Sabrina’s gaze flitted between the spinning dancers, the musicians, the giggling children poking sticks at the birds roasting over the snapping flames. Her eyes moved along the row of brightly adorned wagons, wrapped around the camp to protect the festive dwellers within from the rest of the dark world. And then her eyes skipped over the roofs of the wagons and she stared out into that dark beyond.
It was such a clear, crisp night. The storm clouds had faded. Flickering white lights spotted the heavens, as though the stars themselves were chattering as exuberantly as the gypsies. Sabrina wondered what those stars were whispering. What secrets were shooting across the sky? What did the stars think when they looked down upon the earth to find her amid such revelry and yet feeling so alone? Or did those stars see her at all?
Sabrina brushed her fingers over her brow where Anthony had kissed her goodbye. An ache entered her heart as soon as she thought of the viscount. An ache borne of doubt. Doubt about everything that had passed between them. She had been so sure that morning that Anthony was nothing more than a scoundrel. Despite all the hopeful traits she had once observed in his palm, she’d concluded he was a bounder through and through, just as his sister had proclaimed. Those lines of honor etched in his palm were an illusion, one she’d conjured in her befuddled state of mind. After all, she was recovering from a head injury, and it made perfect sense that her gift of sight should remain clouded until her wound had fully healed. But now, she was not so sure of her belief. Now, as she sat on a fallen log, bundled in her bright green shawl, watching the festivities unfold before her, she wondered if the traits she had seen in his palm were indeed buried somewhere deep within his heart.
Anthony’s parting words were making it hard for her to ignore that she might have been mistaken about the viscount’s true nature, that the man had potential after all, though he had yet to express it. She almost wished there was no chance of such a mistake. That he was nothing but a heartless rogue and could never be anything more. It would make her own grief much more bearable. She wouldn’t dwell on such a wretched being for very long. But if he wasn’t so wretched? If he’d meant all those tender words he’d uttered in his goodbye, then what was she to think? To feel?
The ache in her heart grew stronger. Was Anthony a misguided but noble man at heart? Or a skilled trickster? The question would surely haunt her for some time to come.
“You are not dancing, daughter.”
Sabrina looked up to the towering figure of her father and smiled. “I’m tired,” she said in her native Romany, though just the sight of the spinning dancers made her head hurt. She didn’t mention that to her father, though. No one knew of her head injury and she intended to keep it that way. To speak of her wound would lead to questions about her recovery, and she did not want to tell her father that she had spent the last few days in a gajo’s bed. Just the thought of mentioning that to him had her shivering all over. And the man was quick to take notice.
Vardar Kallos sat next to his daughter, hooking a protective arm around her shoulder and squeezing. “You seem unwell,” he said with concern, his dark blue eyes fixed tightly on her.
She kissed his thick black beard and rested her head on his shoulder in reply.
“You think to appease my distress with a kiss?” He sighed when she snuggled closer to him, then chuckled. “Clever child.”
Clever? Perhaps evasive was a better word, she thought with some guilt, though she had not withheld everything from her father. He and the rest of the camp knew of her attackers and why she had fled. They knew she had spent days in hiding before she’d made her way back home. They just didn’t know where and with whom she had hidden.
“How did the talk with your betrothed fare?” he asked.
“It went well,” she admitted. After a tearful reunion with her family and friends, it had come time for the dreaded talk regarding her disobedience. Despite the circumstances under which she had disappeared, the grief she’d caused her people had to be addressed, and her father was the obvious choice to chastise her and administer any proper punishment. But it wouldn’t be his place to reprimand her for very long. With her approaching wedding, the responsibility would soon belong to her husband. And Vardar thought it best if her betrothed took on that responsibility a little sooner than expected.
“Istvan was as forgiving as you, Father. He did not think to scold me. He said he was just happy to see me home.”
“Perhaps there was more wisdom in your cousin’s heart than forgiveness? To scold you before the wedding ceremony would pollute the marriage bed. That might bring bad luck on the heads of your future children.”
Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder what kind of luck the marriage would have if the wife’s heart belonged to another man. She closed her eyes, banishing the wicked thought.
“I am sorry,” she said again, “for leaving you so suddenly.”
“I know, child.” He kissed the top of her head. “My days were filled with dread while you were gone, but now that you are home safe, I am proud to call you my daughter. You risked your life to protect your people. Your courage will make you a great healer and a great leader. Our people will one day look up to you as the wife of the tribal guardian. You have a very sacred duty.”
A sacred duty? She supposed that was true. Wife. Mother. Healer. They were all roles she had to fulfill to ensure order and stability and peace. Who would heal body and soul alike if not her? Who would marry the next tribal guardian and serve as an example of tradition if not her? Who would bear a son to inherit the guardian’s position if not her? To fall short of a duty, any duty, would incite turmoil within the tribe.
“When will I be wed?” she asked quietly.
