The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  The slightest frown creased Henrietta’s satin smooth brow, her delicious berry lips tightened imperceptibly. She was truly bewitching when vexed!

  “As you can readily see, I am walking,” he replied calmly. “My legs are as weak as a newborn lamb’s. I cannot go out among my tribe teetering on legs that have only the strength of twigs.”

  His explanation seemed to calm her. “Exercise may indeed be good for you,” she conceded.

  “What is that you have?” he asked, flicking his wrist toward the pot she carried. He feared more of Mila’s foul tasting potions.

  “Rabbit stew. This will also help you regain your strength.”

  “Do I look feeble to you?”

  Her eyes grew round and she lowered her head as a faint blush settled on her cheek. “No, no. Not at all.”

  Eager for a good-natured exchange after days of relative silence and seclusion, he continued to tease. “Did you not see me in a rather ... unclothed state?”

  “No!” She almost bit off her lip, she clamped down so hard. “Mila and Tern attended to your more ... delicate needs.”

  “Was that Mila I felt atop of me when my teeth chattered and terrible chills gripped my body? Please, say nay.”

  A small smile quivered at the corner of her lips, and a deeper blush stained her cheeks. “No, it was not Mila,” she confessed quietly, almost shyly. “I did what I must to warm you.”

  “Ah, I see.” Lucien, as if deep in thought, toyed with his earring. “I rather enjoyed it you know.”

  “You ... You were aware?” The blush on her cheeks spread. A bright crimson hue flooded her face.

  “Most definitely, my lady. You were warm, and light, and smelled like a sweet spring rose.”

  He turned away to hide his grin as Henrietta’s eyes grew to saucer size. With his hands clasped behind his back, he forced steady steps away from her.

  “Mila instructed me to ... to do so when you were ... were overcome by chills.”

  Lucien fleetingly wondered if Henrietta’s zealous nursing care had more to do with learning her lessons and pleasing Mila, than devotion to making him well.

  The thought did not sit well. It should not matter, but the truth was, it did. Even if he could not have her, he wanted the English beauty to care whether he lived or died.

  “You learned well from Mila.”

  “She taught me well. Will you sit and eat now?”

  He sat, grateful to have an excuse. His left leg had begun to cramp. “Have you time to stay with me for a moment?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  She had no choice, of course. No one traveling in the caravan refused a request from the Gypsy King. She appeared wary as she sank to a pillow opposite him.

  “How long have we been camped outside of Buckingham?”

  “Ten days.”

  “And have you been participating in the evening events?” he asked before taking another spoonful of the bland stew.

  “No, I have been with you.”

  “At all times?”

  She nodded. But it was not a nod of certainty. For a fraction of an instant she had hesitated.

  “You would not be untruthful with me?” he pressed.

  She shook her head.

  “I would be quite furious if I discovered you were not being honest with me,” he warned.

  She swallowed hard, sighed heavily. “As your nurse ...”

  “Yes?”

  Henrietta replied quietly and quickly. “I did ride into town to fetch liquorice for your cough. But I encountered no problems and no one saw me save one shopkeeper.”

  Lucien dropped his bowl and spoon. “What?”

  She raised her chin. “ ’Twas only a hasty visit to the apothecary.”

  “An exceedingly foolish thing to do,” he snapped. His nerves prickled beneath his flesh. She could have been seized in Buckingham and he would have been helpless to save her.

  “There was no one else to do it. And see how your coughing has diminished.”

  “It may be simply that the ague, or whatever this malady is, has passed. I will not give credit to the liquorice.”

  “It has helped, Lucien. From the first day your complete recovery was our only consideration. The tribe needs you. Already it has been too long without you.”

  “I am not irreplaceable,” he growled. “Steffan will return soon—”

  “Did you not say that Steffan is too immature to lead?”

  “He would learn and grow,” Lucien allowed grudgingly. Wiping his spoon, he took up the bowl and gulped down the remainder of the rabbit stew.

