by Lindy Corbin
STEEL MAGNOLIA PRESS
Copyright © 2012 by Delinda Corbin
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Cover design by Hot Damn Designs: www.hotdamndesigns.com.
Chapter 1
Derbyshire England, 1823
The man emerged from the deep shadows cast by the oak tree that marked the far edge of the farmed lands and stepped into the path directly in front of Juliet.
Her loud gasp was made more conspicuous by the man’s silence. She had expected a guard, but had forgotten how skilled they could be at blending into the gloom. She spoke the secret password to the sentry, hating that her voice shook.
He seemed to still in surprise before he glided closer, little more than a suggestion of darker shadow in the faint light cast by the sliver of an upturned moon. “How would a gadji such as you know this word?”
Gadji, the Romany term for a non-gypsy woman. The gossip her maid had heard in the village was true. The gypsy tribe her father had welcomed in the years before his death had returned at last. Juliet’s pulse beat hard against her throat. Impatience lent strength to her tone. “That is none of your business. Let me pass.”
“As you will.” The man whistled through his teeth, a short sharp sound remarkably like a bird’s cry, then melted back into the darkness.
Juliet followed, gathering her skirt in the front so that she could lengthen her stride to keep pace. Her gaze was fixed on the man’s back and the occasional glint of light off his silver earring as he glanced behind at her. They were alone in the darkness, kept company only by the rustlings of small animals and the odor of decaying leaves. This land had been in her family for generations, and she knew nothing lay ahead but the ancient forest and the secrets that it hid in the arms of the gnarled oak trees. She should have been frightened, but the euphoria of anticipation was rising, blocking more sane emotions.
The speed with which the man moved warmed her muscles and she began to regret wearing her heaviest cloak. It had been chosen for its dark color more than for protection against the chill on this mild spring night. At a fork in the path the gypsy turned right toward the lake, formed years ago when beaver dammed a section of the creek. The trail narrowed, the tree limbs hanging so low that Juliet had to bend to avoid catching her upswept hair in the leaves. Each twisting turn had been well known to her as a child, but in the dark, tree roots sought to trip her and briars tugged at her skirts.
She saw a flicker of light through the trees and heard muted voices and the twang of some stringed instrument. To her right, there was the stamp and snort of horses, tethered for the night. They emerged from the trees into the bright light of the gypsy camp.
She was expected.
The whistle had surely been a signal, but there was likely a second sentry who had run ahead to warn the camp of the intruder. People turned toward her, their faces burnished to gleaming copper by the firelight. Children were quieted and held fast in their mothers’ arms. Dogs barked, but were shushed with a bone from the remnants of supper cooked on the spit over the fire.
Juliet caught the tang of burning oak and the drifting scent of roasting meat, reminding her that she’d been too nervous to partake of dinner. It was well that someone enjoyed the abundant venison to be found in the park, she thought with wry amusement. Her father had loved sport, often hunting with hounds, but her brother preferred less-vigorous pursuits and sent a servant to purchase their meat from the butcher in the village.
A man with grizzled gray hair separated himself from those gathered around the fire and stepped toward her, his bow respectful. “Miss Bailey, welcome.”
“Luca?” She had wondered what she would do if this was not the same tribe who had visited in years past, but Luca’s presence reassured her. The older man was a horse trainer, often found at their stables when his band was camped nearby. He’d trained the horse she rode still, her favorite mare Abigail.
He straightened, standing tall and proud. “It is kind of you to remember my name. I’m sure it is your kindness as well that has allowed us to camp here again.”
He evidently remembered her brother and knew that James was not enamored of the gypsy lifestyle. “It has been too long, my friend,” she said. “I find you in good health?”
If he was surprised by the warmth of her greeting, he hid it well. He inclined his head. “As with the march of the seasons, I persevere. Come by the fire,” he urged. “My daughter will bring wine.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I am here on an urgent errand.” Accepting their hospitality meant a delay, one that might cause her to lose courage.
Luca shot her a sharp look, but turned to lead her deeper into the camp. The men behind him parted to allow her to make her way to the roaring blaze. The flickering light played across the brightly painted reds and blues of the wooden vardos that encompassed the camp in their protective semi-circle. Her gaze caught a glint of stained glass on the larger, more ornate wagons, and she turned an appraising eye on the coins worn by the women on belts around their waists or woven into their hair. The group had grown prosperous. Rumors circulated that some tribes kidnapped the children of wealthy families and ransomed them, but this one had always been honest and hard-working, often arriving in time to help with the sowing of the fields. She hoped that was still the case.
Catching the gaze of a young woman with a red kerchief across her hair and a baby on her lap, she realized that she was being appraised with as much distrust as she had briefly felt. Her face flared and she turned away from the woman, her gaze seeking out the friendlier features of Luca.
“How may we serve you, Miss Bailey?”
