Her Master's Touch by Patricia Watters

the fire
in the eye of the gypsy is kindled with many passions. Passion part
hate, passion part love, passion for wandering."
    Damon gave her a wry smile, and said,
"Perhaps I should remain in my bedchamber tomorrow morning so I
will be available to satisfy your many passions."
    Her laugh was like the melodious rippling of
a guitar. "You have much wit, my lord, but very little sense. If
Mrs. Throckmorton were to find us there I would lose my job. And my
debt to you is not yet paid."
    Damon gazed at her high clever forehead, her
beautifully-arched brows, the straight line of her nose. You're
weaving a spell around me, gypsy girl , he thought, fighting the
urge to take her in his arms and kiss her again. But his plan
wasn't to drive her away. It was to install her in the bungalow as
his mistress. "So, is my tattoo finished?" he asked. "May I look at
it?"
    "Not yet." She dipped the needle into a vial,
and after making a series of pricks that trailed down his breast in
an arc and back up again, she lifted the lantern, cast a critical
eye on her work, and announced, "I think you will be pleased."
    He looked down but couldn't make out the
tattoo. "What is it?" he asked.
    "A rat, my lord."
    " A rat!" Damon felt his gut twist. If
she had tattooed a toad or a skunk he could have found humor in it.
But a rat brought back childhood memories of lying in bed at night
and hearing rats gnawing through the walls. And adult memories of
returning home from abroad with enough money to lift his mother
from the stink-hole she'd lived in, only to find her in a room
alive with rats and reeking of vomit and diarrhea, while she lay in
bed, dying of cholera. She'd looked more like a wizened monkey than
a woman, eyes peering from sunken hollows, lips thin and blue. He
eyed Eliza with vexation, and said, "Why did you do a rat?"
    She shrugged. "I hadn’t intended to do a
tattoo at all tonight," she said, "and when you insisted I do so, a
rat was what came to mind. But I tried to make it an elegant
rat."
    Damon looked into eyes filed with mirth and
found his anger fading. She had no way of knowing what she'd done,
the irony of it. But he refused to let her see his dismay. He
slipped on his shirt. "This has been an interesting night," he
said, then left abruptly.
    Eliza stared after him, uncertain what to
make of his hasty departure. Something about a a rat cut deeply. At
first she'd thought he'd been surprised with what she'd done. But
afterward, she saw a profound grief creep across his face,
reflecting as misery in his eyes. She felt a bizarre desire to go
after him, tell him she was sorry, crawl into his arms and feel his
lips on hers...
    Which was precisely why she must find the
opal and leave. Because, if she stayed, she feared she might suffer
her mother's fate. Fall in love with a man too high above her to
return her love. And she refused to burden herself with that
misery.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Eliza unfastened several buttons of her
uniform and fanned her chest. It was unbearably hot for so early in
the day and she was thankful for the chance to complete the task
before the sun was high. Dropping to her knees, she collected the
last of the dead mice and deposited them in a tin. Grappling around
for the bloated bodies repelled her, but it gave her a reason to be
in Lord Ravencroft's bedchamber, and a chance to search for the
opal. Stepping to the hallway, she looked both ways. Seeing no one,
she began her search, starting with a curve-top trunk at the foot
of the bed. Finding only men's clothing, she moved to the bed and
checked beneath the mattress. Finding nothing there, she made up
the bed and dropped the diaphanous mosquito netting...
    ...through a gossamer veil… the glint of
gold on the wing of a nose… the sparkle of a tika on a
forehead...
    The image, though fleeting, immobilized
Eliza. It was the face of her mother, but the features were vague.
She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the image, but it was
gone. Only a sense of