Gypsy Moon (4 page)

Suddenly, the crowd around her made itself known to Charlotte. They hadn’t missed Mateo’s special attention to her. Their applause and lewd jeers were now meant for her. She looked up and saw that even Poor Little Pesha and one of her Gypsy brothers had noticed Mateo’s special favors to her. The two children stood nearby, miming the scene they had witnessed. Pesha’s large eyes gave her an all-knowing look.

In utter shame, Charlotte rose to flee from the tent, but at the exit a strong hand caught her arm.

“No, golden one! You will not leave yet. You have cheered my cousin Mateo. You will show Petronovich the same courtesy. Please to stay and observe my performance. I promise to show you my most extravagant gratitude.”

Charlotte stared, unable to move, as this equally dark and handsome man brought her fingers to his lips, imitating Mateo’s gesture. Still holding her hand, but now in a less than gentle grip, he looked into her eyes with a fierceness that sent chills through her. Trying to pull away, she cast about frantically in search of Mateo. But he and his horses were gone from the tent.

“No, please!” she begged. “I must go!”

“No! You must stay!”

This man was so much like Mateo, yet so different. His Gypsy eyes held a threat not to be taken lightly. Mateo’s voice was deep and musical, while that of this stranger held menace in its depths. Charlotte struggled against him, but his grip proved as powerful as his gaze.

“Let me go!” she demanded. He would not.

Almost dragging her now, he placed her firmly back in her front-row seat and ordered, “You will stay right here!”

Petronovich moved away from her, and Charlotte rose to leave. But he had anticipated this and made a slight motion toward the tent flap. At his signal, two burly men took up posts in front of Charlotte’s only escape route. She saw the Gypsy’s smile of victory as she took her seat once more.

Leaping into the ring, the menacing stranger postured before his audience as the ringmaster announced, “We have now for you the masterful, the magnificent, the marvelous Rom Petronovich and his trained bruin, Boski, aided most deliciously by the ravishing Princess Phaedra.”

The men in the crowd stomped, cheered, and whistled at Phaedra’s name. A moment later, Charlotte watched the tall beauty lead a great black bear into the center of the tent, tugging him along by a chain attached to a large ring through his nose.

Petronovich and Phaedra bowed to each other, their Romany-black eyes flashing sensually in defiant lust. The moment became so naked in its passion that Charlotte looked away. She couldn’t explain why this pair gave her such a fearful feeling, but there was no denying her discomfort.

When Petronovich shouted an order and the bear gave a loud growl, Charlotte looked up again. The exotic Phaedra, dressed in a flowing costume of purple, green, and silver that matched her partner’s tights, whirled about the ring in a pagan dance, pulling the ungainly bear along behind her. He ambled on his hind legs, front paws flailing the air in an effort to keep his balance. When he faltered from time to time, Phaedra jerked the chain cruelly.

Suddenly Petronovich grasped Phaedra about her slender waist and raised her high in the air above his head. The bear stumbled about, making pitiful noises, trying to rescue his mistress.

Petronovich taunted the frantic animal, saying, “You want her, eh, Boski? You want your lovely Phaedra? Ah, but don’t be so anxious, my furry friend. You say you will die without her?” Petronovich flashed a meaningful look at the audience and said, “Many men have said the same, among them the great
graiengeri,
Rom Mateo! So, if she can have such a prince of Romany, why should she desire you? Eh, Boski?”

When he spoke Mateo’s name, Petronovich shifted his gaze to Charlotte Buckland. Again she would have fled, but a quick glance at the exit told her the guards were still on duty.

“Boski, my Boski, come save me!” Phaedra cried in a teasing voice, sending the poor bear into paroxysms.

Suddenly Petronovich whirled Phaedra around, then placed her on his discarded cape in the center of the ring. The bear master stepped back, allowing the frantic Boski to run to his mistress, Phaedra stretched out her shapely white arms to the creature, who proceeded to lick her all over with his long purple tongue. The woman moved her body as if she were in a lover’s embrace. She sighed and moaned her feigned pleasure.

The men in the crowd went wild, stamping and shouting as they watched the clumsy bear tease Phaedra’s tempting flesh.

Charlotte turned her head away. She couldn’t stand to watch. The exchange between two men sitting behind her proved even more embarrassing.

“You reckon she really gets her kicks from havin’ that varmint slobberin’ all over her, Gus?”

“Couldn’t say,” Gus answered. “But I’ll fill that there bear’s skin any-damn-time them Gypsies want to give me the job. I guaran-damn-tee you I’d do it for free! That there Princess Phaedra’s some piece of female!”

A wild yell from Petronovich silenced the audience and brought Charlotte’s attention back to the ring.

“Enough, Boski! Away from her! She is mine!”

A mock battle ensued between man and beast. They wrestled about the ring, vying for the attentions of the still reclining Phaedra, who shouted encouragement to each in turn.

