The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  As she said the words, Henrietta realized her heart had never been filled with so much love as it was now. Not only for her friends and lover, but with animal—

  “Mercury! Where is Mercury?”

  Mila shook her head as if she still considered her student hopeless. “In the basket at your feet.”

  Henrietta reached down and scooped her sleeping cat into her arms. “All is well. We are together again.”

  Reaching down to the portmanteau by her feet, Mila withdrew a dark lapis-blue velvet cloak. “Put this on. We will arrive in Bristol after dark as a lady and lady-in-waiting.’’

  Henrietta did as she was bid and moved back to the other side of the Landau. Her head had cleared and her body had begun to feel normal again as well.

  “What of Steffan? And Sabina, Jassy and the rest?”

  “Steffan is returning Sabina to her home. He is leading the caravan to York. Jassy will meet us in Liverpool.”

  Within the hour, the carriage pulled up before the West Wind Inn near the docks of Bristol.

  “Keep your head down and hold your tongue while I make the arrangements,” Mila cautioned before they were helped from the carriage.

  While her heart raced in anticipation, Henrietta hung back. With lowered eyes, she played the role of a shy, downcast young thing, but excitement swirled like a summer storm within her, warm and furious. Soon she would be reunited with Lucien.

  “We shall need two chambers,” Mila told the innkeeper. “One for my lady and one for me. And we shall require meals delivered to our chambers.”

  “Very good.”

  “Further we should like to remain undisturbed. We have journeyed long and hard today. My lady must rest.” Mila reeled off the orders without hesitation. She’d assumed a formidable presence which both amused and somewhat astonished Henrietta. Her mentor fared well in the world outside the Gypsy caravan. For a fleeting moment, she wondered about Mila’s past.

  In a matter of moments, Henrietta was alone in a clean, simple room overlooking the narrow cobblestone street. A prisoner no longer, she whirled around the room, releasing the joy she could not express with a shout.

  After inspecting their quarters, Mercury had curled up on the feather bed. Henrietta opened the window to the salty sea breeze. She leaned out, longing to fly, to sing, to wish the whole world, or at least Bristol, sweet sleep and splendid dreams.

  The blood rushed through her veins making her light-headed and giddy. What seemed a flock of butterflies settled in her belly. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she strained to see in the darkness. She watched for a priest walking among the sailors and peddlers in the street below.

  But she was not prepared for Lucien to see her.

  The sudden thought sent Henrietta into a spin of activity. Mila had brought a small portmanteau for Henrietta containing a few essentials for travel. She found a chemise and dressing gown, a supply of rose oil, brush and combs for her hair.

  After a sponge bath, Henrietta applied the rose oil along her neck and arms. She let down her hair, brushing the mass until it shone. She smoothed her lovely silk gown, wrinkled during the journey, as best she could.

  Ready as she could be for her reunion with the Gypsy King, Henrietta returned to the window. Breathlessly, she watched for Lucien’s Goliath form, his confident stride to appear under the lamplight.

  She started at a rap on the door, but then, bubbling with anticipation, hurried to open it.

  “Your meal, mum.” A young blond girl with a dirty face stood at her door carrying a cloth-covered tray.

  “Thank you.” She masked her disappointment with a bright smile. “Set it there on the side table, if you will.”

  The girl curtsied quickly and dashed from the room.

  Henrietta lifted the cloth to find a fine meal of roast chicken, boiled potatoes, bread and berries. She fed a small portion of chicken to Mercury, but although she was hungry, she could not swallow a bite until Lucien arrived.

  She must see him standing larger than life before her. She must touch him. She needed to feel the stubble of his beard beneath her palm, the heat of his lips on hers to know beyond a doubt she did not walk in a fanciful dream.

  Her meal grew cold while she waited. She lit a single lantern and in the dim light, gave in to weariness and dozed. She woke with a start, uncertain if it were a nightmare or a noise that had disturbed her sleep. She hastened to the door.

