Chapter Three
IT HAD GROWN UNEXPECTEDLY warm during the night, and April thrashed restlessly under the blankets on her pallet in the wagon. Knowing the men of the band had all gathered in the king’s tent to mull over her fate had not made sleeping any easier, and the dreams she did have were full of strange, frightening shadows and sounds.
April tried not to disturb Tzigane, but when she sat up at last with tears streaming down her face, her muffled sobs caused her foster mother to whisper across the wagon.
“Hush, chavali,” Tzigane soothed, using the same gypsy word for daughter that she had so often crooned in baby April’s ear. “All will be right in the end, you will see.”
April knew then that Tzigane had not slept either, but also lay awake and listened to the fateful murmur of the men outside. She wished she could believe the seer, but the prickle on the nape of her neck told April that something bad was going to happen.
Tzigane saw the young woman clench the patchwork quilt in her hands. By the thin stream of moonlight coming through the open cooking vent in their wagon, her lovely fair features were touched with silver cobwebs of shadows and her hair gleamed palest gold. Tzigane saw the glistening silvery teardrops on her daughter’s cheeks.
“I could run away,” April choked out, but there was no heart in her words. To leave the Lowara would be to lose her heritage and her life, and banishment would be better than such a coward’s choice.
“Tonight you can do nothing but get some rest.” Even superstitious Tzigane could be practical at times. “Morning may bring a solution to us, who knows? You will only call to the dark spirits if you let such thoughts take over.”
April wondered how her mother stayed so calm. “Have you seen something else in the cards?” She hated to admit it now, but she hoped Tzigane had seen something good, and that it was going to come true.
Tzigane was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was raspy with age, and April was painfully reminded that this woman who had saved her as an infant was no longer young and strong.
“Daughter, I have always told myself that when the time was right, I would show you something that would change your life. Seeing only darkness surrounding you now, I think that there is no better time than this. If nothing else, you may be comforted to know that I have planned for your future, and have not forgotten the joy you have brought me.”
April was bewildered. She knew Tzigane kept a small cache of gold coins securely knotted in a kerchief under her bed, for she had shown April where to find the money if ever she should meet with an accident and April was left alone. But aside from that and her pack of tarot cards, April knew of no great treasure which Tzigane had that could avert the calamity they were facing now.
“I don’t understand,” she said as her mother sat up and fumbled for a tallow candle to light. “What could you possibly share with me now that would make any difference?”
“On this day, perhaps nothing.” Tzigane sighed to admit it, blowing on the candle as she struck a spark to light. “Ah. That’s better. Now I can see your pretty face when I give you your rightful sumadji.”
“Inheritance?” Now April was openly curious against her will, and temporarily forgot her troubles to swing her legs over the side of her bed and lean toward the phuri dai.
“Yes. I have kept it hidden for years because you were too young to understand, and I was afraid if the others should find out.”
April tingled with the suspense of it. Her voice dropped to a whisper to match Tzigane’s as she asked, “Is it so terrible then?”
By the candlelight Tzigane’s eyes glowed like golden coals. “Terrible only in that man is greedy, and what he see, he wants. The same is true for woman, but to a lesser degree. However, none must know of what I show you now — your birthright and your heritage.”
Tzigane reached around her own neck to lift a small velvet pouch dangling from a plain cord. She had worn the amulet for years, telling everyone it contained a magic pebble for good luck, and none had questioned the fanciful old seer.
April remembered seeing the worn green pouch many times, though Tzigane usually kept it hidden under her blouse. Now she pulled it off and handed the smooth little sack to April. She felt it curiously for a moment, looking at her foster mother in confusion.
“Isn’t this your magic rock? It feels like it.”
Tzigane smiled, her amber eyes glinting by candlelight with secret knowledge. “No, chavali,” she whispered triumphantly, “it is your magic rock. Open it.”