“The elders and I have spoken. We believe you should be wed on the next full moon. It is a good time to begin a new life…unless your recent troubles have so upset you, you wish to postpone—”
“No, Father,” she was quick to cut in. She would not avoid her fate. Doing so would only lead to further heartache. The more time she spent thinking about Anthony, the more miserable she became. It was better to just throw herself into her new life and never look back on the old. “I will marry Istvan on the next full moon.”
But she felt her heart twist with each word that she uttered.
Chapter 17
T he creaking carriage wheels, trampling over sooty, cobblestone roads, lulled an already listless Anthony. He had been traveling for days. On foot, on horseback, and now by carriage. He was tired. Or that was the excuse he used to explain away his morose mood.
But fatigue alone could not account for his pensiveness. There was something else gnawing at him. And he didn’t have to delve too far into his thoughts to discover what that something was.
Sabrina.
She haunted him. Her brilliant blue eyes gazed at him from the darkness of the carriage. He blinked a few times to dismiss the vision, but it lingered a while before fading away.
He’d never been so crass with a woman in all his life. It’d all been unintentional, of course, and he’d said what he could, what he thought was best, to make amends. But he didn’t know whether his words of contrition had had any effect on her. Did she still despise him? Or did the truth enlighten her, make her realize his boorish behavior had been unintended?
He would never know. She was home. Safe. She would be married soon. She would have a new life. And he would be dismissed from her old one like a bad dream.
Anthony stretched out his long legs. It was better that she forgot all about him. It would be just as well that he forgot all about her. Guilt and regret did not sit very comfortably with him. They downright suffocated him, and he hated the unfamiliar sensations.
He’d been an utter ass toward a woman. So what? It was bound to have happened eventually. He didn’t need to suffer for it unnecessarily. He had made a mistake, pure and simple…So why the hell did it matter so much? Why couldn’t he get Sabrina out of his head? And why did the thought of another man touching her, even h
er husband, make him want to send his fist through the carriage window?
Anthony was spared the trouble of searching for answers when the carriage rolled to a halt. He was home. Finally. He needed a good night’s sleep. He needed to prepare himself for what the morning would bring.
Chaos.
Now that he was back in the city, he would have to face the wrath of three particular females, all to whom he was related. His mother and Cecelia would demand an explanation for his disappearance from the ball, while Ashley would demand to know what had happened with the gypsy.
Bloody hell. It was going to be an infernal morning.
Anthony ordered the coachman to put away the carriage in the back stables, and after a sound crack of the whip, the horses trotted off, the creaking carriage wheels fading around the deserted street corner.
Anthony stood at the base of the stone steps and looked up to find the windows of his stately dwelling dark as pitch. Well, it was late. He wasn’t sure how late—he had no pocket watch with him—but with the streets vacant of all stirrings, save for the misty crawling fog, he assumed it was well into the early hours of the morning.
Slowly, he made his way up the stone steps, fumbling through his pockets, searching for the key to his home. After turning his coat inside out in his quest, he finally found the key and went to insert it through the lock.
But the light sound of footsteps treading the pavement behind him snagged his attention.
He stiffened, listening. And waited. Waited for the steps to grow close. When he sensed the shadow was near, he whirled around, grabbed the assailant by the shoulders and spun him about.
His unfortunate foe had no opportunity to defend himself, could only grasp in vain at the bulk coiled around his windpipe, halting the flow of precious air to his lungs.
“Anthony!” The man wheezed between desperate breaths. “Let me go!”
“Vincent?!”
The choke hold was instantly broken and Vincent Longhurst slumped to his knees, coughing, wheezing, and fighting for air.
“Good God, Vincent!” Anthony knelt beside his best friend to inspect how badly he was injured, and was thankful to find that nothing was crushed or broken, just bruised. “What the hell are you doing lurking in the shadows? I could have killed you.”
“You very nearly did,” muttered Vincent, still coughing and rubbing his tender throat.
With care, Anthony hoisted his injured comrade to his feet, and swung the man’s arm over his shoulder to better support him. It was then he noticed the stench. After a quick glance to Vincent’s appalling apparel, he confirmed his sense of smell had not deceived him.
“What the devil happened to you?” Anthony demanded. “You look like a vagrant.”
“I’ve been living like one for the last few days,” his friend admitted, still clearing his throat and massaging his sore glands. “Didn’t you get my letter? I spent my last farthing on a messenger.”
“I got the letter,” Anthony confirmed.
“So why didn’t you come home? I begged for your return.”
“Is that what the letter was about? Vincent, I didn’t come home because I couldn’t read a bloody word you’d written. Now tell me what’s going on?”
“Let me inside first. Someone might be watching us.”
The pleading in his friend’s voice suspended Anthony’s curiosity for a moment, and he unlocked the front door, ushering a fearful Vincent inside.
It was some time later, ensconced in an armchair, a large wool blanket draped over his shoulders, that Vincent held a shot of brandy between his shivering hands. He was affectionately referred to as the “dear boy” by the rest of the Kennington family—all except for the countess, who was dismayed by her son’s choice of a comrade.
