by Lois Greiman
“I would stay close if that would calm your nerves,” he said, but the look in his admiring eyes did no such thing.
“Just see to the horse,” she said. “I’ve no wish for her to die of thirst before our return to Knollcrest.”
“Certainly, my lady,” he said, but his answer was barely heard above the crowd’s applause. Tamas was taking his first bow. “I’ll fetch water immediately.” The carriage rocked as he dismounted.
She gave a brief nod, though she knew for a fact that the wooden pail usually secured beneath the footman’s seat was gone.
He turned toward the rear, then returned in a moment. “The bucket seems to have gone missing.”
“Missing!” She sharpened her scowl as a thousand worries gnawed at her. “That cannot be.”
“I would have thought not, my lady. And yet, it is.”
“You must have forgotten to bring it along.”
He looked at her strangely for several seconds, but finally bowed gallantly. “I’m certain you’re right,” he said. Behind him Hanzi and Luca were hastily stringing up their father’s high wire. “My apologies. I shall ask about to see if there might be another vessel I might use.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she said. “I’ll have no servant of mine begging about like an abandoned cur. Take the mare to the river off to the left there. It will be good to get our weight off her back.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Unhook her. The pad is galling her withers,” she said, and dammit, he was looking at her strangely again. She refrained from clearing her throat. “Not that I care,” she assured him, “but I’ve no wish to be stranded at Knollcrest without a carriage horse.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
It seemed to take him forever to unhook the traces, longer still to release the shafts, but finally he was leading the chestnut away. Savaana waited, breath held. Beside her, Mrs. Edwards was nodding off toward sleep again.
The world seemed to be moving in slow motion, but finally their chaperone was snoring and Gallagher was out of sight, hidden by the towering maples.
Savaana delayed only an instant longer. Then, lifting her skirts in one gloved hand, she stepped from the carriage and glided regally toward the river.
“Will you have an ice, my lady?”
She remembered to look down her nose at the vendor, but her haughty persona was all but shattered and she could not trust her voice. Thus, she merely shook her head and moved on.
In a minute she was in the cover of the trees. Once there, she spared a single glance behind her before grabbing up her skirts and racing through the underbrush. Dodging rocks and roots, she sprinted a circuitous course through the woods until she stood hidden in the foliage directly behind the brightly colored van. Pausing, she listened. It was dim there and quiet. Mira was setting up camp. The little girls were gathering firewood. Off to her left, Uncle Shandor was hobbling El Rey in a patch of wild clover. The big piebald lifted his head and whickered at her, but none of her kin took note.
Grandfather was nowhere to be seen. Where was he? Could Tamas have been telling the truth? Was his health failing? Savaana clenched her fists and glanced toward the silent van.
Not a sound issued from that vehicle. Perhaps she should simply ask Mira about Grandfather’s well-being, but Mira would surely report Savaana’s odd appearance to her husband, proving his suspicions and subsequently ruining her fragile plans. Thus she waited, crouched behind a tree.
The children wandered farther into the woods, chattering as they went. Mira followed them. In a minute the trio was out of sight. Savaana then dashed toward the van. Flattening her back against the brightly painted side, she waited, breathing hard, but no one had seen her. Thus she finally eased out of hiding and quietly opened the back door.
“Grandfather?” she whispered, but no one whispered back. “Hello?”
Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. The bed was empty. She glanced toward the hook that usually held his mandolin. It was bare. He rarely played for the crowds these days, but he liked to sit by the river and harmonize with the rush of the waters.
Either he had taken it or—
But she heard Tamas laugh as he moved through the woods toward her. Luca and Hanzi must be performing their tumbling act, giving him a few minutes to cause trouble.
One quick glance outside assured her he was yet out of sight. But he would be there in a moment, and if he saw her, he would surely reveal her true identity to the staff at Knollcrest. Standing on the ledge of the van, she weighed her options. She was several paces from the nearest maple.
