“Too?” Ian threw the stained piece of petticoat he’d washed with onto the ground. “Your grandmother taught you to use a dagger?” Astonishment tinged his voice. “Obviously, you were an apt pupil.”
Vangie stopped her ministrations, staring at the upholstery wistfully. “The Romani should be arriving any day now.” She cut her gaze to Malcolm for a moment before gravitating her attention to Ian. Despite the heaviness in her heart, she attempted a smile. “It will be the first time in my memory I’ll not stay with the travelers for a few weeks.” She fidgeted with the cloth in her hands. “They are an honorable people but suffer much persecution because their ways are different.”
Crouched as she was, her legs’ cramping drew her attention to the present. She slid onto the seat beside Malcolm. Returning her focus to his wound, Vangie declared defiantly, “If I’d the means, I’d help them. They deserve to be treated with dignity.”
“I agree,” Ian said, sincerity and warmth ringing in his voice.
She wrapped a length of petticoat around Malcom’s arm. “Were you aware I’m part Roma—that gypsy ratti runs in my veins?”
She regarded Ian guardedly, daring him to object to her heritage. How would he respond to her revelation? How would she react if he rejected her again?
“I know, sweeting.” He leaned over and kissed her soundly on the mouth, despite the flabbergasted coachman’s twitching nose but inches from their meshed lips.
“Ahem.” Malcom cleared his throat, his ears crimson.
Vangie promptly shifted away, no doubt her cheeks as red as his glowing ears.
Ian regarded her as if besotted.
Another discreet cough brought a flurry of heat to her face and another fool’s grin to Ian’s. Was he daft, kissing her mere inches from the coachman? Pleased and confused, Vangie bent to her task once more, efficiently tying off the last bandage. “There you are, Malcolm.”
“Thank ye, milady.” He nodded as he fingered the bandage.
She rested against the plush seat, her hands clasped tightly. Now that the crisis had passed, she’d become self-conscious, unsure of her skills. “You’ll need to see a physician of course—to be sure it has been properly treated. I’ve not dressed a firearm wound before, only knife cuts and gashes.”
“Knife cuts and gashes?” One sable eyebrow arched, Ian’s expression held admiration and surprise.
“Mmm.” She nodded. “Sometimes, the brethren are involved in fights with each other, but more commonly with gadjo, non-Roma. Knives are the Roma’s weapon of choice.”
Ian reached over, tugged her knotted hands loose, then raised one to his lips. “You were absolutely marvelous.” He kissed the back of her hand before turning it over to place a hot, lingering kiss on her palm. He caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb, causing her pulse to frolic alarmingly. Or mayhap, the smoldering glint in his eyes caused her heart’s cavorting.
“Uh hum!” Malcolm noisily cleared his throat once more, this time sounding as if he gargled glass.
“Aye, milady. I ain’t ne’er seen a lady o’ quality willin’ to dirty ’er ’ands afore.” Gifford offered this compliment from the open doorway, bobbing his head all the while. He gingerly placed her clean dagger on the seat. All evidence of the knife’s recent resting place had been erased.
“Me either, yer ladyship. Thank ye. It’s grateful I be.” Malcolm made this pronouncement while gingerly exiting the coach.
Vangie beamed, delighted with their approval, and more importantly, their acceptance of her Romani heritage. “Thank you, gentlemen.” Noting the coachman’s sudden pallor, concern gripped her. “Malcolm, you don’t mean to drive?”
“Nay, milady.” He jogged his chin toward Gifford. “I jus’ needs to be next to this goosecap. He’d ’ave us lost inside of five minutes.”
“Wouldna,” Gifford objected indignantly.
“Aye, lad, ye would,” Malcom said, closing the door behind him.
Still arguing, the two climbed aboard the outer seat, and with a yell and the crack of a whip, the coach lurched forward and continued on its way.
“Ian, what about…those men?” Vangie sliced a glance at the shadows outside and shuddered, gooseflesh prickling her neck and shoulders.
He followed the direction of her gaze. “Gifford pulled their bodies to the side of the road. I’ll send for a magistrate when we stop for the night a few miles farther along. He will deal with them.”
She gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose that will have to do.”
“Sweeting…?” Ian hesitated, looking like a confused schoolboy rather than a commanding lord. “Did your grandmother truly teach you to use a knife?”
She curved her lips at the corners. She’d wager her pin money, if she had any that was, he’d been burning to ask the question since she’d disposed of the robber. Guilt and remorse washed over her once more stealing her smile with it.
Declaring the opposite seat required the blood cleansed before it was usable again, Ian had claimed a spot beside her when they’d resumed their journey. Coatless, he’d rolled his sleeves to the elbow and unfastened the shirt’s top buttons. A dark claret-colored stain marred the collar.
Thoroughly unnerved by his close proximity and his state of undress, Vangie was unable to concentrate on anything but the muscular leg pressing intimately against her thigh. Or the hand and forearm smattered with fine dark hair, which rested inches from her leg.
“Vangie?”
She raised her eyes to his.
He regarded her expectantly.
“Hmm? Did you say something, Ian?”
“Grandmother? Knife?” He held her dagger and dipped it up and down.
“Ah, yes.” She accepted it from him, turning it over in her palm. “I’m quite skilled with blades. Puri Daj was adamant I be, so she and Yoska taught me the art.”
“Yoska?”
“The bandolier. The leader of our clan.” She slid her dagger into the medicine basket. “It isn’t unusual to have unfriendly or unwelcome visitors at the encampment. Assault is not common, but it does happen on occasion. Roma women do what we must to protect ourselves.”
“I had no idea,” he murmured.
Vangie scrutinized his face. Her disclosure didn’t appear to have disturbed him. This might though. She grinned. “Uncle Gideon insisted Yvette and I be trained in weaponry. Whenever I visited, he’d give me lessons. I’m proficient with firearms too.”
Ian’s brows climbed to his hairline.
An unwelcome thought snaked its way into her mind where it coiled menacingly. The robber had known she didn’t travel alone. “Ian, why did the highwayman ask where you were? How did he know there was a gentleman traveling with me?”
Though Ian was loath to admit it to Vangie, the same thought troubled him. If he counted the vagrant attempting to waylay him on his journey to London, this was the third time in as many weeks he’d been set upon by ruffians. Plus, there’d also been the incident with the curricle’s wheel.
He finally settled on the most plausible and least alarming explanation. “It would be most unusual for a female to travel alone,” he reassured her. “Naturally, since you’d no companion, he assumed a male accompanied you.”
Ian didn’t believe a word of that flim flam. A persistent notion niggled in the recesses of his mind, as if he had overlooked something. He turned his mouth downward, but only for a moment. He’d not fret on it. The answer would come to him. It always did. His mind had a way of sifting and sorting information subconsciously, forming a logical explanation from a conglomeration of facts, nuances, and details. The ability was really quite extraordinary.
Not as extraordinary as his new bride, however.
Blades and pistols. Would wonders never cease?
He wasn’t altogether certain whether to be reassured or concerned about this newly acquired knowledge regarding his wife. Vangie was turning out to be a deucedly fascinating catch after all. His face split with what he was positive was an imbecile’s
grin, and he chuckled inwardly. He quite liked the idea of having taken a gypsy to wife. For certain, life would never be dull.
A few inches separated their hands, and Ian gathered hers in his. She’d not donned her gloves after tending to Malcolm. He rubbed a finger against her wedding ring. “It was my mother’s.”
An unspoken question shone in her pretty eyes. He smiled an answer, chagrined to see a hopeful light flicker in his wife’s gorgeous gaze. She so wanted his acceptance, his approval. She deserved it after proving her loyalty to him. No, she deserved it before then, when she’d gone willingly to his bed, an untried maid, trusting him, her stranger-of-a-husband.
A spark of anger flared, burning hot behind his breastbone. He’d not be as forgiving with his stepmother and sister as his bride had been with him. They’d caused incalculable harm to her, though his conscience whispered he was to blame for listening to their gossip and reacting with anger instead of self-control and logic.
