Kristiana’s face flamed red. “I do not like,” she snapped, silently questioning how he’d discerned she was there, for he hadn’t batted an eye. “I came to quench my thirst.”
“Is it simply water you seek? Or do you thirst for something else?”
In a determined gait Kristiana had set a course for the stream. But as his words, uttered in a deep seductive tone, had drifted through his lips, she skidded to a stop. Blinking, she stared at the man. “W-what do you mean?”
“I was merely wondering if your eyes have drunk their fill of me.”
Her jaw agape, she watched as he stretched. His head rolled along his shoulders; then he turned and started moving toward her. Slowly more of his body revealed itself. “Stay where you are,” she cried, mortified by his lack of inhibition.
Logan noted her embarrassment and chuckled. “Turn your back toward me. The morning air is cool, and the water cold. If I stay in the stream much longer my legs will lose all feeling.”
As he spoke he still moved toward her; his lean hips rose ever higher as the water dipped lower on his sinewy form. Briefly she noticed a white scar slashing downward at the outer edge of his narrow waist. Then, believing she was about to see far more, she whirled and shielded her eyes.
His bare feet padded lightly over the soft grass as he passed her. Soon he was dressed. “You may turn around now. I am fully covered.”
The heat in Kristiana’s face seemed to perpetuate itself, for the vision of his superior male body refused to die away. Afraid the Gypsy would espy the telltale admiration lingering in her eyes, she kept her back to him. “I’d like to bathe,” she stated in a polite tone. “Alone, if you please.”
Logan’s golden gaze followed the length of her tumbled auburn hair, which ended below the curve of her shapely hips. Downward his eyes swept, past his rough linen tunic to survey her slender ankles, stopping at her bare feet. Soft and white, they were accustomed to being covered and protected, unlike those of the Rom. “As you wish,” he said, knowing she would be despised by his people for her life of ease. But she would be scorned no matter what her circumstances, for she was Gajo—an outsider, a peasant—and not of the superior Romany culture. “Do not tarry, for we must soon be on our way.”
As his footsteps carried him away from her Kristiana breathed a sigh of relief. After inspecting the area to make sure the Gypsy had gone, she disrobed. Horrified by the multitude of ugly scratches and bruises covering her onceflawless skin, she thought to soothe her injuries. Retrieving the soap left at her feet, she stepped into the stream. At once her breath drew itself between her teeth. The water was frigid, as the Gypsy had said, and she wasted no time in bathing. Before long she left the brook to head back to the cart, Balo’s tunic covering her shivering body.
Slipping under the pine boughs into the sunlight, she saw him harnessing the mare to the cart. Again her stomach protested its state of emptiness, and she prayed her hunger would soon be satisfied.
“There is fresh water and some wild berries,” he told her, not stopping with his task. “Eat and drink your fill. We will be on our way shortly.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, moving to the small wooden cask, the pouch of berries atop it. She slid the lid aside and dipped some water from the vessel with a dented tin-plated cup, then she munched on the ripe berries. “Is it far?”
Logan kept to his job, trying desperately to forget the captivating sight that had met his eyes when he’d gone to the stream, a short distance up from where Kristiana bathed, to draw fresh water for them both. “We go to a secret place… one that is safe. I do not know how far, but I will find it. Before nightfall, I hope.”
As Kristiana savored the sweet juice of the berry she’d placed in her mouth she questioned again whether she could trust this man. Was it possible she had allowed him to steal her away only to he held for ransom? Such tales about the Gypsies abounded among the Scots, but it was mostly small children who were said to be their prey. Until now Kristiana had given them little credence, for Mala had always deemed them to be “Gaje lies.” But Kristiana knew little of the Rom, for her nurse hardly ever spoke of her own race. Truly, Mala was a woman cloaked in mystery, as was her past. And so were her people.
Logan angled himself away from the cart and headed toward her. “Ready, goddess?”
Kristiana’s eyes met her protector’s. Nearly blinded by their golden brilliance, she distinguished that they shone with an odd sort of light, its meaning indecipherable. As he moved her way he appeared to stalk her. Her heart skipped erratically, and her fears rose anew. All the terrifying stories about the Gypsies that she’d heard as a small girl leapt into her mind, and she thought to run.