“So you have never seen a performer’s traveling home?” Tamas was saying.
“I have never even seen a performer.” The young woman’s voice was soft and breathy.
Had Savaana been herself, she would have sent the girl packing. Dook Natsia didn’t need trouble with irate husbands and worried fathers. Nor did poor Mira need Tamas to be an ass. But just now she had other worries. In a handful of seconds Tamas would round the corner and find her there.
“Come back and see—” he began, and in that instant, Savaana leapt for the nearest branch. She soared through the air, grabbed the horizontal limb and swung her body into the lush underbrush.
Landing on her feet, she crouched and froze, absolutely silent, listening.
“What was that?” asked the girl, voice wispy.
“What?” Tamas’s voice was as smooth as the proverbial paved road to hell.
“I thought I saw something fly into the trees.”
“A thrush, most like.”
“No. It was…it was big.”
“Then it must be a mulani.”
“Mulani?”
“A ghost.” His tone was eerie. “You’d best stay close to me,” he warned, and the girl giggled.
Savaana rolled her eyes and straightened. If Grandfather was well, he would have gone down to the water to harmonize with the bustling waves. But where exactly? She scanned the riverbank. A stag glanced up, water dripping from its muzzle, then turned and dashed into the woods behind it.
So no one had scared the deer before her own approach. Perhaps Grandfather had gone in the other direction then. Or maybe—
She heard a noise and raised her head, listening. Was it Grandfather’s ethereal music? Turning to the right, she hurried through the woods, stopping periodically to listen. There it was again. Lifting her skirts high, she ran now, following the wending course of the river. A hill rose up ahead of her. The river dropped away. To her left, the bank became steep and muddy, but she kept to the high ground, only stopping every few yards to listen again.
Then she heard it, the haunting refrain of Bach’s Bourrée singing through the trees. She glanced across the bustling river. And there he was, sitting amidst the singing leaves, eyes closed, lost in the beauty of his music. He was well. He was happy. “Grandfather,” she whispered in relief, and stepped forward.
“Hello?”
Gallagher! She froze at the sound of his burred voice.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he called. Bracken rustled at his approach.
Dropping to a crouch, Savaana jerked her attention toward the noise. He came into view, dark tousled hair just visible above a nodding spray of elderberries, and in that second she did the only thing she could think to do. She leapt, diving off the embankment toward the steep slope below.
Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard his intake of breath as she disappeared. There was no time to think of that, however, for she was free-falling, gliding downward until she tucked into a ball. Tumbling onto a bed of autumn leaves, she gained her feet. A hidden branch caught her toe, twisting her ankle. But she ignored the pain. Tucking again, she rolled behind a nearby boulder.
“Sweet suffering saints.” She heard his voice from up above and tried to control her breathing. “Is someone down there?”
She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. A crackle of noise sounded on the far side of th
e boulder. She jerked, pressing her shoulder against the warm granite and breathing deeply as a gravelly voice echoed up from the water’s edge.
“What’s that?” Hidden from her view, the old man above her was not more than thirty feet from where she hid.
Gallagher answered back. “Ahh, hello. I thought I saw…I thought I heard someone from below. It must have been you.”
“Oh, aye, I like to do a bit of fishing here.” The old man’s voice had a slow, steady rhythm. “While me old team drinks.”
Savaana remained as she was, not daring to make a move, though her ankle hurt like the devil. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she remained absolutely silent, waiting.
“’Tis a fine day to spend with the fishes,” Gallagher called. “How be the trout hereabouts?”
Holy hell! Trout? Now?
“Truth to tell, they’re scarce enough, but there are bream aplenty if Ned here don’t scare ’em off.” She could hear splashing as one of the horses pawed at the water. “Go on now, you daft bugger, quit stirring up the mud. There’s others want to drink.”
“Bream you say,” Gallagher called. “’Tis good to know. For now I’d best fetch me own cob before she wanders off, though.”