  “Mila warned me not to go, so do not be harsh with her. You were very ill and she made you well.”

  No, he thought, you did. You made me well. He looked into her eyes, pools of blue crystal, pure and lovely. The smile she bestowed on him warmed Lucien like a splash of sunshine on a cold rainy day.

  He lost the will to quarrel with her.

  “Several days have passed,” she said. “Surely if I had been recognized, we would know by now.”

  He could only hope, though he would most certainly prepare for the possibility Henrietta’s excursion had not gone unnoticed.

  “Did anyone else take ill?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He could see the tension drain from her body as he dropped the discussion of her dangerous transgression. Her shoulders relaxed, her voice became stronger. “Tawnie and her family. Brocco, his sister and her baby.”

  Tawnie’s family numbered almost a dozen. Brocco was an acrobat and juggler, one of the tribe’s most popular entertainers.

  “Are all recovering?” he asked.

  “Yes. Mila has been busy.” She watched him eat in silence for a moment. “I should go now and help her.”

  “The stew is good.”

  “My mentor is a competent cook when she so pleases.”

  “Has she taught you?”‘

  Henrietta laughed, a light musical sound. “No. Lessons with herbs and fortune-telling keep us well occupied.”

  “You must tell my fortune one day.”

  Henrietta quickly shook her head. “I am not yet adept.”

  “When you are.”

  She rose to leave.

  He chose to delay her. “Tomorrow we shall be on our way.”

  Her hands balled into her hips. “But it is too soon for you to travel. Mila will not hear of it!”

  “Mila is not leading this caravan,” Lucien responded gruffly, partly due to his still raspy, raw throat.

  “You will need another day or two to fully recover or else risk a relapse.”

  “Relapse?”

  Damn. He hadn’t thought of that. And the caravan could not afford another long stop. They’d already lost precious time on their journey. Another delay could also mean the ship Henrietta sought to sail to North America might leave without her.

  “You would not wish to become ill once more, would you?” Henrietta asked, inclining her head.

  Only if she climbed atop him again.

  Lucien could not help the smile that sprung to his lips at the thought. “No, I would not like to be ill again. But we tarry too long in Buckingham. Besides, I am bored. I must do something to stimulate my mind.”

  She smiled, a flirtatious smile that held mystery and promise. “I have the perfect answer.”

  Merciful heavens. He wanted her. Was she offering herself to him? Lucien didn’t know if he had the strength to take her.

  “I shall teach you to play whist!” she declared.

  “Whist?” He thought it might be a new card game.

  “Playing cards requires little effort,” she declared enthusiastically, before wrinkling her brow and puffing a short sigh. “But the game requires four players. Perhaps Jassy and—”

  “Another game, one that could be played by two, might be more appropriate.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Do you know no game we can play by ourselves?” he asked, narrowing his gaze on the silky mass of curls that he longed t
o thread through his fingers.

  Her eyes rounded. She swallowed and then hit upon an answer; he could see it clearly by the sudden light in her eyes. “Do you know the game of Patience?”

  “No. Show me.”

  “It will be my pleasure. It is a card game you can play by yourself.”

  “A solitary game?”

  “Yes,” she beamed.

  “Not quite what I had in mind.”

  “But useful. No matter where you are or what you are doing, as long as you have a deck of cards, you may play,” she assured him happily.

  Lucien could not match Henrietta’s enthusiasm. And in the end it was Mila who came to his tent and taught him Patience.

  * * * *

  May Day dawned. A bright, beautiful day welcomed the new season. Early on Henrietta had discovered the Gypsies seized upon almost any occasion to celebrate. Today’s festivities would begin in the afternoon and last until midnight or later.

  At dusk, Henrietta joined Mila and Jassy to feast on a meal prepared by all the women of the tribe. They dined outdoors on blankets amid flowers and candles. Potato soup, bread, pickled oysters, roast goose and mutton were served. Cheese and rice pudding were offered for those who required a bit more substance. Wine flowed like water from the river.

