her, madame.”

A long, drawn-out sigh. “Then stop thinking you can have her, enjoy the dance, and go home. We will move on in the morning.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the girl since she had appeared, nor did he now. But the old woman’s words caused an unexpected panic he couldn’t quite control. They’d leave—she would leave? He’d never see her again? Unacceptable. She would agree to be his mistress. He’d buy her anything she wanted, give her anything—short of a marriage license. How could she not agree?

Yet as much as he wanted to believe that money would solve this for him, that couldn’t be depended on when dealing with a people so different from his own. He was out of his element. Who but foreigners would think that he could just marry her, just like that, ignoring the fact that he was a titled lord and she was a common vagrant? Well, not so common. Well, utterly beautiful, utterly desirable, but that was beside the point. It simply couldn’t be done.