These past days had tried him to the limits of his endurance. He wanted her in is bed. Wanted to taste her sweet lips once more. His attention strayed to Vangie’s mouth. Slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to turn away, he lowered his head. When his mouth met hers, a wistful sigh escaped her plump lips, and she tentatively returned his kiss.
Gently, reverently, he caressed her mouth with his. Not a kiss of passion or lust, but a tender, heartfelt apology. He explored, yearning, seeking, hoping he’d find what he desperately sought within the honeyed cavern—forgiveness—though unwarranted.
With a final press of his lips against her beautiful mouth, he leaned away, smiling contentedly. She hadn’t rebuffed him, and he now knew what he must do to win his wife over.
He’d woo her.
There’d been no courtship before their nuptials, but he vowed, he’d charm his bride. He’d dazzle her with everything a young damsel’s heart desired. She’d willingly given herself to him, and not only her luscious body, but her heart as well.
What an incredible and wholly unpredictable turnabout.
Barely a week ago, he’d cursed fate for her role in forcing him to wed Vangie. And today, he rejoiced at his good fortune. He caressed his wife with his gaze, and as if sensing his perusal, she gifted him with an exquisite smile. More optimistic than he’d been the whole of the previous week, he returned her smile, gently squeezing her hand.
Perhaps he’d found favor with God at last. Why the recent streak of misfortunes then? If only the feeling he’d missed something obvious didn’t persist annoyingly like a sliver in his finger.
Ian jolted awake, confused and disoriented. The coach no longer rocked and swayed. Bending forward, careful not to disturb Vangie nestled against his side, he peered through the window. He breathed a sigh of relief upon spying The White Stag Inn. It was well into the late-night hours; a dangerous time to be on the road, which was why a loaded pistol lay on the seat beside him.
He nudged her. “Sweeting, wake up.”
The gut-wrenching terror pummeling him when he’d seen her cornered at gun-point whipped him anew. He well-knew the salacious intentions of the blackguard he’d consigned to the grave, courtesy of the lead ball he planted in him. Reflexively, he tightened his arms around her. God help anyone intending to harm this woman. His woman. His wife.
“Vangie.” He kissed her forehead.
“Hmm?” Shivering, she snuggled further into his side.
“We’ve arrived at the inn.” Ian’s gaze roamed her face, relaxed and unbelievably beautiful in repose.
He hoped she felt something for him too. Mayhap, she didn’t understand the feeling, but perhaps it had compelled her to take a life to protect him. The elusive emotion was foreign to him, and only now did he recognize the sentiment. The understanding left him desperate and vulnerable. And utterly terrified.
Were he and Vangie predestined for one another? Had God ordained from the beginning of time that they should find each other and through freewill, or otherwise, bound them together? A week ago, he’d have scoffed at these fanciful notions, calling them fustian nonsense, balderdash and claptrap, but now?
She stirred sleepily, her eyes fluttering half-open, a shy smile teasing her mouth.
He placed another feathery kiss upon her tempting lips. Her smile widened beneath his mouth. Elation sluiced him, and he settled her closer, never breaking contact with her lips. This was not a kiss borne of desire but one of tender, awe-inspiring emotion. A tantalizing kiss which wordlessly offered his heart to her.
Somehow, he knew she perceived the gift. She reached between them, laying her palm against his heart. He raised his head, dropping a reverent kiss upon her forehead before edging away.
“I’ll see to our rooms.” With his forefinger, he flicked the sable curls tumbled to her shoulders. “You might want to restore your appearance.” He winked wickedly. “People might talk.”
A tiny squeak escaped Vangie, and she immediately reached to straighten her hair.
A roguish chuckle reverberated in Ian’s chest. He teased her, and she grinned. The ramparts he’d erected around himself had disappeared, and even in the coach’s dim light, an unmistakable glimmer shone in his eyes. She drew in a calming breath. His doting attention excited her, causing her heart to beat a pace or two quicker.
“I’ll be but a few minutes,” he said. “Stay here.”
Once he stepped from the equipage, she smoothed her skirt, donned her hat and gloves, and waited for him to return. She deliberately avoided looking at the dark stains on the opposite seat.
