by King, Susan
—English Gypsy Song
"'Tis true, is it not?" he asked. "You knew about this."
A blush spread into her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. Aye, he thought, she knew. She would have known from the first. He wondered if her heart pounded as his did.
He stood watching the dark crown of her head, and waited for her answer. "I knew about it, aye," she finally whispered.
"Then what happened between us in Musgrave's dungeon was..." He wanted her to finish his thought. He wanted to be sure.
"There was no intent between us. 'Twas an accident." She kept her head lowered, as if she could not look at him. "You wouldna want me to wife."
"Apparently I already have you to wife," he said wryly.
"But we are not truly wed, by Scottish custom."
"Are we," he asked, "by Romany custom?"
She nodded, swallowed. "My grandfather regards it as a marriage," she said. "He—he knows about this. So does my grandmother. They said it was no accident, but a marriage made by fate between us, bonding us together. They are sure 'tis destiny." She glanced up at him with a slight grimace, as if she expected him to protest, loud and sure.
He only huffed out in surprise. "Marriage by fate?"
She nodded, miserable. "My grandfather saw the wound, and Nona had seen yours. They regard the accident between us as greatly significant. My grandparents respect incidents of fate. They say 'tis the presence and the will of... what the Christians call God, and must be honored as such."
"They think us wed?" He frowned. "That explains their behavior toward me. And explains this," he said, touching the green silk scarf at his throat. "Your grandmother gave me this as a parting gift."
"A wedding gift. She likes you well." She glanced away. "They think we are wed, by accident, by fate, by... by choice as well. They think we came to want it, when it happened."
"You let them think that," he said. "You didna correct them." He did not accuse her, rather tried to sort out the puzzle as she revealed it.
"My grandfather said that we would bring much ill luck to ourselves, and to the Romany, if we went against the will of fate in this and regarded it as mere accident. He thinks it has far deeper meaning than that. My grandmother agrees with him. She looked at my palm, and saw proof there. She says 'twas meant to be." She shrugged a little, and circled her fingers around her left wrist, rubbing there, an unconscious motion.
"You told him that you wanted me," he said, frowning.
"I did," she whispered. "I did. I am sorry. I couldna agree to wed the Romany man. My grandfather gave me a choice between Baptiste Lallo and you." She looked up at him then, eyes luminous in the dawn. "I chose you."
He stared at her. Her honest words touched him deeply, plunging past reason and intellect, becoming a caress for his soul. He felt honored by what she told him, as much as stunned. Tamsin was forthright, and he was sure she was pure in heart. He knew her, somehow, as well as he knew himself, though he had met her but days ago. She played her games, as others did, dealing out fact and fancy like a hand of cards. He had seen her do that to protect herself and her father.
But in matters of emotion, he thought her heart was like his, guarded but sincere. He sensed a companionship with her, felt that he understood her. And he trusted her utterly, deep down in his soul, where loyalty mattered. He had no reason for that except his own strong, reliable gut instincts.
He did not know how she felt about him, or if she trusted him. Nor did he know quite what to do next. He removed his helmet, raked his fingers through his hair, and turned away. He turned back almost immediately to speak, but found he was not ready to express his thoughts. Blasting out a sigh, he stared at the ground.
The implications of what she had said, and thoughts of what he needed most in his life, rushed through his mind like leaves blown on the wind. He needed to catch them, order them. Some of them, he knew, were exquisitely beautiful, and valuable.
"You are angry with me," she said, watching him.
"Nay," he said. "Thinking." He frowned, rubbed his fingers over his temples, sorting, wondering. He half turned from her.
"My grandfather says that if we dinna want this between us, we must go through the ceremony of divorce," she said.
"Divorce?" He cast a long look at her.
"Romany marriages can be undone almost as easily as they are made," she said.
"Do you want that?"
She hesitated. "If you do," she whispered.
"I am asking what you want," he replied quietly.
