The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  Henrietta set the rose oil down in order to gather the woman sitting beside her into her arms. To her surprise, Mila felt thin and fragile beneath her oversized layers of clothes. “You have been so kind to me. I will be forever grateful, and never, never forget you.”

  “Aye, girlie.” Mila’s black eyes glistened with unshed tears when Henrietta released her.

  Henrietta’s heart felt as if it were being crushed under the weight of her sorrow. “I will miss you.”

  She turned away clicking her tongue.

  Henrietta turned her teary eyes to the sun as it sank in the sky. The agreed upon time limit was growing near. If Steffan did not return shortly, she must flee.

  “Look!”Jassy shouted. “There, on the hill.”

  Henrietta scrambled to her feet. “It is Steffan.”

  The contract had been agreed upon.

  * * * *

  Henrietta’s steps were heavy as she approached Constable Poole’s humble cottage on the main street of Seddly. She carried a small portmanteau and Mercury padded by her side, tail up.

  Charles Worthington, the Bow Street Runner and the small, thin constable waited for her on either side of the door. In order for Lucien to ride his horse back to camp, Henrietta had ridden Bay to town. Steffan, still on horseback, held the mare’s reins and stayed at a distance, watching her and watching for signs of betrayal.

  “ ’Tis good to see you, Lady Hadley,” Worthington sneered when she neared the steps of the stone cottage. “Even if you’re wearin’ Gypsy skirts.”

  The nervous constable stepped aside for her. “Co, co, come right in,” he stuttered. “My wife is making tea for you.”

  “And a carriage is being readied for your journey back to Bath,” Worthington added. “Your guardian will be relieved to see you.”

  “What of Lucien Vaslav?” she asked, as she entered the one room cottage. She took little notice of her surroundings, her thoughts were concentrated on Lucien. “I wish to see him.”

  “The Gypsy’s not here,” the burly Bow Street Runner scoffed.

  Henrietta’s stomach did an anxious somersault in silent protest.

  The seductive twist of Lucien’s lips, the mesmerizing glimmer of his golden earring and the silver light that danced in his dark eyes were burned into her memory for all time. Yet, she longed to hold him one more time.

  She yearned to feel the roughness of his cheek under her lips once more, to breathe his lusty male scent. She had thought to lay her hands upon his chest for a final time, to feel the warmth, the strength and the steady beat of his lion’s heart.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  An ominous silence enveloped the room. The pale, blond constable lowered his head rather than meet her eye.

  “ ’E’s being held somewhere safe,” Worthington replied with a grudging shrug.

  “But you should be releasing him now. We agreed on this exchange.” Ignoring her churning stomach, she raised her chin in a regal manner. “I will not come with you if you do not release Lucien.”

  The crude Bow Street Runner laughed. “This is how it is, Lady Hadley. We don’t feel bound to agreements made with Gypsies, and you’re hardly in a position to refuse to come with me.”

  “What?” Her stomach sank.

  “Everyone knows they’re thieves.”

  “That is not true!” she railed at him. “These are good people and Lucien is their leader. You made the agreement with me and I expect you to honor it! You must release Lucien Vaslav now.”

  “Not bound to agreements made with women either. Women don’t have no say-so.”

  Shaking noticeably, Constable Poole stepped between Henrietta and Worthington. “Tr-tr-transportin’ the Gypsy to Not-Not-Nottingham. See if they have room in the prison for him.”

  “If not he might just have to hang,” the Bow Street Runner added.

  “No!” Henrietta’s body froze. The stabbing pain of biting winter winds pierced her lungs. Ice settled in her veins. “No!”

  Her soul shattered, her heart broke, her knees gave way.

  The constable, standing no taller than she, rushed to save her from falling. Caught in the throes of anger and despair, she wavered before righting herself. Bursts of color, bright orange and crimson exploded in fiery spots before her eyes. Acting on instinct and a sudden surge of strength, she rushed at the Bow Street Runner. Lashing out blindly, she pounded her fists against his chest, his jaw, his face. But he only laughed and caught her flailing hands up into his fist.