The fisherman didn’t answer, and in a minute Savaana heard Gallagher move away. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, relaxing against the boulder. He had gone for the mare and would have no reason to return to the water’s—
But suddenly her eyes snapped open wide.
He was gone. Which meant he could be heading back to Mrs. Edwards at this very minute. Cursing silently, she rose to her feet. Her ankle screamed. She almost did the same, but clamped her teeth on her bottom lip and swallowed the pain.
Dear God, there was no way she was going to be able to beat the Irishman back to the damned carriage. Unless…
Peeking past the rough boulder, she glanced in the direction of the fisherman. He had settled his back against a toppled tree that had come loose from the loamy earth at the water’s edge. Its roots, broad and spidery, still clung to the upturned soil, while its leaves remained intact. The old man’s feet and knees were visible past a leafy bough, but his torso was hidden.
Savaana shifted her gaze from his worn shoes to his horses. They were heavy, honest looking animals, haltered and relaxed. Dragging their leather leads behind them, they foraged amidst the sparse grasses. One was dark but graying with age around his broad muzzle. The closer of the two was a blue roan with flickering ears and a wily expression.
He would be the faster of the two.
The thought shimmied through her head. For a moment she tried to shoo it away, but the animal was wandering closer.
Keeping her gaze on the fisherman’s feet, Savaana tore a tuft of soft grass from the boulder’s roots and rose to her full height. Stepping from hiding, she reached toward the roan. A well-aged log lay between her and the gelding, but he lifted his head and pricked his ears, gazing placidly over the moldering bark. Shifting her gaze toward the fisherman again, she noticed no movement there and kept advancing. But at that moment the older gelding plopped into the sand to roll. Grunting with happiness, he kicked his heels against the sand. It sprayed out, splattering the downed tree.
“Hey now, leave off,” yelled the fisherman. His feet shifted. As the roan turned toward the sound of his master’s voice, Savaana sprang toward the log that stood between herself and the nearest animal. Using it as a springboard, she landed on her hands, launched into the air, then twisted onto the animal’s serviceable back. Shocked from his investigation, the roan sprang up the escarpment like a hunted hare, leather lead flying behind him.
Savaana snatched it up.
“What the bloody hell!” yelled the old man, but she had gained control and was already hustling the horse over the lip of the slope and into the woods beyond. For a moment she was certain she heard her grandfather’s laughter float behind her on the breeze. And after that it was a wild ride through the trees, branches slapping at her face as she reined the gelding in an arc toward the Gypsy camp. In less than a minute she was directly beside Knollcrest’s horseless vehicle.
With a breathy thank-you and a pat to the animal’s solid neck, she launched herself from his heaving back before he leapt from the cover of the trees. Vendors gasped and scattered as he careened riderless onto the grassy knoll.
Savaana winced as she caught her weight on her good foot and straightened.
Startled from her nap, Mrs. Edwards came to with a jerk and a snort just as Savaana snatched an ice from the abandoned booth and sauntered, teeth gritted, toward her chaperone.
“Here now. What’s the fuss?” The old woman blinked as she caught sight of the roan, calming now as he dropped to a trot and shook his massive head. “Why is that horse loose?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” Savaana said, and rose painfully to her seat beside the widow. “But not to worry. It looks as if the towns people have the situation well under control. Here then,” she said, and handed over the newly stolen treat. “I thought you might like something to cool your throat.”
“Oh…well…” Mrs. Edwards harrumphed a little as she accepted the offering. “That’s quite thoughtful of you, my dear. I don’t know why people say you’re such a—”
Savaana smoothed her skirt and raised a regal brow.
The old woman cleared her throat and took a bite of ice just as Gallagher led the chestnut into the clearing. His gaze shot immediately to Savaana. An unusual frown marred his brow as he shifted his gaze to the roan. The gelding had already dropped his head to graze.
“What’s afoot?” he asked, approaching their vehicle.
