My Own True Love (18 page)

She didn't know what soldiers could want with her. She hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, her only contact with the French had been to play and pass the hat at a few inns along their route. There had been soldiers at the last inn. Their officer had clapped loudly, given her quite a bit of money, and suggested that she accompany him upstairs. But he'd been a perfect gentleman and withdrawn the offer gracefully when she'd pointed out she was married. He'd even let her keep the money. She remembered that his name was Captain Custine and that the two blues songs she'd played reminded him of slave music he'd heard when he'd served in the Louisiana colony. She'd liked him.

Which had nothing to do with soldiers in camp looking for her right now, she reminded herself. She thought about running, but where could she go? Running away might put the others in danger. She wouldn't put anyone in danger if she could help it. She gave Lewis a bitter look, placing the blame for any trouble they got into squarely on his shoulders, and stepped out of the
bardo.
With Beng beside her and Lewis standing on the wagon step she spotted four uniformed men who were walking around the remains of last night's bonfire. She raised her arm and waved to get their attention. Behind her, Lewis hissed an oath.

"I'm Sara," she called to the blue-coated soldiers.

The man in the lead hurried forward, grinning beneath a bright red mustache. "Of course you are, my dear," he said, coming up and taking her hands in his. "I was hoping the right band of gypsies was trespassing on my cousin's estate."

"Captain Custine?" Sara had to look a long way up to meet the tall man's gaze. Laugh lines crinkled up around his green eyes. She couldn't help but smile back; he looked so honest and open and reassuring.

"How nice to see you again," she said, and meant it. She heard Lewis whisper something under his breath but didn't turn to look at him.

Captain Custine squeezed her hands gently. "The hands of an artist. Odd, how I told my cousin so just last night and today I find you just a mile away from his house. What good fortune this is!"

"Is it?" she asked, and felt a sharp tingle from the ring in response. Apparently it was. "Good fortune, indeed. Your cousin," she guessed. "You want me to play for him?"

His smile widened. "Lovely, clever girl."

She tried to draw her hands from his. "I'll just get my guitar." She had to go with him. Not only was he being amiable, the men he'd brought with him were armed with rifles. He had a sword at his belt, and the authority of the French army, besides. She noticed that Custine was looking past her. She turned her head to find Lewis glaring angrily at the captain.

"Your husband?" Custine asked her.

"Toma," she said. "And my father." She tilted her head toward Beng, hoping to draw the French officer's attention away from the British spy. "I'll get my guitar," she repeated.

He let her go and stepped back. "It'll wait for tonight, my dear." Custine gave her a look full of smoldering promise. It made her blush from her hair to her toes. He leaned forward and spoke softly in her ear. "I'll be seeing you at the chateau tonight."

She gulped nervously. "Tonight?"

Lewis appeared at her side. His arm came around her waist, pulling her hard against his side. She spared him a quick look. Murder blazed out of his bright blue eyes at the French officer. This was no time for the spy to forget that circumspection was the key to survival. She poked him in the ribs with her elbow. Custine noticed and chuckled.

She gave the Frenchman an annoyed look. "You want me to play guitar for your cousin," she reminded him.

"Marshal Moret," he supplied his cousin's name.

"Tonight?"

Custine nodded. "The marshal is hosting a small celebration to honor the birth of the emperor's son.

You will be part of the entertainment."

"And when shall I bring my wife to the chateau?" Lewis spoke up. "In time to play during dinner, perhaps?"

Custine acknowledged Lewis's presence with a reluctant nod. "That would be acceptable, gypsy," he agreed stiffly. "If she isn't there by nine I'll have you whipped," he added cheerfully before he turned and walked away. His soldiers laughed at his words. One of them made a threatening gesture at Lewis; then they hurried to follow their commander out of camp.

Sara relaxed against him as the Frenchmen disappeared from sight. "Charming," she said. "I don't think he likes you," she added.

Lewis nodded to Beng, then took Sara back into the wagon. "He'd like me to stand aside while he seduces my wife," he said once they were inside.

"I'm not your wife," she reminded him.

"So I'm supposed to let you be seduced by him?"