  Mercury hissed and howled. Henrietta did not see, she only heard the thump and crash as an object slammed against the wall.

  “Oh, no! Mercury!”

  But there was no response.

  Worthington released her with a shove. Sobbing, Henrietta sank to the floor in a trembling heap. Her heart splintering into hundreds of hollow pieces.

  Clasping her arms around her sickened stomach, she rocked in anguish. They had been betrayed. She could not save Lucien.

  After a time she realized the room had gone silent except for an eerie keening sound. The sound came from her.

  “Kid-kid-kidnapping a lady is a mighty offense,” the constable stuttered quietly.

  “He did not kidnap me!”

  “We say he did,” Worthington growled.

  From the corner of her eye, Henrietta saw Mercury dragging himself across the floor toward her. His left hind leg fell limply behind him.

  “You have injured my cat!” she cried, scrambling toward him. “You have broken his leg.”

  “Ugly thing.”

  “Should drown ’im.”

  Henrietta had never felt as cold and emotionless as she did at that moment. But oddly enough, the coldness in her belly gave her strength, fortified her with new resolve.

  She would have revenge. As long as she lived, she would wait for the opportunity, and seize it. She would make them pay for this someday. Constable Poole, the Bow Street Runner, her guardian, and the Earl of Oster would regret this day. All of them.

  Straightening her shoulders, tilting her head, she advanced on the despicable Bow Street Runner. She spoke slowly and softly through her teeth.

  “If you touch my Mercury once more, if you lay one finger upon him, I shall see you in Newcastle or worse.”

  The constable rolled his eyes.

  “You shall bring me twigs and rags so that I may splint his leg. And you will fetch them now.”

  Her efforts to release Lucien had failed. But she would make another attempt. At the very least she could help her flat-faced cat. She had been a serious student of Mila’s. She had learned the healing lessons well.

  “We’ll get them for ye,” the constable assured her with a disparaging glance. “But as soon as the carriage comes round, you’ll be gettin’ in with Worthington.”

  “I’ll be delivering you in person to your guardian.”

  “It’s a long trip back to Bath,” she warned. Her thoughts had turned to escape, to rescuing Lucien.

  Why should she keep her word and return to marry Oster? Poole and Worthington had not kept theirs.

  “We’ve hired extra men for the trip,” the Bow Street Runner told her with a smug grin. “Yer guardian gave orders, he did. Once you were found, we’d better make good and certain you didn’t get loose.”

  “You-you-you ain’t the first woman who didn’t know what was good for ’er,” Poole added. “Ye’ll think less harshly of us when you understand we acted in your best interest.”

  “Hobbleegook!” The word had no meaning as far as she knew. Henrietta shouted it out to shock her captors and express her anger.

  The men exchanged dark looks.

  “Comes from bein’ too long with the Gypsies,” Worthington grumbled.

  By now, Steffan must realize they had been betrayed. Would he be successful where she had failed? Could he rescue Lucien? And would she ever know?

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been two days since Lucien had been taken prisoner. Locked in
side a dirty shed behind Constable Poole’s cottage, he’d had little to eat and nowhere to sleep but on the ground.

  The first night and day of his captivity he had been questioned relentlessly about Henrietta’s whereabouts. He’d taken his share of blows during the inquisition, but only when the questions stopped did he become afraid for her.

  Weeks ago, he’d charged Mila with hiding Henrietta in the false bottom of her van if he should not be in a position to offer his protection. He’d promised the healer a goodly sum to take Lady Hadley to Liverpool. Had Mila been successful? Or had Henrietta been captured? The uncertainty was driving him mad.

  Every fiber of Lucien’s being rebelled at the thought of Henrietta being forced to marry the Earl of Oster.

  If the stubborn runaway refused to be his mistress, he would rather think of her happy in the colonies, thousands of miles away. If he could not have his dream of living in the country and raising horses as an ordinary man, she would have hers.

