My Own True Love (3 page)

The ring didn't give her time to stare numbly at her surroundings, or dive back inside the tent. The force controlling her gave her only a moment to take in the area. There was a horse paddock to one side, gypsy wagons on the other. The tent was one of several set up behind a row of ramshackle, unpainted shacks. The sky overhead was a smoky yellow-gray—worse than Los Angeles during a smog alert. She had the vaguest impression, like a Turner watercolor, of ship masts and buildings in the distance.

The overriding impression wasn't of sight but of sound, raucous, riotous, tumultuous—a carnival of sound. The air was full of noise, all of it coming from somewhere beyond the line of buildings. Even without the ring's unstoppable tug she would have been drawn toward the sound. Curiosity pulled her toward the fairgrounds as much as magic.

"But where are we going?" she demanded as she rounded the last low building and the crowds came into sight.

The ring remained adamantly silent; it just moved her onward. She was marched inexorably through a sea of humanity milling around booths and tents and stages. This was not the fair she'd come to hours before. The August heat still burned down on the sweating crowds, but it shone on a different world.

There was no psuedo-Elizabethan pageantry here, no T-shirts or jeans or sunglasses or anything at all like she'd left behind. There were food vendors and booths full of wares; jugglers and musicians strolled through the throng. She was taken past many stages where loud and bawdy shows were being performed. She caught sight of puppet shows, and a dancing pig, in passing.

Everyone here was dressed in period clothing. Some were in rags, some in silk, but every last man, woman, and child pushing and shoving and staring at the entertainments was wearing costumes from a bygone era.

"Looks like a set for
Pride and Prejudice,"
she muttered. She sighed with relief, glad she at least recognized the style of the fashions worn by the more prosperous fairgoers. "Regency period. I can deal with the Regency."

The women were in simple, high-waisted gowns. Their hair was mostly short and curled, bound with ribbons; a few wore pretty hats. Those few who noticed her staring at them looked haughtily away.

Men's dress was more extreme than the women's. Everything about masculine attire was designed to enhance their masculinity. The light-colored, skintight pants, especially, left nothing to the imagination.

Sara blushed and looked away every time her gaze strayed below waist level on the passing men. And she a veteran of many a hard-rock concert.

"Now I know why they called trousers inexpressables," she said as she was pulled by the invisible force to the foot of one of the larger stages.

"Here we are," the ring announced. "Just in time."

"Just in time for what?" Sara demanded while people pressed in behind her.

"You have an appointment with destiny. Or have you forgotten that you wished to meet your own true love?"

"Yeah, but I didn't ask to be transported through time to do it," she complained. "I'd have preferred meeting him at a Bon Jovi concert. Where are we, anyway?"

"London. We're at St. Bartholomew's Fair—where you will meet your own true love. All wishes cheerfully granted." There was a metallic sigh. "Some just take more work than others."

Sara wanted to scream. She wanted to yell in frustration, to tear the ring off and stomp on it. But furious and frightened as she was, she was able to remember she'd been talking out loud to a magic ring in the middle of a crowd in the early years of the nineteenth century. She'd seen documentaries on how crazy people were treated in olden times. It wasn't easy, but she made herself remain silent to keep from drawing attention to herself. She counted to a high number and studied the stage while trying to regain her temper and her coherence.

The stage held juggling clubs and a chair and hoops and balls. Three sharp-looking daggers hung from a stand at the back of the stage. A rope was strung about ten feet in the air over a long metal basin. The stage was still empty, but from the size and enthusiasm of the gathering she assumed they were waiting for a popular performance.

When she felt calm enough to carry on a reasonable conversation, she tried thinking, very loudly, at the ring.

/
appreciate the effort,
she began.
But this reincarnation thing wasn't exactly what I had in
mind.

'“
I did the best I could with what I had to work with."

The ring sounded so wistfully affronted she didn't know how to answer. She was saved from any immediate reply when a wizened little man in a patchwork vest jumped up on the stage. The audience roared, and Sara was completely distracted as a rush of anticipation caught hold of her.

