Judith E French (4 page)

She blushed and turned away, unable to rid herself of the throbbing in her veins, unable to wipe away the memory of that brief kiss. She stumbled to her feet and walked away into the darkness beyond the wagons. She had to put distance between her and her kidnapper, had to clear her head enough to think of a way to escape.

Away from the fires, Anne felt the bite of the night air. The thin cotton blouse gave little protection against the wind, and the bright yellow woolen shawl was old and tattered. She shivered but she kept moving, afraid of the unknown but even more frightened of the man behind her. She could still taste his kiss, still feel his possessive touch. And God! Oh, God, deep down inside, some part of her had liked it!

What was wrong with her? Why had her body betrayed her? She was no green girl but a woman grown—a widow. She’d been kissed before.

Anne moistened her top lip with the tip of her tongue. The trembling in her limbs would not stop. Her stomach still felt as though she had swallowed a butterfly. Was this what her old nurse had referred to as the “thunderbolt”? Was she, Anne, more like her mother when it came to men than she’d ever wanted to admit?

Barbara had fallen easily into the arms of any handsome man who took her fancy. Her conquests were legendary. Barbara enjoyed the physical pleasure a virile man could give her—she’d never hidden the fact that her husband’s marriage bed failed to satisfy her needs.

But Anne had never been that type. She’d been modest, and if she hadn’t felt the true piety of a religious woman, she had at least been faithful in her prayers and church attendance. Her first marriage had been arranged when she was fifteen, and she had gone to her marriage bed as an unwakened child. Her husband, unwilling to bed a girl whose flow had not yet begun, had waited to consummate their union. And when she had finally become a woman, his own age and illness had prevented their coming together. Technically, she supposed, she was still a virgin.

A virgin. A virgin widow. Who would believe such a thing? And who wouldn’t snicker behind their hands and whisper nasty jokes if they did believe?

She had always been afraid of men. Only one had ever stirred her blood. Anne remembered Brandon with a flood of sweet emotion. They had walked together in the apple orchard . . . They had held hands and exchanged kisses. They had promised . . . promised more than they could give. She had been reluctant to cuckold her decent, aging husband, and Brandon . . . Brandon was now wed to another and lived far away across the salt sea.

Sweet heaven help her! She had treasured Brandon’s kisses, had spun marzipan dreams and hopes on them, but they had never ripped the woven fabric of her body and soul as the kiss of this wild Scot did.

Anne paused and stared up into the cold darkness. There was no moon, but the stars glittered through the velvet-black sky like scattered diamonds. She didn’t remember ever seeing the stars glow with such dazzling splendor. She gazed at the vast sweep of heavens in awe, and as she watched, an incandescent spark flashed across the sky, followed by another and another.

“Bonny, aren’t they?”

Anne jumped as Ross materialized out of the darkness beside her. “Ohhh.”

“Hist, hinney. I’d not fright ye.” He took hold of her arm. “You’re cold as death.”

“Let me go,” she stammered. This time she would put up a struggle—would let him know she was no lightskirt who could be easily tumbled. She tried to pull away, but he held her as though she were anchored in solid rock. “Please . . .” she begged. Her lips formed the words, but she wasn’t certain if she was begging him to set her free or to kiss her again. And if he kissed her here, when they were alone in the darkness, what must follow?

“Ye canna wander about these woods, chit. There are wild beasts and dangers ye know nothing about,” he chided.

I know about you, she thought in desperation. None could be more dangerous than you. She clamped her teeth shut to keep them from chattering.

“Will ye walk back to camp, or must you be carried like a bag of grain?”

“I want to go home,” she managed. The words came out muffled because her jaw was locked in place.

“Doubtless you shall when Sutherland has gotten ye with child. Your family will forgive you both and accept your marriage once there is no getting out of it.”

Her jaw yielded. “I told you, I don’t know any Sutherland. He’s not my betrothed! This is all some horrible mistake.”

“Aye, hinney, aye, and aye again. Say what ye will, but I need the money he’ll pay me for your safe recovery.”

“You’re nothing but a common reiver! A mercenary!”