"I'm not going to get seduced by him."

"Why not?" Lewis demanded. He knew he sounded foolish but he couldn't keep from adding, "He's handsome. He's tall. Gallant."

A teasing smile lifted her lips. "You're handsome. You can be gallant—well, Toma can be."

"I'm not tall."

"No, but you're kind of cute."

"Do you like me?" Lewis shook his head, then pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. "What am I saying? I'm blathering like a fool when I should be crowing with delight."

Sara eyed him suspiciously. "Oh, yeah? What's to crow about?"

"Because it's Marshal Moret's house I've brought you here to rob."

"I'm not robbing anybody's house."

"Yes, you are." He did not want to go through it again.

"It's using us, you know. It has been all along. What is it you want?" She was looking at her right hand when she spoke.

Lewis was getting sick of this magic ring fantasy. He grabbed her hand and began pulling on her ring finger. "There's no magic rin—" A silver circlet appeared as he spoke. "You are wearing a ring!" Where had it come from? She hadn't been wearing a ring, then she had. "But..."

"I told you it was invisible. Unless it wants you to see it."

"But..." The ring had a small orange stone. It had its own inner glow. It seemed . . . alive. Lewis gave Sara a confused look. "Magic?" She nodded. "Nonsense." He touched the stone.

"Surprise," said the ring.

He'd heard that voice before, inside his head. "But? ..."

"Articulate, aren't you, Lieutenant?" the ring said scoffingly.

"It's always like that," Sara said. "You get used to the sarcasm."

"But... magic?"

"I told you."

"I... see," he said slowly. "I've joined you in your delusion. We're insane together."

"That's a possibility," Sara agreed.

"Nonsense," the ring told them. "You're both as sane as I am. I want you both to calm down so we can discuss how you're going to get the brooch."

Lewis tightened his grip on Sara's hand convulsively. "The brooch," he gasped. "How do you know about the brooch?"

"What brooch?" Sara asked.

"My brooch," the ring answered.

"The duke of Bororavia's brooch," Lewis told her. "That's what I need you to steal."

"My own true love," the ring added. "We'll be together again at last."

Sara looked from the ring to Lewis, then back again. "You're nuts," she told them. "Both of you. I refuse to be involved in this—"

"Please, Sara," man and ring pleaded together. "I need you."

Introducing them had been a bad idea. One was looking at her like a begging puppy. The other was projecting hopeful longing with the intensity of nuclear radiation. She tried to block Lewis's look and the ring's longing with angry resentment. She hadn't asked to get into this mess! But trying to pout didn't work for more than a few seconds. There was no way she could hold out against both of them.

Sara swore under her breath, then said, "All right, I give up. I'm not going to get any peace until I help you steal this brooch, so we might as well do it."

It was a bujo,
this ring business, Lewis decided as he paced outside Molly's wagon. Some sort of elaborate hoax. A deception, that's all it was. There were no such things as magic rings. She'd been playing him for a fool all along, drawing him into her tales of magic so thoroughly that when she finally revealed the actual piece of cheap jewelry he accepted her elaborate lies as real. "That's all it is," he mumbled as he paced. "Lies. She's trying to make a fool of me. But why?" He pondered the question as he tramped restlessly back and forth.

He'd spent his day juggling and running the tightrope. The crowds had gathered to cheer and he'd taken his bows as if it were a normal, sunny autumn day. But all the while his mind had raced with plans for the night, with images of Custine's covetous attention to Sara, and growing anger at himself for believing, even for an instant, in a magic ring. "Nonsense," he grumbled again. "What trick is she playing on me? Sly little gypsy. And what's taking so long in there?" He banged impatiently on the side of the cart.

Beth stuck her head out of the curtained side window and called, "Give it a rest, Toma. She's almost ready."

"It didn't take her this long to get dressed for our wedding," he called back. Beth laughed and ducked her head back inside.

It was twilight, and Sara was in the wagon preparing for her appearance at the Moret dinner party. He didn't know why she was making such a fuss. Why couldn't she just wear a clean skirt, a fresh headscarf, and the blouse she'd mended the day before? Was she trying to make herself look beautiful for Custine?