  After she finished the first goblet, Henrietta refused the wine Mila and Jassy consumed in plentiful quantity.

  “Girlie, do you not know how to have fun?” the old woman demanded.

  “Perhaps not,” she sighed. “Life in Bath was quiet. We drank the waters.” The scent and taste of which, had turned her stomach.

  But she had enjoyed the dances.

  “Tonight, we light fireworks,” Jassy told her. “When it is time for the villagers to leave, Messen will give us a show.”

  “Fireworks!” She had only seen a fireworks display twice in her life.

  “Fireworks that light up the sky, girlie,” Mila added with a jangle of bangles as she waved her arm above her head.

  “Every holiday and on the king’s birthday, we celebrate with fireworks,” the bear trainer added, with a wide grin.

  “I shall look forward to them,” Henrietta promised.

  She excused herself after their meal and made her way to the area where the musicians played and Gilda danced. It was dark now but a blanket of sparkling stars, and the leaping flames of a dozen torches provided atmosphere as well as light for the entertainers. Gilda’s liquid movements and exotic appearance were beyond compare. Henrietta stood at the rear of the crowd, wishing she could dance with the grace of the sultry Gypsy woman.

  From the corner of her eye she caught a movement, a flash of gold. Lucien strode toward her. His dark hair had been swept back and gathered at the nape of his neck, revealing his gleaming golden earring. He cut a dashing figure in his now familiar costume of billowing white shirt, snug black breeches and glossy boots. He was the most handsome Gypsy King Henrietta had ever seen. He was the only one she had ever seen.

  A strange, sweet heat spread within her. She smiled with happiness as he approached.

  The strength had returned to his step. A powerful, virile energy surged from his shoulders. His swaggering gait promised raw physical strength and mental acuteness. He was majestic. He was a king.

  The small movement at the corner of Lucien’s mouth as his eyes met hers made Henrietta’s heart swell. Her chest felt tight, as if her uncertain heart completely filled the space.

  He bowed slightly and dipped his head. “Good evening, Lady Hadley.”

  “Good evening,” she replied, recovering from the sudden onset of palpitations with a deft curtsy.

  “Have you been enjoying yourself this May Day?”

  “Yes, and you?”

  “I have been preparing to move the caravan on tomorrow. I am out of patience with your game of Patience.”

  She laughed. “It is a game that creeps under your skin. Once you have learned to play,” she warned him, “you cannot stop.”

  “There are other games I would rather engage in,” he replied in a droll tone. A dangerous, exciting light glimmered in his eyes.

  She smiled tenuously, uncertain of his meaning but feeling flirtatious. “What games might they be?”

  He rubbed his jaw as if hard-pressed for an answer, “Charades?”

  “In a drawing room?”

  “I have done so.”

  “I am sure.”

  He took Henrietta’s arm and with an amused chuckle guided her back behind the vans. “You look lovely, this evening.”

  “Thank you.” A warm wave of pleasure skipped down her spine.

  The gown she wore had been received by Mila in payment for a fortune the old woman had told. She’d passed on the beautiful dress to Henrietta, complaining it did not fit. Why Mila accepted the garment instead of gold had puzzled Henrietta, but she was delighted her mentor had made her a gift of the gown.

  She felt at home in the flowing style with its high waist and wide low neck. The revealing muslin fabric was as soft and white as summer clouds. Narrow gold velvet ribbon trimmed the neckline and short capped sleeves.

  Her breasts rose proudly above the scooped neckline and the outline of her trim figure could be clearly seen in the proper light. Henrietta’s modesty did not allow her to dwell on that. ’Twas the fashion.

  In observance of the special May Day celebration, Henrietta had removed the scarf from her hair and wound bright white hawthorn blossoms throughout the mass of curls tumbling from the crown of her head.

  The pains she’d taken with her appearance had been rewarded. Lucien’s gaze drifted down from her lips and now fixed on her breasts.

  “How did you come by this new gown?” he asked, in a husky timbre.

