by Connie Mason
Lara glanced down at the pounding surf. The outgoing tide had exposed an inviting crescent of beach that spoke to the untamed Gypsy in her. With the exuberance of a wild child of nature, she flew down the narrow path leading to the beach, her dark eyes glowing with the pleasure of being young, lighthearted, and free of strictures for a few more weeks.
Lara ran along the beach, her bare feet leaving small prints in the wet sand. She lifted her face to the warm sun and laughed aloud from the pure joy of being alive on this fine day.
“Lara! Ramona is looking for you. ’Tis time to move on.”
Lara looked over her shoulder and grinned at Rondo, the playmate of her youth, now a handsome man of twenty-three, looking down at her from the cliff above.
“Must we leave?” Lara complained. “ ’Tis so beautiful here.”
“Pietro wants to reach Lockerbie in time for the big fair. Our horses should sell well there.”
Lara nodded, then turned for one last look at the beach and sea beyond, absorbing the untamed beauty of sand and water and towering cliffs into her pores. Her inquisitive gaze settled on a bundle of rags that had washed up on the beach. Her curiosity piqued, she started forward.
“Lara, where are you going?”
“There’s something on the beach.”
Rondo sounded impatient. “Leave it. ’Tis probably nothing of importance.”
But it was something. Lara felt it in her bones, heard fate calling to her. She dropped down on her knees beside the bundle, tentatively reaching out to touch something that looked more solid than mere rags. She encountered flesh and bone and let out a startled gasp.
A human body!
She turned the body over. It was a man, one precariously close to death. She found a weak pulse. His face was ashen, his lips blue and bloodless.
“Rondo, come quickly! ’Tis a man!”
Rondo scrambled down the path. “Is he alive?”
“I think so.”
He pushed her aside. “Let me have a look.”
For some unexplained reason Lara was loath to leave the man’s side. Something within her whispered that this man needed her. She watched with bated breath as Rondo felt for a pulse and placed his ear against the lifeless chest.
“Aye, he’s alive, just barely.”
“Do something. We can’t let him die.”
“I don’t see why not. He probably came from one of the smuggling ships operating in these waters. He’s dressed like a peasant or a common sailor.”
“Don’t be so hard-hearted, Rondo. Press the water out of his lungs.”
Grumbling, Rondo turned the man on his stomach, straddled him, and began pumping in and out.
“ ’Tis no use,” Rondo said.
“Keep pumping,” Lara urged. For some obscure reason it seemed important to keep this man alive.
Rondo renewed his efforts and was rewarded when a gush of water spurted from the man’s lungs. He gagged and coughed, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing ragged.
Lara’s voice was anxious with worry. “Let’s take him to Ramona. She’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t know why it’s so important to cart a man who probably won’t live out the day up the cliff,” Rondo complained. “He’s a gadjo.”
“Rondo, please. He’s a human being.”
“You know I can refuse you nothing,” Rondo said as he hefted the man over his shoulder.
“He’s bleeding!” Lara cried when she saw blood dripping down one limp hand onto the wet sand. “Hurry!”
Lara led the way up the path, looking back frequently to make sure Rondo followed. They reached the top, and Lara instructed Rondo to take the wounded gadjo to her wagon.
“ ’Tis not right,” Rondo complained. “You’re a maiden.”
“Just do as I say, Rondo. I’m going for Ramona.”
Pietro intercepted Lara before she reached the gaily painted wagon her grandparents shared. “What is it, little one?”
“I found a wounded man on the beach, Grandfather. Rondo carried him to my wagon. I need Grandmother to heal his wounds.”
“What kind of wounds?”
“I don’t know. There’s blood, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Please fetch Grandmother. Tell her to bring her healing tools and herbs.”
Pietro must have sensed his granddaughter’s urgency, for he hurried off to do her bidding, allowing Lara to hasten back to her wagon.
“How is he?” she asked as she ducked inside.
Rondo had finished his cursory inspection of the unconscious man. “He’s seriously wounded, probably shot more than once. Someone wanted him dead … badly. The gadjo will bring trouble to us, Lara. ’Tis best we let him die.”
