A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing

by Deborah MacGillivray

  A flash of red, outside in the garden, caught his attention. Thinking Raven might be with her pony, he hurried to the outer door and out into the gloaming. He scanned the large garden. Part was neat and cared for; the other section encompassing nearly an acre was wild, obviously once part of the nursery intended to supply Colford with the shrubbery and plants needed to maintain its regal splendor. The splash of color rippled on the other side of climbing roses, moving away from the house.

  Trev followed. Laughter softly echoed through the warm autumnal air. A time that was neither night nor day, the evening here had a supernatural feel. He almost anticipated seeing fairies flit about, dancing on the last rays of the sunset.

  “Trevelyn…” His name hung and floated on the dust motes. Or perhaps they were fairies and he wasn’t looking hard enough.

  The melodic laughter and the distant flap of red material lured him on. Again, he caught site of that brilliant hue—either a scarf or a shawl—as it disappeared into a stand of ancient trees. The air was cooler as he moved under their intertwined limbs, most still holding on to some of their foliage. Dry leaves rattled and crunched as he followed a worn path that threaded through the tall trunks. The scent of smoke reached his nose, causing his steps to slow. More laughter was carried on the soft breeze, but this time it seemed to be from several people.

  “Trevelyn. Come.”

  The ancient beeches, oaks and horse chestnuts were closer together here, seeing it darker, damp. Yet, unhesitating, Trev followed the gentle summons.

  As he broke free of the wood, he spotted a small circle of painted wagons. Putting his hand on the smooth bark of a silver birch, he paused and allowed himself to study the situation before charging headlong into the group.

  Giving a light sneeze, he realized he had company. Glancing down, he saw Chester curled around his ankle. “Brishen’s Gypsy camp I take it, Puss?” he asked. The cat looked up with soulful eyes and meowed.

  Pushing away from the tree, Trev headed toward the camp. He approached, noticing the flickering of the flames seemed from more than just air currents. As he came alongside a turquoise wagon, he saw two bodies moving around the fire, creating a distortion of shadows. A man and a woman danced before the small bonfire, their bodies swaying to the haunting music.

  Trev only had eyes for the woman. She leaned and then spun in rapid movements, graceful, sensual. His muscles clenched, and he felt as if he’d taken a blow to the solar plexus, knocking all air from his lungs. Raven. And she was dancing with Brishen.

  Jealousy was an acid that burned in his blood. There was such an earthy, primitive power in her lithe body, such a strength and confidence that it seemed at odds with the woman who’d sworn she held nothing to interest a wolf. “Well, this wolf is interested,” he muttered. “Damn interested.”

  “You jealous?” a voice asked to his left. Sitting on the steps of the turquoise wagon was Raven’s sister, Paganne. When Trev didn’t reply, her impish smile widened. “Good. I see the look on your face that I wanted to see on Brishen’s last night. That’s the expression I want a man to wear for me. Brishen’s lack of jealousy tells a lot, don’t you think?”

  Trev steeled himself against the conflicting emotions storming through him. “Perhaps it should tell you that he’s a reasonable man and is sure of you.”

  “Ah, but then no man should ever be sure of a woman. He becomes too cocky then and doesn’t call when he should.”

  Trev just stared at the goddess dancing about the campfire, not sure of anything—except that perhaps Raven was unique and he wanted to possess her, to brand her as his. Oh, he could tell himself they were barely more than strangers, or that as they grew to know each other the magic of their relationship would lose its fascination, but that would be lies. All lies. He could almost hear Agnes mocking, “I shan’t wonder these Montgomerie women might teach you Mershan men a trick or two.”

  Oh, yeah, this wolf’s heart was learning to roll over, sit up and beg.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I am Magda Sagari. Cross my palm and I will tell you about yourself, Trevelyn Sinclair.” The old woman who’d appeared gave a faint smile as she stopped before him.

  “You know my name.” Trev was faintly surprised.

  She tilted her head to one side, regarding him. “No mystery. Raven spoke of you, as did my grandson. I figured her wolf would be tracking her trail.”

