For the Love of a Gypsy

by Madelyn Hill

  She pushed him aside with a strength that startled him. “Ah, lad,” she said with a tsking of her tongue. “What did they do to ye?”

  Bollocks. She seized an opportunity when he’d released his guard and ran a hand over the scarred welts that crisscrossed the breadth of his back. He clenched his fist and stared out the window of the wagon.

  Declan then reached for the linen sheet tangled at the foot of the bed and draped it over his back. It stuck to the lavender-infused ointment.

  “’Tis none of your concern.” Phantom pain spiked sharp across his skin, now riddled with thick, roped lash marks.

  She patted his shoulder with so much affection that he cast his gaze to the ground to block her from his view.

  “Ye’ll tell me when yer ready. Or,” she said with a lilting sweep of her voice, “my granddaughter will bewitch you of yer secrets.”

  With a raspy hack of laughter, she made her way from the wagon. Her heritage was marked in the stark white blouse and the bright blues, greens, and yellows of her weaved skirt billowing behind her.

  Martine may try pull it out of him, but he would not reveal his imprisonment, or what transpired within the cruel stone walls and iron cages. Sometimes he felt as if they still surrounded him, sucking the life from his very soul and the sanity from his mind. Nightmares walking in the light of day, stalking him with their memories, harsh and unrelenting.

  Abigail had helped ease the memories. Her smile would pull him back and lulled some sense of sanity into his days and nights. She’d jest and pull a face.

  And now she was gone. Was his sanity not far behind?

  Martine strode into the caravan, a pile of linen weighting her arms and a smile pulling at her rosebud lips. Her full skirt swept along with her steps, the colorful garment mimicking her grandmother’s in pattern and coloring.

  Her gaze narrowed at his perusal. He wiped his features clean of any troublesome thoughts. Martine relaxed visibly before him and he knew he must leave.

  While he mourned his wife, he knew he never loved her as a man loves a woman. He’d never thought he’d find love that consumed him, drove him to wax poetic, as Abigail had done when she told him of the love of her life.

  One look at the Gypsy before him and his mouth went dry and his stomach fluttered.

  He’d tried to ignore her loveliness, the curve of her high cheekbones, the sweep of her elegantly drawn brow. There was no way for him to ignore the cadence of her rich voice and the intelligence of her gaze. ’Twas bewitching, her presence. Dangerously welcome to his heart, lethal to his mind and being.

  And he was a married man—nay. Bollocks. He was not. How strange the truth felt. Abigail was a dear woman and he’d miss her intellect and quick turn of a smile, her acceptance and unwavering friendship.

  He blinked, cleared his throat. He’d left her to be buried by her father. A man who’d mocked her, treated her badly. Declan clenched his fist as he envisioned punching his father-in-law squarely in the nose.

  “Good morning to you,” she said, breaking the laden silence as her gaze slid shyly toward him.

  Her voice pulled him from his grief, his guilt. He nodded and tugged the sheet upon his shoulders tighter. He wouldn’t expose her to such vileness. ‘Twould be exposing her to the bleak underside of the world.

  As she moved about the small space, the aroma of a fresh spring breeze tickling the field grass filled the wagon, plunging him deep within her essence, striking a match on his desire. He knew she watched him beneath her long lashes, feathers that wisped becomingly about her dark chestnut-colored eyes and he almost moved forward to touch her dark tresses.

  Sanity, however slim, won out. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I am able.”

  “No,” she said, then instantly looked chagrinned as she returned to the task of straightening the wagon. “I mean, you mustn’t rush.”

  He hid a smile. “My presence isn’t safe for the clan.” Hunted men mustn’t linger. Hunted men had to seek evidence. And in his case, he not only had to find who killed his wife, he had to find who imprisoned him.

  She nodded her head, then inhaled. “We will miss you, Anya and I.”

  Despite trying to keep strong and focused, he couldn’t help but be pleased by her words.

