Claiming the Forbidden Bride (5 page)

‘I'm sorry. I should have known better. I can give you something for the pain.'

She began to turn, but before she could complete the motion, his fingers fastened around her wrist. ‘No.'

He'd had experience with the drugs the doctors gave to deaden pain. And far more memorable experiences with learning to do without them. He could better endure the ache in his head than endure that again.

Her eyes had widened at his command, but she didn't argue. Nor did she pull her arm away.

‘As you wish,' she said simply and then waited.

After a moment Rhys found the presence of mind to release her. Even after she'd gone, however, taking the candle with her, it seemed he could still feel beneath his fingertips the cool, smooth skin that covered the slender wrist he'd grasped.

And despite his exhaustion and the Gypsy's potions, it was a long time before he could sleep.

 

Nadya blew out the candle she carried and set it down on the floor beside the bed in her grandmother's caravan. Angeline was already asleep there, snuggled under the covers like a tired puppy.

Nadya lifted the piled quilts and slipped under them. She pulled the little girl to her, relishing the warmth of her body. Her chin settled atop the child's head, but she didn't close her eyes for a long time. Instead, she stared into the darkness, thinking about the Englishman.

Stephano's ultimatum didn't worry her. After all, he would be away for the next few days—as he had been for most of the spring and summer. Although her half-brother certainly had the authority he'd bragged about tonight, his own concerns had kept him from exercising the kind of control on the
kumpania
's activities that her father had enforced. Besides, given the fact the
gaujo
was coherent tonight, his recovery would, in her experience, occur very quickly now.

It wasn't the possibility that she couldn't get him out of the encampment fast enough to suit Stephano that kept her awake, staring into the darkness long after her daughter had fallen back into the innocent sleep of childhood. It was
rather, she finally conceded, the probability that he would be gone long before her half-brother returned to see if his orders had been obeyed.

Why should she care if the
gaujo
she'd never laid eyes on until a week ago disappeared from her life? England was full of
gadje
. And most of the ones Nadya had met were more than eager to further their acquaintance with her.

So what could it possibly matter if she never saw this one again? she asked herself with a small shrug of disdain. Feeling that motion, Angeline turned, settling more closely against her. As she returned the little girl's embrace, Nadya reiterated the mantra she'd only tonight found necessary to formulate.

She had everything she needed. A child she loved. Respect in her community. More than enough money to meet her needs and the capacity for earning more.

Everything, she told herself again, she could possibly want.

Even as the thought formed, she knew it for the lie it was. She had the same physical needs of every other woman. And, though the capability to assuage her needs was always at hand, both here in camp and elsewhere, she had so far chosen not to avail herself of those opportunities.

More fool you. If you have an itch for a man, there are far better choices than a
gadje
lord.

That sort of liaison had never meant anything but dishonour and heartbreak for her kind.

She knew that. Had long ago acknowledged it. Yet tonight…

Tonight, when she had leaned down to put the cup to the Englishman's lips, she had instead wanted to fasten her own over them. To taste his kiss. To know, however briefly, what it would feel like to be held in his arms.

And for the first time in her very pragmatic existence, Nadya Argentari couldn't rationalize away the strength of that very emotional response. Or deny its reality.

She was still trying when she fell asleep.

R
hys opened his eyes to sunlight. The first thing he realized was that it didn't hurt his head. The second was that it allowed him to get a much better look at his surroundings than he had been able to before.

He knew, because the Gypsy girl had told him, that he was in her caravan. Her home on wheels.

This morning, a section of wall in the part where he lay had been propped open to allow both light and fresh air inside. The slightly medicinal scent he'd been aware of last night had been replaced by the crispness of the English countryside in autumn.

He drew a deep, savouring breath of it into his lungs. As he did, he identified other smells, familiar from his campaigning days. Wood smoke. Fresh meat turning on a spit somewhere.

The sounds were the same as well, he realized. A low hum of conversation. The occasional masculine laugh.

A movement at the periphery of his vision caused him to turn his head. The little girl he'd seen yesterday was again standing at his bedside.

This time her lips immediately curved into a smile, which he couldn't have resisted responding to, even if he'd been so inclined. She raised her hand and, holding it directly in front of his face, moved two of her fingers up and down.

Puzzled, he shook his head, attempting to soften the denial with another smile. She repeated the motion, cocking her head to the side when she was through, as if waiting for his response.

Again Rhys shook his head, relieved that the movement, which yesterday would have produced blinding pain, didn't bother him at all this morning. ‘I don't understand,' he confessed.

Once more the child made the gesture, clearly frustrated with his lack of understanding.

‘I'm sorry, little one…' he began.

Apparently, she'd had enough. She turned, disappearing from his field of vision.

Alone again, Rhys raised his eyes to the opening at the end of the caravan. The beech leaves were molten gold in the morning sun. As they swayed in the wind, they cast dappled patterns of light and shade onto the walls of the caravan, reminding him of the countryside he'd ridden through after he'd left Buxton. And, he realized, that was the last thing he did remember.