  By the shape of her mouth and chin, Trev knew instantly this was Brishen’s grandmother. His heart went out to the woman who had cared for her grandson the best way she’d known how, same as his own mother had fought to survive and keep her sons with her. Magda’s frame was small; her head barely came to the middle of his chest. She was thin to the point of being frail, yet there was strength to her.

  “When I was young and pretty enough to turn your head, I said cross my palm with silver. Alas, coins these days have little silver, eh? Still, winter comes and my needs are many. Thus, I accept what the Gadje use as payment.”

  Taking his eyes from Raven, where she danced with Brishen, Trev reached for his wallet. Extracting five hundredpound notes, he laid them in her upturned hand. Her eyes locked on the bills, and then, with thoughts unreadable, returned to his face. He had only meant to lend aid to Brishen’s grandmother. Day-to-day existence couldn’t be easy lived in this nomadic fashion. Only, he wondered if he might have presented some grave insult by offering so much money.

  “The reading is the same no matter the sum. You possess a kind heart. But already you’ve proved this in buying my grandson’s horse. The money will do good for many children, eh? Maybe help my Brishen in the same breath?” The corner of Magda’s mouth lifted faintly, as she curled her gnarled fingers around the bills and then stuffed them in the pocket of her intricately embroidered vest. “Are you left- or right-handed?”

  “Right.”

  “Hold out that one.” She took his large hand between her small ones, which were twisted with age and arthritis, and then shifted so that the firelight warmed his palm. “My eyes—harrumph—are not as sharp as they used to be. Still, they serve me. See? Four lines of your palm reveal who you are. Your heart line”—she stroked her dry thumb pad over the deep crease at the top of his palm—“begins close to your index finger. This says you will fall in love easily when you find the right woman. Hmm…strange. Another line, fainter, comes from closer to your middle finger. These two merge here. It’s almost as if you have known or will know two great loves in your journey. Somehow, they twine together like ivy. Only, when love finds you, sadly you’re selfish. This holding back of yourself causes emotional trauma.”

  Trev laughed uneasily. It was clear the woman was simply giving him a show and didn’t know the first thing about his past or present. “Two loves would cause trauma for any man,” he jested.

  “Go ahead, do not listen. One day you shall understand I speak truths this night. The second crease is your head line. Your mind is clear, focused on the tasks ahead. Even so, you allow others to propel the direction of your life, thus steering you headlong into a coming emotional crisis. This line crossing it signifies you’ll face a momentous decision—perhaps life-threatening. It’s not clear if you’ll make the right choice when the time comes. You are divided. Notice how it forks, as if you are looking at two paths, and then they fade almost as though your fate has not been written, or you have already chosen wrong and must fight to get back to where you belong.

  “Do you believe in Auld Souls?” Magda rubbed her fingers over the spot in his hand as if to assure her the lines were true.

  Trev answered, “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “A belief held by many: We have lived before, and we repeat cycles trying to atone for mistakes we made in previous lives.”

  “Reincarnation?” Trev shifted uncomfortably. He’d never spared much thought for such ponderings, being a person too content with the here and now. The past—especially some vague, semipossible past—was only a waste of time, same as playing gam
es of what-if or might-have-been. Contrarily, images crowded his mind, like a damn ready to burst. He didn’t care for them.

  “Some call it by that name. My people speak of them as Auld Souls. The spirit, the essence of a person endures and can come again and again. Some souls travel similar paths and are drawn to each other. Some are doomed to this endless pattern because they will not change.”

  Trev tried to laugh. He was too materialistic, too in tune with this life to worry about riddles from another.

  “This is your life line,” Magda continued. “Its length does not determine how many years you have on this earth, as most assume. It’s elongated and arched, but it breaks here. You face a sudden change in lifestyle. Much of what has brought you to this crossroads are the actions of others. Your fate has been shaped by those who hold great sway over you—a father or a brother perhaps. Again, you almost have two lines. You will be forced to make a choice. The question lies before you: Will you choose wisely or repeat errors made in the last life?”

  A shiver crawled over Trev’s skin, even if the words were little more than a harmless Gypsy con. He couldn’t help thinking of Desmond’s blind quest for justice.

