Still winded, an impatient Logan leaned back on his knees. His thighs straddled her hips, and he flipped the young spitfire onto her back. His superior weight held her as his hands claimed her wrists, pinning them to cool earth. His golden gaze raked over her indignant features. “Right now, goddess, I wish I had left you back in that glade to fend for yourself.”
“So do I,” Kristiana snapped, struggling against his hold. She bucked her hips, trying to dislodge him to no avail. As he stared down at her, his dark countenance only inches from her own, his hot breath fanned her face, and Kristiana felt an odd fluttering in the pit of her stomach; it frightened her. “Get off me, you… you Gypsy cur.”
Logan’s face turned to stone. “ ‘Gypsy cur?’ ” he questioned in a low growl. “I suggest you still your tongue. By maligning me and my heritage you risk losing my protection.”
Angry tears glistened in her eyes. Why he would not release her, allow her to crawl into the wood like some wounded animal and curl into a tight ball to wail away her pain and misery, she did not know. He’s cruel, she thought. As cruel as Edward MacHugh!
Her enemy’s remembered attack raged through her anew, and Kristiana fought all the harder. Unable to fend the Gypsy off, she foolishly lashed back with the only weapon she had at hand: her words. “Cur! Filthy beggar! Thief!” she cried out in fury, wanting to be free of him.
Ineptly her soft body writhed beneath Logan’s, and as he held her fast to the ground his frigid gaze ran over her from her face to her waist; then it slowly moved upward again. Abruptly it stopped its ascent.
Bathed by silvery moonbeams streaming through the breaks in the trees, her youthful breasts heaved with the force of her struggles, threatening to spill from the thin material that barely covered them. One perfect globe had nearly exposed its peak. As he saw it raw fire singed along Logan’s veins to erupt into a torrid blaze in his loins. Suddenly his cold anger was consumed by hot desire. At once he fought to control the carnal urges flaming through him. Fearing he might lay claim to the fiery vixen who squirmed beneath him, Logan leapt to his feet; his resisting charge came up with him.
His hand secured her wrist, and he pulled her toward the cart, where it had stopped several yards down the narrow path. “Rather than cursing me,” he gritted between his teeth, “I should think you would be praising me as you would your Lord and Savior.”
“That’s blasphemy!” she cried, her feet scrambling to keep up with him, her free hand trying to loosen his hurtful hold.
“Is it, goddess? I saved your ripe little body from the bestial tortures MacHugh had been planning to inflict upon it.” His long fingers still banding her wrist, he halted next to the cart. “I should be given high praise for sparing you the terrible agony we both know you would have suffered. But no! Instead I receive nothing but black curses from your hateful Gajo tongue. You condemn me and loathe me, like all of your people, because you think I am different—a cur, a thief—and we cannot forget filthy beggar, can we, goddess?”
Kristiana ignored the angry light in his eyes that rightly condemned her. Having had a Gypsy nurse, whom Kristiana loved dearly, attend to her needs all of her life, she would never malign Mala’s race as a whole. It was this particular Gypsy whom she feared and loathed. Or so she thought. “I did not ask for your help!” she insisted. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” It was a lie, she knew.
“I remember it differently,” Logan lashed back, his mind again hearing her anxious plea as it had escaped her lips, begging him to help her. Another scene erupted inside his skull, and he knew that if MacHugh had ordered it done, his head would have rolled across the glade, severed by a deadly axe—all because of her! The thought made him even angrier, and he silently cursed himself for ever having become involved in her plight. “Since you think you are so very capable of fending for yourself, I will gladly cart you back to your intended and his loving embrace.”
Remembering how Edward had tried to force himself on her—his hands brutally pawing at her, his lips greedily searching out her own—Kristiana suddenly felt nauseated. “No!” she wailed, fearing the Gypsy would really do it. Again she tried to break free of him, but he held fast. Both of her wrists now caught in his strong hands, Kristiana ceased her struggles and sank to her knees. Tears streaming from her eyes, she gazed up at the Gypsy. “Please don’t take me back to him,” she pleaded. “He killed my father and tried to… to rape me.”