With a sudden roar of rage—mock or real, Charlotte couldn’t decide which—Petronovich shoved the bear away from him and grabbed his whip. He lashed Boski brutally until the creature roared out in pain. The crowd cheered and yelled their approval.

Charlotte’s stomach turned. She had to get out of the tent—away from this vicious man, whose maniacal black eyes were now on her once more. She jumped up from her seat and dashed not for the guarded exit but directly across the ring—past bear and performers—and hurried through the far tent flap, used only by the members of the troupe.

She thought she heard Mateo call after her, but she dared not stop, for fear Petronovich might be in pursuit. She never slowed her pace but ran all the way back to the Planters Hotel. What had begun as an exciting afternoon had ended in humiliating disaster.

The sun was sinking low by the time Charlotte reached her room and locked herself in. She had no money left to buy supper. It didn’t matter—she couldn’t have eaten anyway. Her nerves were ragged, her emotions in a turmoil.

Tomorrow, she decided, when she had calmed herself enough to think, she would set her new life in order—find a job and a homey rooming house. She would stay away from the Gypsies.
All of them!
Mateo had been right: they could only bring trouble!

Having a bed to sleep in for the first time in many nights, Charlotte wasted little time thinking of Fairview, her grueling trip west, or her empty stomach. Neither did she dwell on Mateo’s mysterious attraction, nor Petronovich’s cruelty. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she fell into a deep sleep.

Hours later, the full moon crept through her window, silvering her face. But she didn’t feel its touch. Neither did she hear the rattling of the window opening, nor the soft thud of boots approaching her bed. Not until she felt searching hands upon her body did she try to scream.

But unknown lips, pressed tightly to her own, refused to allow any sound of protest. Only then did she come fully out of her dreams to awake in a nightmare.

Charlotte Buckland fought like a tigress, trying to escape. But strong arms held her fast. The prolonged and demanding kiss smothered her cries. Never before had any man touched her this way. Now, in one terrifying moment, a stranger was about to possess her totally.

Grasping both her wrists in one hand while still clinging to her lips with his own, the man tore open her linen nightgown. Charlotte experienced a moment of shock when cool air found her exposed breasts. Then a hand was there, teasing, taunting her nipples to erection. She strained away, trying to bury herself in the mattress, but there was no escaping him. His hard bare chest pressed down on her, taking her breath away.

He broke off the kiss at last, but the hand that had tortured her breasts quickly covered her mouth.

“Not to struggle, my beauty. I wish you no harm. I have come to love you.” His voice was a husky growl against her ear.

The heavy accent brought instant recognition.
Mateo!
But no. He would never force a woman. He would never have to! Then her mind grasped her attacker’s true identity. Her defiler was Petronovich, the cruel bear master!

Shock and terror possessed her, robbing her of survival instincts for a moment. She stopped fighting him and lay still, staring up at the rugged profile and the mass of black hair tumbling over his forehead.

“Ah, is better now.” He crooned the words suggestively, tracing the contour of one cheek with his fingertip. “You remember Petronovich. You want me… no?”

Believing that Charlotte understood and accepted what he meant to do, Petronovich relaxed his guard, releasing his hand from her mouth to find her lips with his again. But in that split second before he leaned down to kiss her, Charlotte filled the room with her screams. She fought like a wild thing, scratching his face and neck, sinking her teeth into his arm. Petronovich let fly a stream of
Romani
curses, adding to the fracas. Immediately the sound reached them of doors opening and feet running in the hallway.

Mindless of the pain he was causing her, Petronovich grabbed Charlotte roughly in his arms and pressed her face into his hard chest. Though she continued to scream for help, her voice was muffled. Her struggles proved useless.

“Now you have done it!” her abductor snarled through clenched teeth. “Big trouble for both of us! But I will have you—one way or another!”

The next moment, Charlotte felt herself falling through the air, still in Petronovich’s arms. He landed on his feet on the ground below, jolting her to the very core, then took off running. Her whole body ached from his rough treatment. Her mind fought to deny this terrible reality. Surely, someone would stop this madman and rescue her!

But when she recognized the voice of the surly desk clerk coming from her open window, her heart sank.

“Well, I could have told you this would happen,” she heard him say. “She come sashayin’ in here this afternoon with one of them Gypsy fellers! And that’s the same one making off with her now. She’ll be in his wolf skins in no time!”

Another voice argued, “But Jess, the girl’s screamin’ her head off. Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Hell, no, Chester! It’s all part of the ceremony.”

The sounds from the hotel faded. A moment later, Petronovich hoisted Charlotte up over the high wheel of his painted caravan and shoved her through the door behind the porchlike front of the wagon.

“You let me out of here!” she screamed, pounding with all her might on the locked door.

“All in good time, my fiery beauty!”

