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Ian couldn’t be sure which.

“Be careful, manishni,” Besnik softly warned.

Ailsa stuck out her tongue, taunting, “Go to the devil,” before she skipped away and scooped a toddler into her arms. They both giggled as she twirled them about the fire.

“Gawji woman.” Besnik shook his head, and his dark eyes met Ian’s. “That one needs a man’s firm hand on her bool.”

Ian refused to agree with him, though he’d been harboring similar thoughts. For all he knew, the gypsy king baited him, to see if he was the type of man who’d hit a woman. His gaze rested on the gypsy before roaming the restless crowd. Already a head taller than most of the men peering at him, he drew himself to his full height.

“I am not leaving without my wife.”

Yoska offered him a congenial smile.

His perpetual cheerfulness was irksome. He reminded Ian of his friend, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. Always—always, blood sodding hell—smiling. Made a man want to plant him a facer just to wipe the unending grin from his face. He didn’t dare draw Yoska’s cork, however.

“I would be honored if you’d consent to share my table and selta for the duration of your visit, my lord,” Yoska cordially offered.

Selta? What the hell was that? Ian didn’t recall ever feeling so out of step. He knew nothing of these people, their culture, or traditions. Nonetheless, he’d no choice but to accept. “Thank you, for the kind offer.”

Eldra made no effort to conceal her delight. Looping her arm through his, she pressed her ripe breasts against him while dragging him to her father’s campsite. Ian barely repressed a derisive snort. The woman he wanted, wanted nothing to do with him, and the one he wanted nothing to do with, quite obviously, wanted him.

Was it his imagination or was she deliberately rubbing his upper arm against her bosom? He tugged firmly, but she tightened her grip and smiled seductively.

No, he wasn’t imagining it.

Bloody hell.