Hearing her plaintive words, seeing the raw panic on her beautiful face, Logan felt his heart twist. Her pain immediately became his own, and his anger drained from his body. A new sort of fury filled him. Hot hatred burned deep in his soul, and it was directed at Edward MacHugh. Masking the seething emotion from the young woman at his feet, he gently lifted her from her knees to cradle her in a comforting embrace. “Hush, goddess,” he crooned softly. “Put your fears to rest.” His long fingers smoothed back the silken hair draping itself across her face. “I’d never allow you to suffer the bastard’s cruelty again. If you will let me, there is a place where I will take you… where I had intended to take you all along. You’ll be safe there. No one will find you, least of all MacHugh.”
Kristiana pulled away slightly to view the Gypsy’s handsome face, and as she stood under his tender regard she realized he had never meant her any harm. She’d provoked his anger, his hostility. And she had done it with her words. “I… I am sorry for the horrible things I said. Had I known you were trying to help me, I would never have done what I did… said what I said. Please forgive my rudeness.”
As he stared down at her upturned face, her luminous jade eyes reflecting the moonbeams, Logan felt his breath catch. His golden gaze lowered to her softly parted lips, and he felt the urgent need to taste them, explore them with his own. Steadying himself, he drew a ragged breath. “Let’s be going,” he said in an oddly taut voice. His quivering hand fell away from her hair where it had played. “Before long dawn will be upon us. While we are still able, we need to use the cover of night to keep our movements secret.”
Kristiana followed her protector to the front of the cart. “Where do we go?”
“Far away from here.” His hands spanned her tiny waist. The feel of her shapely body through the thin shift almost undid him. “Climb inside, goddess.”
“My name is Kristiana,” she said over her shoulder, her foot lifting free of the ground.
“A beautiful name for one who is equally beautiful.” As his sure hand slid over the curve of her hip to settle on her rounded bottom, boosting her up into the cart, his gaze met her bare thigh. Steeling himself, he swallowed the masculine groan that promised to roll from his lips. “Go inside,” he ordered, “but take care you don’t step on my dagger. On a peg you will find a clean tunic. Put it on. Then, if you wish, you may ride outside with me, but only for a short while.”
Gazing down at her tattered shift, Kristiana blushed. With all that had happened she had never once thought of her indecent mode of dress. Ducking inside the canvas, she gingerly searched for the dagger. Finding it, she moved it back into its former position next to the deadly claymore.
A frown crossed Kristiana’s smooth brow as she considered why the Gypsy was so well armed. According to Mala, the Rom, although persecuted at every turn, were generally a peaceful society. Never had Mala mentioned that her people lent themselves to violence. Rarely did they strike out in their own defense, except through petty thievery—a chicken here, a small lamb there, or a coin or two that would get them through the day. Undeniably they were nothing like her own people, the Scots, who warred constantly. What little Kristiana did know of the Rom told her they were the sort who would employ their tongues, quickly talking themselves out of the danger that threatened them. So why did this particular Gypsy feel it necessary to hide a store of weapons inside his cart?
“Goddess,” she heard him call to her, “did you find the tunic?”
“Yes,” she lied, rapidly feeling around for it. “I’m changing into it now.”
As her groping hand settled onto the rough material she felt the dip of the cart, her protector having climbed to the driving board. Throwing her shift over her head, she dropped it to the furs, then she hastily donned the linen shirt. His scent was on it, clean and masculine. Then she noted that the thing fell way past her knees, and the sleeves swallowed her hands. Although it scarcely fit her, the garment offered her far more modesty than her shift ever had.
Easing her way through the canvas opening, she settled onto the small seat next to the Gypsy and smoothed the tunic down over her knees, her embarrassment still evident.
“Thank you.”
