The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (24 page)

Chapter 27

The wings of the gentle breeze sweeping across the clearing carried Ian’s words away. In frustrated horror, he watched Vangie’s horse rear. Good God, had his shouting spooked the beast? She slid off the horse’s broad rump, tumbling to the ground. She lay in a heap, unmoving.

His heart stopped, terror numbing his mind. “Van—gie!”

He didn’t recognize the tormented voice that ripped from his throat.

He watched Ailsa swing her horse around, evidently intent on rescuing her mistress. Before she reached Vangie, a gypsy on horseback emerged from the trees and pounded to her side.

The man at the pond.

Vangie obviously knew him. She stumbled to her feet, holding her side. The Roma reached down, and in one smooth movement, swung her behind him on his sorrel gelding. Vangie turned to look over her shoulder.

Across the distance, her gaze met Ian’s. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes, before laying her head on the gypsy’s broad back. With a yip, the unknown man kneed his gelding. He and Ailsa raced their horses over a knoll and out of sight.

Ian gazed at the stunned audience assembled in the paddock. A couple stable hands coughed and averted their gazes. In full view of a dozen of his staff, his bride had fled with another man. Ian’s face heated in humiliation, but he ignored his pride.

They didn’t know about Lucinda’s lies.

Neither did Vangie.

Her mare dutifully trotted back to the enclosure. Ben snared the reigns, then led the horse into the barn. Close on his heels, Ian began saddling Pericles. He was going after his wife.

Glancing up, he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Blast and damn. Pretending to adjust the saddle, he walked around the other side of the stallion, keeping his gaze trained on Ben.

The groom loosened the mare’s girth strap, then deftly edged his fingers beneath the saddle before slipping his fist into his pocket. Ian lashed out, gripping the groom’s smaller hand in his own.

“Give it over.” Ian demanded, rage lacing each syllable.

Ben dared bravado. “S—sir?”

He gulped, terrified. His eyes, already bulging in fright, widened further when his gaze swept the barn.

Ian glanced over his right shoulder. His men formed a semicircle behind him. Their loyalty in the wake of Vangie’s flight was balm to his wounded pride. He squeezed Ben’s hand mercilessly, ignoring the cur’s gasp of pain.

“Ye better hand it over, lad. It will, go better for ye if ye do,” Gerard advised solemnly, then spit.

With a cry of defeat, Ben relaxed his hand.

Ian snatched the horseshoe nail from the groom. Blood and hair matted its length. Seizing Ben’s lapels, Ian jerked the groom eye level with him. “You ought to be thanking God my wife was able to ride away.”

He shook the groom. “And you’d better be praying she isn’t injured, or so help me God, I’ll. . .”

Ben went ashen beneath the light fuzz smattering his pimply face.

“Hell.” Ian shoved him away.

Ben staggered backward, almost falling. Not a single man offered him a hand.

“The only reason I’m not beating you to within an inch of your miserable life, is because I don’t have the time to waste.”

Ian returned his attention to hastily saddling his horse. Teeth clenched, he grated, “You have exactly fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and get off Somersfield lands.”

He pointed to Ben. “Venture within twenty miles of Somersfield again and I’ll have charges brought against you—after you’ve felt the lash.”

Ian swung his gaze to Gerard. “You’ll see to it, and notify the magistrate?”

Not that notifying Sir Doyle amounted to a whole lot. The man was an incompetent, dishonest buffoon. 

Nodding his head, Gerard spit again. “Aye, yer lordship, with pleasure. Never took to the boy. Her ladyship insisted I hire the corn-faced lad. Distant relative, she said.”

He snorted. “Get on with ye, then, ye bloody cur.”

Tell-tale moisture darkening the front of trousers, Ben scurried to do Gerard’s bidding.

Hours
later, after making numerous inquiries, Ian located the Romani encampment. Sitting atop a hill, he peered down on the deceptively peaceful scene. He was unarmed except for a dagger concealed in his boot. In his haste to reach Vangie, he hadn’t thought his plan through with his usual logic. Truth be told, he didn’t have a plan.

He’d been befogged with fury and worry. It was only within the past half hour he had begun to think rationally again. He couldn’t very well ride into the encampment and demand they hand over his wife.
Could he
?