  Henrietta’s image remained with Lucien constantly during his long hours in the dark shed. Her deeply dimpled smile and the lustrous sparkle of her eyes were as vivid as if she were sitting on the dirt beside him. His memories of the English beauty kept him company during the long lonely hours of his captivity.

  He could hear her laughter plainly as he recalled how she played with Jassy’s bear cub. He could taste her deep cherry lips, feel the silk of her skin beneath his fingertips and smell the sweet rose scent of her. Henrietta haunted his thoughts like a bewitching, ever-present spirit.

  If it had not been for the cards in his pocket and the game of Patience that Henrietta had insisted he learn, Lucien’s solitary hours in the shed would have made him daft. As it was he’d barely been able to keep his wits about him.

  His troubled thoughts turned to the tribe. Had Steffan moved the caravan on to Stoke-on-Trent? Were the Gypsies safe and well? Had anyone been hurt the night he’d been taken?

  The answers to all of his questions lay outside the walls of the filthy shed. Since his confinement Lucien had been looking for an opportunity to escape but had found none as yet.

  The approach of hurried footsteps interrupted his musings. In the hopes he was about to be freed, or might have the chance to flee, he jumped to his feet.

  The door of the shed creaked open. He looked out on a bleak rainy day and saw the stick thin, nervous constable. Four large men stood behind Poole, men Lucien had never seen before. But their eyes fairly glowed with contempt for him as they aimed their pistols at his heart.

  “Co-come out,” the constable stammered.

  Lucien stepped forward. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To Not-Not-Nottingham prison.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Ye kidnapped an English Lady.”

  “I did not kidnap Lady Hadley. When, and if, you find her, she will tell you as much.”

  “We have found her,” one of the men growled.

  Lucien’s gut tightened. “Where is she?”

  “La-La-Lady Hadley is on her way to Bath under heavy escort. And yer on your way to the Nottingham jail.”

  “Why? What did she say?” Lucien could not believe Henrietta had deceived him. She had been angry when he suggested she be his mistress, but she would not send him to prison in retaliation. She would never abandon him. Or would she?

  The memory of Lady Charlotte flashed through his mind. She had spurned him quickly enough and broken his heart without a care when he proved not to be the man she thought.

  “Let’s go, me boys,” a taller, broader version of the constable barked. “We’ve no time for conversin’ with a Gypsy in the rain.”

  Soon the small village of Seddly disappeared into the fog and misty rain behind him. Lucien rode out surrounded by men unhappy with the weather and displeased with their prisoner. He knew they would rather just shoot him and be done with it, but they would be paid only if they delivered him.

  His escort included two men riding on either side of him, one in front and another behind. His wrists were bound, and the old dapple gray gelding he sat upon was led by Roy, who identified himself as the constable’s son.

  The men were not Bow Street Runners, but volunteers from the village. The law in the outlying villages of England was limited. In addition to Roy who claimed to brew ale, Lucien’s guard was made up of a farmer, a shop keeper and a whitesmith.

  Bound for the Nottingham jail, to the southwest of Seddly, the group kept a steady pace, unhampered by the light rain. Quite certain of the fate awaiting him at the prison, Lucien knew he must make a bid for freedom before they arrived.

  While his guards were armed with pistols, they did not appear overly strong or astute. He expected they might occasionally hunt game for their tables, but in all likelihood they were not marksmen of the first order.

  The main detriment to flight was his mount. Lucien feared the ancient animal that carried him might not be able to work up to a good trot, let alone gallop away.

  “Look ahead!” Roy shouted. The leader of the small band slowed his horse. “A cart in the road.”

  They had traveled less than three miles from Seddly by Lucien’s rough calculation.

  “Broken wheel, looks like,” added the guard to Lucien’s right. Tom was a young farmer, but except for light fuzz on the top of his head, he was completely bald.

  “This might be a Gypsy trick,” Roy warned.

  In fact it was. As they drew closer to the cart, Lucien recognized the old woman squatting by the side of the muddy road pondering the broken wheel. It was Mila.