Logan gazed down at her. Spying her maiden’s blush, he was relieved she was now covered. But the thought of his shirt brushing against her ivory skin caused him nearly as much misery as having seen her almost nude. The reins slapped against the mare’s rump as he set the cart into motion. His eyes now centered on the lane, he tried to ignore the sweet young woman beside him. Not succeeding in the least, he heard her ask: “Do you, perchance, have a name?”
“Besides that of Gypsy cur?” he countered with an edge to his voice, wishing again he hadn’t involved himself in her plight.
Startled, Kristiana gazed up at him. “I already asked your forgiveness for my disparaging remarks… for calling you such foul names. I hoped you had excused my bad manners. If not, I beg you do so now.”
“Balo,” Logan said.
“What?” she asked, thinking he had cursed her.
“My people call me Balo. That is my name.”
“Balo,” she repeated, now liking the sound of it. “It is a good name,” she stated. Then, upon his gentle prompting, she spoke briefly about what had happened to her and her family over the past several days. On a jagged breath she fell silent.
“Hush, little one,” Logan whispered. “Dry your tears and think of it no more.”
His words seemed to ease her pain, and as the cart swayed down the endless trail Kristiana found herself fighting back her yawns. Before long her head found a resting place against the Gypsy’s strong arm; she slept soundly.
Viewing her, Logan smiled to himself, then he gently shifted her weight so she was pillowed in his lap. Again he contemplated why he had chanced all he had worked for in order to save her from MacHugh. Perhaps it was because they were kindred spirits, Edward being her hated enemy as well as his. But if it ever came to a choice between the girl and his desire for revenge, Logan knew his needs would come well before hers.
Fourteen years separated Logan from that long-ago day when Edward’s blade had taken the life of Henry Chandler and had nearly taken his own. In that time Logan’s thirst for his stepbrother’s blood had grown stronger, not weaker, as some would have hoped. Time had healed his physical wounds, but not those that still lay open deep within his soul. His thirst to avenge his father’s death had to be slaked, and nothing—not even his unexplained feelings for the lovely young woman who had made him her protector—would stop him from fulfilling that one desire, a desire that burned in him constantly.
Galloping horses raced back into the glade where the Gypsy had camped. Torches held high, Edward MacHugh and his men surveyed the deserted area.
Reins of the riderless stallion bound around his fist, Edward forcefully cursed his luck. “The beggar tricked us well. No doubt he has her in his cart. Spread out and find their trail—make haste!”
After a few minutes Richard Black returned to his liege’s side. “We found wheel tracks heading into the wood, but we cannot tell where they lead. Lacking daylight, we are bound to search endlessly with no results.”
Edward cursed again. “Then Richard, what do you suggest?”
“I say we return to the fortress for provisions, fresh mounts, and an hour or two of rest. At first light we can be on them again. It should not take long to find the pair, especially when they go by cart.”
“At first light it is,” Edward agreed. “But remember, Richard: When we find them, the Gypsy bastard is mine.”
2
At dawn a tired Logan guided the mare and cart off the main path and headed down a narrower trail. The passage led to a small meadow and the last known encampment of the kumpania of Gypsies with whom he occasionally traveled.
When he reached the open campsite Logan found no trace of his mother’s people. Nothing remained except the charred patches of earth where their campfires had once burned. At one of these blackened spots he would start his search for his familia, the four generations of his assorted relatives, and in particular his mother’s brother, Yokka, and Yokka’s wife, Rupa, who were his adoptive parents. By one of the dead fires lay the vurma, telling him in what direction the ever-traveling community had gone.
As the cart slowly circled the meadow Logan’s eyes briefly examined each scorched ring of ground until he saw the sign he’d been searching for. This time the vurma was a scattering of bone fragments, but it could have been bits of broken glass, colorful threads, strands of cloth—even a heap of stones—that would appear to have been strewn aimlessly alongside the dead ashes. The secret message, which only the Rom could read, told Logan the kumpania had headed eastward across the Trossachs, moving toward Stirling.