The Roma were notorious for both their hospitality and their skill with knives. He wiped his brow with his forearm as his gaze swept the encampment once more. What had Vangie told them? Would he be received as friend or foe?

He released a gusty breath. It mattered not. They had something of his. Something he’d not leave without.

He highly doubted the fiercely loyal, and occasionally hot-tempered, gypsies would see it his way. He oughtn’t to have come devoid of reinforcements, but it was too late to remedy the oversight now. Perhaps riding into the camp unaccompanied would be less threatening to the leery travelers. Perchance it would work in his favor.

Ian sent a silent prayer heavenward that it be so. He’d done more praying since meeting his wife, than he had the whole of his life prior. Shaking his head, he grunted. He was becoming soft.

No, love was subduing him
.

He smiled. Ah, the truth will out.

Pericles took a couple prancing steps. Ian patted his neck. He didn’t doubt there’d been a short nail or two impaling the horse’s back beneath the saddle when he’d tossed Ian weeks ago. Poor beast.

Standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs, Ian froze.

One broken curricle wheel.

His rump hit the saddle with a sharp thud.

Two thrown riders.

Pericles side-stepped and snorted his displeasure.

Three random robbery attempts
.

Job’s own luck? Coincidence?

Not bloody-well likely.

Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Lucinda had always been obsessed with power and position. Her erratic behavior and even more irrational speech this morning pointed to one thing;  she meant him harm. An image of Vangie’s pale face in the south tower loomed to the forefront of his mind.

Not only him, but Vangie.

Confound it all. “How could I have been so blind?” he muttered aloud.

Because, altogether foreign sentiments had crept into every fiber of his being.
Fiend seize it.
They’d muddled his good sense and distorted his sound judgment, making him impervious to everything but winning his beautiful wife’s affections.

Rot and rubbish
?

Not anymore, the devil take it.

Love was indeed hazardous.

Pericles snorted and impatiently shifted his stance as if to say,
let’s get on with it, shall we?

“Aye, my friend, let’s be about it then.”

Ian clicked his tongue while giving a light twitch of the reins. Pericles lunged forward eager to run, but Ian held him to a slow canter, still mulling over his epiphany.

The pieces snapped neatly into place now. Lucinda’s intent at last became glaringly apparent. His stepmother sought to secure through any means, what in her unhinged mind she thought of as rightfully belonging to her. Another nasty niggling taunted the recesses of his mind, but he dismissed it as the Romani camp loomed before him.

His practiced gaze efficiently scanned the clearing. Vangie wasn’t in sight. A score of brightly painted wooden caravans and several simple tents were arranged beneath the towering trees. An equal number of laughing children and barking dogs played beside the wagons or cavorted throughout the encampment.

Two larger
vardos,
one at either end of the glen, drew Ian’s attention. A handsome woman sat within the opening of one of them, watching him with keen, assessing eyes. She tilted her head when their gazes met, almost as if she were greeting him across the distance.

In a roped-off area near the river, two score horses and mules milled about. Several nickered upon catching Pericles’s scent. The stallion shook his head and neighed a greeting. Ian took in the magnificent horseflesh. Tattersalls boasted horseflesh no finer than some of these the Roma possessed.

He made a mental note to pursue that avenue later.

He returned his gaze to the encampment. Several men and women were engaged in various activities along the river’s edge. Others were gathered in small groups around fires, while some of the men smoked pipes or strummed mandolins and violins.

A few Roma were settled against the massive tree trunks playing cards. Conversations ceased, even the children stopped their joyful antics, when he rode to the center of the camp. As a single entity, the Roma turned their dark, expressive eyes to stare at him.

Four men separated themselves from the others, including the gypsy who’d taken Vangie behind him on his horse hours ago. Who the devil was he? A relative? A would-be-lover? Jealousy ripped a jagged course through Ian.

Steady old chap
.
Keep your head.

A distinguished looking man, his hair peppered with gray and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, approached him.

The Roma bowed. “
Sastimos
, Lord Warrick, I am Yoska Bailey.”

So, they had been expecting him. No surprise there.