  “Is someone there?”

  “Lucien,” came the whispered reply.

  “Lucien!”

  Henrietta pulled back the bolt and opened the door. Lucien strode into the room and her world was set right again. Dressed as an Englishman, he cut a dashing figure in the style set by the daring Beau Brummell. The compelling Gypsy King was dressed in long, tight tan pantaloons held by straps beneath his boots and a rich hunter green coat with tails that complemented his dark good looks. Beneath a striking waistcoat of green and tan brocade, Lucien wore a fine white linen shirt. A striped satin cravat was folded at his throat in a most distinguished manner. Henrietta could only marvel at how closely the he resembled the aristocrats who gathered in her aunt’s drawing room on alternate Sunday afternoons.

  He bolted the door behind him, and with a grin as wide as the Thames, opened his arms.

  Laughing and crying, she flew into the warmth of him.

  “My lady.” His voice in her ear was soft and husky, his breath warm as he repeated, “My lady.”

  Darts of fire skipped down her spine. “I was so frightened for you,” she rasped.

  “The English have never been a match for a Gypsy.”

  “But you are both.”

  “And is it not sad?” he teased. “I struggle with myself. One part of me desires one thing, and the other insists on something else.”

  “What do you desire, Lucien?”

  “A kiss from my lady.”

  Stepping back, she raised her head and his mouth came down on hers in a bruising connection of heart and soul and body. Lady Henrietta Hadley, once a paragon of propriety, gave herself up without a moment’s hesitation to scandalous behavior with the only man she would ever love—the man who gave her the only true joy in life she’d known.

  The cry of a drunken sailor drifted through the window on a cool evening breeze, but except for his own thundering heart, Lucien heard nothing. He felt everything. He could not hold himself back. Lacing his fingers through her hair, he plunged his tongue into the deep warm recess of Henrietta’s mouth, tasting her sultry sweetness, kissing her fiercely.

  Her elegant and earthy blend of sensualness aroused him more quickly and completely than any woman had ever done. They had been parted for little more than a week but it felt like a decade. Instead of diminishing, his passion for her had grown.

  His hands lightly skimmed the length of Henrietta, pausing on her waist, her hips. Through the thin, silky fabric of her dressing gown he felt each titillating curve, felt her heat. Cupping her buttocks, he pulled her against his hardness.

  She groaned and nipped at the corner of his lip.

  The sound of her pleasure stoked the fire within him. The blaze reached his loins, parched his throat. Lucien drank from her mouth, sweet juices of love. Every sip. Every taste.

  The delicate scent of spring roses filled his every breath. He could not fight his desire, the longing he’d wrestled with since the last time he’d made love to Henrietta.

  She backed out of his arms and extinguished the lantern.

  Driven by his insatiable desire for her, Lucien tore at his clothes, tossing them aside. The lady warmed him like brandy on a cold winter day, soothed him with her murmurings, sighs that fell on his ear like the sweet song of a chaffinch. He could race with the wind, coax Bay to leap over high hedgerows and stony streams and still not feel the excitement Henrietta stirred in him. She made Lucien feel truly alive.

  He knew from the soft sounds in the darkness, she disrobed as well. And when he looked up she stood in a deep gold ribbon of moo
nlight. Locking her gaze on his, she stepped out of her dress. It was as if an incomparable Greek statue had come to life. Lucien stood stock-still. He could not drag his eyes from her perfection.

  She mesmerized him, from the slight, seductive smile on her cherry lips to the swirling cascade of curls teasing her shoulders. He studied her with the reverence a masterpiece deserved. His gaze lingered on her breasts, high and proud, drifted to her satiny flat stomach, to her gently rounded hips.

  Slowly, she backed to the bed.

  “Come to me, Lucien.”

  His pulse raced, his heart thumped in staggered measures. His breathing came in shallow, ragged gulps. The king of the Gypsies, a proven leader of men, could not find his voice.

