The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

“Of course. But I went to live with Aunt Beatrice soon after my mother died. My aunt raised me as a sister to her son, Phillip.”

  Lucien stared straight ahead into the night, past his magnificent mares. “How old were you when your mother died?”

  “Six years old.”

  “So young.”

  “Yes.” But each time Henrietta thought or talked of it, the pain seemed less than before. Perhaps it was simply the passage of time. “I remember mother’s melancholy but did not know what caused her to be so sad. Sometimes, I feared it might be me,” she admitted softly. “I tried very hard to be a good little girl.”

  “Just a babe,” he murmured.

  “My mother and father were ill-suited to one another. Their marriage had been arranged.”

  “My Lady, I do not deny such marriages cannot be difficult.”

  “I overheard Aunt Beatrice say my mother drowning was not an accident.”

  Lucien turned to her then. For an instant Henrietta imagined his midnight eyes gentled as they locked on hers.

  Waves of inexplicable warmth washed through her body. She looked away to the mares who nuzzled each other in the far corner of the pen.

  Hoping the darkness hid whatever pain might still be reflected in her eyes, she willed Lucien to leave the subject. No good came of dwelling on the past.

  “I shall not suffer the same fate as my mother.”

  “Certainly not.” His tone changed to a soft teasing lilt. “You are quite strong willed. I noticed at once you have a mind of your own.”

  “And still you dared match wills with me,” she chuckled.

  “Am I not a brave man?”

  The tall, darkly handsome King of the Gypsies grinned, a full wide dazzling smile that caused Henrietta’s legs to quiver like a newborn colt.

  “Indeed, Lucien.” Her eyes met his. “You are a man like no other I have known.”

  For a long moment he returned her gaze, steady, searching. “Would you like to ride with me tomorrow morning, Lady Henrietta?”

  Chapter Four

  The morning dawned a misty gray. Chilling winds swept through the camp and stirred the frosty grass as Lucien strode toward Mila’s tent. The invigorating air danced before his mouth in a wispy cloud and each icy breath stung his lungs as he strode toward Mila’s tent.

  He dismissed the cold. Thoughts of Lady Henrietta, with her extraordinary bluebell eyes and full pink lips, occupied his mind and warmed him in an odd but agreeable way. Lucien anticipated his morning ride more than usual for today he would not be riding alone. The English gadji would be riding with him. She had eagerly accepted his invitation.

  But for her sake and his, it was the last time he meant to be alone with her.

  He’d lost his temper with Henrietta last night. Her open defiance had endangered the caravan. But later, when she’d talked about her mother, the sweet sadness in her voice and the pain that darkened her eyes, had wrenched his heart—the heart he’d thought impenetrable.

  Lucien had invited her to ride with him this morning as a way of offering solace, to buoy her spirits. He’d acted on impulse, unlike himself, to be sure, and much too similar to Steffan’s mode of decision making to make him comfortable.

  Mila’s tent came in to view. He stopped.

  She was not there.

  Lucien had expected Henrietta to be outside Mila’s tent. No one kept him waiting. His jaw clenched impatiently.

  He marched toward the tent. Against his better judgment, he had taken Henrietta into the tribe and sheltered her. He’d agreed to abet her escape from a disastrous marriage. In return, all he asked was her compliance ... no, submission to his wishes.

  “Complete submission,” he growled under his breath as he swept back the opening to Mila’s tent.

  The cats howled and hissed. Mila bolted up from her blankets, eyes wide and red-rimmed, dagger in hand.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  The withered old woman blinked the sleep from her eyes. “Lucien?”

  “Can you not see for yourself? Where is she?”

  Mila slipped the dagger beneath her blankets and looked toward Henrietta’s bedroll. “No doubt taking care of her morning needs.”

  “She did not run oft?”

  “Why should the girlie do that? She needs us.” Her eyes narrowed and her pale lined lips curved upwards.

  “Am I late?”

  At the sound of Henrietta’s voice, Lucien spun around.