“Do not attempt it, Kristiana,” he warned in a tempered voice, his eyes narrowed, set.
She noticed how her name had rolled through his lips like the light breeze whispering through the pines, yet his mood said he would not be so gentle if she disobeyed him.
“Unless, of course, you wish to find yourself lying beneath me, as you did last night.”
The memory of his long, sinewy body, its hollows and planes and projections fitting against her perfectly as it slid upward to cover her own, flashed through her mind. Her whole being seemed to go warm and weak. Then she watched as he removed a length of leather from his belt. He stretched it between his hands with a snap.
“Come here.”
Seeing the narrow thong, her jade eyes widened, and Kristiana backed away from him. He was going to bind her. Hold her captive. Ransom her! Perhaps do other things to her as well! But who would redeem her from this Gypsy rogue? Her foot hit the cask, and she nearly tumbled over it.
Logan’s hand lashed out and captured her arm, keeping her upright. “While I draw some more water you may braid your hair. Where we go, no decent woman allows a man’s eyes to see her hair unbound, except the eyes of her husband.” He handed her the leather strip, then retrieved the overturned cask and loped off toward the stream.
Feeling rather foolish, for her mind had taken her on a wild flight of fancy, Kristiana stared after him. Most naturally, her feminine gaze admired his lithe movements, which were as graceful as a deer’s. Inexplicably, the desire to follow him overcame her. Trifles! she silently denounced the wayward thought.
As she set off toward the cart, the pouch of berries in her hand, she tried to persuade herself she was simply addled by all that had happened to her. Any stirrings she felt for her handsome Gypsy were merely those of deep appreciation for his having aided her in her time of need. Once seated on the driving board, she plaited her hair, tying the end with the leather strip. Convinced the Gypsy meant nothing to her at all, she ate her fill of the delicious fruit.
The cask having been secured to the cart, Logan climbed up to the seat. As he gazed down at the beauty beside him, who was even more lovely in the sunlight, he espied the red stain near the corner of her mouth. A sudden desire to lick the tasty juice from her soft skin claimed him. Chaining the nearly overpowering urge, he growled, “Wipe your face and go inside.”
Startled by his abruptness, Kristiana eyed him carefully; her hand smoothed along the edges of her mouth. “Might I not ride here? It is a beautiful day, and I would so enjoy—”
“No!” Logan snapped, taking hold of the reins. “Now inside, or I will place you there myself.”
Logan watched as the girl climbed through the canvas opening, her sleek thigh baring itself as she did so. Momentarily closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth and snapped the leads, setting the mare into a quick trot; Kristiana landed in the furs with a thud. He ignored her angry squeal and kept his eyes on the mare’s rump.
Galled, he again questioned why he had involved himself in her troubles. His mind reiterated that he did not want her with him. Her presence meant certain death to his plan of revenge, and quite possibly to Logan himself. If there was only some viable way to use her to draw Edward out—but deep down, Logan wanted no part in harming the girl. She was an innocent party, one
who had been injured enough by Edward’s treachery. Although he did not wish to be burdened with her, Logan was not willing to add to her misery.
Yet where he planned to take her, his heart knew she would suffer more than her due. She would be safe there, for his mother’s people would not physically maltreat her—not like Edward had. It was her emotional state Logan worried about, for the Rom did not take kindly to those outside their own culture, and he knew Kristiana would suffer the abuse of their stinging tongues, which would lash out at her in constant reprisal for some unknown wrong, his goddess being blameless in all she said or did. For that, Logan pitied her.
As his heart and mind warred with each other, one saying he cared about her, the other stating he did not, Logan cursed his fate under his breath. Thoughtlessly he struck the mare’s rump with the leads, directing her into a full gallop. The girl had to worry about her own problems. He suffered enough of his own!
