For the Love of a Gypsy (7 page)

Chapter 8

Trenmore Grey left Sadie’s home whistling a jaunty tune and possessing a certain kick to his step. Sadie watched from her bedchamber quite pleased with the interest the man had taken in her. She rang for her maid. After an afternoon of love making, she was in need of a soothing bath for her sore muscles.

“M’lady?”

She turned, too lazy to hold the pretense of her station and smiled at her faithful maid, Hannah. “Draw a bath for me, please.”

Shock registered on the maid’s face, but Sadie paid no mind. Nay, she’d plans. Lord Forrester still weighed heavily in them. Blast the man for hiding for so long. It had been too many days since Abigail’s death and Sadie lacked the patience to wait for him to come to her.

He would, she thought as she removed her robe. A man such as him needed the comfort of a woman. Her bed, her loving embrace, the haven between her thighs. Trenmore had certainly been more compliant since their . . . arrangement. Temporary, but a pleasing arrangement to say the least.

Hannah brought in one more bucket of steaming water and Sadie plunged into the rose-scented tub. Dear Lord, was there anything more glorious than a hot bath filled with rose petals?

Never did she think her aspirations would be fulfilled. But her first husband, God rest his soul, had plucked her from his staff, rescuing her from lye-blistered hands and a cragged worn face.

She had appreciated him, well and truly, Sadie mused as she ran a cloth down her arm and over her shoulder. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. A sigh slipped past her lips as tension and overuse eased out of her limbs.

When her first husband had passed, the second had come along quickly enough. Now he was a fine lover, that one. Frisky at all times of the day, and creative. Their appetites matched for a while, until he met with death while hunting.

“Hmmm,” she moaned as she relaxed further and further into the copper tub. “Number three didn’t last but a year.”

“Pardon m’lady?”

Chuckling, Sadie said, “’Tis nothing, Hannah. Just some memories.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

She heard the maid busying herself by straightening the room. Sadie ignored her, as she envisioned Declan in the bath with her, saturated with bubbles and longing for her. Her abdomen clenched with desire she knew would need to be fulfilled sooner rather than later.

Lord Declan Forrester would be hers, to be sure. She’d planned it since she first laid eyes on the handsome lad,
and
when she cleared the way for him to be with her.

Now, she just needed him to be here, with her, sharing her bed and heart.

Declan was the only man she’d ever loved.

Chapter 9

A breezed tugged at her hair, sweeping its length across her face and catching on her lips. Martine stared over the creek, in the direction of Lord Forrester’s manor house. It had taken her a while to find it and she truly shouldn’t be here, but she was allowing her curiosity to get the better of her. The man intrigued her, befuddled her. She touched her lips and sighed.

And the man had kissed her.

She’d never been kissed before and the heady rush of blood had raced through her when he’d pulled her to him and . . . and leaned down to capture her mouth. She smiled at the memory of his commanding mouth. How she allowed him such liberties without stopping him was beyond her.

And now she was looking at his estate located just a half hour walk from their new camp. She nearly laughed at the fact that Rafe had moved them as requested, but just past Lord Forrester’s property.

No matter, a Gypsy camp and a grand estate—the difference was glaringly obvious.

She dug her bare toe into the soft earth near the creek.
What was it like living in such luxury and security?
Staying in the same home and town, having servants and abundant food. To her it seemed so foreign, yet somewhat like paradise.

“Martine?”

She looked over her shoulder. Rafe stood behind her, his ire alive in his rigid stance. Returning her gaze to the creek, she heard his step crunch across the dry grass. Tension eased up her spine, slowly, as he sat beside her and looked out in the distance.

They stayed that way, the silence as brutal as the bite of her brother’s usual acerbic wit.

“You followed me,” she accused, frustrated with the silence.

After a few moments, he spoke, his low voice commanding, ensuring no room for argument no matter how dearly she longed too. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“But what of Lord . . .”

Rafe scowled, his brow creating a furrow deep enough to plant a row of oats. The same scowl she remembered from the moment he became
Kapo
. “Forget the lord,” he practically growled. “He’s been here for more than a fortnight. If Magor learns ye’ve been looking after him, he’ll withdrawal his offer. An offer that merges strong families. Families of honor and tradition.”

She turned to her brother, her heart hammering against her chest as frustration filled her. She stepped closer, close enough to see the slight clenching of his jaw. She tilted her head and looked at him and took a step back. Not that she was afraid of him—his bark was worse than his bite—but the unchecked anger in his dark eyes made her cautious. “And Magor will accept me? Even though I am not Rom?”

Rafe shifted uncomfortably, then met her gaze with a firm resolve. “Aye, his father wants the clans joined. We’ve raised ye since ye were a young lass. You’ve embraced our traditions. They know this as true.”

