An Accidental Seduction (7 page)

Still, she glanced nervously toward Mrs. Edwards, who had awaken with a start and a snort. There seemed to be something about the Irishman’s chuckle that brought every woman alive to her senses.

As for Gallagher himself, he was watching her, eyes laughing, making no attempt to move closer, no pretense of moving farther away. “You are not what I expected. That I admit,” he said.

“Oh?” She raised a brow and watched the proprietress
distractedly hang a bouquet of borage beside a cluster of dried rosemary. “And what did you expect, Mr. Wickerheimer? Some besotted chit so brainless she would drop into your bed like a wilted daisy petal?”

His lips cranked up another notch. “’Tis not too late,” he said.

“Believe me, it will take more than a few sultry glances to get me to your bed.”

“Would kisses help?” he asked. “For I’m willing to part with a few.”

“Try it and you’ll—” she began, but just then the proprietress wended her way between a burlap bag of fine ground flour and a wooden stand bearing a burnished sidesaddle.

“Is there something that has caught your interest, my lady?” she asked, and Gallagher raised his brows, as if mimicking her question with a glance.

Savaana raised her chin. “This bonnet,” she said. “Would you mind if I tried it on for a moment?”

“Not a’tall, my lady,” the woman said, and taking it from the newel post where it rested, handed it over.

Savaana perched it immediately atop her head. The shopkeeper nodded soberly.

“Very flattering,” she said. “It brings out the color of your eyes.”

Shifting her gaze to the Irishman’s, Savaana refrained from saying where she’d like to keep her color.

“I shall purchase it, then,” she said.

“Very good, my lady. Is there anything else I can do for you while you are in our fair village?”

She glanced about, remembering her persona. “What with the incessant rain of late, I have been rather bored. What have you to alleviate that?”

“Well…we are not London.”

Savaana didn’t bother to comment. Instead, she raised an understated brow.

“But we do have our share of attractions.”

She raised her other brow.

“A troupe of entertainers just arrived in town.”

“Entertainers?” Savaana felt her heart rate pick up.

“Gypsies, I believe. But I hear they’re quite good,” said the proprietress. “One of them is nobility, I believe.”

Savaana kept her expression placid, her tone skeptical. “Nobility in a traveling troupe?”

“Well, you know how Gypsies are. They all believe themselves to be descended from kings. But one of them is said to be a duke.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the Duke of Natsia or some such.”

I
t was nearing dusk when Gallagher eased the quiet chestnut to a halt in a little glen at the north edge of Darlington. A crowd had gathered on a grassy hillock. In the softly muted background, maple trees marched along the curving course of the river. Gold and scarlet leaves fluttered gently against the darkening sky, sweeping in an undulating arc around the north side of the hill, almost reaching the growing cluster of onlookers.

Mrs. Edwards, seated snuggly between Savaana and the Irishman, straightened her ancient back, peering out over the sea of heads. “It appears to be a carnival of sorts,” she said.

“Yes.” Savaana tried to hold onto Lady Tilmont’s haughty demeanor, but it was slipping away, being swallowed by the Gypsy girl that ran wild in her mind.

It was all she could do to retain the carefully cultured voice, to keep from leaping from the vehicle in search of her grandfather. For during the previous night, alone in the dark of her bedchamber, she had come to the only
logical solution: Tamas had been her attacker. There was no other explanation. She had thought for a time that perhaps the villain had been someone from Lady Tilmont’s past, but after reviewing the conversation a hundred times in her buzzing head, she was certain Tamas had come to retrieve her.

Savaana had no idea how he had found her. She had informed no one but her grandfather of her plans, and though he had been reluctant to let her go, he understood her need. Indeed, he had supplied her with a small pistol to keep her safe.

As for the remainder of the troupe, she had simply told them she would be gone for a fortnight. She had long known, however, that Tamas foolishly thought of her as his own, his mistress saved for a later date. She had not, however, thought he would threaten her grand father to get her back. Then again, maybe his words hadn’t been a threat at all. Maybe they were a warning. Perhaps Grandfather’s health was deteriorating and Tamas had but come to inform her. She had to find out. But she was not willing to quit the charade, not until it was absolutely unavoidable. There was too much at stake.

But Grandfather was nowhere to be seen. That much was apparent at a glance. Only the caravan was visible. It stood off to their right, nestled in a copse of rowan. Swirls of rich burgundy and muted greens embellished its lavish design. Narrow steps led up to the small, arched
door, but the shafts stood empty. El Rey was nowhere in sight. Without her act, he would not be needed, but she longed to see him, to leap aboard his back, to breathe in his homey scent, the very essence of her people.

“I say, there must be a carnival in town,” Mrs. Edwards repeated loudly.

“Yes.” Savaana could feel Gallagher staring at her. Grappling wildly with her image, she got a stranglehold on Lady Tilmont’s snooty nature just as Tamas strode onto the hillock. He carried a trio of knives in one hand, a torch in another, and in that instant he tilted his head back and belched forth a flaming inferno into the darkening sky.