As April’s trembling fingers fumbled with the tight drawstring, Tzigane went on to explain, “When I found you, a tiny babe in the woods, you were naked and completely exposed to the cruel snows. But around your neck there was this pouch, this little mystery …”
April gasped as she shook the velvet bag open and something round and hard tumbled into her palm. There, reflecting prisms against her face, lay a huge and perfectly faceted diamond, the secrets of her origin stored in its sparkling clear depths.
“Even King Jingo does not know of it. After I brought you back to camp, I was careful to hide it once I saw what it was. I have kept it secure at my breast all these years.”
April rolled the beautiful gem in her fingers. “What does it mean? Who would put such a valuable thing around a baby’s neck that they abandoned to die? I don’t understand.”
Her mother heard the upset in her voice. Putting an arm around her, Tzigane said, “I have only guesses to make, and have made many over the years. Perhaps your mother had to hide you from evil, and intended to hurry back when she could. Maybe the jewel was stolen, maybe you were too … who knows? Your past is silent even in my cards. But the jewel is worth a great deal, and its sale would last you to the end of your days.”
Instead of comforting April as intended, the tale only embittered her. “So I was cast off like an unwanted kitten to die, with a thing of great worth wrapped around my neck. Why did my mother not just strangle me and be done with it?” She tossed the glittering gem back in the pouch and pushed it at Tzigane. “I don’t want it. And no gajo would buy such a gem from a gypsy, they who call all of us cutpurses and thieves. I would be hung if I tried to sell it in a city.”
Tzigane let her rage for a moment, then tentatively began, “Well, whether you want it or not, it is yours. Your birthright —”
“And my curse!” April cried. “Keep it yourself; you have earned it caring for me all these years.”
Tzigane’s face reflected hurt. “April, I would not have taken you in had I not truly wanted a child of my own. My greatest heartache when I was young and married was that I could not give my beloved Bal a child. He, too, often spoke longingly of the children we would have someday — brave strong sons and beautiful daughters to dote on in our old age.”
Tears dripped and slid silently down the old woman’s creased face as she swallowed hard and went on. “When I found you, I was overcome with joy. Bal was gone but I felt he had left me a legacy in the wood, a love gift to remind me of what little time we did share in this world. That is why I gave you the name of the blessed month in which I found you, so I would always remember the beauty of spring and the flowers blooming, even in the snow.”
April cried too as she embraced her foster mother then. She cared nothing for the jewel, precious though it might be, for it paled to insignificance beside this true gem of a woman who had given an orphaned babe her heart and home. They clung to each other and wept softly in unison, in loving joy and deep despair, until a cock’s crow signaled the day of reckoning had arrived.
Chapter Four
WHEN HE ARRIVED IN Sukhumi, Damien appeared no different than any of a dozen other passengers disembarking from the Turkish cargo ship. Without much effort he had been able to adopt the look of a down-on-his-luck tramp. His hair had long since grown out to his shoulders and was tied back with a cord. By deliberately letting the sun fry his skin to a rich, golden brown, he had perfected his cover.
F
or several days he and Lord Raglan had planned how best to enter Russia. The idea of a gypsy musician seemed the most believable, and his own men had tried to run him out of camp when he first appeared in filthy, torn clothing and bare feet.
Damien’s hands were calloused enough to pass close inspection, but his soles were still tender after walking the hot deck at sea. Only time could toughen the skin there, and he set his teeth as he marched ashore across sharp rocks and bits of broken glass lying in the sand. The extent of his worldly possessions, a worn canvas bag and a small wicker cage of cooing pigeons, were slung over his left shoulder.
Aware of the close scrutiny of several idle Turkish soldiers, Damien did his best to scowl and curse under his breath like a genuine vagrant. He hoped his rank smell and appearance would be enough to discourage any questions, and soon enough the soldiers’ eyes had moved on to more likely prey behind him.