She drew a breath, looked away, folding her arms over her chest. "If this union is dissolved, then my grandfather will think me free to wed Baptiste Lallo. I will refuse again, and this time my grandfather willna offer me a choice. He may well banish me, for my refusal would shame him, and he must save his pride. He has a fierce temper, and fierce pride," she explained. "So this marriage would help me. 'Tis the only protection I have, either from marriage to Baptiste... or from banishment."
She had given him the honest answer he expected. "If we dissolve this marriage in the Romany way," he said, "you would face an even more unpleasant prospect than marriage to me or a sojourn in my dungeon." He drawled the last words, hoping to see the spark, and the sparkle, return to her eyes.
She only hung her head, her hair slipping down like a skein of silken thread. "I knew you wouldna want to wed with me," she said. "I am sorry. This is foolish. 'Tis a problem of my making, not yours. I pray your pardon. You are free of this. I am the one caught here, not you." She stepped back.
He reached out and grabbed her left hand. She resisted, and he pulled, firm and gentle, until she took a small step toward him. Her gloved hand curled tightly over his fingers. He sensed her vulnerability in that slight movement.
"We are both caught by the same act of fate," he said. "You need this marriage, it seems. Or at least the ruse of one."
"William," she said thoughtfully, "what would happen if we... kept the marriage in place? For just a wee while, until Baptiste moves on?" She blushed, as if she felt timid.
Her apprehension almost hurt him to witness. She had pride, a bright inner flame, and he would not side with those who dampened that in her. Suddenly he knew, with striking clarity, what he wanted to do. The certainty of it gave him strength of purpose. He pulled on her hand, drawing her toward him, their gazes joined.
"Then I will honor this marriage by fate, if you want that of me," he murmured. "For a wee while, as you say."
A breeze lifted a lock of her hair, swept it over her face. She stared up at him. "You would do that?" she whispered.
He reached out to sift the dark silk of her hair away to see her face, her eyes. "I owe you a debt, lass, from long ago." She tilted her head, a question. "I will tell you of it later. For now, just know that I always honor my debts."
"If there is any debt, 'tis I who owe you," she said. "You helped my father and I, and you saved me from Arthur Musgrave. Twice. But tell me why you would do this for me."
He glanced away, scanning the misted hills. Several practical reasons for this impractical solution came to mind. He wanted to do something more for Archie and Tamsin, in return for an old debt, deeply felt. He needed this marriage himself, to protect his daughter Katharine from Hamilton. Tamsin would be able to avoid the dreaded sentence of banishment from her Romany kin. And Musgrave would not be eager to pursue claims of witchcraft brought by Arthur, if Tamsin were the lady of Rookhope.
All sensible reasons, which he could list for her in a rational manner. What he could not explain so easily was the powerful urge that compelled him forward, that made him persist when he knew there was no truly sensible, logical reason, after all, to do so.
He should just sympathize with her plight, say nothing to her of his, and take her to Rookhope as planned. Instead, he felt as if he walked a path that might be more foolish than cautious. Yet he wanted to proceed.
Impulsive, true, he thought. But his agreement was founded on his sincere wish to help t
he girl, not from the physical desire that he undeniably felt for her. That, he told himself, he could control. But he could not just walk away and leave her to her predicament.
"Why would you agree to help me?" she asked again, softly.
"I was as much a part of that unwitting marriage as you were," he said. "It has caused a good deal of trouble for you. If letting the marriage stand, even as a brief ruse, will help you solve your dilemma, then I am willing. And," he added quietly, "I find that I have a dilemma of my own. This would help me, as well. I need a wife, just as you need a husband, for a little while."
* * *
Her heart thumped like a drum. She stared at him. "You need a wife?" She blinked. "For a wee while?"
He smiled, that quiet lift of his lips that she had come to enjoy, which crinkled and brightened his blue eyes. "Aye," he said. "'Twould help me to have a wife just now. And I dinna have time to go out and find one."