“Not by choice.” Without further argument, he picked her up and slung her over one shoulder. Her pounding fists against his leather-clad back, her kicks against his chest, went as unheeded as her angry squawks of protest. He carried her back to the circle and deposited her at the door of the same caravan she’d been held prisoner in before.

From the firelight, Anne heard laughter and was certain they were all laughing at her.

“Into bed with you, wench,” he said. “We have far to ride tomorrow. You may sleep easy. The gypsies are a moral lot—none will offer ye harm.” He lowered her gently to the ground. Immediately she took two steps backward, out of reach of his arms.

“Colonial.” The old woman’s voice came from the darkness near the front of the wagon. “Come, share our meal with us. Bring the bride-to-be. She is lucky, and we would partake of that luck.”

“No.” Anne shook her head. “No . . . I’m tired.”

“I will join you,” Ross agreed. “Gladly.”

“I am called Sara,” the old gypsy said to Anne, shoving a battered tin plate at her. It was the same woman she’d seen hovering over her in the wagon.

Anne wanted to refuse the gypsy food, but the smell of bread and meat was irresistible. Her stomach growled in a most unladylike fashion. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You must taste it,” Ross instructed. “Not to eat would be to insult our hosts.”

Anne looked in vain for a fork or spoon, but there was none. As daintily as possible under the primitive conditions, she took a bit of the meat and put it into her mouth. It was sweet and juicy. She chewed and swallowed and quickly took another morsel. “It’s good,” she ventured, “but I don’t recognize the flavor. What is it?”

The old woman’s face folded into a mass of wrinkles as she grinned broadly. “Hedgehog,” she proclaimed proudly. “Baked in a covering of clay under the coals of an open fire. We consider it a delicacy.”

Anne choked on her mouthful. Horrified, she began to sputter. Ross slapped her hard on the back, and she swallowed with a gulp. “Oooh,” she gasped.

“Just a bone,” he put in hastily. “She needs something to wash it down.” Sara offered a goatskin, and he lifted it to Anne’s mouth. “Drink it,” he whispered into her ear. “Drink, or I’ll pour it down you.”

Anne drank and sputtered as the strong liquor burned its way down her throat and hit the pit of her stomach with a jolt. The plate of food was still clutched in her trembling hands. Ross took it away and gently shoved her toward the
vardo
door.

“Many thanks, old mother,” Ross said smoothly. “She’ll finish inside. She is shy, my Anne, and not used to strangers.”

“Modesty is becoming in a bride,” Sara croaked. She turned away toward the fires and the laughter. Once more, sad gypsy music was beginning to filter through the night air.

Ross yanked open the door and gave Anne another push, this one not so gentle. “That was badly done,” he scolded. “In a Mohawk camp, it would have cost you your scalp.”

“Hedgehog,” she whispered. “I can’t eat hedgehog.”

“Well, I sure as hell can.” He crammed a piece into his mouth.

“You’re horrible—all horrible,” she cried. “Go away and leave me alone.” He reached for her, and she scrambled into the caravan and slammed the door behind her. His laughter burned her ears as she flung herself onto the bed and covered her head with a quilt.

Outside, she heard the notes of the gypsy violin and the rustle of wind through the dried branches of winter-bare trees. And she knew, although she could not see or hear him, that he was there . . . only a few feet away. He was waiting and listening, and Anne was afraid he could hear the uneven trip of her heart.

A
nne pretended she was sleeping when Sara entered the wagon hours later; she knew it was the old woman because of the strong scent of cinnamon that clung to the gypsy’s hair and clothing. The door closed, and Anne heard a gentle sighing before her mattress sagged under Sara’s weight. It was all Anne could do to keep from flinching when the woman rolled against her.

“Ye have an odd way of sleeping,” Sara chuckled as she found a comfortable spot against Anne’s back.

The sound was like the rustle of dried grass, and Anne suppressed a shiver. Her mouth felt parched; she held her breath and tried to lay perfectly still.