Leaving the port area, Damien looked immediately to escape the Turkish city and further his plans. Lord Raglan had given him enough money to purchase a small used wagon and a tired nag, and after a few hours perusing the docks, he finally secured these and other supplies and made his way into the hills.
Damien spent the first night camped under the stars. It was refreshing not having to share the company of snoring shipmates. The cool, crisp air and painful silence of the thickly wooded land all around him gave him a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness for England. Then he remembered his mission, and quelled any further longings by rolling over and firmly shutting his eyes.
By overland route his way would be both difficult and dangerous, separated as the Caucasus was from mainland Russia. However, he and Raglan could dredge up no better plan for the moment, and to tell the truth, Damien enjoyed the ruggedness of this high-altitude mountain terrain.
Unfortunately, the nag he had bought was stupid as well as old, and had to be cajoled into entering the high mountain passes dragging the wobbly wagon behind. Damien spent the better part of the second day cursing the horse and the burning soles of his feet in alternate refrains. When he stopped to eat, the dry jerky and drier bread did little to improve his temper. In the thinner atmosphere, the sun burned unmercifully on Damien’s already sunbaked body, and by the time he came across a cold, inviting stream the following afternoon, he stank so badly he didn’t give a second thought to stripping completely and plunging right in.
Damien surfaced with a strangled gasp of exhilaration, and the frigid water did wonders for his mental attitude. It was a world apart from the luxuries at Mistgrove, but there was something elementally satisfying about a dunk in an icy mountain stream.
After he completed several leisurely laps across the water, Damien paused, feeling a ticklish sensation race down his spine. He was being watched. Alert in battle and still alive to show for it, he drilled a narrow stare through the thick underbrush across the stream.
There was subtle movement in the thicket, and he swam slowly in that direction. Although he didn’t sense any real danger, and it was probably only a curious forest creature, he wasn’t taking any chances.
As he brushed against the farthest bank, the rustle of someone moving to flee was obvious. Damien saw a flash of color, and knowing then that his observer was human, he leapt stark naked from the water and hurled himself in a flying tackle after the fleeing figure.
Thud! They impacted hard and rolled together on the carpet of grass and leaves, and Damien found a wildcat in his arms. With a hiss and a screech, the beautiful young woman struggled in vain to free herself, her blonde hair whipping wildly from side to side.
“Ciel! What’s this?”
Too surprised to be embarrassed, Damien spoke in French. He stared down in wonder at the vision of loveliness trapped beneath him, the dilated green eyes which, cat-like, watched his every move.
“It seems I’ve caught myself a pretty spy.”
“Spy?” Curious against her will, April repeated the unfamiliar word in her otherwise perfect French. Then, like a tiger in a trap, she tried to thrash free again, but the man’s strongly corded arms pinned hers firmly to her side.
Her eyes widened. Wrestling with her first instinct to fight a stranger, her hesitation proved her doom. She wanted to be as furious at this man as she was Nicky, but there was no comparison. Against her will, April felt her anger quickly draining away. She was drowning in his blue, blue eyes …
“Mon Dieu,” he exclaimed. “It’s you, isn’t it? The little gypsy girl with the apple.”
April stared up into the burning eyes of the man who held her. Yes, she had seen him before. But where? When she suddenly remembered, her lips parted in shock.
“Non,” she whispered.
“Oui,” he countered. “You do remember me.”
Not knowing why, Damien was pleased. There was danger in recognition, but he would have been absurdly disappointed if she’d failed to respond. He felt her slim body move beneath his, his nudity barely concealed by the flowing lines of her full yellow skirts, and his eyes darkened as he drank in the changes time had wrought.
Lovelier, if anything, now that she was a woman grown. She reminded him of a golden lioness with her tousled mane of sun-bleached hair spilling across the ground in a blaze of light. He moved one hand to pick a leaf from her tangled tresses, and held his breath awaiting an attack. Surprisingly, it never came.