"But you could choose a noble lady of the Scottish court, and—and have a genuine wife."
"I could. But you, lass," he said, "are far more interesting to me than other ladies I have met. And whether or not you believe it, most of the noble ladies at court wouldna have the laird o' Rookhope to husband now. You are not the only one who has a poor reputation. Of course," he added in a wry tone, "I have earned my poor name, where yours is undeserved."
She shifted her gloved hand behind her out of habit. The warm pressure of his touch seemed to linger there. She had found the courage to ask him to let the false marriage stand for now, but she felt astonished that he had agreed.
"You must need a wife rather desperately to agree to this," she said.
"Not so desperate that I would snatch the next lass who crossed my path," he said. "This marriage came to both of us when we needed it. Perhaps there is some destiny in it."
She nodded, still aware of the heavy thudding of her heart. "Why do you need a wife?"
"There is a certain man who presses me unreasonably and threatens my kin. I had thought to take a year or two to find a wife to suit me. But if I were to bring a wife home just now, 'twill help avert great trouble for my daughter from this man. He is her grandsire."
She blinked at him, confused. "Daughter?"
"Aye. Katharine," he answered. "He wants to take her from me. But I will keep her safe however I must," he said fiercely. She saw the snap of true conviction in his eyes.
"What—what of her mother?" she asked.
"She is dead," he answered. "Her name was Jeanie Hamilton," he added, his voice softening. He must have loved Jeanie very much, she thought. "'Tis her father who wants custody of our daughter," he continued. "Now I suppose you willna want to step into such a situation, even for a little while."
"It suits us both. I will help you."
"Then 'tis agreed."
She nodded. "My father and my grandparents pressure me to find a husband. I am weary of the search. This will be a relief to me, even for a little while."
"For us both," he said, watching her.
"Aye. We can dissolve this between us as soon as our troubles are lifted. But..." She looked away, hesitated. "But I dinna wish to tell lies regarding this marriage, since 'tis half a truth."
"We can say a vow between us, here, in the Romany way, to make it a whole truth. If you wish," he added.
She nodded hastily. Her heart thudded inside her chest. She felt as if she were about to step off a cliff, either to fall or to fly.
"Lass, yonder lies your heart of stones. Do we make a pledge to fix the bond?"
"For a while only," she said. He nodded again.
In the clear light, she saw rosy color seep into his cheeks. She liked that bright window to his feelings, showing that the issue between them affected him deeply. She was still stunned that he had not scoffed at the odd marriage that fate had created between them.
Her heart pounded heavily. She wanted this, so much, and could hardly summon words to express why. A desire to hold on to the moment grew in her. The reasons to keep this union of fate glittered like stars in her heart, tiny, bright hopes.
She had mistrusted him earlier, and did not understand his mysterious and unexplained loyalties—or disloyalties. But he offered her a precious gift of friendship and salvation from a dilemma, when she had expected something far less than that.
"Twelve Bordermen have turned down offers of marriage to me," she suddenly blurted, as if to give him one last opportunity to reject her.
"Then I am the thirteenth man to have the chance," he said.
"'Tis an unlucky omen, thirteen."
He tilted his head. "In certain matters, I am known to have the best of luck."
"In what matters?"
"Cards," he said. "Games of chance."
"Well, this is surely a game of chance. I too am lucky at the cards. Though not in much else," she added.
"Perhaps we will be lucky together in this."
"The Romany say that I am wafri bak—bad luck."
"Lass," he said softly, "I am not a Romany."
"There is one thing more you must know," she said. "My father will be so glad about this that he will declare you his good-son to everyone he meets. And he will demand a priest wedding. That would be much harder to dissolve. A Romany marriage can be ended in a few moments, with the consent of the spouses." She sighed, shook her head. "This may be a mistake after all. I dinna want my father hurt by this."
He leaned close. "Tamsin," he said. She loved the gentle way he murmured her name.