Yoska made a sweeping gesture, “I am
bandolier
to these noble people. Please, won’t you dismount, and join us in a cup?” 

Ian gave a sharp nod, then dismounted, the whole while searching for any sign of Vangie. It was futile. If she was here, and from the greeting he’d just received, he’d wager Somersfield she was, she was hiding.

“I’ll see to your horse, your lordship.”

The lad reaching for Pericles’s reins looked vaguely familiar. “Thank you. He could use a drink. . .”

“Milosh, my lord.” The boy gave him a toothy grin before leading the stallion away.

Ah, he was the boy Vangie spoke to in Brunswick. Ian watched him. The lad knew what he was about. Pericles would be fine.   Ian turned his gaze to the man who’d carried Vangie off.

“Where’s my wife?”

Smiling, his white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin, Yoska chided gently “In good time, your lordship, in good time. Come, sit with us,” he invited.

Moving in the direction of the other, larger
vardo,
he said, “My nephew, Besnik, brought Zora to us.”

Ian met Besnik’s hard, unyielding stare. There was no contrition in his black eyes.

Perplexed, Ian scowled. “Zora?”

Smiling, Yoska explained, “Evangeline is Zora’s
Gadžo
name, her Christian name. All Roma have one.”

Indicating the two other men trailing behind them, Yoska said, “The brothers Zimmar, Nicu and Tobar.”

Each man inclined his head, though, they like Besnik, said nothing.

At the
vardo
, Yoska indicated a stool with a wave of his hand. “Please, have a seat, my lord.”

He waited until Ian was seated, then he sat on another stool. “Eldra, bring
lavina.
”

A stunning young woman leaned from the wagon. She smiled seductively at Ian. The loose neckline of her canary-colored blouse gaped, exposing her heavy, swinging breasts. One of the gypsies . . . Nicu? . . . frowned at her blatant display, before lifting impassive eyes to Ian.

“
Aue, Dai
, at once,” she murmured in a husky, accented voice.

The woman Ian had seen upon first entering the clearing approached. Though middle-aged, she was still beautiful.

She greeted him in flawless English. “I am Simone Bašavel
Caruthers, my lord, Zora’s grandmother.”

He stood, then bowed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madam Caruthers. Vangie speaks of you often.” 

Madam Caruthers angled her head. He met her fathomless, penetrating gaze. Why did he feel like she was assessing him? Weighing him against something unsaid?

Eldra descended the wagon’s steps, balancing a jug and wooden mugs on a tray. She sashayed the few steps to the men and handed each one a mug. Tugging the stopper from the jug, she filled the cups, leaving Ian’s until the last. Bent over him, she offered another tantalizing view of her full breasts. She smiled a blatant invitation as she poured his dram.

Ian kept his gaze trained on the
vardo
behind her, very aware of the five pairs of eyes assessing him. Eldra’s bosom was mere inches from his nose, her heavy perfume filling his nostrils. He angled away from her and took a healthy quaff of the beer. 

Madam Caruthers said something in Romanese. Eldra straightened abruptly. A pout on her full lips, she glared at the older woman. With a huff and a shrug of her bare shoulders, Eldra strutted from them, swinging her curvy hips. She joined a group of giggling women. They kept sending sidelong glances in Ian’s direction.

He met Madam Caruthers’s eyes. “My wife is in your wagon?”

Ailsa came bounding across the clearing. Dipping Ian a hasty, half-curtsy, she panted, “Madam, my lady asks for you. She’s in an awful way. It’s not her bruised ribs or one of her
megrims
either.”

“It’s as I feared.” Madame Caruthers closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “May God, be merciful.”

Opening them once more, she sent Ian an indecipherable look before she hurried to her wagon, then climbed nimbly inside.

He swung his gaze back to the quartet. They watched him with hooded eyes. Worry niggled unrelentingly. “Gentlemen, I won’t be kept from my wife any longer.”

Setting his cup aside, Ian moved purposefully in the direction of Madam Caruthers’s
vardo
.

No one tried to stop him, and he was thankful. A brawl wouldn’t endear him to Vangie’s family and clan
,
but he would not be deterred again. He slowed his steps as he neared the wagon. Just how did one go about seeking admittance to this miniature home on wheels?