  Like a small, dainty fairy, Henrietta appeared from the mist. Her diminutive figure disappeared beneath the folds of several layers of shawls. Heavy wool squares of indigo blue, amethyst and deep emerald green covered her from head to foot. The cold morning air had bestowed a charming glow of rosy cheeks and ruby lips.

  His impatience instantly dissolved under the spell of her smile. Despite the frigid air, he felt the warmth of a summer morn heat his blood. Lady Henrietta knew far more about magic than his Gypsy tribe.

  “No, my lady. You are exactly on time.”

  “Where are the horses?”

  “There.” He pointed behind him to his aide Tern who approached with his prized mares. “You shall ride Ursa.”

  Henrietta’s eyes sparkled with delight as he helped her mount. Lucien lifted her easily. If he was any judge, she weighed little more than eight stone, including her cumbersome wraps. She beamed down at him. She was like a jar of sunshine on a cold and stormy day, tempting him to dip into her warmth.

  Turning quickly from her, Lucien issued a final order to Tern as he swung up onto his horse. “If anyone should be seeking me, I shall not be gone more than an hour.”

  The stony-faced boy nodded.

  The old woman poked her head from the tent. “Take care ye do not take a chill, girlie. I need your help today.”

  “Do not worry, Mila. I shall be fine.”

  The smile she cast at the caravan’s healer was as wide as the ocean, her dimple as deep.

  Lucien’s pulse quickened for no accountable reason. “Let us be off.”

  “ ’Tis a fine morning for a ride, is it not?” she asked.

  “Fine indeed.”

  “I believe the sun will break through before long.”

  The lady possessed unquenchable optimism. With a nod that did not necessarily signify his agreement, he urged Bay forward, leading the way at a slow walk until they were a good distance from the camp. Then he eased his favorite mare into a trot.

  “Are you ready to ride like the wind?” he called back to Henrietta.

  In answer, the wellborn lady shot off over the meadow, frightening more than one hare hidden in the tall green grass.

  The Cotswold countryside offered rolling hills and wide flat meadows sprinkled with the first spring flowers. Blazing red poppies and bright white daisies, just beginning to open, dotted the landscape.

  On the far hillsides, smoke puffed from the chimneys of a small cluster of stone cottages.

  It took Lucien several minutes to catch up to his genteel companion. After racing neck and neck for several minutes, she, at last, fell a trifle behind. He slowed his horse. Henrietta trotted up alongside him, but before he could speak she flashed him a saucy smile and spurt off. Laughing, she raced into the wind like a wild, wanton woman.

  Caught by surprise, Lucien laughed as well. The lady played a rousing game. Abandoning all restraint and kingly reserve, he gave a warrior cry and raced after her.

  Henrietta did not slow down until they came to a narrow, winding road. Lucien rode up beside her.

  The shawl covering her head had blown off and fallen to her shoulders. Her burnished mass of curls tumbled about in bewitching disarray. She took his breath away.

  He could only stare as she recovered from their reckless race by taking deep, bracing gulps of air. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips as red as the poppies in the field. But as her eyes met his, they sparkled like the brightest stars in the heavens. Her sweet mouth turned up in an impish smile.

  When he spoke, L
ucien did not recognize his own voice. It sounded strangely husky. “You give a man an excellent race, my lady.”

  Henrietta laughed, a sound as light and lovely as a symphony of crystal bells. “I believe I won.”

  “Only because I allowed it,” he replied dryly, joining in her teasing spirit.

  She laughed again. “You are excessively gracious, my lord.”

  “Lucien.”

  “My lord, Lucien,” she teased, turning another of her full radiant smiles upon him.

  His heart slowed. For a moment, Lucien could see the world there in her smile—a world where anything was possible.

  “Come.” Tearing his gaze away, he coaxed Bay forward with a touch of his knee.

  Riding alongside on Ursa, Henrietta matched his leisurely pace. “Tell me how a man becomes a Gypsy King.”

  He did not wish to discuss his role. Not at this moment, when he felt freer from the yoke of his unwanted responsibilities than he had in months. For the last half hour he had almost forgotten he was no longer an ordinary man.

