She chewed on her lip, her gaze fixed on the ground.
Lucien took the opportunity to appreciate every soft line and curve of her. In the pale moonlight she appeared amazingly like one of his tribe. Dressed in the costume Mila had made for her, a swirl of colorful skirts and scarves, Henrietta looked more like a Gypsy than he did.
Her closeness overwhelmed him with urges so strong he did not know if he had the strength to overcome them. He longed to reach out and caress her cheek, to brush her lips with his, to cup her breasts in his palms and to bury himself deep within her warmth. If she did not speak soon he would certainly surrender to his need for her.
“Your silence speaks for you, Henrietta.”
“Lucien, my feelings no longer matter. The princess is here and this is her night.”
“Would you like to meet Sabina? I think you shall be surprised.”
She raised her head sharply. When her misty eyes met his, they glistened with a dangerous flash of white light. “No, I do not wish to meet Sabina.”
Lucien felt as if he could not say anything that did not irritate Henrietta tonight. It must be the state of her health that made her so snappish. “Has Mila given you anything for your headache?”
“Yes. But I also require rest.”
“Then I shall keep you no longer.”
He watched as she walked ahead of him, the gentle sway of her hips was as silently seductive as the sweet rose fragrance drifting in her wake.
“What’s that?” she stopped short and turned to him, her eyes wide with apprehension.
Gunshots. The lively music fell silent in a squeal of violins and angry threats.
Lucien brushed by Henrietta, running toward the fracas. They were used to being raided at least once during a journey. This made the second time. He bolted toward the gunfire with a deep sense of foreboding. Tension coiled within him, a surge of energy pumped through him.
Henrietta ran behind him.
“Stay back,” he called over his shoulder. “That is an order. Do not disobey me,” he warned, before increasing his speed.
He reached the outer circle just in time.
“Where is your king?”
Lucien recognized the man who had asked the question. It was Worthington, the first Bow Street Runner to pursue Henrietta. The freckle-faced young man from Birmingham was with him, and four others.
He stepped forward. “I am Lucien Vaslav, King of the English Gypsies.”
“Where is Lady Henrietta Hadley?”
He planted his feet and regarded his nemeses with a cold steady gaze. “I do not know.”
“Do you expect us to believe you? What kind of fools do you believe us to be?”
While Worthington talked, three of the men dismounted and approached Lucien. “If the lady is not in your camp, you know where she stays.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Lucien harshly insisted.
Steffan stepped forward. “My brother tells the truth.”
“We shall see. You will come with us Lucien Vaslav.”
Lucien could not fight six men single-handedly and dared not risk imperiling his people. He turned to his brother. “Go ahead to the next village. I will meet you there in good time.”
The three ruffians shoved him toward a waiting swaybacked horse. He did not resist. Holding his head high, he did not look back. Lucien did not see Henrietta lurking in the shadows. This time she had not retreated to the false bottom of Mila’s van.
He did not hear her hiccup.
The scene fell into an eerie silence, as if it were an oil portrait. No one spoke. No one moved.
Henrietta muffled her cry, raising both hands to her mouth. But she could not let him be taken away. She started forward but was instantly hauled back into the bushes. A foul-smelling scarf covered her nose and mouth.
Her last thought before she lost consciousness was of Lucien. Where were they taking him? What would they do to him?
Chapter Twelve
The sight of Lucien being led away, his hands bound behind his back, was the last thing Henrietta remembered. Towering over his captors, he marched toward the swaybacked horse with his shoulders squared, his considerable pride clearly discernable in every step.
Heedless of her own fate, Henrietta instinctively started after him. But one impetuous step was all she took. The sodden scarf clamped over her mouth and nose quickly put an end to her intentions. She tumbled into oblivion, unconscious, unable to save her handsome Gypsy King.
Hours later, she awoke on her uneven bed of blankets. Mercury curled round her head as if he were a fur crown. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare. She listened for sounds of confirmation, a celebration in progress, music and laughter. But she only heard Mila muttering just outside the tent. The camp was unnaturally quiet.
After taking a moment to review the events before she blacked out, Henrietta sat up. Too quickly, as it happened. She feared she would swoon from light-headedness that struck with her sudden movement. Never in her life had she felt so dizzy.
“Mila ...”
The old hunched woman bustled into the tent in a whoosh of skirts and jangling of bracelets. She brought Henrietta a pewter mug filled with a steaming brew.
“What is this?”
“Tea to clear your head, girlie.”
Henrietta sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It does not smell like tea.”
“If ye want to feel better you’ll drink it.”
She would never feel better, unless Mila told her she’d just experienced a terrible nightmare and that Lucien was safe in his tent. Nonetheless, on the chance the hot beverage would revive her, Henrietta took a sip. Although laced with a faint cocoa flavor, the liquid tasted bitter and burnt her tongue.
“What happened, Mila?”
“The Bow Street Runner and his friends raided us last night and took Lucien away,” she snapped.
Henrietta threw her blankets off. It was morning! Hours had been lost. “I must go to him. They want me, not Lucien. They will free him once they have me.”
“And what guarantees do ye have, girlie, that once they have you, Lucien will be freed?” Mila snarled.