“Brides are always anxious,” the gypsy continued in her thin, reedy voice. “I was anxious before my wedding night.” She elbowed Anne’s ribs and tittered. “Breathe, girl. You’ll turn blue if ye don’t. You’re no more asleep than I am.”

Bony toes poked the backs of Anne’s legs. “I was anxious before all my wedding nights.” Sara made a coarse sound with her lips. “You’ve a breme bridegroom for a
gorgio
.”

“He’s not my bridegroom,” Anne burst out. “Why won’t anyone believe me? He’s a brigand—a common thief. He stole me from my wedding to another man.”

Sara cackled with glee. “As my first husband stole me. He carried me off in a sack from my mother’s bed. Twelve I was, and already earning more than a grown woman at telling fortunes. I bit him and scratched his face so bad that he carried the scars to his grave—but he gave me three tall sons. We were well-matched for each other. Ahhh . . .” she sighed wistfully, “there was a bull of a man. Not so brawny as your Scot, but—”

Anne sat upright. “Please,” she interrupted. “I’ll pay you anything you ask if you’ll help me escape.”

“—he had the black eyes of a fallen angel,” the old woman said, ignoring Anne’s plea. “They hanged him at York for horse stealing, and my oldest son with him.” She raised up on one elbow and stared at Anne.

Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the narrow walls to stripe the gypsy’s shriveled face with silver and shadow. The air seemed suddenly still. Anne knotted her fingers together to keep them from trembling.

“Your man has a hangman’s noose in his cards.” Sara sat up and extended a gaunt hand. “I’ll read them for ye, Englishwoman, if ye cross my palm with silver.”

Anne drew her legs up and retreated to the far corner of the bed, near the wall. “I hope they do hang him,” she retorted. “I want none of your fortune-telling. ’Tis witchcraft, and I—”

“Bite your tongue!” Sara cried, making the sign to ward off evil. She mumbled something unintelligible in her own language. “Are ye mad that you dare to wish for what ye don’t want? Do ye not know your own power?”

Anne gasped. “What is this nonsense about power? If I had power would I be traded off to any husband my family picked for me? Would I be carried off like a stolen sheep?”

“Ssst,” Sara hissed. “Ye truly do not know, do ye? Ahhh,
gorgio
girl, ’tis pity I feel for you. How can ye be so ignorant? How did ye come by the charm? ’Twas not bought for coin, I’ll wager.”

“My necklace?” Icy rivulets of fear trickled down Anne’s spine. “What do you know of my necklace?” Her fingers closed around the ancient goldwork. The rectangular amulet bore strange patterns carved into its surface and was drilled with four tiny holes and one bigger one. A silver clasp suspended the piece to a chain around her neck. “It was a . . . a gift,” she stammered.

“Who gave it to you?”

“A . . . a friend,” Anne lied.

Sara chuckled. “Never try to fool a trickster. Blood to blood the power goes. ’Tis not Rom magic. The amulet comes from the old ones—the little dark people who raised the standing stones. Only those of the true blood can wear the charm. I am not the one to show you how to use the power. But this much I can tell you. The magic is real, and never, never wish for what you do not want with all your heart.”

Anne remained crouched in the corner as the gypsy woman turned over without another word and went to sleep. A dozen questions rose in her mind, but she was afraid to voice them. Could Sara be a witch? How else could she know about the Eye of Mist?

Cameron Stewart, Lord Dunnkell, had given her the necklace when she was a child, telling her that it was magic. He’d been kind to her, so kind that she had believed the rumors about Lord Dunnkell and her mother to be just more ugly gossip. Hadn’t her mother been linked romantically with every handsome man at court?

Barbara had ridiculed the amulet, calling it crude and tasteless—she’d wanted to sell it to the goldsmith. But Cameron, as he’d asked Anne to call him, had forbidden Barbara to dispose of the jewelry. “It belongs to the child,” he’d said firmly. “And may the devil curse any others who touch it or plot to take it from her with the running French pox.”

Normally a meek and biddable child, she had stubbornly defied her mother by refusing to give up the necklace. She’d worn it constantly hidden under her clothing, comforting herself by rubbing the amulet when she was afraid or lonely . . . even wishing on it. But nothing she’d wished for had ever come true, and after a while, she’d kept it close because it was the only thing in her life that never changed.

