A Gypsy's Thief

by Titania Ladley

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  A Gypsy’s Thief

  ISBN # 1-4199-0654-2

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  A Gypsy’s Thief Copyright© 2006 Titania Ladley.

  Edited by Briana Ladley.

  Cover art by Christine Clavel.

  Electronic book Publication: June 2006

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  A Gypsy’s Thief

  Titania Ladley

  Dedication

  To Zachary, a handsome, chivalrous knight in his own right. I love you!

  And as always, to my wonderful editor, Briana St. James—thanks so very much for your continued support, expertise and guidance.

  Dear Reader

  In A Wanton’s Thief, my first in the Thieves & Lovers series, I took you on a journey of fiery, erotic romance during the days of King Henry VIII’s court. Immortal bandit Falcon Montague—aka Robin Hood—and the spunky but demure Salena Tremayne found eternal love by the hand of fate, channeled through the wizard Lorcan. But what of Little John who shared an energizing triad with his soul-brother and Lady Tremayne? Will he find a love destined to be his and his alone, or is he doomed to live his immortal life seeking soul-fueling companionship only when necessary? Fast-forward to the time of Scottish ruler, King James VI, hell-bent on eradicating his kingdom of witches. Again, destiny must dictate, and Lorcan’s ulterior but secret motives are becoming more urgent for the mysterious wizard. In A Gypsy’s Thief, the second in the Thieves & Lovers series, I return you to a time of chivalry, magic and a burning love between a Scottish Gypsy lass and John Lawton, aka Little John, of Robin Hood’s band of thieves. Enjoy!

  Chapter One

  February, 1592

  Northern England near the Scotland border at the height of the

  North Berwick witch-hunt skirmishes

  “Get the witch, ye fools! Get her now or face yer own executions!”

  Horses’ hooves thundered upon the snow-packed earth, sending up a powdery, white cloud. John Lawton lowered his longbow where it had been aimed squarely at an eight-point buck poised but a score of yards across the clearing. He whipped his head around and took stock of the sudden flurry of activity that burst from the copse of woods.

  “Do not let her get away, I say!” It was one of the knights of Scotland’s ruler King James VI, apparent by the style of his armor and helmet. Except for one lone soldier watching from afar at the rear of the troops, it seemed this warrior, perched regally upon his massive steed, was the only member of the king’s faction of any worth. Surrounding the lead man in current command were dozens of poorly suited soldiers with little to protect them against the chill of winter. Their mounts appeared to be in just as dire need of nourishment as the riders.

  How pathetic that the king would not invest more richly in his own army but instead enlist these poor excuses for soldiers to take up arms against an accused “witch”.

  John’s scrutiny shifted to the rear of the small army. He studied the man-at-arms hanging back as if in gloating command of this ragged party. Though the distance kept John from seeing the face, he noted the plaid the man wore, as well as the dirk, sword, helmet and armor not of the English crown. The small brigade was obviously Scottish, he was certain by the thick brogues and the glaring kilts worn by only the first- and second-in-command. But had this company of sentinels truly crossed this far south of the border just to pursue this one harmless looking fellow?

  John’s gaze swung to the hooded and unmounted figure racing through the snow with naught but thin leather riding boots upon his feet. He appeared to be well fed, almost chubby, but John could not see his face or body. The large brown robes and cloak he wore concealed all but the condensation of his ragged breaths churning out from the cave of the darkened hood.

  Apparently, it seemed, the army had the wrong person, for the one dubbed a female witch appeared to be all bulky man. The quarry veered to the left around a towering oak and straight across the meadow toward John. The hunted man sprinted with the agility and speed of a lad half his bulk yet as he neared, John heard the wheezing of a person long on the run and in dire need of rest.

  “Draw yer bows,” shouted the one in present authority. “Fire!”

  The soldiers obeyed, notching then raising their ragged weapons. John tightened his grip on his own bow and arrow and raised it in defense. “You! Get behind me at once!” he ordered of the fleeing suspect.

  Too late. He had heard John’s voice and apparently assumed him to be one of the pursuers, for he arced back toward the woods. A shower of arrows rained through the air, led by one from the silent ruler at the rear of the pack. The young man grunted and stumbled through the snow when one struck him at a hard angle. The shaft embedded in his right breast.

  “Excellent! Go now and fetch the devil woman this instant and return her to the scheduled burnin’.” The gloating knight in current charge whirled his mount. He made a show of reining in so that his Friesian reared up and pawed the chilly afternoon air with a neigh and a snort. “The commander and I will await ye all at MacLacklin Hall, in the name of the King of Scots. Off with ye! Make haste, I say!” And he shot back into the forest, he and the one John assumed to be the commander in plaid, racing away from the skirmish.