“What reason would they have to keep him?”
“He is an English Gypsy. A Gypsy King.”
“That is hardly a reason for making a man prisoner.”
“Aye. But that’s the way of it,” she said, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
After another swallow of the bitter brew, Henrietta reached out to squeeze Mila’s gnarled and calloused hand. She had lived and traveled with the old woman for long enough to know her sharp tongue concealed a soft heart.
“We shall bargain and present them a binding contract,” she declared, preparing to push herself to her feet.
Mila stayed her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Where is it you think you are going, girlie?”
“To see Steffan. He will help.”
“Yer not ready to stand. I’ll fetch Steffan.”
“How do you know if I am able to stand upon my own two feet or not?”
Mila shook her head and shuffled out.
Henrietta called after her. “Did you drug me last night?”
But of course, there was no reply. And Henrietta did not need the answer. She sipped the last of the bitter cocoa in hopes her head would clear before Steffan arrived.
Even if it meant marriage to the Earl of Oster, and the end of her dreams, she must save Lucien from prison—or worse—hanging.
Speed was of the essence and the minutes waiting for Steffan passed slowly. She endangered the tribe by lingering here. Worthington might return with another search party, or perhaps Patchett would come back. Her guardian had set a fine price on her head. Henrietta wondered how many Bow Street Runners were looking for her. Her stomach sizzled as if it were on fire.
Despite Mila’s warning, she thought of going to Steffan. Perhaps he was too furious to come and speak with her. He had reason to dislike Henrietta. Her presence ha
d disrupted the lives of the tribe.
In order to help her reach Liverpool, Lucien had diverted the caravan and altered the expectations of the Gypsy performers. By offering his protection to Henrietta, Lucien had affected the earnings of the entire tribe. They had been terrorized and their possessions ravaged. All of them, including Mila and Jassy had good reason to dislike her. She smiled then. Despite Mila’s mumbling and grumbling, the old woman and Jassy treated her with great affection.
Henrietta heaved a sigh. If she had known at the beginning what trouble she would cause, she never would have asked to run away with the Gypsies. She must return their king to the tribe.
Lost in her distressing thoughts, she was startled when the flap of the tent shot back. “You wanted to see me?”
Steffan’s gaze was hard and unyielding. He was tall enough to find it necessary to stoop within the small tent. His lips were drawn tightly. He did not appear an irresponsible callow youth, unfit to lead the tribe. With his brow deeply creased and his jaw clenched, he presented a formidable figure of a man.
She hiccupped.
He glowered down on her. “Has your Gargoyle of a cat nipped your tongue?”
“I propose to free Lucien.”
With a sardonic twist of his lips, Steffan gave out an exasperated puff of air. “And how do you intend to do that?”
“I wish to trade places with him. My guardian will have me in exchange for Lucien’s freedom.”
He swiped a hand through his nut brown hair in a gesture similar to Lucien’s. “And what makes you think the English authorities will agree?”
“Money. My guardian will be better rewarded if he marries me to the Earl of Oster than if I simply disappear.”
“And no one stands to profit from holding my brother. Is that how you see it?”
She nodded. “Yes. That is how it will appear to them.”
“You are willing to sacrifice yourself?”
“I am. Peace will be restored to your clan and to your tribe. Lucien and Sabina will marry and all will be set to rights again.”
He grinned, but there was no humor reflected in his eyes. Henrietta thought it was because she had so rightly read his thoughts, but it was not.
“Sabina refuses to marry Lucien.”
She hadn’t meant to gasp. Perhaps she had misunderstood. After a moment, she asked softly, “I beg your pardon?”
“The princess says she was pledged to marry Wolfgang and that is who she will marry.”
“Does she not realize he died in battle?”
“She says she will believe it when someone shows her his body.”
“Good gracious!”
The slightest smile played at the corner of Steffan’s mouth. “She is a strong-willed woman.
“But she could be right,” Henrietta allowed, willing her heart to be calm. The flood of relief sweeping though her at the news was unkind—and unwarranted given the circumstances. “Something might have happened to Wolfgang, short of death, to keep him from returning.”
“It is possible,” Steffan conceded, his tone altogether lacking conviction. “In battle men suffer cruel wounds and are subject to lengthy recoveries. Some have even been known to lose their memory.”
“What will happen now?” Henrietta asked.
“Lucien has not decided. Or had not, when he was taken from us.”
Henrietta’s legs shook as she slowly rose to her feet. “Let us go at once to Seddly and set this matter right.”
“My brother offered you his protection.”
“And I shall be forever grateful. But my mind is made up. I shall do this with or without your help.”
“Lucien will be furious.”
“It is because of me that he has been taken,” she argued. “It is me they really want.”
His expression remained stoic. “There are no guarantees they will accept your terms.”
“I understand. But at least if we prepare a document and declare our intentions for the exchange, we shall have recourse if they do not honor our contract.”
“What makes you think these are men of honor? Why do you believe Lucien is entitled to English justice, such as it is?”
“We must try,” she insisted. “English blood runs through his veins as well.”
“Lady Hadley, our only recourse to free my brother may well be our fists and our weapons.”
