Gypsy Moon (5 page)

“Mateo, will you keep me with you? Protect me?” she begged.

He shook his head. “I cannot. I am sorry, but the queen would forbid it.”

“But you must!” she insisted.

“Shhh! don’t upset yourself, little one. You won’t be badly treated. And Petronovich will not be allowed near you… not until…”

Charlotte stared at him. “Until
what
? I don’t want Petronovich near me ever again!”

He gave her a strange half smile. “How like a Gypsy woman you are, to protest so. He will be forced to stay away from you until he earns your brideprice and can marry you.”

“Marry me?
You’re crazy! You’re all crazy! I’m not going to marry him. I’d sooner marry his trained bear!” Charlotte’s voice broke suddenly and she clutched at Mateo as if for protection.

Something deep inside him seemed to tear loose from its moorings. His heart thudded loudly, pulsing against Charlotte’s soft, warm breasts. He slipped one arm around her waist and smoothed her hair. He could feel little gasps of breath on his neck, like the softest of kisses. She was weeping.

“Hush now,” he urged. “The others will hear you. Gypsy women don’t cry.”

“But I’m not a Gypsy. And I’ll cry if I feel like it!”

“You are strong for one who looks so frail and vulnerable. I saw that in you right away.” His lips brushed her hair and she could feel his words whispered against her forehead. His breath was like a hot brand.

Charlotte clung to him, feeling some of her panic subside. If only he would marry her! The thought shocked and thrilled her at the same time. What had come over her? She had traveled hundreds of miles to escape a forced marriage planned by her own mother. Now these strangers seemed to take it for granted that she would marry the crazy man who had kidnapped her. And she was no better than they were—wishing she could marry Mateo, a wild Gypsy horse trainer she knew nothing about, except that he might have fathered a sizable army of dark-eyed children already. Still, it felt too wonderful to be in his arms and feel his heart beating against her own to worry about that right now.

Suddenly she was wrenched out of Mateo’s embrace. Sharp nails flew at her face and neck, scratching painfully. A scream that could have come from a wild animal filled the dawn. Charlotte looked up into Phaedra’s hateful black eyes.

“So, you pale-haired witch, you are not satisfied with taking little Tamara’s man! You want my Mateo, too! Well, you will not have him! He is mine—
all mine
!”

Charlotte cringed away from the spitting, clawing woman. Had Mateo not grasped Phaedra’s arms, she might have ripped Charlotte’s throat out with her long nails.

A bitter smile curved Mateo’s lips. Still holding tight to Phaedra, he said in a loveless tone, “Why, my dearest, how you surprise me! I thought your eyes and body were for Petronovich alone. But here you are acting and sounding like a jealous lover. How sweet!”

Phaedra’s eyes narrowed. Her head swayed on her graceful neck as if she meant to strike like a snake. She turned to look at Mateo and hissed, “My body is my own. What I do with it is only my concern. But you belong to me. It was written at my birth. I do not share my possessions!”

Mateo released her abruptly. Phaedra turned for a moment to glare at Charlotte. Then, throwing her arms around Mateo’s neck, she sought his lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Charlotte wanted to turn away, but fascination won out over propriety. She stared fixedly as Phaedra’s long-nailed fingers dug into the flesh of Mateo’s bare back.

Mateo’s arms remained stiffly at his sides, his fists clenched. He refused to respond, even when Phaedra pressed her breasts tightly to his chest and rotated her hips against him suggestively. Charlotte felt her pulse pounding and blood rushing up to color her cheeks. At the same time, unfamiliar stirrings warmed her deepest parts.

As suddenly as Phaedra had captured her prey, she released him. Mateo’s eyes blazed his anger. The Gypsy woman laughed and turned to Charlotte.

“There, my fine
gajo
lady! Now you know what a real
Rom
expects of his woman. Of course, no one would expect it of you. Poor, pale little creature!” She turned back to Mateo, taunting, “Why, darling, this one would faint dead away at the mere thought of such passion! But then perhaps you aren’t up to it either, my wretched, moon-mad dear!”

Charlotte Buckland had inherited a hot temper. Her mother swore it came from her father’s side of the family. She worked hard at controlling it and tried to remain ladylike at all times. But Phaedra had pushed her past her limits. Something—no
everything
—about Phaedra boiled her blood.