"Come here." He took hold of her left hand and stepped backward, leading her with him, until his boot heels met the stone rim of the heart circle. He tossed his helmet, tucked under his arm, to the ground.
"'Tis halfway done," he said. "Tell me how to do the rest."
She looked at him warily. "Divorce? Or marriage?"
He gave her that small, patient smile again, and her heart seemed to flutter. "Time enough for the other," he said. "We will make it binding."
"But we willna be wed by Scots law," she said.
William turned her hand in his, rubbing his thumb along the healing mark on her wrist where his blade had cut her. "By old Scots law, lass, we will indeed be wed if we commit to it in good faith, between the two of us. If we keep it a year and a day, the marriage is made firm. It can be broken at any time before that. So we have a choice, by either custom."
"We will have no priestly vows said over us," she said. "And we willna tell my father."
"If that is your choice, aye."
"Nor shall we live as man and wife," she said softly.
"I must be a madman to agree to any of this," he muttered. "As you wish. It shall be a marriage between friends."
"'Twould be poor of you to dishonor me when we ask but friendship of one another," she said, sliding him a glance.
"Naught will happen between us that you dinna want," he said. "Believe me." He was deeply serious. She wondered if she had offended him.
She regretted, then, that she had suggested that, and regretted more his acquiescence. Something washed through her, a hot, insistent rush of desire that made her want to touch him, and feel his touch. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. But she had spoken the rule of their mock marriage and would not relent now.
He pulled gently on her hand and drew her inside the heart circle. "What is the custom?"
"There are several," she said. "Perhaps a betrothal promise will do for us."
"Aye. The marriage first, the betrothal second." He smiled. She did too, laughing reluctantly.
"Take off your neck scarf," she said.
He lifted a brow in surprise, but undid the knotted scarf and drew it off, holding it out to her.
"Put it 'round my neck," she directed, "and take the ends, and then say the vow you wish to make. 'Tis the Romany way to make a betrothal promise."
He frowned slightly as he lowered the scarf behind her head, catching it gently against the back of her neck, drawing the ends forward. The
silk was wonderfully soft, still holding the warmth of his body, the subtle scent of him. It settled like a ring of heaven around her neck, easing the memory of the rope she had worn not so long ago.
"Now say whatever comes to your mind," she said. "Fate made the marriage between us. If you listen, fate may give you the words for the betrothal."
He nodded, his eyes crystal blue, deep in thought. Then he twisted his fingers in the ends of the silk, shortening the scarf, slowly drawing her toward him.
* * *
Her gaze, wide and earnest and made vivid green by the emerald scarf, never parted from his. She was as bright and as pure as a candle flame, and she waited upon his words with a patience and a trust that touched him deeply.
He paused, searching for words. The sun slid upward and began to dissolve the veils of mist around them as they stood in the heart circle. And he knew, as if the sunbeams burned away the mist of his doubt, the vow that was needed between them.
He pulled on the silk until she was but a breath away, until she tipped back her head to look at him. Still he held the scarf taut, catching her close and sure within its length.
"I give you my loyalty, Tamsin Armstrong," he murmured. "I will respect the marriage of our shared blood and shared promises." He felt the depth of her silence as she listened. "I give you my heart as your friend, my hand as your guardian, and my name as your husband. Whatever you need of me shall be done."
Her lips parted, her eyelids fluttered, opened again. His heartbeat surged within him. He was held as fast by that delicate green gaze as she was by a fragile bit of green silk.
"And I give my loyalty to you, William Scott." She nearly whispered the words. "I respect the marriage of fate between us, the sharing of blood and promises. I give you my heart in friendship, my help as your wife, forsoever long as we agree. Whatever you need of me shall be done."
What swept through him in that moment had in it a power like lightning, possessed the rhythm of thunder, filling him, slipping through to the core of his being.
He wound his fingers in the scarf, pulling her even closer, so that her breasts pressed against him, though he could not feel that softness through steel. She tilted her head back, and the morning light burst full over her face.