Since Vincent was the third son of a baron, he was devoid of both title and fortune. The so-called dear boy thus had to make his own way in the world. Necessity had propelled him to join a regiment; active duty on the mainland nearly cost him his neck. Now back home in London, having vowed never to set foot on another battlefield, Vincent had returned to his old truant ways, immersed in the luxury and pleasure of the many gambling halls throughout the city, in the hopes of winning his fortune rather than having to earn it.
Anthony studied his somnolent comrade, seated by the glowing hearth, and took notice that those typical bright and spirited brown eyes of his were now a befuddled, gloomy version of their former self. Even his butler, Dobbs, hadn’t recognized his best friend.
After all the racket he and Vincent had made, fumbling in the dark, trying to make their way into the study, Dobbs had come scrambling down the stairs with two footmen in tow, fearing there was an intruder in the house, only to find it was his master come home with a rather vile-looking vagrant in his company. Since Vincent had made no effort to correct the misguided assumptions of the staff, Anthony had followed his friend’s lead, remaining silent on the issue of his identity, as well. He’d merely dismissed the staff back to bed, and now he and Vincent sat alone in the study, silence between them.
Food and a bowl of water for cleansing had been brought in for Vincent’s use, but his friend had yet to accept the refreshment, and the fare remained untouched on the desk.
Anthony didn’t press him to partake in any of the offerings. He allowed Vincent some much-needed time to recover. He only watched his friend from across the room, wondering what the devil had happened to the man in such a short period of time.
“Vincent, what’s going on?”
The man rubbed his tired eyes. “I explained so much in my letter.”
“Just recount what you wrote, as best you can.”
He sighed. “The whole thing happened a fortnight ago. I was issued an invitation to an exclusive gaming club, in a well-respected part of the city, where I met a woman, Emma Kingsley.”
“Ah, the ladybird,” said Anthony. “One of the few words I managed to decipher from your letter.”
“The very one. I fell head over heels for Emma.”
“You fall head over heels for every woman you meet.” A tendency Anthony himself was prone to.
“Yes, but Emma was different,” Vincent insisted. “She was incredibly beautiful and witty and clever.”
“Are you still infatuated with this woman?”
His friend’s chagrined shrug was answer enough.
Anthony shook his head. “So what did Emma do to you?”
“She inspired me.”
“Pardon?”
“Emma was like lady luck herself. With her at my side, I couldn’t lose a hand. I was so sure I’d win my fortune that very night and never have to worry about money again.”
The loud groan that stemmed from Anthony halted the flow of the story for a moment. The viscount slumped his face in his palm and mumbled, “I think I know how this story ends.”
“I wish I had your foresight. But at the time, I was just too eager to amass my wealth, and I just, well…”
“Didn’t know when to quit.” Anthony sighed. “Just how much did you lose?”
“Anthony, you must understand. I couldn’t forsake the money I had already invested, and then I got this winning hand and I was sure I’d recoup everything, but—”
“How much, Vincent?” he demanded again, his tone none too approving.
“Five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
“What?!” Anthony sprang to his feet and stalked over to the hearth. He paced briskly before the fire, his long, ominous shadow crossing over Vincent again and again. “Are you mad?!”
“I told you, I had to try to win back my money.”
“But five thousand pounds!”
“I was sure my good fortune would eventually return if I just stuck it out long enough,” bemoaned Vincent. “But it never did. At the end of the game, the club wanted its money. I promised to pay off the debt in a few days, but I had no real idea where the blunt would come from. And then, three days later, there was a knock at
my door. I ducked out the back and went for a stroll.”
“You thought to avoid payment?”
“For a little while. Just until I could gather the required sum. But when I returned, the bloke was still standing across the street, watching the entrance. I went out again and returned, and still he remained standing just outside my apartment. Anthony, there is always someone watching my home.”
“So where have you been staying all this time?”
“I’ve been forced to hide in a miserable little flat. I sold my watch, gold-tipped cane and ring, everything I had on me when I first left my apartment for a walk. I’ve been living off the few pounds those items have brought me, but the money’s run out. I finally caught word of your pending return and have been waiting for you these last two days.”
“What? In the streets?”
“Where else could I go?”
“What about your father?”
“I could never ask my father for help. He would sooner shoot me than offer a saving hand.”
“I’m sorely tempted to do the same,” the viscount growled.
There was a pleading look in his friend’s eyes. “Anthony, they want their money—all of it—in one sum. No installments. I can’t pay such an exorbitant amount. What am I going to do?”
“You are going to do nothing. I am going to that club tomorrow to pay off your debt.”
Vincent gave a long-winded sigh of relief. “I don’t know how to thank you for this, old chum. I swear, I’ll pay you back every shilling.”
And Anthony predicted the debt would be fulfilled by his eightieth year, though he refrained from making the prediction aloud.
Instead, he stalked over to his comrade until he towered above him, and in a hard tone, advised, “As part of your debt to me, you will also swear to give up gambling—for good.”
The man nodded in quick accord. “I swear.”
That was one small consolation, Anthony supposed. “Come along, Vincent,” he grumbled. “I’ll see you to one of the guestrooms. We’ll get this whole mess sorted out in the morning.”
A Forbidden Love Page 15