The rickety cart jostled along through the pines, then rolled up onto the rutted lane, the mare never slowing. Inside a battered and bruised Kristiana glared at the back of the Gypsy’s head and the lustrous black hair waving downward to touch his shoulders. Merciless rogue! she silently fumed at him, trying to keep herself from rebounding off the sides of the cart. Had she the nerve, she would plunge the quillon straight through him. But the dagger was missing, as was the claymore. Again she mentally sought to know why the man possessed a stock of weapons. Finding no answer, she felt it wise not to ask.
As the heat increased under the canvas, the sun rising ever higher, Kristiana soon became drowsy. Before long she slept.
Logan closely watched the trees for the vurma that would point the way to the encampment. Soon he saw the bits of colored cloth hanging from the branches, well above eye level, a cluster of sticks aiming toward his destination. Following the path, he kept to a continuous movement, stopping only to water the mare. Through it all Kristiana slept soundly, and shortly before sunset the cart pulled to a stop.
Dogs yipped and yowled while joyous shouts greeted him as the ragged-looking group of Rom gathered round. Startled awake, Kristiana sat upright. She blinked, then stifled a yawn. Seeing her protector’s gaze upon her, she questioned him with her own eyes.
“We are here,” he stated, his tone devoid of all emotion.
To Kristiana the Gypsy seemed changed, his manner extremely cool, aloof. Then he leapt from the cart. Just after she heard his feet hit the ground an odd chattering met her ears, the voices and words quite foreign to her. Braving a peek through the canvas, she viewed the outside world.
A band of dark-skinned men surrounded the man who called himself Balo. Their ebony eyes sparkled with merriment as they exchanged embraces with her protector, thumping his back with approval. On the perimeter of the small assemblage of men stood at least a dozen women, with twice as many children wedged between them. All at once the colorfully dressed group swarmed around the tall, sun-bronzed Gypsy to issue their welcomes as well.
Kristiana observed how the ill-kempt children shoved and pushed one another, vying for the best position. To her they were an unruly lot, lacking the rudimentary manners all young people should show in the presence of their elders. Apparently one youth had overstepped his bounds, for a sharp male command cracked through the air; the children’s tussling stopped.
As Kristiana edged herself through the canvas and onto the rough wooden seat, the happy chatter waned. A bevy of obsidian eyes stared at her from stony faces, showing their immediate disapproval. Then the voices all rose anew, but this time they sliced through the air like razors. Vicious tongues slashed at her, obviously cursing her presence, while small begrimed hands reached up to snatch at the tunic she wore; the children’s angry pinches tormented her the most.
Frightened by their savagery, Kristiana felt the sting of tears behind her eyes; her gaze latched onto her protector’s. Golden eyes stared back at her, seemingly oblivious to her pain. Hysteria churned inside Kristiana, and her perfect teeth bit her lower lip. She tried to keep her rising sobs in her throat, but one forlornly managed to slip forth.
His fists balled, Logan heard the despondent whimper, and he cursed under his breath. “Enough!” he shouted in Romani; at once everyone quieted. “The woman is under my protection. I ask you, do not bedevil her. Like all of us, she has already suffered enough from the Gaje. Let the Rom show her some mercy.”
Kristiana watched as a short, well-muscled man separated himself from the others and stepped to her Gypsy’s side. They spoke in soft tones to each other. Except for the word Gaje, which was the disparaging term the Rom used for the legions of people who were not of their own society, she understood not an utterance. The dark-skinned man turned to the rest of the gathering and spoke in his own tongue. Slowly the group dispersed, heading back to the campfires where iron pots boiled with the evening’s fare, an overpowering spicy aroma filling the entire camp.
Jade eyes met those of gold, and Kristiana’s gaze bespoke its sincere appreciation for her protector’s intervention. But the Gypsy remained impassive, his face stern. Stiffly he strode to the cart and helped her alight, then he guided her toward a woman who stood several yards away.
Her silver-threaded head held high, the woman examined Kristiana with dark, unfriendly eyes. Dread shivered through Kristiana as she stood under the woman’s cold stare, but she held her ground, her own eyes never faltering under the gaze that appeared to condemn her. Belatedly she asked herself why she had ever agreed to come to this hostile place. Even her handsome Gypsy, his manner suddenly grown glacial, seemed to despise her. She was now alone, with no one to give her solace, no one to come to her aid.