Servants came and went; even her nurse Janet left service to go and live with a married daughter. Barbara was constantly on the move, and she rarely had time to spend with her daughter or her husband. And Anne’s father . . .

Anne pressed her cheek against the narrow boards of the wall. Her father . . . She swallowed the lump in her throat. All her life she’d believed Lord Langstone to be her father. He’d always been cold and distant to her, often severe, and she’d never guessed why. She’d thought that she was his only child—his heir—and she’d never been able to understand why he always seemed angry with her.

All those lonely childhood years . . . Times when she’d wished she could be Bess the dairymaid instead of Lady Anne . . . Bess and her six brothers and sisters had always seemed so happy, living in a one-room cottage with their merry father and laughing, plump mother.

Now, for the last year and a half, she knew why Lord Langstone had hated her—why she’d never been able to please him. She wasn’t his daughter at all. Cameron Stewart was her real father. Lady Anne, the Marchioness of Scarbrough, was an impostor—a bastard.

Cameron had broken the news to her before he left for the Colonies a year ago last summer. “You’re a woman, grown, Anne,” he’d said, “and it’s time you knew the truth.”

“Did you love my mother, or was I an unfortunate accident?” she’d demanded tearfully.

“I’ve always loved you, lass,” he’d replied. “Not being able to give you my name has been one of the saddest things in my life.”

He’d told her more—told her that the necklace he’d given her when she was a child had been his mother’s and that it had been handed down from mother to daughter for two thousand years. “It’s called the Eye of Mist,” he’d said. “It’s made of Pictish gold. The legend says that whosoever possesses the Eye of Mist shall be cursed and blessed. The curse is that you will be taken from your family and friends to a far-off land. The blessing is that you will be granted one wish. Whatever you ask you shall have—even unto the power of life and death.”

“I’m too old for a child’s tale of magic,” she’d replied.

“Nevertheless,” he’d continued earnestly, “you must cherish the amulet and remember the legend. If you have a daughter, pass it on to her. It’s the one thing I ask of you.”

“You can’t tell me you believe such superstitious nonsense?” she’d cried.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe it, Anne. My mother believed it, and I swore to her on her deathbed that I would pass it on to my true daughter.” Anne remembered the strange expression that had passed over his face. “There’s more I could tell you, lass, but this isn’t the time. I want you to know that you’ll be well provided for in my will. I’ve left you a fortune in—”

“I don’t want your money,” she’d said coldly. “There was a time when I needed you, but, as you say, I am a woman grown. I don’t need you now.”

She’d wept when he went away. She’d regretted her harsh words. She’d even ridden after him to London. But when she arrived there, she’d found that Cameron had sailed for America.

Later, she had confronted Barbara, demanding to know if Cameron was really her father. Barbara hadn’t even had the dignity to try and deny it.

“Better Cameron Stewart than Langstone,” Barbara had laughed brittlely. “That fop Langstone couldn’t father a child—mine or anyone else’s. A sponge has more backbone than his tool. He’s useless between the sheets—always has been. It’s why he claimed you as his heir. Your birth declared his virility to the world—or at least to those who didn’t know what a soft sword he really was.”

Anne was jerked back to the present by the old gypsy woman’s loud snoring. Anne rolled her head around, trying to ease her stiff neck. All her muscles were cramped from sitting so long in one position. Gingerly, she crawled across the bed and climbed over Sara to stand on the floor.

She crept to the door and put her ear close to it, listening. The music had stopped. All was silent except for the hoot of an owl and the sound of the wind through the bare branches.

A plan began to form in Anne’s mind. If she could just reach the horses, she was certain she could bridle one and ride to the nearest village. Ross had been drinking earlier—doubtless he was passed out in some gypsy wench’s arms.

Her fingers found the iron latch in the darkness of the
vardo
. Slowly, she lifted the bar and pushed the door open a crack. She blinked her eyes, trying to accustom them to the moonlight. The fire that had burned so brightly was now a blanket of scarlet coals. The other wagons were dark, shapeless lumps against the darker outline of the decrepit barn.

