Even if the words were written in English, and she figured they weren’t, she wouldn’t be able to read them, so it didn’t matter what those words said. But even being unable to read them, this ring told her everything she needed to know: whoever owned this had a rich family history, a clan and roots. Her own long-abandoned family had forever been wanderers—the Highland tinkers, forced off their land by the English during the Clearances. They were people still searching for a home they’d never find, no matter how many miles they traveled. Her folk had joined one gypsy band after another until settling in with the Irish in the Americas. Her father had long sung the praises of a rootless life, as if home and band and heart were all one and the same.
Fiona knew from experience they weren’t. Her heart might yearn for the freedom of a wandering life, and she knew nothing but the band, but home? Home was something she didn’t understand, and never would. She wasn’t so naïve that she even hoped for one.
Depositing the rest of her loot into a satchel for Seamus to collect, she flipped the ring over in her hand. According to the laws of the band, she handed everything she took or made over to her brother-in-law. In exchange, he offered her lodging and protection. At her insistence, he’d even set her up in a hotel, while the majority of the band lived in the tents and wagons on the outskirts of town.
For a gypsy, she lived well, thanks to Seamus’s unwanted attention.
A sharp rap startled her out of her thoughts.
“Yes?” She covered herself with a robe in an attempt to conceal her torn bodice.
“Fiona.” Spoken in a low, Irish brogue, the sound of her name carried a hint of menace. “Let me in.”
With a sigh, she opened the door.
Her brother-in-law put his hand on her shoulder and shoved his way in, glancing suspiciously around her room as if looking for something.
“Seamus,” she said coldly. “Do come in.”
“Where is it?”
She folded her arms and gestured to the satchel with her head. “Tonight’s take, you mean? Over there.”
Seamus grabbed the satchel from the floor and dumped the contents onto her narrow bed. Fiona surreptitiously tucked the ring into the lip of her corset, the cold metal biting into her tender flesh. He sifted through the pouches of silver, the watches, the coins, and the money clips, running his hands over each item. When he was finished, he picked up the satchel and checked the corners and the lining, looking for any hidden pockets.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“What?”
Seamus crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze to his. She allowed it for a few seconds before wrenching from his grasp.
“A ring, Fi,” he snarled. “The big fellah you were kissing tonight. He said he lost a ring. The way he carried on about it, you’d think it was the finest piece of jewelry ever made. Give it over.”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “And what makes you think I’ve got it?” she demanded, and she realized she’d never part with the ring. She’d not give it over to Seamus, nor would she sell it. The ring was hers, as surely as if it had been made for her. She gestured angrily to the contents of the satchel, now spread across her bed. “You see what I’ve got. That’s all I have.”
“Yer the best thief of any of the lot. If anyone has his ring, it’s you. Hand it over.”
“I dinna take a ring.”
“I want it, Fiona.”
“Are you accusing me of being a liar, Seamus?” She crossed her arms and forced her gaze to his.
His fingers dug into her shoulders, and his eyes narrowed. Jerking her body flush against him, he said, “Mayhap. Ye also said ye were still mourning me brother.”
“What’re you carrying on about now?”
“Ye refused me, saying that ye weren’t ready to take on another man. I respected that, Fi. But I saw ye kissing that fellah at the dancehall. Ye looked ready enough to me.”
Damn.
“I was working, Seamus.” She twisted out of his grasp. “‘Twas nothing more than an act. I’ve kissed men before to get at what was in their pockets. You’ve encouraged that.”
“You’ve no’ kissed a man like that,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Ye looked like ye enjoyed that.”
“Lies,” she spat.
“Ye looked like ye wanted to bed him. Perhaps yer time of mourning is over?”
Before she acted on her desire to strike him, she fisted her hand until her nails dug into her palm. Seamus would see a slap as a challenge, as an invitation. She clenched her teeth. “How dare you suggest such a thing? I kissed him, and his pockets were empty. What else do you want me to say?”
He grabbed her, his grip so tight she was certain she’d have a ring of bruises around her upper arms, and pinned her body to the wall with his. The wiry strength of his frame kept her in place while his fingers dipped into the pockets of her robe and turned them out. When he found them empty, he ran his hands inside her robe to turn out the pockets of her dress.
Revulsion rose at the back of her throat, but she didn’t flinch from his gaze. “Are you quite finished?”
Seamus’s dark eyes searched her face. With his hawkish features, pale, lank hair, and the cruel slant of his mouth, he looked the part of a criminal, a low-life and a derelict. He was also, by far, the most cunningly ruthless man she’d ever met.
And that particular trait ran in the family. Her husband had been a more handsome version of his younger brother and a better liar, but he’d been cunning, manipulative, and ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted.
She’d learned her lesson the hard way, and knew better than to dally with one of the Keenan brothers. She’d done it once, and she had no plans on taking up with Seamus—or any other man—ever again.
Eventually, Seamus stepped away. “Perhaps yer telling me the truth.”