  Magda’s eyes held a touch of pity. She believed. She also doubted that he’d heed her wisdom. Fool. He heard the word as clearly as if she’d spoken it.

  He turned away. Hunger burned bright within him, and Trev cast his eyes about for Raven. She had stopped dancing and gone over to speak to a lovely woman sitting on the steps of another bright blue wagon. This young woman gently rocked a baby that restied upon her lap. Raven lifted the edge of the colorful blanket back and then gently caressed the small head.

  “What you seek you will find, Trevelyn Sinclair—if your eyes are wise enough to see,” Magda intoned.

  Trevelyn’s head snapped back, and he stared unblinking at the white-haired woman. Her words nearly mirrored his tarot card.

  “Now, give me your other palm and I will reach your fortune that comes from the soul,” the Gypsy said, taking his hand. “I see three men. One has a dark heart and means ill. One has a heart of gold, loves, but knows he can never have. And the last…?” She gave him a crooked smile. “One has a heart of the wolf. He hungers to claim his lady, wants to possess her, and he does. But he will lose her if he doesn’t give her the one thing she needs above all others.”

  Trevelyn wanted to dismiss the woman’s words as prattle. He couldn’t. “And that is?” he asked, hanging on her answer.

  She thumped his chest, over his heart. “Already your heart knows these truths, Trevelyn Sinclair.” Leaning closer, she tapped his forehead. “Your mind is cluttered with things that should not matter, ancient business unfinished.”

  “What is it she needs most?” he pressed.

  Magda’s body lifted with her snort. “You are a rich man. Coins will never give what Raven needs. Won’t give what you need, either. Will you be wise enough, Gadjo, to make the right choice when the time comes? Or are you doomed for eternity to repeat the same mistakes? Auld Souls come again and again. They seek to put right what they did wrong in the past. Don’t repeat the same mistakes. Listen to your heart, Wolf.”

  “You never said what it is she needs most!” Trev groused.

  Magda gave a small laugh. “You do not listen with your heart.”

  “Tell me—what does she need?” Trevelyn felt a desperation pricking at the back of his neck.

  “Love. Your fate line is strong. You might have much happiness before you…if you break free of the chains that bind your soul to the past and cease allowing others to control your life.” The Gypsy’s face was rapt, sadness filling her eyes. Then Magda tilted her head with resignation. “Brishen’s cousin has come to stay, with her baby. Come, we go see the newest member of my family.”

  The old woman took Trev’s arm and strolled with him to the other side of the encampment. Strange men and women, sitting before their wagons or around the campfire, watched as Trev passed. Their expressions were guarded, some troubled. A couple men gave a reserved nod. The women stared until he neared, then quickly looked away and refused to acknowledge his existence.

  “Pay them no heed,” Magda remarked. “It’s not often we have a Gadjo other than a Montgomerie pay us a visit. Raven’s grandsire long ago granted us permission to stay in this grove as long as we want, and as often as we wish. We are permitted to cut trees for our use. In return, we save half the wood we split for them to use at Colford. We do other things as well: help train or care for their horses, repair buildings, thatch roofs and such chores that need doing about the vast estate.”

  Magda’s face hardened as she added, “Some in the village never liked old Sean permitting us to stay part of the year. Grumbled we would rob them blind.” She paused angrily. “Treat a Roma like trash and you get no esteem in return. Meet us with kindness and respect, and you will get that back measure for measure.”

  As they approached, Trev noticed Brishen cutting a long lock from the underside of Raven’s hair. He looked up from his task, his blue eyes watching his grandmother. With deft fingers he plaited Raven’s severed tresses and wove them into a small circle. Then he slipped the tiny bracelet around the baby’s chubby wrist.

  “My people believe red hair gives luck,” the Gypsy explained. “Since Raven is the godmother of my cousin’s child, it gives extra protection.”

  Trev moved closer so he could view the child. The babe was healthy, judging by how strongly it waved its arm, and the head was covered with a riot of thick black curls. “I thought most babies were bald,” he remarked.

  “Some are. Some come with a full head of hair. My name is Katrina, and this is my son Emile.” The beautiful woman with black hair and eyes spoke. She asked, “Would you care to hold my son? Go ahead. He does not break like glass.”