There were gasps of alarm and amazement as he straightened, chuckles as he grinned and greeted the hushing audience.

Savaana’s shudder was not entirely fake. “A shabby Gypsy troupe, by the look of things,” she said.

Mrs. Edwards glared out over the crowd, antiquated hoop lopsided beneath her heavy gown, not hearing a word. “Perhaps ’tis a Gypsy troupe.”

“Perhaps,” Savaana said, and allowed herself to search the grounds, but she recognized no one else. Might Grandfather truly be failing?

A thrush warbled its evening song. The torches had already been lit and placed on wooden poles above the ground. A few entrepreneurial towns people had set up
booths. One sold mincemeat pies. Another hawked baked apples.

“What did they call themselves?” Gallagher asked. He was still eyeing her, but she refused to squirm.

“Duke something. Though I hardly think him noble,” Savaana drawled, looking at Tamas. “I but thought Mrs. Edwards could use a respite from the jostling of this lumber wagon before returning to Knollcrest.”

“Dook?” Gallagher said, scowling a little. Tamas had thrown the torch aside and begun to juggle wooden handled knives that flashed in the torchlight. “Doesn’t that mean magical in the Rom tongue?”

Savaana stared at him, surprised, but she calmed her heart and raised a quizzical brow. “Tell me, Mr. Wickingshire, are you, by chance, one of their lost brethren?”

He smiled at her snide tone. “Doubtful,” he said. “But I do know the odd word. I think this troupe is called the Magic Gypsies.” He was watching her a little too closely. “Might you be familiar with them?”

She gave a ladylike snort. “Do I look the kind to consort with—”

“Perhaps this is the troupe called Dook Natsia,” shouted Mrs. Edwards. “I’ve heard they’re quite good.”

Gallagher turned from Savaana with a grin, but there was something in his eyes. Something bright and curious. “You’ve a sharp memory, Mrs. Edwards. Have you an unobstructed view from your seat there?”

The elder lady patted his arm affectionately. “I had a dog once, too, lad. Licked himself incessantly.”

He smiled as if the world made perfect sense and lifted his gaze to Savaana’s. “And what of you, my lady? Are you comfortable?”

Tamas had pulled a sword from the scabbard at his hip and was adding it to the twirling cutlery, and though her every nerve was jumping with impatience, Savaana remembered just in time to say something rude. “As comfortable as can be, I suppose, in these rustic circumstances.”

“I could obtain seats for you nearer the front of the throng if you like.”

“At the front?” Where Tamas could see her? Where even his children might recognize her? No. She hoped to make certain all was well with Grandfather while maintaining her adopted persona. Perhaps, if she were truly lucky, her performance at Knollcrest had convinced Tamas that she was, in fact, nothing more than what she appeared to be…a proud baroness caught in lowly circumstances. “And leave me exposed to this rabble?” she asked.

“I would stay close if that would calm your nerves,” he said, but the look in his admiring eyes did no such thing.

“Just see to the horse,” she said. “I’ve no wish for her to die of thirst before our return to Knollcrest.”

“Certainly, my lady,” he said, but his answer was barely heard above the crowd’s applause. Tamas was taking his first bow. “I’ll fetch water immediately.” The carriage rocked as he dismounted.

She gave a brief nod, though she knew for a fact that the wooden pail usually secured beneath the footman’s seat was gone.

He turned toward the rear, then returned in a moment. “The bucket seems to have gone missing.”

“Missing!” She sharpened her scowl as a thousand worries gnawed at her. “That cannot be.”

“I would have thought not, my lady. And yet, it is.”

“You must have forgotten to bring it along.”

He looked at her strangely for several seconds, but finally bowed gallantly. “I’m certain you’re right,” he said. Behind him Hanzi and Luca were hastily stringing up their father’s high wire. “My apologies. I shall ask about to see if there might be another vessel I might use.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she said. “I’ll have no servant of mine begging about like an abandoned cur. Take the mare to the river off to the left there. It will be good to get our weight off her back.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Unhook her. The pad is galling her withers,” she said, and dammit, he was looking at her strangely again. She refrained from clearing her throat. “Not that I care,” she
assured him, “but I’ve no wish to be stranded at Knollcrest without a carriage horse.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

It seemed to take him forever to unhook the traces, longer still to release the shafts, but finally he was leading the chestnut away. Savaana waited, breath held. Beside her, Mrs. Edwards was nodding off toward sleep again.

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion, but finally their chaperone was snoring and Gallagher was out of sight, hidden by the towering maples.

Savaana delayed only an instant longer. Then, lifting her skirts in one gloved hand, she stepped from the carriage and glided regally toward the river.

“Will you have an ice, my lady?”

She remembered to look down her nose at the vendor, but her haughty persona was all but shattered and she could not trust her voice. Thus, she merely shook her head and moved on.