The impatient crowd shifted and shoved forward as the man came to the edge of the stage. Sara could see the cracked leather of his boots as he stopped inches away from her nose.

She craned her neck to look up at him as he waved his arms dramatically and pronounced, "Defying death and the flames of hell! Toma the Magnificent!"

Behind her the crowd shouted and clapped and cheered as a slender figure in red tights jumped up on the stage behind the announcer. Sara was aware of a great deal of feminine sighing going on. She assumed it had something to do with the tights.

As the announcer stepped aside she got her first good look at the lithely muscular performer as he took an elegant bow in the center of the stage. It wasn't just the tights, she decided, it was the man's whole compactly built body. He wasn't tall or conventionally handsome but he definitely had his share of self-confident sex appeal.

His darkly furred chest was bare and sun bronzed. His hair was blue-black, thick, and straight. It fell past his shoulders, held out of his face by a wide silver-and-red striped headband. His face was triangular with wide cheekbones that narrowed down to a sharp chin. Even from a distance she could tell that his eyes, narrowed against bright sunlight, were intensely blue. The clinging material of his tights molded his well-shaped thighs and calves and emphasized the bulge at his groin in a way that made the trousers she'd noticed earlier seem baggy and completely forgettable.

Sara swallowed hard. She was very warm. Tingling. Very . . . She tried to drag her eyes away from the young man so confidently accepting the audience's cheers and applause. She couldn't seem to do it
,
though.

"Well? What do you think?"

What?

"Do you like him?"

Who?

"Don't be obtuse. Toma. Your own true love."

My own
—

Toma had turned from the audience, and was ascending a rope ladder up to the tightrope. She watched his backside as he did so. It was a very firm, flat backside. The smooth ripple of wiry muscles in his back and thighs fascinated her. On the stage the announcer set a torch to the contents of the metal tub. People in the crowd shrieked and surged eagerly forward. Sara was momentarily distracted as she fought to keep from being pressed against the stage supports. When she had secure enough footing to look at Toma again he was on the tightrope platform cheerfully juggling a trio of knives.

While standing on one foot.

Sara considered the ring's announcement, and found herself mentally measuring this Toma, handsome though he was, against her private criteria for romantic interest.

"I don't know," she said, trying to remain skeptical. “Isn't he a little short for an own true love?"

"Own true loves come
in all sizes," the ring answered testily. "I don't know what you're complaining about. You're only five feet tall."

No. This body is only five feet tall.

The ring ignored Her thought. "Besides," it went on, "the man's an acrobat. They don't have to come in a Viking-god model to be fine athletes."

She knew that. She was from a circus family even if she'd never had anything to do with the circus herself. She couldn't help but be impressed with his talent as she watched Toma the Magnificent. She could feel the heat from the flames licking up from the metal trough. They created a wavering haze in the already smoggy air. Toma was oblivious to the heat. He danced forward on the rope strung across the fire pit, nonchalantly continuing to juggle while the flames licked and crackled below.

Sara gaped, as mesmerized as anyone in the audience. She wasn't just impressed by his skill. Like many another woman in the crowd, she also appreciated his sheer physical beauty.

All right,
she thought with a wry smile.
He's not a Viking god, but he's ... nice.

"He's very flexible, too," the ring assured her. “You'll like that."

She didn't bother trying to think an answer. She just lifted her head haughtily, and tried not to breathe too heavily as Toma tossed away the knives with a seemingly careless, fluid motion. He then began to dance a slow and sensuous ballet across the narrow strand of rope. Sara watched the graceful play of muscle, the flowing gestures and teasing pauses for audience appreciation with a growing sense of awed hanger. It was only the knowledge that she was just one of several hundred women he was playing to that kept her from licking her lips in hungry anticipation.

Perspective,
she told herself.
You have got to keep your sense of perspective. He's perfect, but...

The citrine ring on her finger acknowledged this concession with a smug tingle.