“First we must attempt a peaceful solution. Will you act as mediator?”
Steffan stared into the burned out ashes of the small fire. After what seemed an interminable time, he ran a hand through his hair and looked up. His steady gray-eyed gaze met hers. “Yes. I will.”
* * * *
“This isn’t in my crystal and I do not see it in the Tarot cards. None of it,” Mila mumbled as she threw down her cards.
Henrietta, Mila and Jassy sat on a blanket spread beneath a young elm tree. Mercury slept in Henrietta’s lap. They waited in a wooded copse not far from town. The sun had peaked in the sky and clouds were gathering to the east.
The old woman dug into a leather pouch and retrieved scraps of smoked beef.
Henrietta could not eat.
Steffan had been gone for two hours.
“Do you suppose they have taken Steffan too?”
Mila answered Henrietta’s question with one of her own. “And risk losing contact with you?”
“No. You’re right.” She waited in a fog of gloom. Her flesh blossomed with goose bumps. In all likelihood she would never see her friends again after these next few hours. It was all she could do to speak without crying. How had she come to this almost constant struggle against tears of late?
With each passing moment Henrietta’s fears mounted. An unfamiliar edginess plucked at her exposed and excessively sensitive nerves. Where was Steffan? Were they torturing him?
She hiccupped.
“What’s wrong with you, girlie?”
“I am afraid for Lucien and Steffan. Do you suppose Steffan arrived too late? Do you think they have hurt Lucien?”
“No.” The old Gypsy shook her head so vehemently, her whole body trembled. “My cards or my crystal would know. My heart would know.”
Henrietta was more afraid for Lucien than she was for herself. She knew what life held for her once she married the Earl of Oster. She had seen it in her mother’s face, felt it in her mother’s death.
But she had something her mother never had. She had spent a night of love with her beloved, a night that would comfort her for the rest of her life.
“You are sure they cannot hold Steffan?” Jassy asked.
“If Steffan does not return, they will not see me,” Henrietta told him.
“That is in the document as well?”
“Yes.”
“A document they do not have to honor,” Mila said, repeating Steffan’s thoughts.
“They can send hundreds of men to search for you,” Jassy added.
“Not hundreds. My guardian will not spend more of my wealth than is necessary.”
“In the event he is captured, Steffan mapped an escape route and instructions for us,” Mila told Jassy. “One route for the girlie, and one for the tribe.”
“Soon we shall go our separate ways,” Henrietta whispered.
Mila looked up, calculating time by the angle of the sun. “We only have a short time left to wait. Steffan should be back soon.”
“Without Lucien, Steffan must assume responsibility for the tribe. He is next in line, is he not?” Henrietta asked rhetorically.
“Aye.”
“Steffan will make an excellent king someday.”
“I only hope Lucien forgives us,” Mila grumbled.
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Because he loves you, girlie. He’s done his best to keep you safe from your guardian, to give ye your dream.”
He loved her? Lucien loved her!
“Lucien loves me?”Henrietta asked, unwilling at first to believe her ears.
“Are ye deaf?”
“How can you be certain?” Henrietta’s heart thrummed a joyous, happy beat. Outwardly she remained calm, lacing her fingers to ensure her hands did not tremble. “He never said he loved me.”
“I’ve known ’im since he was a boy. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when his gaze falls on you. ’Tis the look of love, girlie.”
“I have felt it but...” Dazed and still not daring to believe the old Gypsy, Henrietta’s voice trailed off.
“Did not believe it?” Mila completed the sentence left dangling in the air.
“No, I did not,” she admitted quietly. A warm glow, the light of a thousand candles, the honey from a hundred bees spread slowly through her body.
Knowing Lucien loved her made what she was about to do even more imperative. Although she would have happily given up her passage to North America if only to hear him say the words ... I love you.
“He could not tell you, girlie. He weds Sabina in weeks.”
“Not any longer.”
The old woman clicked her tongue. “Not if he’s in prison.”
“No. That’s not it. Did your crystal and cards fail you?”
“What are ye talking about?”
“Sabina waits for Wolfgang.”
“Aye?” Mila’s little eyes widened for a fleeting moment.
Henrietta nodded. “And now that Lucien is no longer bound to Sabina, I shall soon be wed to Oster.”
The old woman pressed her lips together, before pointing her finger at Henrietta. “No. You will not. ’Tis not in my crystal.”
“But it is true.” The irony settled in Henrietta’s heart like a burning stone.
The Gypsy’s sun leathered face fell into a frown. Her folds of wrinkles seemed to grow deeper in displeasure. “I have not seen it. A black cloud has filled my crystal these past days.”
“And I have brought the cloud. The tribe will be well off again without me.”
Mila grunted and scowled. Turning to a basket beside her, she began to pull out assorted items. Bottles of healing herbs and dried garlic on a ribbon. She handed Henrietta a large blue bottle with a warning. “You must not neglect yourself. Rub this rose oil into your skin every night before going to bed.”
“I shall. And my tonic?”
“Ye must also take the tonic faithfully. And Mercury must go with you. He is much too ugly for me. Besides, he will pine and die without you.”
The Gypsy Bride Page 15