  “Lie with me,” she whispered. Her soft command sounded to him like an invitation from an angel.

  Lucien finished undressing in short order. It did not matter if his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he heard her slip into the bed and throw back the covers. She waited for him, caught in the same fever, needing the same completion.

  Aching with need for her he sank to the bed and hovered over her, memorizing the deep blue glaze of desire in her eyes.

  Reaching up and framing his face in her hands, she guided his mouth to her breast She whimpered when his tongue circled first one rigid, delectable nipple and then the other.

  Swept up in emotion unlike any he had known, Lucien made long, leisurely love to Henrietta. And when she had cried out in ecstasy, he experienced the most powerful release a man could dream.

  Lucien held her in his arms for a long time. She said nothing and neither did he. All that he could say grieved him, and could only give Henrietta pain. This was to be their last night together.

  “Lucien ...”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Are you traveling to Liverpool with Mila and me?”

  Her voice was hushed in the dark.

  “No,” he said, hearing the husky catch in his voice. “I am sailing in a different ship to Swansea.”

  “You are going home?”

  “Yes. My mother looks forward to my visit.”

  A clock in the outside corridor chimed midnight, a lonely sound in the otherwise silent inn. The chill of the night enveloped the room.

  Henrietta wiggled from the warmth of Lucien’s arms. She must accustom herself to the cold, to a life without him. “How long will you stay?” she asked, forcing a normal tone.

  “I shall be at Haven House until feelings here in England have calmed. At present, I plan to rejoin the caravan on its journey back to London.”

  “Steffan has been a good leader in your stead.”

  “I have admitted as much to him. My brother has surprised me with the authority and intelligence he has shown during the past several weeks.”

  “Did you ever offer him the opportunity before now to demonstrate his abilities?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “He will make an excellent king someday.”

  “Yes,” Lucien allowed. “Yes, he will.”

  Henrietta kissed his cheek gently and rolled out of the bed. She stood at the window watching the moon. “Will you think of me when I am gone?”

  Lucien rose and went to her side. “I shall think of you always ... and forever.”

  He took her hand and pressed something cold and rough inside her palm.

  “What is this?”

  “Your mother’s ruby broach. The diamonds sparkle in your eyes, your lips are as red as the stone. Who else could wear it? Who else could outshine these jewels?”

  “Lucien ...”

  He stepped away, altering the atmosphere. His tone abruptly changed to a tease. “Of course, when you gave it to me you promised to be no trouble. No trouble at all.”

  “And I brought you nothing but trouble.”

  “And happiness.” His dark eyes locked on hers. “You brought me happiness.”

  She bit down on her lip and blinked back threatening tears.

  “I shall bring you more happiness,” she promised, keeping a light note, “if you return to bed with me.”

  Henrietta kept her promise and Lucien held her in his arms for the remainder of the night.

  Just before dawn, while she still slept, Lucien brushed his lips tenderly against hers and slipped from the room.

  He left a parcel of raisin scones, and a golden earring.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rich decor and serene atmosphere of Lady Marian Vaslav’s sitting room at Haven House spoke of wealth and elegance. In every way, Lucien’s boyhood home contrasted sharply with his Gypsy tent.

  Heavy burgundy velvet drapes hung from the floor to ceiling windows, a thick Oriental carpet cushioned his feet and Chippendale’s finest pieces furnished the cozy room in which his mother had chosen to greet him.

  “I gave birth to three sons and I am alone for months at a time,” Marian Vaslav complained. “How can that be?”

  Lucien grinned. He’d arrived at Haven House at midday and by teatime she had begun to paint a put-upon picture.

  “You raised us to be self-sufficient and independent.”

  “I have lived my life in exile—”

  “Your choice mother.”

  Marian let out a pitiful sigh. “Not at the beginning.”

  “As you say.” Lucien knew his mother to be a practical woman who ran her household with an iron hand. But on occasion she enjoyed playing the role of languishing, neglected mother. “You have a great many friends and interests. How many hours in the day do you spend creating with your watercolors?”