I fear you've fallen among the Rom,
the woman had told him. But she'd given him no explanation of how that had occurred. Or of how he'd been injured.

No matter how hard he tried, searching his memory for answers, he could remember almost nothing after he left the inn. All he knew was that he'd been thoroughly enjoying his first taste of freedom since he'd returned to England.

It was possible he'd been attacked by robbers. If so, he had no memory of it. Still, being set upon by highwaymen
would explain the blow to the head, so that version of events seemed logical. Whether the Gypsies had been his attackers or his rescuers, however—

‘Angel said you were awake. How do you feel?'

The woman who'd given him the medicine last night was back. Today the kerchief had been replaced by two gold combs, which glittered among her midnight curls as if bejewelled.

The shawl that had covered her shoulders had also disappeared. The cap-sleeved blouse she wore would offer little protection against the morning's chill, but the white fabric flattered the smooth tan of her shoulders.

Despite its décolleté, something he was suddenly extremely aware of, the garment was no more revealing than the gowns he'd seen at the country party his sister-in-law had dragged him to. Merely the fashion, he told himself. Still, he hadn't reacted to those rounded white shoulders in quite the same way his body was responding to these.

‘Angel?' The question was a form of self-defence, since he was certain of the source of her information.

‘Her name's Angeline, but…' The woman shrugged, the movement again drawing his eyes to the beginning curve of her breasts, visible above the low neckline.

Rhys raised his eyes, smiling into hers. ‘I'm afraid she wasn't very pleased with me.'

‘Really? She seemed excited you're awake.'

‘She kept doing something with her fingers. I think she expected me to be able to figure out what it was, but…' He shook his head.

‘Can you show me?'

Feeling foolish for having brought it up, Rhys repeated the gesture the child had made.

The woman laughed. ‘She wanted you to come with
her. And since she is, I'm afraid, too accustomed to having her own way, I'm sure she thought you wouldn't hesitate to oblige.'

‘I should have tried. If she'd told me what she wanted.'

‘Angel doesn't speak. Nor does she hear what we say.'

‘She's deaf,' Rhys spoke the sudden realization aloud, and then wondered at his own stupidity in not understanding the situation sooner. ‘Forgive me. You must think me very slow.'

‘I think you've had a severe blow to the head. It's to be expected that things seem strange. As all of this certainly must.' One slender hand gestured at their surroundings.

‘You said last night I'd “fallen in” with your people. I'm afraid I can't remember how that happened.'

Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Nothing?'

‘Very little beyond setting out from the inn at Buxton. I assume that was yesterday morning. Unless, that is, I've enjoyed your hospitality longer than I'm aware.' His voice rose questioningly on the last.

‘Then…you don't remember Angel at all?'

‘She was here once before when I woke up. That must have been…last night?'

‘Do you remember being brought here?'

‘I thought—' Rhys hesitated, for some reason reluctant to confess that during that journey he had imagined he was back in Spain. ‘Perhaps,' he amended. ‘Parts of it.'

Even as he said that, it seemed he did remember. They'd put him on a cart of some kind. And the ground they'd pulled the conveyance over had been very uneven.

Rough enough, he thought with an unexpected clarity, that he'd been more than willing to sink back into the unconsciousness their painful ministrations had pulled him from.

‘What about my horse?' Another memory that had suddenly risen to the surface of his consciousness.

‘A gelded bay with a star on his forehead?'

‘That's it. He's my brother's, actually. I should hate to lose him.'

Rhys had had several mounts shot out from under him in Iberia. More than enough to teach him not to become attached to any of them. Still the bay had been responsive, seeming as pleased with the freedom of their journey as Rhys had been.

‘One of the men found him this morning. Don't worry. He'll be ready for you when you're well enough to ride.'

‘When do you think that will be?' Right now, he couldn't imagine sitting on a horse, but given the crowded conditions of her “home”, he also couldn't imagine imposing on her any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘I'm a healer, not a fortune-teller, my lord,' she said with a smile. ‘I can send for my grandmother if you'd like to make inquiries about your future.'

‘I'm no lord.' Rhys wasn't sure why it was suddenly so important that she understand that.

‘All English gentlemen are lords to us.' The smile tugged at the corners of her lips again. ‘We discovered long ago that a little flattery goes a long way. Especially when your livelihood depends upon the goodwill of those with whom you conduct business.'

‘And what kind of business do you conduct?'

Her chin tilted upward fractionally. ‘Assuredly not the kind you're thinking of. As I told you, I have some small skill with herbs and potions. I can set bones and sew flesh so that the limbs involved are still usable. My grandmother can tell you what your future holds, if you're foolish enough to desire that information. As for the others…' She made that expressive movement with her shoulders again. ‘We're blacksmiths, tinkers, leather workers, basket
weavers, woodworkers. Craftsmen of all kinds. And we buy and sell all manner of things.'