  “I can tell you this much. It is not always a matter of choice.”

  She insisted. “Tell me how you came to be king of this caravan.”

  He recognized the gleam of curiosity in her eyes, knew she would give him no peace until he explained. Lucien drew a resigned breath.

  “Originally my grandfather brought his clan, his immediate family of brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins from Vienna. His name was Dederich Vaslav.”

  “Why did he leave his country?”

  “At the time there was a frightening persecution of Gypsies. He brought the clan here for survival and then soon joined an English tribe near Canterbury. Eventually, in an interesting turn of events, my grandfather was chosen King of the English Gypsies. He passed on the role to my father, who bore his name but was born here in England.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Like you, my mother was born into the English aristocracy.”

  “How did your parents meet?” she asked.

  “Does one question from you always lead to another?” he asked.

  Henrietta laughed. “Yes!”

  Swiping a hand through his hair, Lucien continued. “Mother was visiting in Wales. One night, under cover of darkness, she and her childhood friend, along with a lady’s maid, snuck off to have their fortunes told at the Gypsy camp. It was a lark, until she literally ran into my father.”

  “Then what happened?” Lady Henrietta’s smile revealed her deep, most enchanting dimple.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I understand it was love at first sight.”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I believe my mother is convinced she felt it.”

  For all his experience, love, at first sight or second, remained an enigma to Lucien. He had loved once and lost. Through considerable pain, he had learned that love wasn’t a permanent condition. And he knew it wasn’t what Steffan experienced with a different woman at least once a week. Lastly, he understood love was not necessary to his marriage, an arrangement reached years ago by his father.

  “Did your mother give up her ... heritage in order to marry your father?”

  “She was swiftly disowned by her family. But she always seemed happy, and my father supported her well, maintaining a residence for her in Wales, close to her friend. My brothers and I lived with mother during the winter and studied with tutors. During the summer we traveled with our father and the tribe.”

  “You have lived in two vastly different worlds.”

  “Two worlds that can never become one,” he said, more to himself than Henrietta. “You, for instance, are taboo. A gadji in the Romani language.”

  Her eyes were wide. “A gadji?”

  “A non-Gypsy.”

  “But why am I taboo? You are only half—”

  Lucien interrupted quickly. He could no longer question who he was. “I am pledged to honor my father’s wishes to unite the English Gypsy tribes, as well as the small group of Romani Gypsies that travel within England. To that end I must consider myself completely Gypsy, as my caravan does.”

  “Uniting all the tribes would appear to be a daunting task.”

  He gave a soft grunt and nodded. “Impossible, perhaps. Some of our people want to settle, others wish to remain on the road, traveling from town to town as we have for centuries.”

  “How long have you been king?”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “Is your curiosity never satisfied?”

  “I want to understand. Until now I have only seen Gypsy camps from afar ... and have been warned not to go near.”

  “Still you came to our camp,” he said. His eyes locked on hers. He searched for understanding of this complicated young woman.

  Henrietta might be considered a woman of courage, or a fool. But there was no doubt in Lucien’s mind; she was the bravest young woman he had met in all of his twenty-eight years.

  She had left a comfortable life to risk a hazardous journey across the sea to North America. When, and if, she reached the new land, she faced the unknown. She had chosen the rigors of a pioneer life in an untamed country rather than wed a man she did not love.

  “If I had known you were a compassionate man with a kind heart, I would not have hesitated,” she said. “I would not have tarried so long in the bushes before asking for your help.”

  Lucien pulled his mount to a stop. Kind and compassionate were not words normally used to describe his nature. “Do not mistake me for someone you would like me to be,” he warned.

  She raised sweet and beguiling eyes to his. Framed by long sweeping lashes, her eyes were the soft, translucent blue of a clear spring sky. They touched his soul. He could not look away.

  “Aunt Beatrice always said I excelled at understanding a person’s true nature. I am intuitive.”