“What’s this about dying?”
Ramona ducked inside the wagon, pushing Rondo aside to look at the man lying on her granddaughter’s bed. Her dark face was deeply lined and her hair streaked with gray, yet somehow she appeared ageless. Her ample figure was garbed in clothing every bit as colorful and flamboyant as her granddaughter’s.
“Who is he?”
“There’s no identification on him,” Rondo said. “Look at him. The rough clothes and scuffed boots are those of a peasant.”
“Can you save him, Grandmother?” Lara asked anxiously.
Ramona’s brown eyes held the wisdom of ages as she looked beyond Lara, to something only she could see.
“He is gadjo,” she intoned dryly.
“And I am half gadjo,” Lara reminded her.
Brow furrowed, Ramona studied her granddaughter intently, then returned her gaze to the wounded man.
“I will do what I can. Rondo can remain to help me remove his clothing, but you must leave. You are still an innocent.”
Lara wanted to object but knew Ramona would fight her on this, so she left the wagon without an argument. She joined Pietro outside. His thick, gray brows were knitted together with worry.
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know, Grandfather, but he’s as near death as a man can get.”
Pietro suddenly looked alarmed. “ ’Tis not good, Lara. I fear this man will bring trouble to our people. What if his enemies come looking for him?”
“I don’t know,” Lara said, looking down at her dirty toes. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Rondo thinks he’ll die, so that problem will probably never come up.”
Pietro held out his arms and Lara walked into them. “Why is this man so important to you, little one?”
Lara had no answer. She bit her lip to keep them from trembling and shook her head, sending a tangle of shiny dark curls cascading over her shoulders.
“Ah, little one. You are so beautiful, so innocent, yet so filled with life.” He smoothed a wayward curl from her forehead. “You are fiery and untamed, just like your mother. Spirited and impetuous, too, and sometimes I fear for you. I hope your father finds a mate worthy of you.”
“Maybe I’ll never marry, Grandfather,” Lara ventured. “I will not marry without love.”
“I feel confident you will find a man to love, little one.”
Lara glanced toward the wagon. “What do you suppose is taking so long?”
“If anyone can heal the wounded gadjo, ’tis your grandmother. You must have patience.”
Patience, Lara thought, was something she’d never had in abundance. Then suddenly the door opened and Rondo staggered out. He was white as a sheet and looked ready to lose the contents of his stomach.
“Rondo! What is it?”
“Ramona is digging out the bullet in his back now, and the one she removed from his shoulder is festering. ’Tisn’t a pretty sight.”
“Bullets? More than one?” Lara said.
“Two. He was shot once in the shoulder and again in the back. The infection is serious and still might kill him despite Ramona’s healing skills.”
“I’m going in,” Lara said, striding resolutely toward the wagon.
“Lara, the man’s naked,” Rondo said, grabbi
ng her arm.
Lara shrugged away. “Someone needs to help Ramona. Obviously you’ve no stomach for it.”
Rondo made another grab at her but Pietro stopped him. “Let her go,” the older man said. “No one can stop Lara when her mind is made up. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
Lara opened the door and stepped inside the wagon. Her gaze darted to the bed, where Ramona was bent over the inert body of the man she’d found on the beach.
“Hand me that bottle of disinfectant,” Ramona said crisply. “If you’ve come to help, make yourself useful.”
Lara found the disinfectant on the nightstand and handed it to Ramona. “How is he?”
“Still alive.”
Lara’s gaze was drawn to the bed, to the man lying atop the covers. He was naked but for a cloth covering his loins. Lara couldn’t look away. This man was no peasant, nor was he a common sailor. He wasn’t Scottish, either. He hadn’t the Gaelic look about him. Beneath his beard his handsome face was patrician, and his long, lean body was too elegant to come from peasant stock. He appeared to be a man who kept his body in top shape.
