My Own True Love (16 page)

"Why, so I do." He bent to brush her lips swiftly with his before exiting the
bardo.
Wait until he got her alone that night, he thought before he left. He'd kiss her all over, even if he had to quote Byron all night to do it.

Sara traced her fingers across where his lips had just touched. She resented the tingling sensation he left. It was just a game, she reminded herself. Thankfully Beth appeared in the doorway before she had time to think about just how pleasant the sensation was.

Beth bounced in and onto the bed, a round loaf of bread clutched in her hands. She sniffed. "At least you cleaned up."

"Don't remind me," Sara said.

Cleaning up the wagon had taken most of the day and had not been a pleasant task. All she remembered of the Channel crossing was Lewis holding her through the worst of the seasickness. She had no recollection of how the caravan got unloaded and on the road, though she'd recovered after she'd been on land for a few hours. They'd come to a stop in a willow grove late at night and she'd spent the day cleaning and doing laundry in' a stream with the rest of the women. She knew they were camped near a village, but had no idea where they were, other than somewhere in France.

"Beng wants to give a show tonight," Beth said. She held out the bread. "Look what I got."

"Where'd you get it? Reading or writing first?" she asked Molly.

"Perhaps Beth should recite the alphabet," Molly said. "I've been trying to teach it to her as we rode along, just the way Mr. Macalpine taught it to me."

"I got the bread in the village," Beth said. "I sneaked in and snatched it," she added proudly. "Right off the baker's shelf. They talk funny over 'ere, don't they? Don't know what she called me, but she couldn't run."

"Snatched it?" Sara and Molly said together. They exchanged appalled looks. "Beth!"

"What?" the little girl answered.

"Did you steal that bread?" Sara asked.

"Said I did, didn't I?" Beth flashed an inordinately proud smile. Sara groaned.

"Oh, dear," Molly said. She clapped her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, dear, oh, dear."

"Did anyone see you?" Sara asked worriedly. "Were you chased? Are you all right?" In England the child could have been hanged or transported for the offense. Sara didn't suppose the law was any less strict in Napoleonic France. Come to think of it, just being English in Napoleonic France might get the little girl hanged. Pretty, green-eyed Beth didn't look like a Rom, which might get them accused of child stealing. "Another fine mess." She groaned.

Sara was out the door and marching up to Lewis before she knew what she was doing. He dropped the knives he was juggling as she approached. The children who were standing around watching him dispersed at a gesture.

"My love." He smiled warmly at her.

Sara planted her fists on her hips. "This is all your fault," she announced.

His brows shot up under his crimson scarf. "What? I—"

She held out one hand. "Do you have any money? French money? And how much is a loaf of bread?"

He dug a coin out of his vest pocket. "What are you talking about?" he asked as he passed her the money.

"Which way's the village?"

He pointed. "Where are you going?" When she didn't answer he sprinted to catch up with her. He grabbed her arm. "Sara?"

"I've got to find the bakery," she said. "Fix this thing before the cops come looking for the kid."

Beth, he guessed, had been stealing again. "I don't understand the problem."

She walked on. "Of course not," she said over her shoulder. "You," she grumbled as he kept pace with her, "have the ethics of a corporate raider."

"Is that some sort of pirate?"

"In an expensive suit." He took her hand. "What are you doing?"

"He's worried about you," said the ring.

You keep out of this.

"Did you hear someone say something?"

Sara almost smiled at the puzzled look on Lewis's face. She almost explained, but decided she was in too much of a hurry to straighten out Beth's misdemeanor to get into a discussion about magic rings right now. "Will you let go of me?"

"No. Where are we going? To the village bakery?" She nodded. Lewis could tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that there would be no stopping her short of force. "Why?"

"To pay for the bread. I won't have a child arrested for robbery."

"Is this the same girl who was chased by the Runners not so long ago?"

"No." She wasn't going to get into it right now. "Do you speak French?" she asked as they approached a rutted road. She could see buildings in the distance.

"Of course." He tilted his head curiously. "Do you?"