  She dismissed his question with a haughty arch of an eyebrow. “Only a few.”

  “You have never depended upon my brothers and me for social intercourse. And as I recall you chose to reside in Wales long after your family forgave you.”

  She sighed again, this time in resignation. “You have no sympathy for me.”

  “No, but I have the greatest admiration for you.”

  Lucien’s mother, unlike many women her age, had retained her youthful figure. Though many fine lines etched her delicate ivory complexion, she remained a beautiful woman. Her doe-brown eyes did not miss a move, a thought, or an emotion.

  “What brings you to Haven House? Have you come to escort me to your wedding?”

  He shook his head. “I need your advice, Mother.”

  Marian Vaslav’s charm and intelligence were legendary. And she was the only person Lucien could ever turn to for counsel.

  As a boy, his father’s attention was devoted to Wolfgang, the son destined to succeed him as leader of the tribe. Lucien’s mother, in turn, doted on her youngest, Steffan. As middle child, he was left to his own devices for the most part. But if pressed, he knew his mother would always listen and attempt to help.

  Since the death of his father and the loss of his older brother, she had more than ever become his most trusted advisor.

  Because Steffan would use any show of doubt or weakness to mock Lucien, he only sought his younger brother’s advice for the most minor of predicaments.

  “What is your dilemma, son?” Marian asked softly.

  “Sabina will not wed me.”

  She arched a finely plucked brow. “I expect you are relieved.”

  “Indeed, but there is ...” he paused, not knowing how to pose his question. He began again. “In the beginning, you sacrificed a great deal to marry my father, did you not?”

  “I loved him.”

  “That is too simple.”

  “No. Love is not simple. True love is elusive and rare. It is a fortunate woman, or a man, who finds love. I should have made a far greater sacrifice if I had let your father go.”

  “Duty—”

  “Duty does not keep one warm and obligations are much overrated,” she interrupted airily. “We often think too much of ourselves. Your father was not the only man who could ride a wild horse. I am not the only woman to sew an intricate pattern. It is only foolish pride when we believe ourselves necessary to the world.�
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  “Unless you are a king.”

  “You are a king by choice.”

  “What choice did I have, being next in line?”

  “Perhaps not then, but now you have one. You have a younger brother willing and able to lead the tribe.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I believe you heard me.” With a soft smile parting her lips, she inclined her head. “Would you care for more tea?”

  “No,” he pushed himself up from the table. “Thank you.”

  She made it sound as if he actually could make the decision to be, or not to be the King of the English Gypsies.

  “What is bothering you, Lucien?”

  “As I told you when I arrived,” he paused, weighing his words, knowing his mother could spot a falsehood from miles away. “I am a wanted man in England.”

  She raised her head, looking him directly in the eye. Her penetrating gaze made him feel almost like a boy again, when he believed she could see into his mind and read his thoughts. “There is more.”

  Lucien threw his head back and contemplated the beamed ceiling before he spoke. “I have always lived two vastly different lives in two vastly different worlds. I wish to live one life, in one world.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Kings do not walk away—”

  “Steffan is capable of leadership. I did not raise any of my sons to be backward. He has always dressed and behaved as if he wished to live in the English world, simply because he believed he had no opportunity to be the leader of his father’s world. Being last in line after Wolf and you did not offer him much hope.”

  “He has done well. When Sabina refused to marry me, he developed a covenant, a treaty between the tribes to unite us. We shall present the covenant in York.”

  “If he devised it, your brother alone should present his covenant.” She rose and gathered both of Lucien’s hands in hers. “Steffan deserves to lead the tribe. That is where his heart is—but not yours. It was plain to me from the beginning. You have not been happy.”

  Lucien nodded wearily. “There is something else ... someone else.”

  “My son, you will do no favor to either the clan or tribe by remaining with them when your heart is elsewhere.”