Panic rose up, closing her throat. She’d acted out this moment in her mind a thousand times. Now, those carefully chosen words deserted her. As the silence stretched, she heard the shuffle as someone moved on the piles of rugs on which they sat and a child’s cough as the wind shifted and the smoke from the blaze drifted across the camp. For a moment, it seemed as surreal as the dream she’d had so many times. She shook her head to clear it. There was nothing left for her at home. These people were her future.
Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve come to demand my rightful place beside my husband.”
The noises of the camp quieted as if the occupants had taken one collective breath, then a young man laughed and called out, “There are no princes on white horses here. Look elsewhere for your mate.”
The red in her cheeks burned as if the heat of the fire had jumped to her face, but she refused to accept such easy defeat. “Four years ago, when your tribe was last here, I jumped the Springfire with one of your own.”
A murmur of speculation chased across the circle and she felt a moment’s satisfaction.
“Name this person,” demanded an aged woman who sat high on a pile of rugs. Wrinkled and gray, she looked to Juliet like the witch in the book of fairy tales her nurse had read to her as a child.
Juliet swallowed hard and searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face, someone who would remember that night. Looking for her husband. Alarm tightened her muscles as she realized he might no longer travel with the tribe. The wind freshened, making the fire dance and shadows pass so quickly across the other faces that they became distorted. In desperation, she blurted out the name. “Marko Lovel.”
“Lies,” she heard someone mutter.
On the farthest edge of the fire, nearly out of the light of its rays, a man pushed a woman from his lap, depositing her on the rug besid
e him in a pile of ruffled skirts and disgruntled mutterings. He rose with the lithe grace of an acrobat and stepped into the light. “It is true.”
For a moment, she doubted that it was him. The voice was deeper and held a trace of severity that she’d never heard in it before. He was larger than she remembered, but then he’d been a young man, a mere seventeen to her sixteen years when last she’d seen him. His shoulders had broadened and his chest filled out to an impressive width. It was difficult to tell in the baggy breeches preferred by the gypsies, but it appeared that his legs were strong, most likely from hours of riding bareback. Thick, black hair curled around the open collar of his wide-sleeved red shirt.
“Marko.” She breathed his name and took a tentative step toward him, her heartbeat so loud in her ears that all other sound was muted. He moved quickly around the fire, the other men stepping back with a deferential air to allow him to reach her. He stopped within a few feet of where she stood and she raised her chin to look at him. She stared, longing to recognize any hint of familiarity in his features, but with the fire at his back, his face was cast in the aged bronze of a statue.
“Why are you here?” His tone was brusque.
Disappointment welled up, scattering her thoughts. This was not the beloved boy of her memories. He was a stranger who appeared not only hard of body but perhaps hard of spirit and of heart as well. She clamped her arms around her waist under the cloak to subdue the sudden trembling of her body.
His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “Having second thoughts?” he inquired with lethal softness.
He had always been able to read her emotions but had never attempted to intimidate her. Her brother used this tactic on her often and she had learned how to withstand it. She straightened her shoulders and faced him squarely. “No. We are wed.”
“We are not.”
The words were so baldly dismissive that they bordered on rude. A flare of anger spread through her and she stepped closer. “How dare you deny it? We were hand-fasted by the Rom baro.” She put out a hand to beseech those near her. It was unusual for a Rom to be allowed to wed a gadjo. Surely a few among them must remember. When no one spoke up, she let her hand fall back to her side. Their silence, she realized, was not a failure of memory, but reluctance to interfere.
Marko bent his head in acknowledgement. The golden flames of the fire played along the curls at his collar, turning them to bright copper. She wanted to reach and touch those locks, see if they were as soft and silky as they looked. If so, it was the only thing soft about him. Above high cheekbones, his eyes glinted as black and polished as obsidian. His lips pressed firmly together before he spoke again. “Again, all true, but the troth was broken.”
“Not by me. I have abided by our accord these many years.” And lost all she held dear in the process.
“I have not.”
Juliet sucked in a painful breath, her breasts lifting to press against the constricting fabric of her laced stays. She had waited for him. Fighting both her father and her brother, she had won the right to suffer long years alone on the hope that he would return. Surely it had not all been in vain. “I – I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”
His laugh was a harsh sound that was echoed by one of the men nearby. “I think you do,” he said with silky malice. “Another has taken your place in my bed.”
She struck at his face with an open hand.
He moved with remarkable swiftness, catching her wrist in a firm grip. Staring at his fingers, dark against the lighter tones of her skin, the last of her hopes shriveled and blew away like dry leaves, tumbling before the wind. This man had once held her with tenderness and youthful passion. She had burned for him in the endless stretch of lonely nights, had wanted nothing more than to see him again. She had yearned for him to hold her, to seduce her with whispered Romany words of love as he slowly peeled away the layers of her constrictive clothing and brought her to life.
Her gaze moved to the woman on the far side of the fire, the one with whom he’d been sitting. Full-figured and pretty, her long dark hair was bound by a ribbon. She exuded an air of sensual grace as she lay against the soft rugs, her gaze hooded but her attitude alert, as if she were wary of the auburn-haired stranger. Juliet raised her eyes to Marko’s face. “Our hand-fasting meant nothing to you?”