Regardless, deep within her, though she knew it was wrong, Martine hoped her betrothed would refuse her. Not because of her actions. They were loathsome, and so against the Rom way. To be alone with a man who wasn’t her father, brother, or husband was unheard of. To have him recovering in her caravan, lying in her bed with his glorious body pressed against her sheets—

Not to mention the kiss. She’d replayed the embrace over and over, and she didn’t regret it. Nay, she wanted it to happen again and again. But that was the problem. It couldn’t happen again.

“Tell the Irishman we’ll celebrate in two days and he’s to join us.”

She looked to him, startled at the request. How unlike her brother to be making it. To have an outsider view their evening ritual was more than unusual. ‘Twas never done. Just outside the encampment, they built a fire and would partake in entertainment. The entire clan would join in for dancing and storytelling. Her brother would regale them with tales from the past, ones passed down from his father and his father before him. It would be a magical time when all seemed right with the world, at least the world of a Gypsy clan. And she loved it.

“’Tis strange, I know,” her brother said as if reading her thoughts, “but I want him to see the difference between us. As broad as the difference between the sun and the earth, the grass of his meadows and the dry grass beneath you—of a lord and an itinerant.”

She scowled at him and fisted her hands at her waist. “I’m not itinerant.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Aye, but the Brits believe we are.”

Martine held her anger in check but couldn’t help saying, “You’re imagining his desires. He told me that he is leaving as soon as he is able. Your judgment is as harsh as always,
Kapo
.”

A gust of wind whipped his hair across his face and he angrily pushed it away. “He can’t be leaving at his own whim. And how are we to know he won’t search out the magistrate to come after us?”

She brought her hand up to her mouth, the damp air nearly sucking the wind from her. The pleasure of the creek was now voided by her brother’s nonsense. “He’d
never
do that.”

The smirk that curled his lips churned her stomach. “Tell him to join us and then stay away from him. You’ve mocked our traditions. Have Anya tend him until he can truly leave.”

Traditions, her mind screamed. How they smothered her with unbearable weight. How they tore at her, piece by piece, as she fought to keep them separate from her memories of her life before the Rom.

And just as she sometimes hated the traditions, she knew she’d never forsake the clan that saved her, took her in as one of their own. Nurtured her.

She was one of them.

Again her brother read her mind. “By staying with us, you’ve accepted our ways.”

Close to tears, she merely nodded, fearful the sadness and rage pulsing through her veins would be relayed in her words and irritate Rafe further.

“Make sure he’s ready.”

Martine swept her skirt clean. The ordinary action forced her hands into action, lest they find themselves around her brother’s neck.

“I’ll tell him,” she said, not at all certain he’d comply, and secretly hoping he wouldn’t. Yet, she thought about him, about Lord Forrester sitting next to her as members of the clan danced, circling around the fire pit as darkness seeped in and an almost wantonness urged the music into a frenzy. Sometimes, if they were lucky, the stars and moon would light the sky and grace them with enough glow to continue the dancing and rivalry until the wee hours of the morning.

She left her brother, clutching her chest, a little breathless and anxious. Definitely excited and curiously in control of her anger.

“Martine.”

She bit her lip to hold onto the retort she wished to brandish against him. “Aye, Rafe.”

He rose and stood looming in front of her. “Send Anya. You’ve spent too much time with the lord.”

She headed back to the encampment. When she entered, she quickly looked for her grandmother.

With a weary sigh, she headed toward the cooking fire. No doubt she’d find Anya there.

As she rounded the corner of a caravan, the sight before her made her smile. Anya sat like a mighty queen in a circle of women who either stirred what Martine knew was dye in the kettles or were wringing cotton dry of its coloring.

Maria bound forward. “Come and see,” she said with a chuckle. She pulled Martine over to the pots of dye.

“Lass, ye’ve come just in time.”

Martine smiled down at her grandmother, her hands dipped in a steamy mixture of deep red dye.

Realization struck her.

They were making her wedding dress.

It took a moment for her to gather her senses before she could speak. Her voice seemed locked within her throat, afraid to appear lest it cracked and croaked her request.

Maria talked to her, her hands gesturing excitedly as she spoke of the special stitching and color of the gown.

She could only think of the idea she’d be married soon. Married to a man she did not know, had never spoken to. Dread filled her as tears pooled in her eyes.

“Rafe would like you to speak to the Irishman.” The hollow cadence of her words sounded queer to her, and it garnered the attention of the women, their piercing gazes pointing at her like sharp darts.

Anya raised her brow. “And ye can’t be doing that for me?”

Martine pulled herself straight, prideful and stubborn. And not willing to admit the truth of it. “I’ve the children to teach.”

The falsehood must have rang true enough in Anya’s mind, for she rose, wiped her hands on her apron, now stained a muddle of reds. Her curt nod cut off further conversation and Martine watched as the hunched woman crossed the center of the camp and made her way into the caravan. How she longed to join her, speak with Declan.