But,
she thought, /
don't really want anything to to with the man. Thank you for bringing me
here,
she added.

Toma paused, then did a backflip that turned into a handstand on the swaying rope. Sara screamed and applauded with everyone else while her interior conversation with the ring went on.

It's nice to know there's an own true love somewhere for me. It's just that I'd rather be in my
own century,
she explained.
I'm sure there's someone there, somewhere, who
—

Something tugged on her hand.

"You don't have to get physical," she complained aloud.

"Sara?"

She raised her hand to look at the ring, but a hand tugging forcefully on her skirt made her look back down immediately. She saw a dirty-faced little girl with the biggest, greenest eyes she'd ever seen.

"'Allo," said the little girl. "Wat're you doing 'ere?”

"Uh—" Sara began uncertainly.

"You're supposed to be round back," the child went on. "You promised 'im, remember?"

"Uh. No," Sara replied honestly. "I don't."

The girl's expression twisted into a disgusted grimace. "You sick again? If you ain't sick lately," the child went on, "you're sneakin' around with
'im."
The girl tugged forcefully on Sara's skirt. "Come on, then," she insisted. "'E promised me a penny ta remind you."

"You'd better go with her," the ring suggested.

"Come on, it's almost over," the girl said, grabbing Sara by the sleeve.

The heat and press of bodies near the stage was stifling. Oily smoke from the fire made the already thick air even worse. Sara gave one last, lingering glance at Toma the Magnificent and let the girl lead her away from the stage. She didn't want to admit to the pang of loss at leaving the show without having actually met Toma. Own true loves, even impossible ones didn't come along every day. However, she knew it was also for the best if she got out of here without making any actual contact with the man.

And,
she told herself firmly,
he really isn't my own true
—

"Her name is Beth," the ring interrupted her thought. "She's ten, an orphan, and your apprentice."

She's not my apprentice,
Sara corrected.
I'm not Sara. I'm Sara. I mean . . .
Her thoughts trailed off in a confused mental stutter. Both she and the ring remained silent as Beth led the way through the jostling audience. Sara noticed that Beth seemed to bump into people a bit more than was necessary, and that her childish smile seemed just a touch too innocent.

Apprentice what?
she thought suspiciously.

"Pickpocket."

Is she ... picking? Right now?

"With a great deal of skill and enthusiasm."

She ought to be ashamed.

'Orphans need to eat, Sara."

Sara didn't know how to respond, or what to do. She did know that drawing attention to the child's activities wouldn't do either of them any good. She was very glad when they at last emerged from the crowd. Beth turned them away from the fairgrounds and led the way down an alley. Sara soon found herself in an enclosed area behind the stage. A quick look around showed her a bedroll and a leather-sound trunk placed under a wooden awning. A water barrel was set to one side of the enclosure.

Toma's announcer stood in the center of the narrow space. He drained the contents of a tin cup and put it down before he turned toward them. He gave Sara a disapproving look, then sidled past her to the alley. Sara nearly coughed at the distinct aroma of gin his passing left hanging in the still August air. The man smelled as if he'd been pickled in the stuff.

"Who's he?" she asked after he'd gone.

"Sandor, of course," Beth answered. "Dizziness gotten to your brain, gypsy?" the girl asked sarcastically as she sat down on the dusty ground. She settled back against the bare wooden wall.

"Show's over. I can 'ear 'em clappin' for more. "'E won't give 'em more, though. Got better things on 'is mind." She cocked her head to one side, continuing to look Sara over critically. "You ain't blushin'. Why ain't you blushin', gypsy girl? You been red as roses before."

"Before what?"

"Before."

Beth looked at her as if she thought Sara was an idiot. Sara thought that maybe she was, and turned away from the green-eyed girl's stare. She knew she was missing something significant. Something about the activities of the Sara she wasn't.

Listen,
she complained to the ring.
I'm living somebody else's life here, and I don't like it. I mean

—

She heard a soft tread behind her. There was an aroma of soot and scented oil and masculine sweat.