She sank down in one corner, too furious to continue her hopeless battle. The darkness was oppressive inside the wagon. As her eyes adjusted to it she suddenly realized that she was not alone. A huge shape blocked the moonlight that tried to filter in through the thick curtain over one window.

Already the wagon was rumbling through the night. She could hear Petronovich’s whip cracking and his growling voice encouraging the horses to more speed. Where was he taking her? She dared not think about it.

The one thing that she had to concentrate on was escape. She forced her mind into a calm mode while never taking her eyes off the dark shape a few feet away from her. She had to be rational if she hoped to save herself from this mad Gypsy. She noticed a slight movement from her fellow passenger. Was it a man sleeping there? No, it was too huge. What, then?

With her sudden realization, Charlotte’s breath froze in her chest. She should have guessed from the smell—the gamy, earthy odor that permeated the wagon’s interior. But it couldn’t be! Not even Petronovich would do such a thing!

She shrank back in the corner. Perhaps if she stayed perfectly still and didn’t make a sound…

But Charlotte couldn’t help herself. When the thing moved and coarse fur brushed against her bare legs, she screamed as she never had before. Boski, as terrified as Charlotte herself, moved away from her. From the far side of the wagon, she could hear the bear sniffing the air, trying to identify her scent.

Oh, God! she thought. Why didn’t I stay in Kentucky?

Just then, the caravan lurched to a jolting halt. Charlotte was thrown across the floor, landing in a heap against Boski’s heavy haunch. The bear put a paw across her, caressing and licking her gently as if she were his Phaedra. Charlotte held her breath, not daring to move a muscle.

Mateo lay in his tent, alternately burning with an inexplicable fever and shivering with chills. His body ached as if it were possessed by devils, their pitchforks stabbing him from inside. He tossed on his pallet, thrashing his arms, biting hard on a piece of twisted rawhide to keep from screaming in his agony. His eyes refused to focus, but it didn’t matter. He had secured the tent flap against the painful glow of the full moon. If one single ray fell upon him, he would be lost to the madness completely.

For a moment he lay quiet, breathing deeply, trying to clear his fogged senses. Why was he cursed? How could he spend the rest of his life this way? He was a strong man… a man of reason. But neither his strength nor his reasonable mind could win out over this hideous, nameless foe that attacked his body and soul with each full moon.

“An ancient curse,” his mother, Zolande, had explained gently when he was still a small boy. “In time, you may find a way to banish it. But for now there is only endurance. I am sorry, my son.”

Mateo remembered that he had seen silver tears in his mother’s eyes as she’d spoken to him. It was the only time in his life that he had ever seen the noble queen of the Gypsies cry.

The full moon hushed the camp. Every man, woman, and child knew of Mateo’s struggle with the spirits. They crept into their tents early, hiding their heads beneath the covers, praying for dawn and an end to their prince’s suffering.

So the woman’s screams rending the still night came as a shock. Mateo, eased somewhat by the waning of the moon, sat up and listened. Had he imagined the sounds? No! They came again—louder and more frantic.

Struggling to his feet, Mateo threw back the flap and looked out. On the far side of the camp, he saw Petronovich’s caravan pulled up outside of the circle. His cousin, cursing loudly, was struggling with a woman.

Suddenly she spied him and cried out, “Mateo, help me!”

He knew that voice. It was the golden-haired
gajo
woman he had taken to the hotel—the same fair-haired beauty who had watched his act and praised him.

He summoned all his strength and made a rush for Petronovich, tackling him about the knees. More startled than hurt, Petronovich let go of Charlotte Buckland. She staggered backward, falling to the ground beside the wagon. The two men wrestled in the tall grass near where she lay. Finally, Mateo got the better of his cousin. He sat astride the downed Petronovich, daring him to make another move.

“This is none of your affair, Mateo,” Petronovich snarled. “She is mine! I took her!”

“Took
her?” Mateo repeated, glancing quickly toward the sobbing girl.

What he saw made him want to take her in his arms and soothe away her tears and her grief. Her shining hair, loosened from its pins, tumbled in wild abandon about her face. Her great eyes, the color of aged brandy, stared up at him, pleading for his protection. She wore only a thin nightgown, torn open at the neck. Her heavy breathing caused her breasts to rise and fall, offering a glimpse of pale rosettes from time to time.

God help me, Mateo thought, she arouses far more than my sympathy!

But no! She was not one of his kind. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts about her. She would have to be returned to her own people. Then he looked down at Petronovich and saw the malicious smile twisting his cousin’s lips. Perhaps it was already too late to take her back.

“What is this?” demanded a low, female voice.

Charlotte looked up at the old woman. Her face was brown and lined, but aristocratic. Though she wore nightclothes, huge hoops of gold dangled from her ears, and her neck and arms were elaborately adorned. Obviously she was a leader of the clan. She ignored Charlotte for the moment and glared down at her son and nephew.