Logan noted how his goddess’s eyes remained locked with the other woman’s. He admired her fortitude, but he questioned how long her strength of character would persist. Unfortunately he could no longer help her, and the knowledge nearly tore him apart. He was with the Rom, and their laws were now his.
At last he spoke to the woman in Romani, then he turned to Kristiana. “This is my aunt,” he said, trying to fight off the anger that had erupted inside him—the anger that was turned on himself. “Her name is Rupa. She will see to your care.”
Before Kristiana could say a word he strode off toward a campfire, where, by invitation, he joined the other men who lounged around it. Her gaze returned to the woman in front of her.
Rupa inspected Kristiana from head to foot. Her lip curled. To Kristiana the action seemed to imply Rupa thought she was in some way deficient. “Come,” the woman said gruffly, and her bare feet struck a fast pace across the clearing.
Not wanting to incur the woman’s wrath, Kristiana quickly followed her. A multitude of dark gazes trailed her progress across the encampment, and Kristiana remembered their owners’ hateful aspersions. At least Rupa spoke Kristiana’s tongue. If she was cursed by the woman, she would now know the meaning of the malediction being placed upon her head.
The pair stopped outside a large wagon. Save for the flat roof, it looked to Kristiana like a small cottage on high wheels.
“You will need proper clothing,” Rupa said, and Kristiana watched as the woman climbed the four steps; then she disappeared into the wagon. She returned with a long, tattered skirt, its bright assortment of colors faded by many washings, and a white linen tunic that had grown shabby with age. “Go inside and put these on. Do not handle anything while you do so. Your Gajo hand will pollute all you touch.”
Kristiana stared at Rupa and wondered if the woman actually thought Kristiana’s skin contained a vile poison. Determined to stay out of trouble, she said, “I will be most careful.” Then, in afterthought, she asked, “Might I request a pair of shoes?”
“Shoes?” Rupa questioned harshly, her tone condemning. “Shoes are for the Gaje, who stupidly bind their feet and make them sore. Toes need to breathe, while the soles desire the feeling of the earth and grass beneath them. You need no shoes. Now cover yourself properly, then hand me Balo’s tunic.”
As K
ristiana climbed into the wagon she wished she had kept her tongue. Nothing she said would be greeted with kindness—at least, not by Rupa!
After her eyes adjusted Kristiana gazed at the sparse possessions, which were neatly hung from pegs or tucked into chests. A bed, a table, and two stools were the only furnishings. Taking great care not to touch anything, she slipped from the oversized tunic, then donned the skirt and top. The skirt was way too long, and its waist far too big. Rupa’s tunic seemed a perfect fit, but it was threadbare. The thin material revealed not only the shape of her breasts but the circles of pink at their crests. Embarrassed, Kristiana was convinced the Rom would scorn her anew. Dressed as she was, she could not possibly face them.
“Rupa,” she called out, and the woman’s head appeared in the doorway. “The waist is overly generous. I fear it will slip down over my hips. And the tunic… the material is far too thin. It’s most indecent.”
“Eh, the top is fine,” she said, coming through the doorway. “It is the skirt that must be fixed.” She gripped the material and knotted it at the waist. “Now hand me Balo’s garment, and I will take you to Sidi.”
Kristiana passed the tunic to Rupa. Using two fingers, the woman grasped it, then held it away from her body. She exited the wagon, the garment in front of her; Kristiana followed her, feeling overly mindful of her new clothing.
Ruminating over who Sidi was, Kristiana watched as Rupa poked a stick into the burning campfire laid not far from the wagon. When the thing had been set ablaze she withdrew it, then marched off to the edge of the wood that surrounded the clearing. Not wanting to be left alone, Kristiana followed her. Jade eyes widened when Rupa set fire to the garment Kristiana had worn.
“Why are you burning it?” Kristiana asked, confused by Rupa’s actions. “It simply needed to be washed.”
“It is marhime,” Rupa stated as she turned the charred material with the stick until it was completely consumed by the flames. “Balo can no longer wear it.”
Deeper Than Roses Page 4