How the Irishman consumed her thoughts, even though it was wrong.

She remained near the other women, listened to their chatter about the upcoming wedding. Maria laughed and began laying the material in the high grass so it would dry. Martine just watched as if the reality was happening to someone else. If only that were true.

Despite their kiss, she found comfort speaking with Declan. His interest in the dog training and her part in it made her feel important. Rare it was that any paid attention to her actions, since they were so used to her working with the dogs. And he was curious about their way of life. When he’d first arrived she knew his disdain, but now he asked question after question about their traditions and lifestyle. He had mellowed and began accepting their ways.

The dark shadows that tainted his azure eyes remained with her as she recalled their conversation. His dulcet tones still teased her with their deep, rumbling quality. To connect with another outsider and be allowed into their life was lovely.

“Didn’t you have to see to the children?”

Martine turned toward Linka.

“Get girl,” she said with a hostile scowl. “You have to teach them to
read
, don’t you know it.”

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Martine. But, as usual, Martine brushed her comment aside with a casual shrug. The older generations of the Rom didn’t understand her teaching the children to read, but along with keeping their trading fair and legal, Rafe and Martine had brought a sense of respectability to the group.

“High and mighty, you are, girl. And without an ounce of trueness to you,
poshrat
.”

Martine felt a snap of anger curl her tongue at the insult. “If you’ve a problem with our
Kapo’s
practices, you should speak with him.” Satisfaction flowed through her as the woman blanched at the idea of going to the
Kapo
.

Maria stood close and gripped her hand in a show of solidarity. Linka backed away, yet anger sparkled in her dark gaze.

Armed with more courage, Martine left Linka, disregarding her brother’s instruction, and headed toward her caravan.

Before she entered, she straightened her skirt and wished for a pair of shoes to cover her dirty feet. Yet, her slippers were saved for special occasions, and they didn’t quite suit the rough wool of her skirt or the oft-washed linen of her chemise.

With a quick twist of her dark hair, Martine steadied herself with a sigh and entered her home.

Her grandmother sat beside the cot.

She gasped.

Declan lay on his stomach exposing his broad back, tan and scarred.

Anya heard her and turned with a finger before her lips. Martine quietly strode forward.

The closer she came, the more disturbing Declan’s back became. Och! How could someone prove so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Her stomach clenched at the pain he must have felt, how it was obvious they’d festered in their gnarled raised lines. She wanted to run her hands across his back, bring the warmth of her palms to the scars and siphon away the anguish they represented.

He stirred but did not wake. She felt relief. For she could imagine he wouldn’t be pleased she’d seen beyond the injuries that had brought him to the Rom.

“Will ye be watching him then?” Anya whispered.

Martine nodded and sat in the chair her grandmother had occupied, her mind still reeling over the scars. Her heart clenched over the pain and suffering Declan had endured. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at the angry scars crisscrossing the breadth of his back.

“I’ll keep Rafe from coming this way as much as I can manage.” The elderly woman stretched and rubbed her back with her aged hands. “Yer doing the right thing, lass. ‘Tis a fine man here.”

“I feel something,” she admitted as she avoided her grandmother’s gaze. “But I also don’t know if it is good or will bring shame to our clan.”

Anya wagged a finger in Martine’s face. Her white brows met at the furrow above her nose as she spoke in their native tongue. “Ye’ve given yer life up for this clan. Are ye certain it is worth it? Snatch a bit of happiness for yerself, despite the loyalty ye feel for Rafe.”

Her heart pounded against her chest as she fiercely whispered, “I can’t forsake the clan. Surely you can see that.”

Anya patted her arm. “Aye, you can, my
bitti chovexani
.”

Martine cringed. She wasn’t a little witch, but her grandmother insisted on calling her such.

If only she were, she’d be able to find a way out of her impending, loveless marriage.

He felt rested, almost peaceful. No doubt Anya had tainted the medicinal draught with an ingredient to induce sleep. Yet, Declan wasn’t angered. No. It had been years since he’d slept without the haunting reminder of his father’s treachery and the years spent in prison.

He rolled onto his back, much relieved after the salve Anya had slapped upon it. Startled, he pulled the sheet over his bare chest.

There sat his Gypsy.

Calm, even amused, if her raised brow was any indication. For a moment, he enjoyed the twinkle in her eyes, not the black pits like her brother’s, but lighter—brighter, reflected the light with golden flecks.

She tipped her chin at him with a haughtiness that now satisfied him instead of vexing him. God, she was lovely. Her skin a mix of honey and gold, soft and satiny. He wanted to kiss his way from the arch of her winged brow to the hollow of her elegant neck now peeking from her white blouse.