Without even thinking about what she was going to do, Charlotte threw off the blanket covering her torn gown. She walked past Phaedra to where Mateo waited, sensing her intention. When they were facing each other, Charlotte looked up into Mateo’s warm eyes. For several seconds, their gazes locked.

“What is it, golden-haired one?” he questioned. He lifted his fingers to her face, brushing a damp strand of hair from her lips.

In answer, Charlotte let her hands touch his waist tentatively. As if the test had proven safe, her fingers moved up to his bare chest, stopping for a moment to entwine themselves through the black hair that glinted golden red in the dawn. Slowly, inch by inch, her hands crept up until her fingers laced behind his neck. Then, with only slight pressure, she drew his mouth down on hers.

His lips were soft, full, and enveloped hers with a caressing tenderness. She felt his tongue testing, teasing, until she responded, parting a way for his intimate exploration. Her head felt light. Warmth from their mingled lips suffused her body. She could feel her own heart pounding in her breast like some Gypsy rhapsody.

Still their bodies had not met, though they stood so close that Charlotte could feel a delicious heat radiating from Mateo’s nearness. Then, as the kiss possessed them both, she felt his strong hands grasp her hips, pulling her to him. It seemed to Charlotte that their very souls touched and clung to each other at that moment. Their hearts throbbed together to a frantic Gypsy rhythm. She became aware of another throb against her thigh—pulsing heat that made her ache for something she didn’t understand.

Mateo drew away slowly. They stood staring at each other. Charlotte thought she would always remember that moment—the rising sun, a halo behind his raven mane, tingeing it with Gypsy gold. The misty light obscured his face—all except those wonderful eyes. She could see her own reflection in those deep black pools, as if he had locked her within himself and sealed her enchanted prison forever with his kiss.

“Bravo! Bravo!” Phaedra cried. “The little
gajo
did not swoon!” Then her voice dropped to a low, suggestive whisper as she spoke directly to Charlotte. “You may kiss him here to taunt me, but I dare you to go to Mateo’s bed! What would you do—all pale and tender—when he crushed those pristine breasts against his hard chest, making them throb and ache? Would you cry out when he stroked your quivering thighs with his powerful
graiengen
’s hands, forcing from you the same obedience he demands of his horses? And what if you did have the courage to open your delicate petals to the great Rom Mateo? Would he ride you gently or with wild abandon as he gallops his stallions in the ring?”

Seeing Charlotte start to pale, Mateo warned, “Enough, Phaedra!”

“Enough? For your little white Anglo, perhaps, Mateo, but not enough for Princess Phaedra! I am all woman. And I demand
all
from my man!”

As the Gypsy woman flipped her bright skirts and stalked away, Charlotte stood trembling at the pictures Phaedra had evoked in her mind.

What had she done? What must Mateo think of her now? And what would he expect from her next? Was she no better than Phaedra—throwing herself at him? She could feel his gaze still on her, but she dared not look at him.

“What is your true name,
sunaki bal?”
he asked gently.

She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Charlotte Buckland,” she answered in a whisper.

“Very well, Charlotte. I will see you to the brides’ tent now. You will remain there for the time being.”

She turned to him, suddenly overwhelmed with joy. This must be the way Gypsy men asked women to become their wives. She hadn’t displeased him after all. He wanted her for his own! She was more than willing. She had heard of love at first sight, but never had she believed it could happen to her. Now she knew it was possible. Anything was possible as long as she had Mateo!

Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him again, deeply. But this time his lips were motionless upon her own. She stepped away and looked at him, bewildered. She couldn’t read his closed expression. His eyes seemed clouded by a mysterious veil.

As if the second kiss had never interrupted what he had been saying, Mateo continued, “You will live in the brides’ tent and Tamara will see to your needs until Petronovich is able to raise the brideprice and claim you for his wife.”

His words came like a physical blow. Charlotte could only stare at him in stunned silence.

Staggered by Mateo’s pronouncement, Charlotte meekly allowed herself to be led toward the bright blue brides’ tent. She felt numb and strange, as if her spirit were disconnected from her body and she were viewing the whole scene from the top branches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew along the stream near camp.