“Does the
phuri dai,
the ruler of you and all your kin, not deserve some explanation? Mateo? Petronovich?”

“I am sorry. Mother, that we disturbed you.” Mateo stood up, allowing his cousin to rise, also. “It seems the moon madness did double duty tonight. Petronovich left camp and stole a woman—a
gajo.”

The old queen’s gnarled hands flew to her lips. “In the holy name of Sara-la-Kali!” she swore. “I should have known it would come to this someday. How many times in your youth, Petronovich, did I have to cross some farmer’s palm with gold after you stole his chicken? But a woman! How do I repay that debt?”

Queen Zolande stood directly in front of Petronovich, her glittering black eyes seeming to pierce him through. Her voice quivered with rage.

“It may be worse than you know, Mother,” Mateo said quietly. “Look at her.”

Zolande swung around. Her lips drew back in a tight line as she took in Charlotte’s disheveled appearance and torn gown.

Feeling self-conscious under the woman’s blazing stare, Charlotte tried to smooth the wild tangle of her hair from her face.

“So, it was not enough to steal her; you have used her as well?” the queen said to Petronovich while still gazing at his victim.

When Petronovich made no answer, Zolande demanded of Charlotte, “Well, has he bedded you?”

Still stunned and not fully understanding what the woman meant, but wanting her attacker punished, Charlotte cried, “Yes! He sneaked in through my window while I slept and climbed right into my bed! When I tried to fight him off, he tore my gown. My arms and mouth are all bruised, he held me so tight and used me so savagely!”

“She lies!” Petronovich snarled. “That may have been my plan, but I haven’t touched her. Mateo saw to that!”

“You did!” Charlotte yelled at Petronovich. “You forced me to…”

Zolande watched dispassionately as Charlotte lapsed into angry tears.

“So, we see as well as hear what you have done to this woman, Petronovich. I now have choices to consider. I could return her to the town and have you jailed.”

“Please, no!” Petronovich cried. “You know that I would die in jail as quickly as any other Gypsy. I must have my freedom, Queen Zolande!”

“Allow me to finish,” she said, a cold edge to her voice. “I cannot have you jailed, for fear it would bring trouble to all of us. As I have heard the
gajos
say, ‘One rotten apple spoils the barrel.’ I am afraid they believe that, and you may be the rottenest fruit to taint our family tree since Xendar the Accursed.” She glanced at Charlotte and added in a low tone, as if speaking to herself, “And, too, she may be with child even now.”

Petronovich had lost his cool, superior air. “No, Queen Zolande! I did not lie with her! I swear it on my own mother’s grave!”

The
phuri dai’s
bejeweled hand lashed out like lightning to slap Petronovich’s mouth.

“How dare you speak in desecration of sacred ground? Do not whine to me about your punishment. The least you can do is act the man!”

“Mother,” Mateo broke in, “she needs warmth and rest. She’s shivering. Can’t we continue this later?”

“Here, Mateo,” a soft voice answered. “Put this blanket around her.” It was the fortune-teller, Tamara.

Mateo took the blanket and went to Charlotte. Gently, he wrapped her in its warmth, then took her cold hands between his. His touch was reassuring. She knew he’d never let them harm her.

“Phuri, dai,
I know this woman,” Tamara said in her quiet voice. “I read her fortune only yesterday.”

Queen Zolande’s features softened when she looked at Tamara. The girl was like a timid bird, she mused. Strong enough to see and tell the sadness in the futures of others, but not willful enough to hold her own man. If only Mateo could have been cast with Tamara, how different their lives would be. But Fate would have her way, Zolande thought with a shrug.

“Did you see Petronovich, your own betrothed, in this woman’s stars, Tamara?” asked Zolande. “Were you warned that he might do such a shameful thing, my dear?”

Tamara looked down, wanting to avoid Petronovich’s defiant eyes. “I saw one of the
Rom
, Queen Zolande. I felt ill winds. I warned her to leave this place before it was too late.”

Queen Zolande clutched her shawl about her as if she felt a sudden chill. “Then it is so! We cannot turn her away. She must stay with us until we know for certain if she carries Romany seed. And
you!”
She whirled about, pointing an accusing finger at Petronovich. “You will remain in camp at all times unless we are performing. Am I understood?”

Petronovich only nodded, but his eyes flashed dark anger. Why should they believe the
gajo
woman instead of him? Couldn’t they see she was out to make trouble? Very well! he thought. They had accused him of the crime. He would see that it was committed!

Charlotte had all but forgotten the others. Mateo’s handsome face looking down into hers was all that mattered. Why not stay with the Gypsies, if they would have her? That way she could get to know Mateo—understand the troubled look in his wonderful eyes. Those very eyes now hypnotized her, making her forget that Mateo might not have room in his life or his heart for her.