  “Mila received it from a wealthy merchant’s wife in return for her fortune.”

  “It suits you very well.” His gaze dropped, slowly traveling the length of her in a burning perusal.

  She grew warm ... no, she grew hot, feverish ... inch by inch. She could not breathe. She could not move. Her mouth watered as if she were being served a platter of raisin scones, and then went dry. Henrietta swallowed hard.

  “Thank you. Your compliments humble me.”

  Inclining his head, he hiked a questioning brow. “Would this be a good time for you to teach me the waltz?”

  “Are . .. Are you strong enough?” she stammered.

  “I believe I can manage.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a devastating crooked smile.

  A seductive smile, possibly? When Lucien smiled, she sometimes felt unsure as to what his smiles meant.

  She forced one of her own. “Very well.”

  “I understand this is a rather risqué dance,” he added.

  “It is ... exceedingly intimate.”

  His eyes sparked with interest. Silver flecks of light shimmered deep within each dark unfathomable iris. “How intimate?”

  The low, alluring rumble of his voice struck at her heart. It raced as if she were being chased. Even her toes tingled. Why were her toes tingling?

  Fearing she might come completely undone, she focused on the laces of Lucien’s shirt.

  “Unlike the quadrille, there is only one partner,” she began. “One man and one woman.”

  Crisp black chest curls sprung up between the laces. She knew his chest well.

  “You and I,” he said.

  Henrietta drew a deep breath. “The woman places one hand on her partner’s shoulder ... like so.”

  “And where do my hands go?”

  Her pulse pounded erratically against her wrist. “On my waist,” she managed in a rush. “And then we lock hands, just so.”

  Lucien’s large hand enveloped hers. Tightly.

  Henrietta’s knees turned to gruel.

  “What is the time?” he asked, evidently unaffected by the same strange sensations assaulting her.

  “One, two, three. One, two, three ...” she murmured.

  He grinned, fine white teeth contrasted agai
nst his dark, rugged complexion. “I think I shall enjoy this dance.”

  She was dazzled.

  “Instead of ... uh, performing figures, we swirl across the floor,” she told him.

  “If we had a floor.”

  “Yes. If we had a floor.”

  “But we have a moon up above, and a sky full of stars. So, I suppose for my first lesson, the grass and dirt will do the duty of a ballroom.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And this way,” he added in a soft, teasing aside, “you shall not be certain if I am clumsy, or if it is the ground tripping me up.”

  Henrietta smiled. “I somehow doubt that you are clumsy.”

  “The music isn’t quite right, is it?” he asked, referring to the wild melody of the Gypsy musicians in the distance.

  “No. I shall hum for you.”

  “Excellent.”

  He scooped her up and crushed her against him.

  The warmth and hardness of his body, the virile scent of him took her breath away. She knew she would swoon on the spot.

  “Lucien,” she gasped. Propriety overcame the curling heat of desire. “While I do not mean to criticize, you are holding me a trifle too closely for the waltz.”

  “I rather like this position.”

  “We will dance more easily if you take two steps back.”

  “Do you insist?”

  “Yes.”

  With a twist of his mouth resembling a grimace, Lucien loosened his grip and stepped back. He assumed a stoic, formal position.

  Alone in the small dimly lit area, with eyes only for each other, the lady and the Gypsy King danced. If they had waltzed upon a crowded ballroom dance floor, Lucien knew he would still see only Lady Hadley.

  Henrietta smiled brilliantly. Her dimple deepened in the most disarming manner. She began to hum once more, a soft three-quarter rhythm.

  He stepped out, twirling her gingerly from the grass and onto a patch of dirt.

  The lady’s humming was on the same musical level as her tambourine playing. But her voice was sweet and earnest.

  What was he doing? Before he had become ill, Lucien had taken pains to avoid contact with Henrietta. It was more than the ague that had weakened his resolve.

  She had immersed herself in making him well, nursing him day and night, gently coaxing him against his will to ingest the evil brews mixed by Mila. She had saved his life.