“We are,” Savaana said, and raised her chin a notch. “Until you get that screw harnessed. So let’s not dawdle.”
He watched her. “You’ve no wish to watch the performance, then?”
“In this backwater circus? I think not.”
“But I thought—”
“And I wouldn’t advise you to waste time doing so again anytime soon,” she said, and glanced toward the trio of men who carefully approached the stray roan. “Now, let us be off before we are trampled by an entire herd of loosed animals.”
He was still watching her. “Certainly, my lady,” he said. “But would you care to have help freshening up a bit first?”
She pursed her lips, perusing him. “What’s that?”
“I know how you like to care for your clothing.”
She managed to refrain from glancing down at her perfect ensemble. Indeed, she stared with single-minded concentration at him, though she felt her persona slip just a notch, like a cog in a machine that’s too tightly wound. “Are you a lady’s maid now, Wicker?”
He grinned, eyes sparking. “If my lady wishes.”
His dimples pulled her in. They were enchanting, all but mesmerizing. But she fought off the effects. She’d seen charming before. “She doesn’t,” she said, and disdainfully removed an imaginary fleck from her skirt. “You’re barely fit as a driver.”
He watched her for an instant, then laughed. “’Tis God’s own truth,” he said, and sobered just a tad. “I but thought you might wish to be rid of the mud that sullies your slippers.”
Chapter 8
Savaana held her image with an iron grip. Two days had passed since their trip to Darlington. Two days since Gallagher had looked at her so strangely and inquired about her slippers. What kind of man would concern himself with a little mud on one’s footwear when in her company? She was a comely woman. A rare beauty, in fact. A hundred men had told her as much. But what did she expect from a rough-cut Irishman?
She sighed. Beneath her, Daisy plodded serenely along. Savaana refrained from glancing wistfully at the dark gelding beside her, for she would not make the mistake of riding him again. The Irishman must do something to earn his keep, after all.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” he asked, turning to gaze at her.
She didn’t glance to her right. She knew how he woul
d look. Devilishly handsome and ridiculously jovial, with that quirky smile playing around his evergreen eyes and satyr’s lips. Earlier in the ride he had rolled back his voluminous sleeves. Muscles would be dancing along his forearms as he kept the restive gelding at bay. She didn’t need to see that.
“Yes,” she said, and shifted her ankle a bit. It was still a little sore. “Something is most certainly amiss.”
“Can I do aught to set it to rights?” he asked.
There was concern in his tone. She wondered if it was real or fabricated. More than a few had faked concern in an effort to win her favor.
“Absolutely,” she said, and finally turned toward him. And dammit, his idiotic muscles were dancing. “You can cease with the seduction.”
His brows rose. “What?”
“The seduction,” she said. “It won’t work.”
His eyes lit up like mischievous fireflies and his lips quirked at the corners just as she’d suspected they would. “You think I’m trying to seduce you, do you?”
She raised a single brow. “Yes.”
“And what makes you think as much?”
He was dimpling. She didn’t tell him what that did to her equilibrium. That when he smiled like that it made her chest feel too small to accommodate her lungs, made her toes curl in her carefully cleaned riding boots. “I have not just arrived off the boat,” she said. “Perhaps your pedestrian charms will work on some apple-cheeked country bumpkin, but not for me. In fact, why not dimple up to Emily?”
She stared straight ahead. The sun was shining on the countryside as if it were the first day of creation. And despite the fact that she had worn a riding habit too warm for the weather, the heat felt good against her face. She had removed her gloves some time ago and wished she could do the same with the jacket. But she wouldn’t bare any more skin than absolutely necessary. Still, even overdressed and undermounted, it was heavenly to be out of doors, away from walls and the accoutrements of a civilization she had eschewed for as long as she could remember. The rain had cleaned the air. A crested lark sang from atop a stone wall as sheep grazed around them or scampered away at their approach.