She was keenly aware of the sound of the breeze stirring the trees, of the aroma of wood smoke and rabbit stew cooking, of the feel of rough buffalo grass stabbing her bare feet. But Mateo, although his guiding hand rested on the small of her back, seemed only an indistinct shape, hazy and undefined in her mind’s eye. Her whole existence had taken on a dreamlike quality in the past hours—tipping back and forth from fantasy to nightmare at a moment’s notice.

What quirk of fate had put her on a collision course with these Gypsies? Had this queer turn in her life been written in the stars since the beginning of time? Or had the whole direction of her future detoured the instant she’d stepped down from the train in Leavenworth, Kansas? Just thinking of so many unanswerable questions made her head ache.

“Wait here, please,” Mateo said, snapping Charlotte out of her trancelike state.

She watched him walk ahead several paces. To her eyes, Mateo resembled some pagan woods god with his broad shoulders gleaming rich bronze in the early-morning light and his hair like a dark crown forged in Hades but brushed with the pure gold of Heaven. His buckskin britches fit like a second skin over narrow hips and well-developed thigh muscles before disappearing into soft leather boots.

The sheer animal power of his physique sent a tremor through Charlotte. She tried to look away, to deny her own thoughts and desires. But try as she might to put Phaedra’s words from her mind, the suggested vision of her own naked flesh, pale beneath the Gypsy-copper of Mateo’s strong, demanding body, persisted.

He turned suddenly, as if sensing the drift of her thoughts. In that instant, their gazes met and held. Although Mateo’s face was unlined, Charlotte could see the troubled frown deep in his black eyes, like storm clouds on the far horizon. Then the expression changed, growing softer, almost pleading with her to understand.

But how could she understand a man whose eyes held love while his lips refused to speak the words? What kind of man would turn the woman he desired over to await the coming of her marriage to another?

“Mateo,” Charlotte whispered. She moved toward him, one hand outstretched in supplication.

He looked away, breaking the fragile spell between them, and turned to the fancifully painted wooden door set into the side of the brides’ tent. Reaching for the string of small, hammered-silver bells that hung there, he gave them a vicious jerk. Even while the merry chimes echoed through the early-morning stillness, Tamara opened the door and motioned for Charlotte to enter.

A brief, uncertain moment passed as Charlotte reached the entrance and Mateo. His fingers brushed her hand with a feather-light touch as if his impulse were to grab hold and keep her with him. Surrounded by a misty haze of morning sunshine, they stood staring at each other with an intimate intensity that shut out the rest of the world.

Charlotte’s very soul ached when Mateo offered her a melancholy smile. Slowly he bent toward her, his lips parted, beckoning hers. She closed her eyes and her whole body tensed, awaiting the sweet pressure, longing for the taste and feel of him once more.

But only his breath teased her waiting lips as he said, “Good-bye, Charlotte. I must leave you now.”

Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She felt as if he were casting her into the yawning black depths of a whirlpool instead of showing her to a comfortable place to rest.

“You will be safe here, little one, until the time comes for—’”

Charlotte drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster and cut off the words she didn’t want to hear.

“I won’t marry him, Mateo!”

“As Fate wills,” he answered softly.

She watched as he turned and strode away, her heart feeling unaccountably empty.

“Mateo is right, you know,” Tamara said, ushering Charlotte into her new quarters.

“Right about what?” Charlotte lashed out. “If you mean marrying Petronovich, you’re as dead wrong as he is!”

The shy Gypsy girl busied herself with the teapot and didn’t meet Charlotte’s fiery gaze. “No. I meant that Mateo is right about Fate. Our lives and fortunes are all dictated by what was written ages ago. We cannot change it. There is no reason to try.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Tamara. Think about it. I heard what Queen Zolande said about you and Petronovich. You were destined to be his bride. If that’s so, I have no place with him. And I certainly have no desire to be his wife!”