The Rom were known for all those things. And for many others as well. For centuries every type of roguery—from cheating at games of chance to stealing children from their beds—had been laid at their door.

With that thought, the image of the little girl's wide blue eyes surrounded by colourless lashes was in his mind's eye. How did a child like Angeline come to be in a Gypsy camp? Rhys didn't believe for a moment that Angel was her daughter.

That was, however, a subject he couldn't afford to pursue. Not while he was flat on his back and at the mercy of these people. At least one of whom very much wanted him gone.

He wondered what this woman's relationship was with the man who'd ordered her to get him out of camp. Was he the tribal leader? Her father? Husband? Lover?

The last two choices were more distasteful to him than they should be. Despite his attraction to her, the worlds they occupied were separated by an abyss of custom and prejudice. The Gypsy had taken care of him, for which he would always be grateful. As for the other…

The sooner he could leave, the better it would be for all concerned. The woman who had tended to him could once more have her home back. Whoever had demanded she get rid of him would be satisfied. And more important, Rhys would be on his way once more to his godfather's house.

With the memory of his journey's purpose, he realized that unless he sent word to Keddinton that he'd been delayed, his godfather was apt to sound the alarm, which would send Edward rushing into the countryside to find him. It was lucky he hadn't been more exact in his letter about the date of his arrival. Perhaps if he sent Keddinton
a message now, he could forestall the humiliation of his family's search.

‘Some of you have occasion to travel outside this camp?'

‘Of course,' Despite her ready agreement, the woman seemed puzzled by his question.

‘I was hoping someone could take a letter to my godfather, Viscount Keddinton. His home is Warrenford Park. Near Wargrave. He's expecting me. If I don't show up there soon, he may institute a hue and cry.'

Although Rhys had attempted to phrase the possible consequence of his non-arrival lightheartedly, the woman's face changed. Only then did he realize that his presence might represent a danger to the Rom. And on reflection, he had no doubt his brother and even Keddinton would assume the worst if he were discovered to be convalescing in a Gypsy encampment.

‘Of course,' she said evenly. ‘I'll bring you something with which to write your message and see that it's delivered as soon as possible.'

‘Thank you. My arrangements were not so exact as to cause immediate concern, but I think it best we forestall any unnecessary worry.'

‘Of course,' she said again, but her eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He had finally escaped his family's solicitous care of him. Now he must concentrate on regaining his strength in order to escape the possibility of further humiliation. Not all of which, he admitted ruefully, involved his family.

 

‘How is he?' Magda asked.

‘Stronger.' Nadya dipped a ladle into the pot of porridge that hung over the fire near her grandmother's caravan. She had already put the writing materials she'd promised the En
glishman in the pocket of her apron. ‘He doesn't remember what happened with Angel or how he came to be here.'

‘He doesn't remember saving her?'

‘No. And I'm not sure it's to our advantage to tell him.'

‘As it stands now, he believes
he's
beholden to
you
.' Magda had immediately grasped her dilemma. ‘If you tell him what he did for your daughter, the shoe is on the other foot.'

‘Exactly.'

‘And yet you feel like a cheat for not telling him.'

Nadya looked up at the old woman, marvelling again at how easily she was able to read her thoughts. ‘He deserves my gratitude,
Mami
. If he hadn't been there…' A tightness in her throat prevented her from finishing the thought.

‘It wasn't only that he was there,
chavi
. According to the girl, he put his life at risk to save Angel.'

‘I know. And for a child he didn't know. A child who was nothing to him.'

‘An English child. One of his own kind,' Magda reminded her. ‘If your daughter had looked like you,
chavi
, I wonder if he would have gone into the water to rescue her.'

Nadya couldn't argue with what her grandmother was suggesting. She had lived her entire life with the kind of unthinking prejudice that held her people to be less worthy of every measure of respect accorded to the fairer-skinned population among whom they lived.

‘What do you think?' Magda asked.

‘About what?' Without meeting her grandmother's eyes, Nadya wiped the rim of the bowl she'd just filled with the edge of her apron.

‘Do you think he would have done that for another child? For Tara? Or Racine?'

‘How should I know what the
gaujo
would do? All I know is what he did.'

‘And that's enough for you?'

‘It's enough for today,' Nadya said as she straightened.

‘And for tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow he'll be gone, and I won't have to wonder about him ever again.'

The dark, far-seeing eyes of her grandmother held on hers. Then the thin lips, surrounded by their network of fine lines lifted, curving at the corners. ‘There are lies more believable than the truth,
chavi
. The one you just told isn't one of them.'

‘Your old sayings may work with the
gadje
,
Mami
, who are willing to believe anything you tell them. You've forgotten who you're talking to. Besides, Stephano has decreed I have to get rid of the Englishman before he returns.'

‘When have you ever worried about obeying Stephano's orders? Except when they track with your own desires.'