“I’ve given you no reason to accuse me of lying.” She moved around his body and scooped the items into the satchel. “There it is. All of it. And now I’ll thank you for leaving my room.” When he paused, appearing uncertain, she said, “I’m your brother’s widow. I loved him, and I will mourn him until the day I die. But I assure you, Seamus, if ever I take another man to my bed, ‘twill be you.”
Her stomach turned at the thought, but she ignored it like she had all the other indignities of the past few years.
Seamus brushed against her and studied her for a moment, his cunning, dark eyes suspicious and cautious. Bending his head, he pressed his lips to hers.
His kiss wasn’t harsh, but there was no gentleness, no sweetness in it. Instead, when Seamus touched her, she wanted to disappear into nothing. She yearned for freedom, to get out from under his control, but there was no place for an illiterate gypsy woman except the bawdy houses. She’d been to the Barbary Coast in San Francisco. She knew what happened to those women. Gypsy women didn’t live long, but their lives were rarely as short as a soiled dove’s.
Seamus’s touch repulsed her, but she’d never overtly refuse him. Instead, she stashed away as much money as she could reasonably hide from him, in the hopes that one day she’d step off the train somewhere and simply walk away.
Walk away from everything. Seamus. The band. The thieving and the lying and the fortune-telling. The angry glares of the townspeople whenever the band rolled into a new town.
The only life she’d ever known.
She stepped away from Seamus, her breathing ragged, but not from passion. “There is no one else,” she whispered. Her thoughts wandered back to Cameron Mackay, his fiery hair and broad shoulders, and the way he had held her, the way his kiss had stolen a piece of her soul just as surely as she had stolen his ring from his pocket.
If Cameron ever found out who she really was, he’d toss her aside like so much gypsy trash. Have h
er prosecuted as a thief and thrown in jail.
Much to Fiona’s relief, her words seemed to placate Seamus. “Make sure there’s not. Out of respect for me brother, I’ve agreed to not to claim ye for me own. But perhaps ye’d best bear in mind who’s the leader of this band. Ye obey me. Ye answer to me. And ye give me everything.”
She ducked under his arm and opened the door. “I understand, Seamus.”
He moved past her to stand in the hall. “I know ye do, Fi. Yer a smart lass. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to ye.”
His threat hung in the air as she closed the door.
Leaning her head against the rough wood, she thought briefly of Cameron, of his strong arms and the passion scorching the air between them. She had no place in her life for a man, not now, not ever. Certainly not for a man like him, a man who had claimed a piece of her heart with a single kiss.
Tracing her lips with her forefinger, pretending she didn’t still feel Cameron’s mouth upon hers, she whispered, “Trust me, Seamus, I understand.”
The bonfire crackled and danced in the darkness, the music of fiddles playing a traditional Irish jig filling the air. The cool evening breeze brushed over Cameron. He tilted his head back, staring up at the night sky, finding all of the familiar constellations. For the briefest moment, he pretended he didn’t feel the grittiness of the high desert against his skin, and that he didn’t spend his days in an underground tomb, slaving away for dull, gray rock. In the space of those few seconds, he was home, on land he owned, the scent of sweet grass tickling his nostrils.
He inhaled deeply and smelled only sagebrush and dust.
Soon, he told himself. Soon.
He sucked in a breath of dry, desert air as he approached the gypsy camp. Several tents had been set up for vendors to hawk their wares, selling trinkets, or playing games of chance, or telling fortunes. A bonfire had sprouted up in the middle of the encampment, around which couples skipped to the songs that had been popular on the farm in his youth. The music was filled with both joy and misery, and Cameron’s thoughts wandered to all the things he’d treasured and lost.
His land. His brother. His ring.
He didn’t care to dance—he’d barely managed to choke down a meal over the last few days—but he did want his ring back. If it were anywhere, it would be here, with the gypsies. And if they hadn’t taken it, they’d likely know where to find it.
All he had to do was find their leader and offer him the right price. His only experience with gypsies came from the days back on the farm before the war, when they’d come to the nearest town. Back then he’d discovered that gypsies would steal anything not nailed down. But if offered a ‘reward’ for its safe return, anything could be bought back. A penny to return a money clip. A nickel for a watch worth ten dollars. A dollar for the boarding of horses they’d ‘found’ in their own pasture.
He was prepared to pay for the return of his ring. And then have whoever took it prosecuted for theft.
Sitting on a stump at the edge of the circle, he watched as the others danced. He recognized several faces from his time in the mines, good, strapping Irish lads who’d come out to work the rails but stayed on to find their fortunes. He considered joining them for a moment, but then he spotted her.
Her.
He’d harbored little hope of finding the girl from the dancehall once he’d found the wig and the mask lying in the street. This woman, in her plain, dark skirt and white blouse, was so different from the elegant girl he remembered, but something about her drew his attention. Her black hair escaped from a bun at the nape of her neck, delicate curls brushing her shoulders and spilling down her back. A young man grabbed her hand and she laughed as he swept her into his arms and into a dance.
Her laugh caught Cameron off-guard. Rather than a gentle lady’s giggle, this girl crowed like a tavern wench. Bawdy. Loud.
He couldn’t help but smile.