  “And I you.” He could hear the thickening of his tone. Emotion, somewhat unfamiliar to him, lay heavily between them. “Your kindness . . . I want to repay you.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Nay, ‘tis our pleasure to help those in need.”

  His eyes widened. The Gypsies weren’t known for their kindness to those outside their clan. But he saw the resolve in the line of her jaw and knew she believed what she spoke.

  “You don’t believe me,” she said wryly as she looked pointedly at him. “But my brother has led this tribe in a . . . different fashion than other leaders.”

  Intrigued, he regarded her a moment before asking, “For example?”

  She shrugged. “Other tribes wouldn’t allow a woman to train their dogs. Teaching the children to read—”

  He cocked his brow. Damn, the stitches. “You read?”

  “Aye.” Pride forced her fist to ball at her waist. “Not quite the itinerants you believed, Lord Forrester?”

  Her attitude bemused him. “You must admit, ‘tis unusual.” Not only unusual, but unheard of. He mulled over what she said and wondered how many of the villagers could read. He glanced at her as she glared down at him, her nose flaring, eyes narrowed and chin set to resolve.

  She tipped her head up, her gaze bold and fierce, met his. The shift of her behavior smacked of confidence. “As I said, my Kapo leads differently.”

  He held up his hands in defeat. “I meant no offense.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes heavenward.

  They chuckled and Martine shook her head.

  They spoke of her dogs and her love of training them. He wondered at such a woman who was a contrast to most women he’d known. She was innocent, yet he gathered she’d experienced more than she shared. There was a hesitancy to her, a slight stiffening of her shoulders when she’d change the subject to one not about herself. He allowed the shift, knowing full well he’d be hard pressed to discuss any of his past.

  Declan pinched the bridge of his nose. Their conversation taxed him beyond belief. How could he leave the clan if he proved as weak as a hatchling?

  “I’m sorry.” She patted his shoulder. “You need to rest.”

  He leaned back onto the cot, still wrapped in the sheet, but too weary to remove it. His mind was heady with her concern and attention. Bollocks. Declan cursed his past, father, and life in one breath.

  Nay, he must focus on his recovery and then search out the evidence to prove his innocence while finding out who killed Abigail. He owed her as much.

  “I’ll leave you,” Martine whispered. She moved to the doorway, then turned to look at him. She graced him with a swift smile.

  “Thank you,” he responded when all he wanted to do was reach up and cup her cheek, gently kiss her bowed mouth. Dear God, what had gotten into him?

  He was weaker than he thought. Musings such as these proved so. Declan needed his innocence, his men, and peace of mind. It may be meager, but ‘twas all he could claim as his own.

  He shouldn’t dally with a Gypsy.

  And he was certain the Kapo would agree.

  Chapter 7

  Martine smoothed her hair beneath a kerchief and straightened her skirt. Giggles and whispers rustled the curtain in her grandmother’s caravan. She continued to adjust her appearance, tucking in stray strands of hair. Biting her lip so as not to smile, she placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot.

  “Pah, I know there are no mice in here. Must be kittens, or foxes, and mayhap a rat.” She advanced toward the window, look
ed under the bed, chair, even a pot. More laughter erupted. She whipped back the curtain and three gregarious girls fell to their knees in fits of giggles.

  “My, these are the biggest rats I’ve ever seen.” She frowned and knitted her brow. “How must I get rid of them? I know. I’ll sweep them out with a broom.”

  “Nay, Martine. ‘Tis just us.”

  Solemn little faces peaked up at her. Och, they were beauties, the lot of them. She ruffled Emilia’s hair and helped Katya up from the floor. Pesha sat cross-legged, dark eyes sparkling and a full grin on her sweet, wee mouth. Martine scooped her up and hugged her tightly. Then she sat Pesha upon the bed. “Are you hungry, then?”