  He was about to comment on the danger of conjecture when she pointed to a small creek on the west side of the road. Lucien agreed with her unspoken suggestion.

  “The horses could use some water and rest before we head back,” he said.

  “And look, Lucien, the sun is coming out.”

  The winds had died and the streaky, gray clouds separated to show patches of azure sky. Rays of white light from the rising sun struck the ground in wide shafts by the narrow, rocky creek.

  Lucien helped Henrietta from Ursa. His hands felt warm and strong around her waist. She took pleasure in the feeling. She took pleasure in his company. He appeared more comfortable with himself, with her, this morning. After leading the horses to the creek they allowed the animals to graze.

  Henrietta plopped herself on a soft patch of grass in the sun and dug beneath her indigo shawl. Finally, with a feeling of triumph, she raised a burlap pouch above her head.

  “Would you care to dine with me?”

  He cast a puzzled glance. “What do you have?”

  “Strawberries and clotted cream, scones and fried bread.”

  Lucien eased down beside her, dark brows furrowed as he attempted to peer inside her sack. “What have you really?”

  “I have cold meat pasties that Jassy brought from Gloucester yesterday afternoon,” she said, withdrawing the pasties wrapped in a dark cloth. “He gave them to Mila who in turn gave them to me. She refuses to eat what she has not prepared herself.”

  “And an idiosyncrasy that I am grateful for this morning. The ride has whetted my appetite.” He took a pastie from her and regarded it with a touch of disdain. “Although when you promised strawberries and clotted cream, my mouth watered.”

  “I did not promise!”

  He took a large bite leaving a morsel of meat at the corner of his lip. Henrietta wondered how he would react if she reached over and wiped it away with a brush of her fingertip. To touch his lips—it was a grand and bold thought, but one she dared not do.

  “Jassy chose well,” he said. “Even cold, this is good beef.”

  She took a small bite and tasted only grease and spi
ce. She wrinkled her nose and swallowed. “I also have some cheese.”

  “Have you never eaten pasties before?”

  “No.”

  “I suspected not. Pasties are not the food of the gods ... or aristocrats.” His midnight eyes came to rest on hers. “What is your favorite food, my lady?”

  Henrietta did not hesitate. “Raisin scones.”

  He smiled. It was only a slight upward movement of his lips but it caused a slight flutter in the pit of Henrietta’s stomach. “Perhaps we can send Jassy back into Gloucester for scones before we move on.”

  “I should be delighted with a raisin scone—or two,” she confessed. But for the present, surprisingly enough, Lucien Vaslav served to delight her more than her favorite sweet. Away from the tribe and relaxed, he was a different man, no longer forbidding.

  Sitting closely beside her in the grass, he exuded a searing warmth, an intrinsic power Henrietta could feel. With every breath, she drew in his musky masculine scent. And each time his eyes met hers, a shower of needles and pins spilled down her spine.

  She contemplated him as she would a fine work of art, and appreciated what she saw just as much. His ebony hair fell loose, stopping just above his shoulders. Only with the occasional toss of his head was it possible to see his golden earring. Over his white shirt and black breeches, he wore a dark worsted overcoat with many capes. His boots shone with military polish.

  A stranger might think the Gypsy King cut an ominous dark figure. But Henrietta’s light was drawn to Lucien’s darkness like a child to a forbidden sweet. He challenged and excited her. She regarded this time alone with him as precious indeed.

  “Living in a tent must be difficult for a woman used to a down bed,” he said, after taking the last bite of his pastie. “You are used to servants and luxury.”

  “I shall have neither servants nor luxury in the new United States,” she reminded him. “I am on a great adventure and must learn new ways.”

  “You have never lived in the back of a van before.”

  “But when we are only stopping for a night, I understand it does not make sense to raise the tents.”

  “You have never dined in fields by the light of a campfire.”

  “ ’Tis unfortunate. I have discovered that eating my evening meals under the stars is quite splendid,” she countered. “And before now I have seen little of England beyond Batfi and London. I am acquiring new knowledge as we travel.”