In a minute she was in the cover of the trees. Once there, she spared a single glance behind her before grabbing up her skirts and racing through the underbrush. Dodging rocks and roots, she sprinted a circuitous course through the woods until she stood hidden in the foliage directly behind the brightly colored van. Pausing, she listened. It was dim there and quiet. Mira was setting up camp. The little girls were gathering firewood. Off to
her left, Uncle Shandor was hobbling El Rey in a patch of wild clover. The big piebald lifted his head and whickered at her, but none of her kin took note.

Grandfather was nowhere to be seen. Where was he? Could Tamas have been telling the truth? Was his health failing? Savaana clenched her fists and glanced toward the silent van.

Not a sound issued from that vehicle. Perhaps she should simply ask Mira about Grandfather’s well-being, but Mira would surely report Savaana’s odd appearance to her husband, proving his suspicions and subsequently ruining her fragile plans. Thus she waited, crouched behind a tree.

The children wandered farther into the woods, chattering as they went. Mira followed them. In a minute the trio was out of sight. Savaana then dashed toward the van. Flattening her back against the brightly painted side, she waited, breathing hard, but no one had seen her. Thus she finally eased out of hiding and quietly opened the back door.

“Grandfather?” she whispered, but no one whispered back. “Hello?”

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. The bed was empty. She glanced toward the hook that usually held his mandolin. It was bare. He rarely played for the crowds these days, but he liked to sit by the river and harmonize with the rush of the waters.

Either he had taken it or—

But she heard Tamas laugh as he moved through the woods toward her. Luca and Hanzi must be performing their tumbling act, giving him a few minutes to cause trouble.

One quick glance outside assured her he was yet out of sight. But he would be there in a moment, and if he saw her, he would surely reveal her true identity to the staff at Knollcrest. Standing on the ledge of the van, she weighed her options. She was several paces from the nearest maple.

“So you have never seen a performer’s traveling home?” Tamas was saying.

“I have never even seen a performer.” The young woman’s voice was soft and breathy.

Had Savaana been herself, she would have sent the girl packing. Dook Natsia didn’t need trouble with irate husbands and worried fathers. Nor did poor Mira need Tamas to be an ass. But just now she had other worries. In a handful of seconds Tamas would round the corner and find her there.

“Come back and see—” he began, and in that instant, Savaana leapt for the nearest branch. She soared through the air, grabbed the horizontal limb and swung her body into the lush underbrush.

Landing on her feet, she crouched and froze, absolutely silent, listening.

“What was that?” asked the girl, voice wispy.

“What?” Tamas’s voice was as smooth as the proverbial paved road to hell.

“I thought I saw something fly into the trees.”

“A thrush, most like.”

“No. It was…it was big.”

“Then it must be a
mulani
.”

“
Mulani
?”

“A ghost.” His tone was eerie. “You’d best stay close to me,” he warned, and the girl giggled.

Savaana rolled her eyes and straightened. If Grandfather was well, he would have gone down to the water to harmonize with the bustling waves. But where exactly? She scanned the riverbank. A stag glanced up, water dripping from its muzzle, then turned and dashed into the woods behind it.

So no one had scared the deer before her own approach. Perhaps Grandfather had gone in the other direction then. Or maybe—

She heard a noise and raised her head, listening. Was it Grandfather’s ethereal music? Turning to the right, she hurried through the woods, stopping periodically to listen. There it was again. Lifting her skirts high, she ran now, following the wending course of the river. A hill rose up ahead of her. The river dropped away. To her left, the bank became steep and muddy, but she kept to the high ground, only stopping every few yards to listen again.

Then she heard it, the haunting refrain of Bach’s Bourrée singing through the trees. She glanced across the bustling river. And there he was, sitting amidst the singing leaves, eyes closed, lost in the beauty of his music. He was well. He was happy. “Grandfather,” she whispered in relief, and stepped forward.

“Hello?”

Gallagher!
She froze at the sound of his burred voice.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he called. Bracken rustled at his approach.

Dropping to a crouch, Savaana jerked her attention toward the noise. He came into view, dark tousled hair just visible above a nodding spray of elderberries, and in that second she did the only thing she could think to do. She leapt, diving off the embankment toward the steep slope below.

Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard his intake of breath as she disappeared. There was no time to think of that, however, for she was free-falling, gliding downward until she tucked into a ball. Tumbling onto a bed of autumn leaves, she gained her feet. A hidden branch caught her toe, twisting her ankle. But she ignored the pain. Tucking again, she rolled behind a nearby boulder.

“Sweet suffering saints.” She heard his voice from up above and tried to control her breathing. “Is someone down there?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. A crackle of noise sounded on the far side of the boulder. She jerked, pressing her shoulder against the warm granite and breathing deeply as a gravelly voice echoed up from the water’s edge.

“What’s that?” Hidden from her view, the old man above her was not more than thirty feet from where she hid.