"Sort of." She'd battled through four years of French classes in high school. She'd conceded defeat long ago. She would have to remember enough to make do. "I think bread is called
pain,
though I'm not quite sure about the pronunciation."

Lewis sighed. "I'll do all the talking."

"Fine."

It was sweet, he thought, if completely foolhardy, for Sara to concern herself with Beth's welfare. She was so appealingly anxious to keep the girl away from a life of crime. Sara obviously had no inclination toward thieving herself now, even if it was a skill and way of life as natural as breathing for a gypsy. At least, it was supposed to be. But Molly was a respectable, God-fearing woman, and he'd had to force Sara into a crime she had no stomach for. Guilt twisted in his gut at the memory of that night at his father's house. He'd done what was necessary for his country, but—

"But you acted like a complete bastard, didn't you, Lieutenant?" he heard a voice say.

Yes, he agreed reluctantly with his conscience. He'd just have to take good care of the girl to make up for it.

"Hush," Sara said as she wrenched her hand out of his.

"But—" He let it go, never mind that he hadn't spoken. He had to keep in mind that she was subject to fits of madness. They were on the outskirts of the village, no longer alone on the road. This was no time to get into one of their strange discussions.

He led her the short distance to the tiny town square. Women gossiped around a well in the center of the square. They stopped talking to stare when they approached. A heavyset woman in a flour-covered apron stepped out of the doorway of the bakery, blocking them from entering.
"Interdites aux
tsiganes."
She waved them away. The baker's face was red with anger, her eyes full of contempt.

No gypsies, Sara translated. She had to bite her tongue from making an acid comment to match the burning of the words on her pride, but she didn't suppose her French was up to what she wanted to say.

She saw Lewis's eyes narrow with annoyance, but he smiled at the woman, sidled closer, and began speaking in rapid French. The baker was smiling in girlish delight within thirty seconds. The man was lying pond scum, but he sure had charm.

Sara listened with half an ear to his explanation of their daughter forgetting to pay for the bread she took while he passed coins and compliments to the flattered woman. While the two of them laughed at Beth's childish mistake several of the younger women by the well separated from the group and approached Sara. Three women surrounded her, openly hostile, but equally curious. One of them held out her palm and demanded loudly to have her fortune told.

Sara didn't have the faintest notion how to read palms, but she didn't want trouble, either. She forced herself to bend humbly over the woman's callused palm and traced her fingers along the ridges and whorls. She could feel the women's hostile fascination as they waited; it washed over her in a nauseating wave. She didn't want to talk to them.

"Tell her she's pregnant with child number five," the ring suggested.

Is she?

"Would I lie to you?"

Sara gave a silent, skeptical snort. She informed the woman that she was with child.

"Ah," the woman said. The other women laughed knowingly. They waited for Sara to go on.

"Soldiers are coming to draft her husband and son."

Sara dutifully repeated this prophecy. The women shuffled and muttered nervously. "When?" one asked.

"In about ten seconds."

Sara heard the tramp of feet as the ring spoke. A group of soldiers in blue uniform coats marched briskly around a corner and fanned out in the square. The women by the well dispersed, the three surrounding Sara going with them. Sara was left staring at the soldiers, several of whom looked her over with blatant interest.

Lewis took her arm and drew her slowly away from the bakery. He didn't look at the soldiers.

"They looking for spies?" she whispered to him as they reached the road that would take them back to the Rom camp. She thought they were out of sight of the soldiers, but she could still feel their gazes on her back.

"Worse," he answered. "The Grand Army's drafting every able-bodied man it can lay hands on." He shook his head. "We'd better get the caravan away from here."

"Why?"

"Because they might not balk at pressing gypsies into service."

"Why do they need ... oh, because Napoleon's invading Russia next year."

"Probably as early as next year, yes."

"Wait a minute." She stopped in the middle of the road. With Lewis standing in one of the deep ruts they were just about eye to eye. "Why are you in France? Are you gathering information on troop buildups, and stuff like that?"