For several minutes, he simply watched her. Firelight flickered across the planes of her face, skimming her high cheekbones and her full lips. She twirled past him, joy lighting her features. His chest tightened, but not from the despair that had settled there so long ago.
Despair wasn’t what he felt when he looked at her.
Standing, he made his way through the crowd. She glanced in his direction, and he thought recognition flashed in her eyes before her gaze skipped over him and she abandoned her dance partner.
He hoped she did recognize him. Because if she was who he thought, she had his family ring. And if she had it, he’d get it back, no matter the cost.
He sidled up beside her to where she now stood, facing away from him. “Care to dance?”
She turned to him, and his breath caught in his throat. Her skin was pale and perfect, her large eyes long lashed and dark. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but he didn’t see recognition in her eyes. Just a woman smiling at a man who’d asked her to dance.
“I’m a wee bit tired,” she replied in a singsong brogue, a beautiful voice reminding him of his mother. And Duncan. And family.
“Well, then, you mind if I stand with you for a spell?”
She glanced at him before turning and facing the crowd. “Suit yourself,” she said, and then she bounced along to the music, effectively dismissing him.
Extending his hand toward her, he attempted to draw her once more into conversation. “I’m Cameron Mackay.”
She hesitated briefly before accepting his hand. “I—I’m Fiona.” Wariness creased her features. “Fiona Keenan.”
“Fiona,” he said, running his thumb along her palm. Not Elizabeth. Fiona. The name fit her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said, as she took back her hand and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Someone or something in the camp caught her attention, and her eyes narrowed. She dropped her gaze and brushed something from her skirt.
Scanning the crowd, he found a man staring at them, his expression possessive and dangerous as he glared at Fiona. Cameron shifted and rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. “You know him?”
Her eyes drifted to the hand resting on his gun before following his gaze. “Yes. That’s Seamus. My brother-in-law.”
“He doesn’t look too happy with you.”
“He never is.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
He glanced down at her left hand and found her fingers bare. “So you’re married?”
Her mouth twisted into a grimace, and she was silent for several seconds. “Was. I’ve been widowed three years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, and he thought he heard her mutter, “I’m no’,” under her breath before she said, “‘Twas lovely to meet you, but I’m tired. I should be returning to my room.”
“I’d be happy to walk you.”
She waved away his offer. “No need. I’m perfectly safe.”
Cameron gave a short laugh. “No one’s safe in this town. Allow me to escort you.”
Her inscrutable smile tugged at his heart. “I doubt anyone will trouble me.”
“Why would you say that? A pretty woman like you out alone? It’s nothing short of unseemly.”
“I’m an unseemly girl.”
“That so?”
She lifted a single shoulder in a careworn shrug before she turned away. “I’m a gypsy. A fortune-teller. A witch. I’m told it makes me an unsavory sort.” Rather than the bitterness he expected, her voice held wry humor.
His chest tightened inexplicably. “A witch, huh? Good thing my family has a history with witches,” he said with a laugh. He didn’t believe the family legends, and he might be a miner, but he still had the soul of a Scot, superstitious and poetic. She gave him a quizzical look, and, thinking about the ring she’d surely stolen from him, he sobered. “I
think I’d like to walk you home anyway.”
She glanced at the hand he’d extended to her, but didn’t accept it. Her brows drew together in an expression of disbelief or dismay, he couldn’t tell which. “I may put a hex on you.” Her voice was light.
He laughed, and she smiled in response. “I’ll take my chances.”
Her lips still carrying a hint of a smile, she allowed him to place her hand in the crook of his arm. Having her beside him, touching him, felt right, like he belonged here with this woman in this moment. For the first time since leaving Virginia, he was home.
Home, he thought bitterly, as if he had one of those anymore.
The sound of ore processors broke the silence of the night.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide and anxious. “How do you get used to the noise? Gives me a headache.”
“I don’t know if you do,” he replied. “Been here almost four years and it still bothers me. But I’ll be done with it soon enough.”
“Leaving town, are you?” she asked.
“I hope so. I have an offer to buy my claim, and I’m thinking about taking it. I plan to buy back my farm and start back up in horses.”
“So you’re a farm boy at heart?”
The words, I’d say a farmer, spoken in a flat American accent, rang in his ears. “Yeah. Mining doesn’t suit me.” He glanced over at her to gauge her reaction.
Her face remained impassive, unreadable. “It doesn’t?”
“Doesn’t suit anyone,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got family elsewhere. I’d like to be near them again.”
Their eyes met, and something in her face gentled. “You miss them?”
He stared up at the night sky. Back in Ohio, was Duncan looking at these same stars and wishing he were near? “My brother was my best friend once. Then the war came. We argued and he went off to join the army. I left not much later, lied about my age and joined the Union just before my seventeenth birthday. And I’d do it again. But I’ve only seen my brother once in almost nine years. I regret that the most.” He cut himself off, surprised he revealed so much to a woman he suspected had taken his family’s ring, a woman he shouldn’t want. Clearing his throat, he said, “Anyway, we lost the land, lost the horses, and so I came out here for the mining. Hoped to make my fortune. What about you?”
Highland Sons: The Mackay Saga Page 10