His chest was broad, his biceps prominently defined. Lara had no idea what lay beneath the cloth covering his loins, but it had to be as impressive as the rest of him. Yet it was his face to which her gaze kept returning. His lips intrigued her. They were full and sensual, inviting all kinds of wicked thoughts. His lashes were indecently long for a man; his eyebrows were as dark as his hair and elegantly curved. His square chin was entirely masculine. Lara tried to envision the color of his eyes but soon gave up.
“What are you doing?” Lara asked, returning her gaze to Ramona.
“I’m squeezing out the infection. There’s little more I can do. The bullet in his back was difficult, and dangerously close to his lungs. Hand me the needle and thread. I’m going to sew him up. Then we wait, and rely on a higher influence to make the decision of life or death.”
“I’ll sit with him, Grandmother,” Lara said, pulling a chair close to the bed.
Ramona finished stitching the wounded man and settled a blanket over him. She searched Lara’s face, then nodded acquiescence. “I will return soon.”
“Grandmother,” Lara implored, “tell Grandfather that we mustn’t leave for the fair at Lockerbie until your patient can travel. The roads are rough. Jostling him about in the wagon could kill him.”
“I will discuss it with Pietro,” Ramona said as she let herself out the door.
Lara sat beside the wounded gadjo, waiting for him to open his eyes. Questions about him burned her tongue. There was so much she wanted to know. His name. Where he came from. Who wanted him dead. A small voice within her whispered that there was more to this man than met the eye. She knew Ramona sensed it too, for she seemed to know things no one else knew. Ramona could read a person’s palm and predict his destiny, unlike some Gypsies, who merely pretended to have the gift her grandmother possessed.
Lara wasn’t aware of the passage of time until Ramona returned to the wagon a few hours later. “How is he?”
“Nothing has changed.”
Ramona felt his forehead. “The fever will begin soon. I sent Rondo to fetch cold water from the sea. Go eat with the others, I will sit here with him.”
Lara didn’t want to leave, but obeyed her grandmother with marked reluctance.
Lara paused at the door. “Did you speak to Grandfather about remaining here a few days longer?”
“Aye. He agreed to delay our leaving a day or two, until the gadjo either dies or shows signs of improvement.”
Lara’s voice held a note of anxiety. “You won’t let him die, will you, Grandmother?”
“ ’Tis in God’s hands,” Ramona replied, staring intently into the gadjo’s face. “Go now. Perhaps you can hurry Rondo along with the cold water.”
Ramona continued to stare at the gadjo long after Lara left. Why was Lara so taken with the gadjo? She sensed his troubled spirit and felt evil surrounding him. She knew not whether the evil emanated from him or from others who wished him harm. Nor did she know how it would affect Lara. She only knew that destiny was at work.
Ramona shifted her gaze to the gadjo’s hand. It lay limply upon the blanket, open and vulnerable. Disregarding every tingling nerve ending that warned her not to tempt fate, she cradled his palm in her hands. One sensitive finger traced the lines, pausing as she explored the soft pad of his thumb and deep indentations scoring his palm. Suddenly she let out a cry and dropped the hand as if it had scalded her.
Closing her eyes, she muttered an incantation. Her probing into his destiny had revealed a tormented man courted by danger. Powerful forces were at work. Ramona knew intuitively that the gadjo’s enemies were a threat to her beloved granddaughter. And there was little she could do to prevent it.
Somewhere in the murky depths of his brain Julian perceived another presence, but sensed no danger. He was aware of unbearable pain, of heat, then he drifted back to the sublime state where he heard and felt nothing.
“Rondo’s here with the water, Grandmother,” Lara said, holding the door open for Rondo.
“Set it on the floor, then both of you leave,” Ramona ordered.
“Let me help,” Lara pleaded.
“No,” Rondo argued. “You don’t belong in here. I will send one of the married women to help if Ramona needs someone.”
“I need no one,” Ramona replied. “Go, both of you.”
Lara withdrew. Rondo followed. “You are attracted to the gadjo,” Rondo charged.
“He is sorely in need of my help.” With a toss of her curly hair, she walked away to join a group of her friends.
The Rom were sitting around a central campfire eating supper and exchanging gossip when Ramona joined them.
