Taken by the Wicked Rake

by Christine Merrill

  He broke his gaze from her disquieting green-brown eyes, before the compassion in them led him astray from his destiny. ‘It is not so easy as all that, Lady Verity. It brings me no pleasure to visit this upon any of you. Nor do I wish to see you ruined.’

  ‘Then why will you not let me go?’

  Stephano touched his temple with his unbandaged hand, and wondered if he dare tell her the truth? If he was doing wrong by his honesty, he would know soon enough. The pain would tell him. If he showed his weakness to her, it was likely to be worse than anything he had endured. But if he could not give her freedom, then she deserved some kind of an explanation.

  He took a breath, leaned back against the wall of the vardo and prepared for the agony ahead. ‘I did not come to this willingly. If I can offer you nothing else, know that I am sorry to have hurt you. But ac cording to my grand mother, my fate was decided even before Kit Hebden died.’ He stared down at the bandage on his hand. ‘Magda has the ability to read the lines in a palm and know a man’s destiny. And on mine, she sees two lines becoming one. She says that I was born two men. And two men cannot live in one body. If I am to survive, one of them must die.’

  ‘Stephen Hebden?’ she asked. And for a moment, he felt a pang of jealousy towards his other self. She sounded almost wistful as she said the name.

  ‘An unhappy boy, and a man without family. Why do you care what happens to him?’

  ‘Because I might like him, if I met him. Better than I like you. But this story has nothing to do with me and my family. You may be whoever you like, and it will not concern us.’

  Her honesty stung him, but it was nothing like the pain he had expected. ‘My mother’s curse must be carried out. It is the Rom way.’

  ‘And you are Rom,’ she said, in a tired voice. ‘And there fore you will not listen to reason.’ She was staring at the floor, as though it exhausted her to speak to one so stubborn.

  He turned his back upon her again, grabbing his shirt and strip ping it over his head. ‘I know it should not matter. It happened long ago, and you can see no reason for me to continue with it. I was raised by the gadje, just as you were. And at one time, were I told the nature of the man I would be come, I would have laughed and sworn that it was not possible.’

  He stopped to grip the wash stand in front of him, and then, he told her the rest of the truth. ‘There is an ache in my head. It came to me on the day I first heard the curse. And it will not end until my mother and father are avenged. It guides me in my interactions with your family. And if I weaken or stray from what I know must be done, it punishes me.’ If he had been expecting a thunderclap or some other thing that would mark the significance of the moment, he was disappointed. It felt no different to have spoken than it might have to remain silent.

  ‘Have you seen a physician?’ Her voice was so matter of fact and unimpressed by his suffering that he turned to face her again.

  ‘It will do no good. My sister Nadya is a healer. She is much better than any gadjikano doctor. And she says there is nothing to be done for me. Some times the pain is so bad, I fear it will end me before I can finish what I am called to do.’

  ‘So because you suffer and cannot trouble your self to take some laudanum, we all must pay. That is not fair,’ she said.

  ‘I know it is not. But neither has it been fair for me, to know that my destiny is tied to words uttered by a woman I never met. Magda said it was out of love for me that my mother went mad.’ He frowned. ‘But what good was her love to me if this is all the life I am to have? I must be an arbiter of someone else’s hatred. Jaelle laid a curse. If I do not deliver it, it will take me, as well. It is only when I follow the path set out for me that I have any peace at all. My head clears, and for a time, I am free of pain. If I do as fate bids me? My grand mother says I will survive. She has the sight. I have never known her to be wrong in such things.’

  ‘Very well, then. Destroy my father and ruin me, for the sake of your head. If you believe the story you have just told me, then I will waste no more time in talking common sense to you.’ He could see by the cold, flat look in her eyes that his revelation had angered her. Though she had shown understanding and pity at the tale of his child hood, his Rom life was as meaning less to her as it had been before. She pulled the blankets close about her shoulders. ‘If you keep your bargain and do not harm me, I will abide by your parole. What is the point of running, if I do more harm to my reputation by wandering the countryside alone than by staying here? I would like to rise and dress. And I have no wish to share this wagon as I do it. Please, leave.’ She pointed towards the door.