"No," he answered. "The Russian invasion is a certainty. I have another assignment." He looked back toward the village. "Let's go."

"Then why—?"

"Not now." He took her arm and hurried her along. He wasn't just worried about getting drafted.

Several of the troopers had looked at Sara as if she were a fine, rich dessert. He wanted to get her safely away from them.

"He's going to lose, you know," she told him as he set a swift pace. "Big time. Napoleon," she clarified when he gave her a questioning look.

"You can tell fortunes later," he told her. "We need to get off the main roads," he added. "Gypsies are supposed to have their own trails." He paused under the shade of an oak tree and looked at her accusingly, as if she were hiding secret knowledge from him. "How do you find gypsy trails?"

His frustration was more amusing than annoying. The man had been passing as Rom on pure luck; he really didn't know as much about the culture as he thought. "You have to know what signs to look for,"

she said. "Even I know that. Marks left on the ground or on fences, odd bits of rags on the roadside, that sort of thing. I took a class in it once."

His eyebrows went up. "Gypsy school?"

"A seminar on ethnic heritage." She smiled wryly at the memory. "The teacher was a
gajo.
"

They were standing near a crossroads. The roads bordered ripened fields and sheep pastures; the fields ended at a deep stretch of woods. The roads were lined with short hedges and tumbling-down dry-stone walls. From the ruts the intersecting roads looked to be heavily traveled.

"Crossroads are traditionally good places to find signs left by Roms who've come the same way. Also a good place for musicians to make deals with the devil," she added.

As usual, he looked at her as if he thought she were crazy, but he said, "Show me what to look for."

Sara walked to the middle of the crossroads. Lewis came to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She didn't let the warmth of his nearness distract her. "Well?" he questioned. "What do you see?"

She didn't actually expect to see anything, but a spot of red in a forked branch of a tree caught her attention. She pointed. "Maybe that's something."

The tree was on the edge of the woods. After a few moments of searching the nearby undergrowth, Lewis said, "There's a faint trail here." He gave her a triumphant smile. "It goes southwest."

"Is that good?"

His eyes glinted with merriment. "Trust me."

"Deal with the devil, you mean?"

"Why not? You've been doing it for weeks now, gypsy girl. He hasn't eaten you yet."

He took her hand and kissed the palm. The light touch of his lips sent a shiver through her. "Not yet,"

she agreed.

Lewis grasped her hand and hurried her back down the road. "We've got to get the caravan moving while there's still light to travel."

The evening was cool.
Lewis welcomed the comfort of the communal fire as he squatted on his heels with the caravan's other married men. Sandor was on one side, and Beng, stalwart as granite and smelling of the horses he'd just finished tending, was on the other. The day had been warm, but he had noticed some trees along their path were beginning to turn. Sara had quite a skill for finding isolated paths, but the way they had taken toward Paris certainly wasn't the fastest route. It had taken them twelve days to reach the outskirts of Nanterre, just a few miles from the sprawling city. They'd have to be even more careful, and probably slower, through the rest of Europe.

"It's a long way to Bororavia, Toma," Sandor said, echoing the thought crossing Lewis's mind.

He nodded. "I don't fancy traveling in winter."

Evan chuckled around the stem of his pipe. The aroma of his tobacco blended with woodsmoke and roast rabbit. "You've got a pretty bride to keep you warm."

Beng grunted in annoyance, while Lewis's gaze strayed across the fire to where Sara sat with a group of women. Her guitar was by her side, but for now her arms were full of Maritza's infant daughter.

Maritza looked on proudly while Sara fussed over the naked baby. Sara's dark skin and hair were gilded by the firelight. The rounded fullness of her breasts strained against the fabric of her blouse as she lifted the gurgling baby, passing the child to its grandmother. What would she look like, he wondered, with a baby at her breast?

He found himself smiling fondly at his beautiful wife as she picked up her guitar and carefully checked the tuning pins. As if she felt his eyes on her, he saw a faint blush coloring her skin. It made his smile widen, even though several of the men chuckled, ready to tease him about his attention being too much on his wife.