  “Aye,” they exclaimed. As they chattered, Martine found some biscuits and a few almond cookies. She had some tea left in its cozy, which she poured in tiny cups. She was certain Anya wouldn’t mind her using her tea reading cups for the girls.

  “Tell us a story,” Katya said as she chewed on an almond cookie. “A princess one. Please.”

  Martine smiled. She pulled back the curtain to check the time. ’Twas mid-afternoon and she’d been banished from her own wagon while Anya bathed Lord Forrester. More’s the pity, she thought wickedly, then was instantly aghast at the thought. She wiped her brow. “Aye, I’ll tell you a story.”

  She lifted the other girls onto the bed and grabbed a cookie for herself. After a sip of tea, Martine settled on the floor before them. She hesitated until they begged for her to begin.

  “Just a short one. ‘Tis nearly time for lessons.”

  Emilia wrinkled her nose. “Pah, Martine, we know.”

  She smiled indulgently. “Once there was a brave little girl, lost deep in the woods. She was frightened, but not terribly so. See, her father had taken her through the woods many a time.”

  “Then why was she lost?” Kayta asked.

  Martine tipped her head to the side. “I’m glad you asked. See, her father wasn’t with her this time. In fact, it had been many, many years since she’d even seen him.”

  “Did she cry?” Pesha said with a quiver to her chin.

  “Nay.” Martine rose and squeezed onto the bed. “She kept walking until she came to a wee pond. Near the edge was a little bird. So little, she’d almost stepped on him.”

  Emilia snuggled close, so adorable and sweet. Martine smoothed the little girl’s hair and continued her story. “The bird had feathers of every imaginable color. Purples, blues and even orange.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed the girls.

  “’Twas beautiful. The girl picked up the bird and it began to sing. The song was so touching, the girl began to weep.”

  “I thought ye said she didn’t cry.”

  “She didn’t cry because she was sad, Pesha. It was because of the pure beauty of the bird’s song.” She smiled at the girls. “Just as the bird ended its song, the grass around the pond blossomed into a rainbow of color. Rabbits and deer came out of the woods and began lapping up the water of the pond. The girl watched, amazed at the sight before her.”

  “’Tis a lovely story,” Katya said with a gapping yawn. “Did the bird grant her a wish?”

  “Nay. But the bird did lay an egg. One large egg with the most amazing shade of purple on its shell.” As she glanced at each of the expectant faces of the children, she felt her heart lurch. To have a babe of her own would almost be worth the sacrifice of marriage to Magor. Och, she loathed the thought, but knew it was necessary in order to have children.

  Emilia jumped off the bed and began parading in the small area. “See, I’m the bird.” She tweeted as she flapped her arms. The other girls followed suit, and soon the cacophony of tweeting filled the air.

  Martine chuckled and mimicked the girl’s actions.

  A shadow darkened the doorway. All eyes sought the intruder in silence.

  “So Siskaar, ye’ve time to play?”

  She crossed her arms before her chest and tapped her foot. The girls stared solemnly at Rafe. They scurried past her brother as quickly as their little feet could take them. “You needn’t scare them to death.”

  He chuckled. She hadn’t heard the sound in so long, she nearly smiled. “’Tis good to see ye enjoying yerself.”

  She watched him, uncertain of what he wanted.

  Rafe came further into the caravan and inspected the area. “You’ll soon have your wagon back. That must please ye.”

  “Aye, ‘tis my home.”

  He touched her sleeve. “Martine . . . ye must understand.”

  Ignoring his touch and gentle tone, she busied herself by cleaning up cookie crumbs and teacups.

  Rafe rested his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “’Tis well past time you wed.”

  Martine nodded mutely. She could never trust her brother with her fears. He wouldn’t understand how she wanted to ignore tradition and the honor of the clan, even though she’d followed their traditions ever since they found her. There was a part of her willing to rebel; the other part was too beholden to the clan. But mostly, her heart was theirs and she loved them as if they were truly her family.

  Regardless, his scrutiny unsettled her. “Leave,” she said. “I’ve lessons to do.”