  And he left, wondering what it meant that, in less than two days, his prisoner had grown brave enough to order him out of his home?

  Chapter Six

  Verity stomped around the small space of the vardo, wishing for a way to mitigate the anger she felt at her captor. Even if Stephano Beshaley was not a brute, he was still impossible. She had no desire to spend a week in his company, listening to his superstitious ramblings. She went to the mirror and took one of his silver-handled brushes and forced it through the tangles in her un manageable hair. The combing seemed to make it even worse. It was as loose and disordered as her thoughts. She tied it back with the kerchief he had ordered her to wear, willing to allow that this particular restriction on her be ha vi our was a practical solution to her problems.

  Now she was clean, dressed and groomed—a fat lot of good it would do her. By now, the family would be in an uproar and her brothers would have begun to search for her. Until they found her, or Stephano Beshaley decided to release her to them, she would have little to do but comb out her hair, and watch as her life fell apart because of the mad machinations of a megrim-addled Gypsy. There must be some way to get through to him, or some way to make herself feel less useless.

  If she were in London, or at Warrenford Park with the Veryans, she would have been content to leave the difficulties to her father and brothers, pre serving her own peace of mind through diversion. She could paint, walk sedately through the gardens, or even pluck on that blasted harp that everyone insisted she must enjoy, since she played so beautifully.

  And for a moment, the memory of the previous night’s kiss rose in her mind. He had said he would do as he wished, concerning her. There was obviously one activity that he must have considered, to pass her time in captivity. Judging by the night of uninterrupted sleep following the kiss he had pressed upon her, she had proven to him that she had no particular skills in that area. Now, he meant to leave her alone, just as he had originally planned.

  The thought made her angry, although she was unsure why it would. She did not wish his attentions. But neither was it pleasant to feel deficient, when con fronted with his rejection. She looked at the brush in her hand, and imagined the satisfying sound it would make, on contact with the mirror. And then, she put it down and picked up a straw broom from the corner of the wagon, using it with the vigour she had seen the Rom women use. She opened the vardo door and pushed the dust out onto the ground. There. That was some help, at least, for it had passed a few moments of her time.

  She looked out the open door and saw no sign of Stephano, which was both a relief and strangely disappointing. While she did not really want an other confrontation with him, it was annoying to think that he had gone off and left her again. What would become of her if he did not come back?

  Someone would send for her family, she hoped. Across the circle of the camp, Magda worked over the open cook fire. Considering the way she had fostered Stephano’s hatred of all things Carlow, the old woman was no friend to her. But her behaviour was hardly a personal insult. Magda seemed uniform in her hatred of Rom and gadje, equally annoyed by everyone. Verity went down the two wooden steps, and walked to the fire. When no food was offered, she helped herself to leftovers from the woman’s break fast.

  Magda ignored her for ward ness. But when Verity did not return to the vardo, Magda turned to stare at her and said, ‘Ehh?’ man
aging to put infinite meaning into something that was not even a word.

  ‘I was wondering…’ Stephano’s grand mother was quite daunting, when one came close to her, and Verity’s resolve almost faltered. But what had she to fear if her family was already cursed? She squared her shoulders and said, ‘I was wondering if you had any tasks that I might do for you. Is there some way I could help, just to pass the time? It will be quite tiresome to do nothing all day. And it hardly seems right for me to sit, while everyone else works.’

  ‘You live in a great house, with many servants, do you not? You have no trouble being idle when you are there.’ This was more English than she had ever heard Magda use, and the clarity of meaning took Verity by surprise.

  ‘That is different. The servants are paid for their duties. I am sure, if they were not serving my family, they would be serving someone else’s. But the Rom do not seek to serve anyone, do they? So why should they serve me?’