  Trev shook his head, ill at ease around something so small and helpless. But hesitantly he reached out a hand that seemed huge compared to the child’s black head and lightly stroked the thick curls. “Thank you, but I know absolutely nothing about children. No nephews or nieces to practice on. Both my brothers are bachelors.”

  As he looked down at Raven, who was holding the child to her breast, a flood of emotion assaulted his mind and heart. Trev understood why Des had never married. Since he’d assumed the job of father to two younger brothers, Des had often claimed to have already raised one family. Jago and Trev had been too busy being bachelors. Or, we just haven’t met the right women, his mind whispered. But Magda had said he’d fall hard when he met her.

  “You look natural holding a baby,” he told Raven, moved by the gentle image. Seeing how she cared for her menagerie of misfit pets, it didn’t take a huge mental leap to know she would be a loving mother. Watching her stirred instincts he hadn’t known existed within him.

  A small tremble ran through Raven’s body, and then she turned to transfer the boy back to the waiting arms of his mother. “He’s beautiful, Trina. You’re very lucky. I’ll come again soon with more things for you and the child. And please…with winter coming, think on what I suggested.”

  “She will,” Brishen replied.

  Raven leaned over and kissed the baby’s forehead. Her eyes were shut tight, almost as though she squeezed them against pain. Turning away, she pressed her lips together and finally said, “I’m ready to leave now, Trevelyn.” And without waiting for him to agree, she started off.

  Trev hung back. Reaching into his wallet again, he took out another five bills. He tucked them into the edge of blanket. “A gift for the child. Babies need many things. Let that help.”

  A hand patted his back. “You are a kind man—for a Gadjo.” Magda laughed. “Now catch our Raven before she flies away. She needs you now.”

  Trev nodded. “If ever you need anything, please do not hesitate to let me know. I sincerely mean that.”

  Brishen hopped a step to catch up with him, leaving Magda to trail behind at her own pace. “I’ll walk with you since I need to see Paganne back to Colford.�
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  “Very well.” Trev could see Brishen had a burr under his saddle, and figured it had to do with Raven. He almost laughed when Brishen opened his mouth then snapped it shut as if deciding not to speak, for they had reached the turquoise wagon and it was too late.

  Raven was at the bottom of the wagon steps, waiting for Paganne. Her sister passed over a bulky sweater she carried. In answer to the younger woman’s questioning look, Raven replied, “It’s okay.”

  “You’re certain?” Paganne gave Trev a glare full of daggers. “I’m back to not liking you again, Trevelyn Sinclair.”

  He gave her a winning smile. “Me? What did I do?”

  Paganne pantomimed opening a cell phone and punching in numbers. Lifting arched brows, she said, “Give you a hint?”

  “I was detained,” he offered in feeble defense.

  “Doing what?” Paganne challenged, not missing a beat.

  “Actually, I was at the doctor’s this morning, getting some work done and a script for pills and nasal steroids so I can be around felines.” He arched a brow and looked down at Chester rubbing against him. “So I don’t end up sneezing my head off just to be with your sister.”

  “You’re allergic to cats?” Paganne’s chuckle was musical.

  He nodded. “Pet dander, but I’ve heard you don’t get that unless you have the pet.”

  “Granted—good excuse, but what about the rest of the day?”

  “Relentless, aren’t you?” he teased, though he figured he deserved a little scolding. “A meddling Montgomerie.”

  Raven scowled. “Paganne, knock it off.”

  Her sister ignored her and nodded. “I’m nothing compared to my sisters. You’d best be glad B.A. is in Scotland, Asha is in Kentucky and LynneAnne is in France hunting abandoned carousel ponies. You haven’t understood the definition of relentless until you’ve met them.”

  “I look forward to the pleasure.” Trev winked at Raven, but got a bit of the cold shoulder. “To account for the rest of my day…I had lunch with my business associate, and then he and I went to look at several locations that would serve as a nice studio for Brishen.” He glanced over at the young Gypsy standing to his right. “If you’re free tomorrow for breakfast, you and I might go look. See if they suit your needs.”