  John heard the moaning and gurgling. The victim now hunched in the blood-dappled snow. He clutched his chest where the arrow’s tip exited. John had not the faintest hint what this man—or rather, “witch”—had done to deserve this, but it was high time he put an end to this brutal madness. With the exception of expeditious travel through invisilation, rarely did he use his sorcerer’s skill of speed. However, this dire situation called for drastic measures.

  With lightning quickness, he loaded, released and reloaded arrow after arrow. The ungodly swish-and-snap tune proved far less astonishing than the rapidity at which he executed his weapons. His marksmanship and the velocity of his ammunition rivaled that of an entire deluge of the king’s finest defenders. The iron-tipped spears met with implacable accuracy in each soldier’s hand or shoulder. Howls and screams rent the crisp winter air. Blood spurted onto scraggly nags, dribbled down to soak the white earth.

  “Go, every last one of you,” he shouted as he set another arrow for fire. “Return to your king
and deliver him a message, if you please. Tell your ruler I—a newly acquired, vengeful enemy—will do all I can to prevent such heinous witch-hunting practices. If this man dies…your king dies.”

  A collective gasp echoed in the meadow.

  “Who may we say speaks such a treasonous vow?” The largest of the remaining warriors urged his mount forward.

  “Though I am not of your country to be rightfully classified as traitor, I implore you to relay my name to your king. They call me Little John of none other than the League of Thieves.”

  Silence lingered. A falcon flew overhead letting out a sharp caw of warning.

  “Ye be of the bandit Robin Hood’s thieves? Nae, it cannot be.”

  John nodded, one eye and ear trained on the wounded man at his right. He continued to rock and moan with both hands fisted protectively around the arrow at his chest, guarding its movement with his frail life. John knew time was of the essence, that he needed to get these henchmen on their way soon or the poor man could die.

  “Aye, one and the same. The dangerous, vengeful bandit who sees all, knows all…seeks revenge upon all those who cross him and who take unfair advantage of the less fortunate.”

  A moment of hushed fear and awe hung heavy in the air as the winds moaned through the woods. The fallen victim’s gurgling breaths became shallow and rapid. They blended eerily with winter’s blustery tune, a foreshadowing of death to come.

  “We now depart,” one scrawny knight announced with celerity and a shiver of misgiving. He waved a bloodied hand to the others and spun his mount around. “Men, without further delay, retreat, I say!”

  “But what of the witch…”

  “Leave her. Do ye not ken who this mon is? Do not be a fool!”

  Alertness boiled deep in John’s veins. He scanned the remaining men. Half of the soldiers hesitated, while the others turned and darted into the woods. John raised his loaded longbow and aimed at the skinny one who appeared to have regained his bravery and become their new leader.

  “You have already been witness to my swift…talents,” John drawled lazily. “It would take but one single second to bring each and every one of you down. And this time, I can guarantee I will not avoid your vital organs as I purposely did the first time.”

  He heard an agonized groan and darted a furtive glance at the “witch”. The man toppled over at that very moment and flopped onto his side. The scarlet puddle beneath him slowly widened reminding John of red wine spilling onto a pristine white linen tablecloth. John heard the familiar wheezing tune of one struggling to breathe through a punctured, fluid-filled lung. His heart did a flip behind his breastbone. He had to get to the man before death overtook him or John’s healing powers would be useless.

  “The king shall hear of this, ye ken?” the soldier warned as he tugged his roan around.

  “While I do not doubt that one small measure, I am counting on it. Now, begone with you all!” He released an arrow and sent it whizzing by the rider’s head. The man ducked, but not soon enough, for he let out a yelp when it grazed his ear. John did not give the witch-hunters time to acclimate themselves to his offense. With precision born centuries ago, he showered the band of men with another round of arrows.

  “Retreat, men!”

  John persevered until every rider disappeared and the beat of hooves died down, fading into the thick forest. The only sounds left were the winter breeze whistling through the gnarled tree limbs and that of the gasping figure curled on the snow nearby.

  John tossed his bow across his back and raced to the man’s location. He now lay on his left side, the hood of his cloak covering his face. The iron tip, along with a hand’s length of wooden arrow, exited at the right breast near the armpit where an alarming amount of blood soaked the cape and the snow below him. Yet John knew he still lived by the occasional puff of white breath and the gurgling respirations. But the young man did not appear to have much longer.

  He knelt in the snow before the wounded man’s chest, heedless of the cold and wetness permeating his braies. “Lad, you must hold very still while I remove the arrow.”

  The figure merely groaned followed by a racking cough. John saw blood trickle down the pale jaw, the only portion of the man’s face visible under the sagging hood. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward over the limp figure. He wrapped his right hand around the portion protruding from the inside edge of the lad’s right lower shoulder. Pressing his left hand against the man’s back with the arrow jutting up between his fingers, he snapped off the excess length of the foreign object.