“Does the gadjo live?” Pietro asked.
“He lives. He is a stubborn one. He refuses to give up his spirit.”
“Eat, Grandmother,” Lara urged. “I will sit with him while you rest.”
“He is feverish, Lara, and the worst is yet to come. Call me if you need me.”
Lara hurried into her wagon and pulled the chair closer to the bed. Despite the golden glow of candlelight, the gadjo’s face was pale, and purple shadows dusted the fragile skin beneath his eyes. From time to time he moaned and shivered. Lara pulled the blanket up around his neck and crooned softly to him in the Romany tongue.
She fell asleep with her head resting on the side of the bed, her hand clutching his as if to let him know he wasn’t alone.
Lara awoke to the sound of excited voices and daylight shining through the curtained window. She jerked upright just as the door burst inward.
“There’s a ship in the cove,” Rondo informed her. “They launched a jolly boat and ’tis’ heading to the beach.”
Warning bells went off in Lara’s head. “What does Pietro say?”
“He is worried. So is Ramona. We should have left yesterday.”
Lara glanced at the wounded gadjo, then turned back to Rondo. “I must speak with my grandparents.”
The gadjo shifted restlessly and groaned.
“Has he awakened?”
“No, he’s been doing that all night.”
They left the wagon. The entire camp appeared in a state of agitation. A group of Rom had gathered around her grandparents, and she hurried over to join them.
“Does the ship in the cove mean trouble for us, Grandfather?”
“I know not, little one. We must wait and see and be prepared to defend ourselves should they prove unfriendly to the Romany. How fares the gadjo?”
“The same. He is barely conscious and feverish. Do you think the men from the ship are the same ones who tried to kill him? What if they’re searching for him?”
Ramona’s dark eyes turned inward. “We will survive,” she said cryptically.
“Please don’t give him up,” Lara implored.
Ramona never got to answer that question. A dozen armed men burst into the camp.
�
��We mean ye no harm,” a burly sailor growled. “We’re looking for a man who may have washed up on shore near here. Have ye seen him?”
Much to Lara’s relief, Pietro said, “We have seen no one.”
“Are ye sure? ’Tis important. ’Tis important that we know whether he is dead or alive.”
“Look elsewhere, gadjo,” Ramona suggested. “There is no stranger among us.”
“Don’t believe them, Crockett,” a sailor behind him said. He stepped forward, brandishing his pistol in a threatening manner. “Ye can’t trust a heathen Gypsy.” He waved his pistol in Pietro’s face. “I say we beat the old one until we get the truth from him.”
“There’s another way,” Crockett said, glancing at the wagons scattered about the camp. “We’ll search every wagon, every nook and cranny. Spread out, men.”
Panic seized Lara. These men were the enemy. If she didn’t think of something fast, they would find and kill the wounded gadjo.
The sailors set off toward the wagons while Crockett held his pistol on the Rom. Lara’s heart sank when she spied a sailor heading toward her wagon. Without thinking, she broke away from the group, raced to her wagon, and planted herself before the door.
“Move aside, wench,” the sailor warned.
Lara held her ground. “You can’t go inside.”
The sailor grasped her about the waist and swung her out of the way. “Be good and I’ll let ye pleasure me for a silver coin when we’re finished here.”
“Don’t touch me!” Lara blasted.
“Why not? Everyone knows Gypsy wenches are whores.”
“What’s the problem?” Crockett asked when he noticed the ruckus taking place outside Lara’s wagon.
“The bitch won’t let me inside,” the sailor growled.
Crockett strode over to join them. “Oh, she won’t? We’ll see about that.”
He shoved Lara aside and pushed open the door. Pietro and Ramona rushed to their granddaughter’s defense. The Rom followed in their wake.
Crockett glowered at Lara and her grandparents. “Well, well, what do we have here? Who are ye trying to protect?”
Lara uttered the first words that came into her head. “ ’Tis Drago, my husband. He’s ill.” A murmur of surprise rose up from the Rom gathered outside the wagon.