In the month since Logan had last seen Yokka and Rupa he had learned from other traveling bands of Rom that his own community had journeyed a great distance, but they were now close by. In fact, Logan knew they had used this same campsite, where he had last left them, no more than a day ago. By late afternoon he should be able to overtake the group. He would then decide what to do with his young charge.
Logan’s stomach emitted a loud rumble. Deciding he needed to find a more secluded area and procure some food, he guided the mare from the meadow and on through the wood to a small clearing hidden in a stand of pines. A short distance away a stream rippled, offering its clear, sweet liquid.
Looking over his shoulder, he gazed down at his ward. Nestled in the bed of furs where he’d placed her long ago, she slept soundly, so Logan quietly leapt from the cart and unharnessed the aged horse, then led her toward the water.
He passed along the stream’s bank, down a ways from where he’d left the cart and allowed the mare to drink. After he thought she had had enough he urged her up the slope into a grassy area to graze. Tethering her to a small shrub so she would not wander too far, Logan headed back upstream. Along the way he picked some edible berries, placing them in a leather pouch secured to his belt. When he reached a spot the Rom considered suitable for bathing he stripped off his clothing and plunged into the fast-flowing stream, a cake of soap in hand.
The cold water invigorated him, and Logan smiled to himself. This was one Romany custom he followed gladly. To those who understood little or nothing of the Gypsy way of life, his mother’s people appeared ill-kempt and dirty, but Logan knew otherwise. The aspect of filth was a ruse purposely used in order to keep others away, for in fact the Rom were an extremely fastidious people who were governed by strict laws of cleanliness. To break even one such principle was akin to committing a mortal sin for those who proclaimed to be Christian in their belief.
As Logan stood waist-deep in the stream he closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh morning air. Rays of golden sunshine bathed his face and shoulders. He relaxed, and all his cares—their heavy weight borne since childhood—seemed to drift away momentarily on the light breeze caressing his body.
Not far from the stream Kristiana stirred from her sleep. Realizing the cart no longer moved, she turned onto her stomach and gazed through the opening in the canvas. The Gypsy was gone, and as she came to her knees she noticed the mare was missing, too.
Panic suddenly rifled through her. Scrambling from beneath the covering of canvas, she climbed down from the cart. As her feet hit the solid earth she turned in circles, gazing in all directions. Seeing neither the Gypsy nor his mare anywhere, she felt certain he had abandoned her. He had promised to help her, protect her, take her to a place where she would be safe. Confused she wo
ndered if this was the place he’d mentioned to her last night, for it was naught but an empty glade.
Dismayed by the knowledge that she was now on her own, she felt her shoulders slump in defeat. Abruptly her stomach protested its hollow state; her mouth felt as dry as spun flax. Left without food and water, she was bound to die. Blackguard, she ranted silently, scuffing her bare toe against the hard ground.
Then her ears caught the gentle sounds of a flowing brook, and as she limped off toward it she partially retracted her thought about the Gypsy’s character. At least he had deserted her in a place where she could linger indefinitely, never mind that she was lost and unprotected!
Moving under the archway created by the pine’s sweeping boughs, Kristiana halted. There profiled before her in the middle of the stream stood the most magnificent male she had ever laid eyes upon. Sunlight glistened off his deeply bronzed skin; water droplets sparkled like diamonds as they descended the ripples in his muscular arm and back. His handsome face turned itself toward the blue heavens, and his broad, lightly furred chest rose and fell as he breathed deeply.
His long-lashed eyes were closed, and Kristiana assumed he was praying. Had she come upon some pagan ritual only the Gypsies were entitled to see? Feeling more than a bit nervous about the possibility of being caught studying him, she turned, intent on secretly heading back to the cart.
“It’s not necessary to run off, goddess,” Logan stated, a chuckle rumbling from deep inside his chest. “I’ll soon be finished with my bath. If you like, you may take yours.”
Deeper Than Roses Page 3