  The young man screamed, his body twitched. More blood seeped forth and coated John’s hands. He dredged up his powers of healing and forced the warm-cold medicinal energy to pour forth and penetrate the lad’s back. Gradually, the blood trickled to a dribble, leaving a maroon splotch on the brown cloak.

  “Easy, now. I’m going to roll you onto your back and pull the remainder of the arrow out. The cold of the snow will hopefully cease the blood flow temporarily and ease your pain.”

  A moan of protest gurgled through the restriction of the blood-filled throat.

  “Man, I will not let you die. It must be done. Trust me. I will be able to complete your healing once the arrow is removed.”

  John knew he must hurry if the stranger had any chance at survival. Against wails of objection, he rolled him onto his back. The body flopped over with an agonized growl. John noted how the bulk of it felt much lighter than anticipated. It did not take long for an explanation to stare him right in the face.

  “Lorcan alive! It is a woman.” His heart slammed behind his ribs. In that one instant, his entire existence spiraled out of control. Beautiful eyes glittering with pain and unshed tears filled John’s vision making him gasp for his own breath of air.

  Green. As green as the meadow on a crisp spring morn’.

  His own words came back to haunt him, words spoken over fifty-five years ago to Falcon and Salena Montague. No, John could not deny that the large eyes rimmed by black-fringed lashes were an exact match to the Scorpian. The old wizard Lorcan had begun to wear the Scorpian medallion shortly after removing the Centaurus and granting it to Salena Tremayne. Falcon’s own immortal life’s omen had been established and guided by the Centaurus’ fate. Salena had been wearing the stone ever since to impart youthful immortality to herself in order to remain at Falcon’s side for eternity as his wife. It now nestled between her lovely breasts due to Falcon—and some unknown pre-determined chance—claiming her as his intended decades ago. Not to mention because of the exact match of her eyes to the stone, and her perfect birth time and order to the stars.

  It was definitely apparent this was no lad. Long wisps of silky, raven hair escaped the hood of the cloak, the wavy tips now soaked deep red with her own blood. Her face was that of an angel’s, heart-shaped, delicate, almost regal. Beneath the faint gray-tinged complexion of one who has lost a dangerous amount of blood, John could detect a naturally dusky, caramel tone to the smooth skin. Its hue shone in contrast to the rich mane and unusual shade of eyes. Could this woman be descended from the hundreds of foreign Rom tribes, that of the Gypsies known to roam the Lowlands?

  Interest piqued, he moved the caress of his gaze from the jarring green pools, down the pert little nose to the lips now shivering blue with cold and loss of blood. Her creamy neck stretched slim and elegant, like that of a princess descended from royalty. John could almost imagine the silky feel of it against his lips, the fragrance of her skin wafting up to taunt him as he ravished her. The taste of her sweet flesh, the sight of her naked—

  That’s enough, Lawton! Guide your thoughts elsewhere. This cannot be what it seems. You will not allow it to be such. And you will preserve her life now!

  He jerked his stare to the chest area where the arrow pierced between ribs and collarbone, finally making a lethal path through skin and thick linen.

  Get on with it, John, before she dies.

  He lifted his hand and pressed it against the w
ound surrounding the arrow’s exit. Aye, he felt the soft swell of her upper breast beneath the thick folds of fabric. Obviously, the maid had been attempting to disguise her feminine sex from the witch-hunters. In addition to adding needed warmth, she had wrapped herself in layer upon layer of robes and cloaks, most likely in order to disguise and fatten her image and round herself out into a plump young man.

  But John dallied no further. The young lady lay dying before his very eyes.

  “Lie still. This may hurt, but I promise you ‘twill not be for long.”

  Her eyes flared with fear. She gasped raggedly and dug her boots into the snow, struggling to wriggle from John’s reach.

  “Nae, please…” she rasped, and John’s heart ceased its immortal life beats. The husky, sultry tone laced by the song of a Scottish lass gave him mental pause. Yet he continued quickly in his healing process before the lady’s panic caused her own death.

  “I say lie still,” he repeated more sternly this time. After a period of useless, weak struggles, she obeyed, but he did not miss the snap of anger that overrode the pain and terror in her gaze.

  John rose up on the balls of his feet, squatting at the young female’s side. He held one hand against her chest at the base of the arrow and wrapped his other around its wooden shaft. Pulling with one quick motion, he felt the sickening sensation of her lung giving way to the scrape of a foreign object and then to blessed, empty space.

  The woman screamed, her shrill outcry echoing eerily across the forest. She twitched, her dainty hands slapping the reddened snow at her sides. Her eyes widened, the spring green orbs rolling back in her head. Without further delay, John tossed the broken arrow over his shoulder and knelt again, using his weight to press his hands upon the gushing wound.