A wave of nausea assailed her, accompanied by a burst of pain behind her eyes. The discomfort spread, becoming an incessant throbbing, spanning her forehead and temples. Searing pulsations radiated from her temple to her jaw.
Another headache? So soon?
Would she never be free of them? For thirteen long years she’d suffered these horrid megrims. Better now than when I needed my wits about me to save Ian’s life.
She could yet see the face of the man she’d stabbed, and a shudder rippled through her. Surely God would forgive her for taking his life. His wasn’t innocent blood, but that of a devious, black-hearted scoundrel. Besides, she’d killed to protect her husband.
She drew in a raggedy, shallow breath. She’d do it again too.
The drumming in her head increased ferociously, pounding and thrumming like the leather-topped djembe’s played during Romani celebrations. She raised a shaky hand to cup her forehead. Dear, God.
Through the buzzing in her ears, Vangie was vaguely aware of Ian speaking to Malcolm and Gifford. No doubt giving them instructions for the night and departure on the morrow. The door opened, and smiling, he poked his head inside.
She detected a smidgeon of worry when his perceptive gaze lit on her face.
“Have you a headache, sweeting?”
She didn’t dare nod. “Yes.”
“Come, I’ll help you alight.” Ian lifted her from the carriage then set her on her wobbly legs.
Grateful for the bracing arm he slipped around her waist, she attempted a weak smile.
“The White Stag Inn is a farmhouse turned public lodgings,” he said, escorting her inside.
As long as there’s a bed.
Vangie was beyond caring. She needed to lie down. Through the fog numbing her senses, she worked a labored glance over the common room and the blazing fire in the hearth. Spots floating before her eyes, she clutched at Ian’s arm with one hand to steady herself whilst pressing the other to her gyrating stomach. She’d never cast up her accounts before but feared she might this time.
A rotund woman with rosy red cheeks and a smile to match her substantial girth trundled to them. Her wiry gray hair constrained into a semblance of a knot, she dropped an awkward curtsey. “Yer room’s been made ready, m’lord, and I’ll ’ave yer food—” She lunged forward and grasped Vangie’s elbow, steadying her. “Yer ladyship, ye be ready to keel over!”
Vangie swallowed, fuzziness encapsulating her. Lord, how s
he hated this. “Ian?” Panic riddled her voice.
Without preamble, he scooped her into his arms. “Our room?”
“This way, yer lordship.” The proprietress beckoned him to follow as she waddled to the stairs.
Vangie daren’t close her eyes. Blackness would engulf her. Instead, she pressed her head into Ian’s chest and counted to five with each inhalation and exhalation. Squinting against the sparkling zigzags rotating before her eyes, she concentrated on the proprietress’ ample backside as she labored up the staircase.
Wheezing, the woman opened a door at the far end of the corridor. She shuffled to the bed, and tossing back a quilt said, “I’ll ’ave Peg bring ye water and yer supper.” Her chuffy face crinkled with concern, she asked, “Do her ladyship be needin’ anythin’?”
Ian laid Vangie on the bed. The room swirled, gyrating around and around, as the black, spiraling tunnel tried to suck her into obscurity. He touched her forehead and traced a gentle path over her cheek. She locked her attention on his calm, reassuring gaze.
He glanced at the woman. “Have you any smelling salts?”
Vangie tried to focus on Ian’s voice, but it echoed so far away.
The innkeeper shook her head, her loose chins flapping with her vehemence. “Nay, sir. Not much call fer salts.”
It’s too late—
Vangie awoke slowly. Snuggled beneath layers of blankets, she felt more refreshed than she had in weeks. She sighed contentedly, burying her face in the pillow in an attempt to avoid a persistent ray of sun angling across her face. A few moments passed before Vangie realized she wasn’t alone in the bed.
“Good morning, my lady,” Ian purred close to her ear.
She cracked open her eyelids.
He lay in his pantaloons and shirt atop the bedding, his dark head but inches from hers.
Feeling shy, she softly replied, “Good morning.”
His gaze held hers, and she couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. He said not a word, but something deep in his eyes spoke to her spirit. He angled his head and lightly kissed her.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 14