  After a probing glance, he nodded and left. And all she could think of was that she’d be married to Magor too soon. Her life would be over too soon.

  He’d stayed abed long enough. For the past four days he’d moved about the length of the caravan, trying to strengthen his muscles, remove the hitch caused by his injuries. He left the wagon, wearing the clothing of the Gypsies, since his seemed to have vanished. They were comfortable, loose, and freeing. Slowly, he walked into the wooded area surrounding the caravan. He’d garnered stares from the clan, but he shook them off, longing to move his legs and breathe some fresh air.

  His strides were slow and a little unsure, but he relished stretching his legs a bit.

  An evenly pitched whistle drew his attention. He inspected the picturesque scenery of the glen in an attempt to find its source.

  Ah, Martine. She was lovely in contrast to the greenery surrounding her with her bright blue skirt, crisp white shirt, and colorful kerchief. Luxuriant hair spilled down her back in an endless wave of black silk. Her curves, her femininity, sent fire through his loins.

  He stopped, dragged his fingers through his hair. Did he move forward—or scurry back to the caravan? His attraction was pleasurable and troubling at once.

  His gaze sought her once again. She held herself regally, her chin tipped up as if she were attempting to soak up the heat of the sun. Moreover, he suddenly longed to do the same, feel the heated, soft caresses of the sun and mimic her carefree actions. The dogs danced around her, jumping and yapping at her heels.

  Declan stepped out of the shadows as he paced toward her. She swished her colorful skirt at the dogs in a graceful movement; they seemed to enjoy the teasing and became more excited. She pursed her lips and whistled low, a sound that skipped through the wind and calmed the errant canines. Amazed, Declan wondered how she’d won such easy compliance from the two robust creatures.

  Her eyes narrowed, then they widened. Eyes that tipped up at the corners, framed by long, dark lashes. He peered closer and marveled as her eyes shifted from dark brown to a softer hue flecked with gold. Her mouth resembled a plump bow tied on a Christmas present.

  This beauty captured his attention as the hum of awareness tightened his muscles and befuddled his mind. She was lovely against the rugged landscape, her beauty unique and exotic.

  Guilt filled him with shame. He wiped the back of his neck as he stopped walking.

  You’re a good man, he heard Abigail remind him in her clipped English tone. She’d often told him how good he was. She thanked him more times than he could count. Thanked him for marrying her when no one else with a ti
tle would and putting up with her attachment to the love of her life. He’d pick up her hand and kiss her soft skin. ‘Twas my pleasure, was his constant reply. And he meant it, because it was true. If he had any choice, he’d have picked Abigail. She was smart, lively, and could tell a ribald joke better than a sailor.

  Friends? she’d asked just a few days before her death.

  Aye, he’d returned. Forever.

  She waved a hand at him and laughed before a somber look stole over her face. When you find her, I want you to forget about me. You’ve suffered too much. You deserve the love I cannot give you.

  Tears smarted his eyes. He tipped his head up and grinned. Thank you, he said in silent prayer. Thank you for your kindness and understanding.

  She’d approve of Martine, Declan was certain of it. The Gypsy had captivated him from the moment he woke in her caravan, no matter how he tried not to be enticed. His body now thrummed with energy and desire.

  He strode with purpose and a need to be near her.

  “Good morn,” he greeted. His voice sounded rusty, rough from the memories and his determination.

  Her gaze darkened and she quickly glanced toward the camp. After a moment, she said, “You’re exploring.”

  He relaxed and grinned at her. “Aye, as lovely as your wagon is, I was going mad.”

  Declan’s gaze roamed over her hungrily. Every soft curve beckoned exploration.

  She nodded toward him, her watchful gaze distrusting, obviously unnerved by his regard. He immediately masked his desire, not wanting her to flee when he finally had the strength to walk about the land—and, bollocks, the strength to admit his attraction to the beautiful woman before him.