She opened the door and stepped down into the cold night, closing the door behind her. She listened intently. A woman’s low giggle came from the nearest wagon. There was a creaking of wood, and the deeper voice of a man. Anne felt her face grow hot as she imagined the intimacies that must be taking place in that wagon between the man and woman. The thought that the man might be Ross came to her, and the heat in her face and neck grew more intense. Mentally, she chastised herself. What difference did it make to her if her kidnapper was quenching his lust with some gypsy jade? A slut and a rogue were well-matched, were they not?

Anne took a step, and dry leaves crunched under her foot. An owl hooted directly overhead, and Anne’s heart leaped in her chest. Startled, she stared up as the dark form took wing. The owl swooped low over the wagon, his powerful wings carrying him as silently as mist. Anne gave a squeak of terror and turned to run. Something large and solid blocked her way.

“Going somewhere, hinney?”

Anne gasped as Ross’s arms closed around her. She opened her mouth to scream, and he brought his head down and kissed her. His hand caught the back of her neck; his hard fingers twined in her hair. His other hand was low on the curve of her spine, crushing her against him. She could feel the heat of his powerful legs, his broad, muscled chest. Her eyes went wide in shock. Fear made her weak, and she clung to him to keep from falling . . . fear and something that was not fear . . . something she had never felt before.

She moaned deep in her throat as the tip of his tongue brushed her lower lip. The taste of his mouth was like stolen honey, forbidden and sweet, the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. She sighed, and somehow . . . somehow she was kissing him back.

Blood rushed to her head, drowning reason in the thunder of raw, unleashed passion. Her body molded to his, demanding, promising . . . Her tongue touched his, and she opened her mouth to take him within, reveling in the smell and taste of him, taking pleasure in the unfamiliar sensations that drove all reality from her mind. Her heart beat wildly; her breath came in deep, shuddering gasps.

“Hinney, hinney,” he crooned in her ear. “Ah, hinney. What have I begun?”

His big, callused fingers touched her throat, stroking as lightly as the beat of a moth’s wing, sending shivers of exquisite delight racing through her blood. He lowered his head and kissed the pulse in the hollow of her throat, and Anne felt a throbbing heat growing in her woman’s secret place.

No one had ever made her feel like this before—not the hasty fumblings of her aged husband and not the awkward groping of half-grown boys she’d known before she’d wed. Not even Brandon’s caresses had sparked a white-hot flame in her body like the scorching kisses of this wild barbarian.

She arched her back, wanting to be closer, ever closer, letting her hands run over his superbly muscled arms. Her breasts pushed against the rough gypsy clothing, aching with a need she had never dreamed she possessed. Her swollen nipples throbbed with a desire to be touched . . . suckled . . .

“Lass . . . lass,” he moaned.

Anne could feel the swollen length of his manhood pressing against her, burning hot through the heavy wool of his belted plaid. His large, powerful hand spanned her hip possessively, cupping one buttock as his warm, moist mouth lingered over hers. His breath was sweet and clean; it tasted of mint. Boldly, Anne flicked the tip of her tongue across the surface of his square, perfect white teeth, savoring the delicious sensations that came with intimate exploration totally beyond her experience.

He pulled away to whisper in her ear. “Sweet Anne . . .” His husky voice was strained with emotion. “If we—”

The crashing of brush tore them apart. Anne’s knees felt weak. She swayed and would have fallen if Ross hadn’t steadied her with a sinewy arm. Wide-eyed and breathless, she stared at the rider on the lathered bay horse that burst into the circle of wagons.

A boy—a gypsy by his bright scarf and multicolored vest—threw himself from the horse’s saddle and ran shouting toward one of the wagons. Anne couldn’t understand what he was saying, but within seconds men and women spilled from the wagons and began to harness their horses. Johnny Faa appeared fully dressed with an antique wheel-lock pistol stuck in his belt. He questioned the boy, then motioned urgently to Ross.