An arrested look rose in his eyes as if for a moment he too felt the pain of their separation then he shrugged, an offhand gesture that hurt more than his earlier annoyance. “A hand-fasting only holds two people together if there is love in their hearts. You proved long ago that there was none in yours and I was released.”
She frowned, unsure what he meant. She had loved him when they jumped the fire and would have claimed she still did until tonight. Now, she wasn’t sure she knew him.
A youth, dressed in knee-length pants and a white shirt, approached from the darkness between the vardos. Marko released her and bent his head to listen to the boy’s low whisper. Straightening, he turned with an abrupt motion, clapping his hands. A sharp order was issued and two men jumped to attention. Crossing the clearing, they moved toward the horses with long, athletic strides.
Twisting back to face her, Marko spoke. “There are others coming. You must return home. There will be no peace for the tribe if you are found here.”
“Let them come. I have no reputation to protect.” The words were flavored with the bitterness of years of snubs and snide remarks whispered behind lace fans. “I lost it the night we planned to run away together. I waited at our meeting place until dawn and was seen walking home. It made no difference to the gossips that the tribe was gone before I got there.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Surely you weren’t convicted on so little evidence?”
“No,” she agreed baldly. “I was found guilty by my own admission. My father arranged for me to marry an older man, one who would excuse the scandal to obtain a nubile wife in his bed. He changed his mind when I told him I’d married a gypsy in a pagan ceremony. No man has offered for my hand since then.”
“Perhaps the bride price was too high.”
She barely choked back a gasp then turned away to hide the tears his disdain brought to the corners of her eyes. Did he think her so worthless that no man would pay to take her? The Rom custom was for the father of the bride to receive compensation for the loss of his daughter. In her world, the husband demanded the payment as a lure to take on a wife. “No man wants soiled goods, no matter the dowry.”
Marko stepped close and placed one hand along her cheek. She felt the slight sting of cool metal from the rings on his fingers. Putting pressure on her jaw, he lifted her chin and looked down at her. “The gadjos are fools.”
He turned her face, studying her profile in the flickering light. “If anything, your beauty has improved with age.” His expression was impassive, as if he was viewing a piece of art, but his fingers drifted down the side of her neck with gentle strokes, finding sensitive nerves that pulsed to life.
She liked the deep timbre of his voice as it fell on her ears. As difficult as it was to release her memories of him as a youth, there was much to like in the man he had become. She wanted to stare at him, to study him as he had her. The features that seemed chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor, the powerful muscles in his arms that tightened against his shirt. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the hint of wood smoke, horses and raw night air on his skin and clothes. She breathed deeply of the familiar scent. For a wisp of time, she glimpsed the lad she recalled under the grim exterior of the man before her. He was still her Marko. Her lover. Her husband.
Juliet leaned into his touch and swayed toward him, her skirts brushing against the worn leather of his boots. She thought there was an answering flare in the depths of his dark eyes before he released her and turned away. Without him near, the night crept in, cooling her skin and leaving her feeling a prize fool. She had her answer. He didn’t want her. She turned back toward the path she�
��d come down.
“Juliet.”
Marko’s voice was quiet yet carried a hint of command that she responded to instinctively. She turned as he reached for her elbow, guiding her around the fire toward the wagons. “You will go with Vadoma.” They stopped in front of the old woman whom Juliet had earlier compared to a witch, and Marko helped her to her feet. “Stay with her until I come for you.”
She wanted to argue, but he was gone, easing into the shadows between the wooden wagons as if he’d never been there at all. The sound of horse hooves coming closer echoed through the trees. Tension hovered over the camp. An unexpected guest at night was seldom good news. Someone strummed an instrument and a young girl rose and danced slowly, the layers of her skirt flowing with her graceful movements. The old woman called Vadoma beckoned to her with a hand covered in gold rings. Juliet followed her, glad to leave the curious stares of those around the fire.
The wagon that the woman led her to sat on the far edge of the camp. Inside, it was pitch black until Vadoma lit an oil lamp using the glowing end of a stick she had pulled from the fire. Juliet had been in a vardo before, but never one so packed with things. The rafters were strung with rows of drying flowers, herbs and mushrooms, thickening the air with an overwhelming combination of sharp woodsy scents and sweet floral. Small pots and jars with cork stoppers were lined up in racks built against one wall. Unusual items, perhaps mementos of her ramblings through Europe, were everywhere. A carved clock of dark wood, the blue glass circle of a charm against the evil eye and nested boxes painted to resemble women vied for space with pillows, rugs and woven blankets.
Staring at a wall hanging with a star in the middle and embroidered designs that represented the seasons around the edge, Juliet was startled into speech. “Are you a witch?”
“Witches are like to be burned at the stake,” the woman said with gentle reproof. “I am a healer. My name, Vadoma, means to have knowledge. I have served that pledge all my life.” She gestured at the low bench that appeared to be made up as a sleeping cot with a gaily colored quilt covering its wooden surface. “Sit. I will make tea.”