That
gajo
didn't need any encouragement to think she was beautiful.

He looked down and discovered that his hand was resting on the hilt of his knife. "Hurry up!" he shouted.

The door banged open a second later. Sara stood in the entrance. He glanced up and felt his mouth drop open. She wore a fashionable white dress that showed off her amber skin and raven hair to perfection. The neckline was square and low-cut, and her curls were swept up in an elegant style threaded with a scarlet ribbon. She looked as if she were ready to walk into a London ballroom, and Lewis didn't like it one bit.

She stepped down from the wagon and twirled around in front of him. Molly and Beth took her place in the doorway, both of them smiling happily at their handiwork.

Sara stopped turning and said, "Well, what do you think? Stylish, but modest, or so Molly says. She says French women wear thin muslin and then soak it in water. Sort of the wet T-shirt look, I guess." He continued to stare until she waved her hand in front of his face. "You in there? What are you thinking, Toma?"

"I think," he said, voice low and caustic, "that you should not try to ape your betters."

Sara looked at him in dumbfounded confusion that grew quickly into smoldering anger. "Better than what, you—?"

"Put on some decent clothes," he interrupted before she could work up to an angry tirade.

"You sound just like Beng," she shot back.

That moment Beng came up, looked her over, and said, "Are you going to let her dress like that?"

"No, I'm not," Lewis said. He reached for Sara.

She jumped back before he could grab her arm. "I've seen prom dresses that show more skin than this."

"It's indecent," Beng and Lewis said together.

"Why?"

A crowd was gathering. Sara heard murmurings of
mirame
in the background. Here we go again, she thought with an inward groan. "Excuse me," she called above the growing noise. "It's just a dress." She brushed her hands down the fabric of the skirt. "Look at it objectively, okay? Rom dress code says that women don't show their legs. There is no leg showing here. There are no rules being broken." She glared fiercely at Lewis. "Can we go now?"

She let him take her arm. He grasped it hard enough to bruise but she didn't mention that he was hurting her. They stopped by their wagon for her guitar, then headed out of camp. They walked along in silence for a while as the sky turned to dark velvet and the stars came out.

"So," she said as they approached a tall wrought-iron gate, "you ticked off because I look
gajo
or because I don't look Rom?"

Lewis blinked in confusion. "It's one and the same."

"No, it isn't." She smiled to herself. "Think about it."

He didn't want to think about anything. "You have a job to get on with."

Sara's secret smile widened. They stopped at the gatehouse and Lewis explained their business. The guard nodded, let them through, and pointed the path toward the servants' entrance to the chateau.

Once they were out of the gatekeeper's hearing she said, "I've got a gig. All I'm doing is playing guitar, then I'm out of there." His grip tightened. "Ouch! Dammit, let go!" To make matters worse the ring sent a shocked jolt of emotion all the way up her arm. "Ow! Stop that!" The guitar dropped out of her numb grasp with a loud clatter.

Lewis covered her mouth with his hand. He drew her tightly to him in the shadow of a tall, flowering bush. The scent of night-blooming flowers mingled with the scent of her skin and the metal taste of fear in his mouth. When she would have struggled he forced her to be still.

"Be quiet!" he whispered fiercely in her ear. "I didn't come this far to fail. Toy with me now and so help me, I'll slit your pretty throat."

She heard his desperation and she believed the threat. How could she make the man understand that she just couldn't do it?

"Please," the ring said. "I can't get to the brooch without your help."

The ring sounded desperate, vulnerable, not at all like the arrogant magical being she was used to.

What was it like, she wondered suddenly, being a magical being?

"Lonely," the ring answered.

Its plaintive sadness got to her. Lewis's hand came away from her mouth. He stroked her throat and collarbone gently, sending warm tremors through her.

"Sara," he whispered. "Please. I'll never ask another thing of you."

You've never asked anything of me,
she wanted to snap.
You just make demands.

"He doesn't know any other way. He's a lord, you're a peasant. He doesn't know how to ask for help," the ring said.

He should learn,
she thought bleakly.
You both should.

His breath brushed against her ear. "Help me," he pleaded.