  ‘You are a guest here.’ Magda gave her a glare of insulted hospitality.

  ‘I am a captive. That makes me far less than a guest.’

  Magda muttered something in Romany, under her breath, and stared at the girl for a moment. And then she reached out and pinched her arm. ‘You are not strong enough for the work of a Rom woman. You cannot carry wood or water, with these arms. Can you cook?’

  Verity thought about it. ‘I do not know. I have never had reason to. Is it difficult?’

  The old woman shrugged. ‘Wash your hands. Take care with the nails. Then return to me.’

  She did as she was bade, and with a strange sense of excitement. When she returned to Magda, the woman was mixing flour and water in a large wooden trough, and sprinkling it with yeast. She showed Verity how to knead the dough. Then she looked carefully at Verity, as though she could read her mood. ‘Put your anger into the bread. It will soften the dough. Later, the heat of the fire will burn it away so that it does not taint the food.’

  Verity worked the dough with her hands. ‘For how long?’

  Magda gave another shrug. ‘You will know when you are done. Some times, a few minutes are enough. But when people around you are difficult?’ She shrugged again. ‘The bread takes much longer.’

  She was right. Verity could feel the tension in her arms, her neck and her shoulders easing as she worked. All the frustrations of the morning, her captivity, and her captor. Her attractive captor, with his broad shoulders and big dark eyes.

  She gave vent to her frustration and pounded savagely at the dough. Was she so horrible to him that he could not stand to look at her? It should not matter, really. The last thing she needed was excessive interest from Stephano Beshaley. She should be glad of his in difference.

  And there was the problem. The knowledge that she would sleep alone in his bed was a comfort to her. But then, why did she look eagerly for him to return, whenever he left her? While she had not been particularly happy in her old life, she had not expected to leave it behind while tied in a sack and lying on the floor of a wagon. It was not as if she wished an assault upon her person.

  But if Stephano had admitted that he had taken her because of a sudden and over powering attraction, and that he had been willing to throw aside all propriety to woo her in solitude?

  She punched the bread again. She would still have been furious with him, for his high-handed be ha vi our. But at least then, she would have felt some ownership of her predicament. In his explanation, he had talked of curses, and head aches, and a singular destiny that had little or nothing to do with the fate of Verity Carlow. And she had realized that she was less than a dumb beast to him. She might as well have been inanimate, for all he cared. His only interest in her was her last name and her connection to her father. She was no more than a pawn to him, just as she had been to her own family.

  She tried to imagine any of the men she knew taking it upon them selves to capture her. Alexander Veryan?

  She shuddered. It was impossible. There was no question in her mind that he lacked the resolve to take her anywhere. Even if he was capable of an attack, she doubted that he would risk something he could have gained legally with her father’s blessing, because of an excess of passion for her. And even if he had, she would have told him not to be foolish, and he’d have released her immediately.

  But she knew Stephano Beshaley to be capable of ruthlessly taking what he wanted. And while he had pretended interest to snare her, now that she was caught, he was showing none at all. She could not help wondering what it might be like if he cared. Suppose last night, he had closed the door of the wagon and finished what he had started…

  Quite probably, it would have been horrible. She swallowed her frustration and hit the bread again.

  Magda looked over her shoulder, startling her. She examined the dough and pro claimed it ready. Then she explained the setting aside, the rising, the punching down again, and how she would know when to place it in a pan on the fire. And when it would be ready to eat.

  Verity remembered the smell of fresh bread. She might be a pawn in someone else’s game, but at least she would not go hungry.

  Then Magda gave her a large pile of unpeeled car rots, a bowl and a knife. Verity smiled. Apparently, she had found her destiny.