Tamara’s gentle sable eyes grew moist. She smiled at Charlotte and shook her head. “Fate can be fickle, my friend. At my birth, it was written that I should be Mateo’s bride. But I was a sickly child, and certain signs forecast my early doom. Since Mateo will be king someday, it would not be right for his queen to have clouds in her future. Therefore, I was given to Petronovich. But the very fact that my fate was altered that way may mean that nothing will ever be certain in my life. It is of no consequence.” She shrugged eloquently. “Petronovich is in no hurry to marry me. He earned my brideprice once, but gambled it away. Perhaps he did so on purpose because he doesn’t want me. Perhaps I was never meant to wed anyone.”

“And you accept all this without question?” The very thought made Charlotte furious.

“It is not for me to accept or reject. We exist in the eternal now, living each day as it comes—without expectations, without regrets. I am simply thankful to see the sun rise again each morning. You will learn our ways and be happy, too, eventually.”

“Never!”

Seeing that Charlotte Buckland was not a willing student of her fatalistic tutoring, Tamara changed the subject. “Come sit down and have some tea. You’ve had an exhausting night. We will break our fast, then you must sleep.”

Delicious aromas from the cooking fires drifted into the tent, making Charlotte’s stomach rumble insistently. She remembered suddenly that she hadn’t eaten since arriving in Leavenworth the day before. She sat down at the small table in the center of the tent and accepted the red-and-gold china cup that Tamara offered. Unlike the dark Bohea tea her mother brewed back home, this was topaz in color and spiced with wild herbs and mint. It went down smoothly, leaving Charlotte with a warm, drowsy feeling.

“Another cup?” Tamara offered.

“Please. It’s delicious.”

Tamara smiled her appreciation of the compliment. “I make it myself from herbs and grasses I pick and dry. I’ll show them to you when you’ve rested enough to go out for a walk in the
vesh.
Now I’ll go bring our food.”

“Wait, Tamara!” Charlotte put a restraining hand on the girl’s arm. “Stay and talk to me for a bit.”

The lovely Gypsy woman nodded and took her seat again.

“Tell me about the Gypsies—where you came from, how you got here.”

Tamara’s beautiful face took on a wistful, faraway look. “To tell you of Gypsies is to talk to you of the wind, for so we come and move on unknown and unknowing. Some say we suffer this fate because we are descended from Cain—that we wander the earth ever trying to escape the guilt of his mortal sin. Perhaps this is so, or perhaps since we have been mistrusted and sent away so often, we have adopted the nomadic life out of self-defense, moving on before others cast us out. Whatever the reason, we flow like the water and move like the trembling branches of a tree in a storm.

“Those of us in this camp are of the Lowara tribe—the horse traders—and the
kumpania
of Valencia. Once our people roamed the Transylvania plains at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. We know Russia, the Balkans, the Sacro Monte caves of Spain. Most recently we came from Wales. Only one year have we been in America.” Tamara’s face clouded suddenly and she shook her head. “I do not wish to speak of the sea voyage. Gypsies are not good sailors, I’m afraid. But we traveled from Liverpool to the great city of New York, then on to meet the other circus people in Philadelphia before heading for this wild country.”

“All of you came together, Tamara?”

She nodded. “Thirty-six of us, counting little Svetslav, who was born on the boat. A few others joined us from a circus troupe in Philadelphia.”

“But Mateo has been with you all along?”

Tamara smiled. “Ah, so now we get to your real interest, Charlotte Buckland! Yes, Mateo came from Wales, where he bred and trained horses for the racecourses of England.”

“He’s a fine man,” Charlotte said, hoping to prod Tamara into further discussion of Mateo.

“As well he should be! The only son of the queen has grave responsibilities to the
familia.”

The family, Charlotte thought. Always the family! She felt a sudden overwhelming resentment at being an outsider—a
gajo.

“Do Mateo’s responsibilities to the
familia
extend to populating the entire western territory with hordes of little Gypsies?” Even to her own ears, the question sounded harsher than she had intended.

Tamara stared at her, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

Charlotte got up and paced for a moment, embarrassed at having to discuss the subject with such an innocent. “I met a mob of children at the circus—at least a dozen. They all claimed their father was Mateo. They said he would beat them if I didn’t give them money.”

To Charlotte’s total consternation, Tamara laughed out loud.

“I didn’t think it was funny, Tamara! How many children does Mateo have? How many wives? Or is the son of the queen free to take his pleasure wherever he finds it?”