April’s thoughts whirled wildly. She could no more fight him than she could herself at the moment, and the sensation of water droplets trickling from his bare chest through her thin white blouse made her shiver with strange sensations. Why did it seem so oddly right that he should appear in her life again? Yet she had never dreamed that a simple walk through the forest this morning would completely change her life.
Here she was, about to stand trial for attempted murder, and yet all she could think of was running her hands through a stranger’s thick, black hair, and gazing breathlessly up into his sea-blue eyes.
With a wry smile, he said, “It seems we haven’t been formally introduced yet. My name is Damien.” For some reason, he didn’t want to lie to her.
April accepted his word, asking only, “Is that a French name?”
He nodded, which satisfied her, and waited for her to respond in kind. Instead, her next comment made him laugh.
“You’re naked!”
“We seem to have gotten ourselves into a compromising position this time,” he agreed, glancing momentarily away to focus on the sight of his clothes neatly stacked a measure downstream. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Certainement. You can get off of me.”
Damien gave a low chuckle. “As I recall, I’ve earned a favor, little girl, from saving you all those years past. How quickly women forget their champions.”
“I promised to tell your fortune, not roll with you in the grass,” April retorted quickly.
“More’s the pity. By the way, where did you learn French? You speak it like a native.”
“I know several languages,” she said, distracted by a lock of wavy black hair which dangled from his forehead. “Gypsies travel a great deal, and I wanted to learn all I could. It’s useful for telling fortunes, you see.”
“And charming men?” Damien wondered why the thought sent a sharp pang of jealousy through him. “But surely you cannot be old enough for that. How old are you now, about fifteen?”
“Almost eighteen,” April sputtered, coming up on both elbows when he freed her. Thankfully her skirts covered him all the way up to the waist, but she could not avoid a glimpse of his broad, bronzed chest, heavily furred with dark hair.
Averting her gaze, she asked, “Why are you pretending to be romani?” She took careful measure of his wagon and the old horse standing patiently in the traces.
“I have decided to become Rom,” Damien replied, keeping his voice level. “I would like to join your band.”
She was silent a moment, as if testing the sincerity of his words. “Gaje before you have claimed they wish to follow gypsy ways.
Usually they quickly change their minds.”
Her tone was full of warning, but Damien did not notice. Instead he fought off the longing to run his hands down her smooth bare arms one last time, and asked her huskily, “Why were you watching me swim just now?”
His question startled April, but she quickly replied, “I often walk in the woods.”
“To meet a lover?”
“Of course not.” Not until now, anyway. The unbidden thought sprang to her mind, and April willed it fiercely away. She dared not admit to herself that for several minutes she had watched Damien swimming, admiring his muscular arms cutting the water in smooth, clean strokes.
“At your age, most girls are married,” Damien mused in a low voice as he looked down on her. He resisted the urge to toy with a lock of golden-blonde hair, or to capture her sweetly curved lips beneath his own.
Dear God, he was as smitten with this wild-eyed wench as none other before, and he didn’t rightly know what to do about it. English lords simply didn’t keep company with gypsy girls. Not that he wouldn’t mind right now, but he had a mission to complete, and he’d best keep his mind strictly on that.
“I choose not to marry,” April announced proudly, daring him to dispute it with a flash of her green eyes.
“Why not? I should think it would be advisable for a young girl of your ah — er — obvious charms to have a protector.”
“Men!” she sniffed her opinion of them, for a fleeting moment reminding Damien of his own mother. He stifled the urge to laugh. Her brow was puckered in obvious upset. “They only want one thing from women.”
“Ah.” He nodded grimly in understanding. April wondered if Damien might be contemplating such a thing himself.
“I’ll get my clothes,” he said at last, after a long silence during which they simply looked at one another.
April rose and turned the other way while Damien got up and donned his clothes. He dressed swiftly with his back to her, anxious to find out more about the young woman who intrigued him so. Like a schoolboy with his first crush, he wanted to know her name, her history and everything else about her.
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