  Stephen made his way back through the beeches with the brace of rabbits he had snared for the night’s supper. And with each step nearer to camp, he could feel the pressure in his head begin to diminish. It was not until after he’d left the vardo that he had realized the truth. The only pain that had been with him, as he’d spoken to Verity Carlow, was the one in his hand. That had been as bad or worse as on the previous day. With Nadya gone off with Rhys Morgan, the gaujo she had married, the tribe was without a healer. Perhaps Magda could look at it, and see if there was any thing to be done.

  But though the cut might be infected, his head had been clear for most of the morning. There had been the one difficult moment, when he had first got up to dress. But the flash of pain had faded as he’d talked to her, dimming to nothing. It had been good to see the belief in her eyes when he had told her he did not mean to hurt her. She might not have liked his words, but she trusted him as much as someone in her position could.

  And it had been good to tell her the truth of his life, no matter how mad it must sound to her. It raised the old desire in him to have a woman—not just to share a bed, but to share a confidence. Whether she liked it or not, he had shown her the contents of his soul. And for a moment, the burden on his mind had lifted and he had been free.

  Then she had ordered him away and the pain had returned. Now that he was coming back to her, the pain was fading again. It would be a cruel jest indeed if he were to discover that the true path to peace led him directly to Verity Carlow. If that was the case, all hope was lost. Even if she could forgive the kid nap ping, she would hate him for ever if he proved her father a murderer.

  To test his theory, he walked towards camp with eyes on the ground, ignoring his surroundings and letting his head lead him. And like metal to a lode stone, he came directly to Magda’s fire, where his hostage sat with a bowl of potatoes in her lap, peeling, slicing, and gossiping with the other married ladies. She looked up at him with her lovely hazel eyes, and frowned.

  If the day had not gone wrong before, it was most assuredly so now. He reached absently into a nearby pan, and stole a hunk of bread, letting the scent and taste of a good food calm his nerves.

  ‘You like?’ Magda grinned at him.

  ‘Good.’ He nodded, frowning at the girl across the fire.

  ‘A first effort, from the bori. She learns quickly.’

  ‘Bori? You do not have a daughter-in-law.’

  ‘You gave me one, yesterday. She made the bread you are eating.’

  He choked on the crumbs still in his mouth. ‘You are forcing an earl’s daughter to work in your kitchen?’

  ‘It makes no sense for an old woman to do for a healthy young one. And I did not force her. She offered. Her hands are too soft to be
much help with drawing water or tending the fire. But she did well with the bread. And now, she helps with the stew. You chose wisely with this one, Stephano.’ She gave him an approving nod.

  ‘I did no such thing, mother of curses. She will return to her own people when I am done with her.’

  Magda slapped him on the arm. ‘And then, who will make your bread?’

  It was such a strange question that he could not answer it. He had no wife. He had no plans to take one. And if he did, he could not even imagine what kind of woman it would be. He could have his pick of the Rom girls, and live in a tent or a wagon, or would he marry as Stephen Hebden, and have a gadji wife to live in Blooms bury Square and pre side over the servants in his kitchen?

  He would have to choose one or the other, when the time came, for there was no way that he could have both. He looked at the crust in his hand, and tossed it into the fire. Which was a pity, for it had been very good. Then he gave his grand mother a roguish grin and a hug. ‘You will make bread for me, chivani woman. You are so fond of my company that you will not let me go.’ He laughed, hoping she would join him in the joke.

  But instead, she cursed under her breath. ‘I will not feed a man so foolish that he could not find the food if it were put under his very nose.’ She pointed into the fire. ‘And one who wastes that which he has been given. You may starve, for all I care.’ She turned and stomped away from him, going back to her tent and letting the flap fall in such a way that told him she wanted a door, if only for the satisfaction of slamming it.

  ‘At least you will not go hungry,’ he called after her, and set the rabbits aside to be skinned and cooked. Magda was angry with him again, and he hardly knew why. Only yesterday, she had been furious with him for bringing Verity to the camp. Now it seemed they were the best of friends.