Tamara caught Charlotte’s hand and coaxed her back into her chair before she said, “I’m sorry, my friend. I shouldn’t have laughed. I can see that the experience upset you terribly. You met many children, you say. Poor Little Pesha?”

Charlotte nodded.

“That child! At times I think she should be beaten! But of course, we don’t believe in such cruel punishment, not even for naughty little liars.”

“Then you mean Pesha isn’t Mateo’s daughter?”

“Certainly not! Nor are any of her accomplices who besieged you. They are a crafty pack of high-spirited con artists. They know that Mateo is the star of the circus. So they call him their father, thinking that the
gajo
customers will give them more, out of respect for his high position and great talent in the ring. Mateo has never married, although he is well past the age when most of the
Rom
take brides. He must marry soon. He is a child of Queen Zolande’s autumn years. She is very old and infirm. The
familia
cannot be left without a leader, and Mateo is the chosen one.”

“He’ll marry Phaedra?”

Tamara shrugged. “As Fate wills. She is his, if he wants her. But there are unusual factors to be considered in Mateo’s choice of a bride, for she will also be queen. I think he has delayed his final decision, hoping against hope that some ancient prophecy will be fulfilled.”

Charlotte slumped back in her chair, weak with relief, and smiled. “Thank you, Tamara. I was so worried about those children, even though I only half believed what they said.” She didn’t mention that most of her relief came from knowing that Mateo had not yet chosen the woman with whom he wished to share his life.

“A word of caution, my friend. Only half believe
anything
that a Gypsy tells you. We have kept ourselves safe from the world by never letting the
gajos
know the full truth on any subject.”

Charlotte eyed the other woman speculatively. If this was so, how much of Tamara’s story could she believe? And how could she live in an atmosphere of falsehood and fairy tales?

Once again, Tamara seemed to be reading Charlotte’s thoughts. Quietly she said, “One thing I will tell you about Mateo which you can believe, totally. Always his people will come first—before personal desires, ambitions… even before love.”

Charlotte felt a blush stain her cheeks. Was this a warning from the perceptive Gypsy fortune-teller?

“How can love even be considered in a family that still
arranges
marriages?” Charlotte answered, an edge of bitterness in her voice.

Tamara patted her hand in understanding. “Our ways are our own. The very fact that you question them shows that you could never give your heart to Mateo without reservations, Charlotte. Besides, he is different from the others—” Tamara quickly cut off her words as if she’d said more than she should have to an outsider.

“Different? How? I don’t understand, Tamara.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. It is for Mateo himself to explain, if he should choose to. Now I’ll go for our food.”

Left alone, Charlotte had time to examine her surroundings while she mulled over Tamara’s words. The tent was partitioned by colorful curtains into several small rooms. The earthen floor was hard-packed and covered by lush Brussels carpets. The table and four chairs were beautifully carved, with touches of gilt on the trim. An oil lamp with rose-tinted glass and heavy, leaded-crystal prisms hung from the ridgepole. A glassed-in china cupboard held the dishes, and two other chests, painted blue, completed the furnishings in the main room.

Charlotte pulled aside the deep-amethyst-colored curtain. There on the floor, like a cozy nest, lay a pallet of soft rabbit skins. A heavy robe of black fur served as blanket and counterpane. Charlotte couldn’t resist the urge to lie down for just a moment. In spite of her gnawing hunger pangs, weariness took priority. Within seconds after she’d settled herself in the warm, caressing pelts, she was asleep.

Charlotte awoke disoriented. The room was dark and close with the dry heat of autumn. Music drifted to her from somewhere beyond the walls. She listened, trying to place the unfamiliar sounds. She could make out the sad sighs of a violin, accompanied by the low throb of a drum and the trills of a flute. From time to time, she heard wild yelps interspersed through the song.

Indians! she thought, clutching the pelts beneath her. But the feel of the fur in her fingers soon brought her back to reality. Not Indians, but
Gypsies
! Could one be less of a threat to her than the other? A kind of hopelessness settled over her, but she forced herself to shake it off. There must be a way out of this. She would bide her time and pick the moment for her escape.