  Upon seeing the group approach, she rose up and hobbled to the middle of the road, waving her arms. The rain had plastered her black hair, with its distinctive silver swath, to her head. Her beaklike nose appeared even more prominent.

  “Help me, good sirs,” she whined, in a high, irritating nasal pitch. “I beg of you to help me.”

  Although she wore her usual layers of coarse plum robes, the voluminous jewelry that marked her as a Gypsy was absent. She made no sound when she moved, which struck Lucien as odd.

  Roy raised one arm to signal the group to halt. “What happened here?”

  Mila stood twenty yards away.

  “See there,” she said, pointing a knobby finger to the lopsided wreck. “My cart hit a rut and the wheel came off. Please, sirs, I am on the way to market.”

  Roy rose in his saddle. “What have you in the cart?”

  “Fresh chickens, sir, their necks only wrung an hour ago.”

  Lucien could smell the blood. He expected the others could as well. Sitting rigidly in the saddle, he directed his gaze forward to the heap of rags ostensibly covering dead chickens.

  The Seddly guards eyed the heap of rags suspiciously as well. Their attention had been completely diverted from the surrounding countryside.

  Lucien realized then that Steffan lurked somewhere close by. He could be hiding in the copse to the east, or behind the flowering hawthorns to the west. As certain as Lucien was of the fate awaiting him at Nottingham jail, he knew his brother was about to ride to his rescue. And he meant to be ready.

  “Walter, Tom, get down and help the old girl,” Roy ordered. “You would be wise to keep this cart to the side of the road, old woman.”

  “Aye, sir. Aye.” She bowed again and again, in humble supplication.

  Most unlike Mila, Lucien thought, suppressing a smile.

  “I am most grateful, sir,” she repeated, backing away from the cart.

  Roy withdrew his pistol, as Tom and Walter hunched over the broken wheel.

  Suddenly the countryside came alive with the blast of explosions, orange and white light bursting against the sky. A barrage of pops and hisses and whooshes created a frightening din.

  “What the—!”

  “Run!”

  Not expecting fireworks, the village guard did not see them as such. At the first sounds, even Lucien believed it to be the weapon reports from a large rescue party.

&nbs
p; His guards, momentarily immobilized, directed their attention to the sight ahead of them.

  “It’s cannon fire!”

  The frightened horses reared and whinnied. The men, jarred into action, attempted to control their mounts and withdraw their weapons at the same time. Pistols fell to the ground. Roy’s misfired as his horse lunged forward.

  While the Seddly guards were occupied, Steffan and his men rode in from behind, from the left flank and from the right flank, in a thunder of horse hooves. The Gypsy warriors hollered and shouted. Bloodcurdling battle cries filled the glen. Men brandishing swords swung the silver blades, horses pawed the air and volley after volley of shots rang out.

  But not a drop of blood was shed.

  The village guards from Seddly were quite undone. Outshouted, outsmarted and woefully overwhelmed with the drama of the attack, they turned tail, galloping back to the village.

  The blood pounded through his veins as Lucien urged his tired horse toward the thick copse where Steffan waited. His brother untied Lucien’s hands immediately. With a hammering heart, he changed mounts and was away astride his horse Bay. He raced through the rain beside his brother and Mila. Free!

  Alternating at paces safe for the horses, Lucien rode east with his rescuers for over an hour. Finally they stopped by a valley stream to water and rest their mounts. It was only then that Lucien could express proper thanks.

  “Well done, Steffan, well done,” he said, embracing his brother and slapping him heartily on the back.

  Steffan fairly beamed with pride. “I have learned from you and Wolf through the years, have I not?”

  “You have, indeed. I am proud of you, brother. You may well be made of the stuff of kings.”

  “We are not safe, yet,” Mila reminded them in a querulous tone.

  “No,” Steffan agreed. “From here I suggest you go home to Wales, Lucien. Mother will be happy to welcome you for an extended stay.”

  “I am certain she will but—”

  “You must lie low until this incident is forgotten.”

  “And while I am lingering, what shall you be about, Steffan?”