“I’m so sorry, Mateo,” she whispered, not looking up.
“You have no reason to apologize,” he said. “I was the one who lost my temper. I’ve worked you too hard. Forgive me.”
He had misunderstood her apology. Just as well, she decided. If Mateo knew what she was planning, he would never let her go.
“Come, walk with me,” he said.
She took his hand and even managed a smile for the man she loved. After all, time was too precious to let one remaining minute slip away unsavored. She must store up a lifetime of memories to see her through. For after having loved Mateo, Charlotte Buckland knew in her heart that she could never love another.
They walked hand in hand in silence toward the woods. The fall sun warmed Charlotte’s face just as Mateo warmed her soul. Suddenly, he stopped and turned her to face him, a grave expression on his face. A muscle at the side of his square jaw twitched with nervousness. His eyes looked black in the sunlight.
“I’ve made a decision. I know you are unhappy here, Charlotte. Immediately following the performance the day after tomorrow, you and I will leave together. This is not your home, so it can no longer be mine. We will be married and move on westward, perhaps to San Francisco.”
“But Mateo…”
He covered her lips with his fingers and shook his head. “I will hear no objections. My mind is set. It is time we found our own way.”
His lips replaced his fingers on her mouth. Soon Charlotte was lost in a hazy golden aura of pleasure and longing. He kissed her thoroughly—long and deeply. Each passing moment shook her resolve to leave him and made his plan sound more enticing. Perhaps, if there was love enough between them, it would work out.
When Mateo finally broke the embrace, but held her still with his warm, loving gaze, Charlotte was more than convinced. She smiled up at him while her heart sang a new and thrilling song.
Yes, they would be together! Forever! She had been foolish to think anything else was possible.
“Two more days, my Golden One,” he whispered.
“Yes, two more days, my darling.”
Then all was silent in the woods except for the songs of birds and the gentle sounds of their kisses.
Chapter 16
Dawn was no more than a hint of orchid and vermilion in the sky when Charlotte awoke the morning of the performance. Leaving Tamara still sleeping, she slipped soundlessly out of the brides’ tent. Outside, the cookfires glowed as always, and around them sat a few ancient souls who never seemed to sleep. She knew they saw her; nothing in camp escaped them.
Quickly, she darted around the side of the tent and sped into the woods heading toward the stream. Although the Gypsy women took communal bathing for granted, Charlotte had never been able to overcome her modesty and join them. So she hurried to the stream early each morning, before the others woke up. That way she had the icy waters all to herself.
The woods were still black and only faintly stirring with the sounds of creatures up and about. She glanced over her shoulder before stripping off her blouse and skirt. She had learned that as the weather grew cooler it was wise not to test the water with her toe, but to simply dive right in. That way the shock was brief and took her breath away only for a few moments. Once her body grew accustomed to the first frigid plunge, her bath could be almost enjoyable.
But this morning, the water hit her with such a shock that she gasped and came up sputtering, her teeth chattering. Her skin ached. Goose bumps popped out all over her arms and legs. She took deep breaths to try to control the shaking. When physical efforts failed, Charlotte closed her eyes and used her mind to banish the chill. She thought of Mateo, how warm and smooth his body felt next to hers, how they seemed made to fit together. Her blood pounded, sending waves of heat through her. She lay back in the water, letting it massage her scalp with its icy fingers.
“Mateo,” she breathed. “My Mateo. Today is our day.”
She had given up her plan of leaving him. It was foolish to think that she could live without him. Hadn’t he once said that Fate had meant them to be together? She must believe that. She must trust his instincts in his decision to take her away with him after the performance.
Where would they be by nightfall? she wondered. Would they be man and wife before the sun set? Would they lie in each other’s arms this very night, wedded for all eternity?
Suddenly, she felt a terrific urge to get on with the day. Even now the sun was gleaming through the trees, warming the rocks and her face. She splashed out of the stream and rubbed herself all over with a length of coarse cloth. Checking to make sure no one was headed down the path, she stretched out for a few moments on a large, flat rock beside the stream. It felt warm as down and smooth as silk. She could almost fall asleep again right here.
“But that might lead to embarrassment,” she said aloud.
Sitting up, she looked down at herself. She had filled out since coming to the Gypsy camp. Perhaps it was the good spicy food they fed her or the exercise in the ring. At any rate, her legs were firm, her belly smooth, and her breasts full and peaked from the cold water. Her skin, too, had changed. It was tanned a rich gold from working in the sun. She laughed, thinking how horrified her mother would be at her “Golden One.”
That thought of family and home produced another: she and Mateo could return to Fairview after they were married. Mateo could add his fine stallions to the stock and produce a whole new strain at the horse farm. He could put Fairview back on the map. Yes, it was perfect! Her mother could hardly object to a husband who had good horse sense and gold in his pockets.
Charlotte laughed. “I wonder what she’ll think of the gold in his ears.”
Still, the idea sent a thrill through her. She could hardly wait to mention it to Mateo. Even if he did have a few problems gaining Jemima Buckland’s acceptance at first, Granny Fate would love him on sight.
Then, as she thought about it, she realized her idea would never work. Prince Mateo was not a man to settle down on a farm for the rest of his life and tend stock. There was a wildness in his blood and a restlessness in his spirit that would never permit it. And those were the very qualities she loved most about him. Perhaps San Francisco was the best idea after all.
Her thoughts in turmoil, Charlotte hurriedly pulled on her clothes and set off back toward the tent. She met the other women on the path and moved aside for them. Only Tamara acknowledged her presence. The fortuneteller caught Charlotte’s arm and pulled her aside.
“We must talk,” she said, a grim expression marring her pretty features.
“What’s wrong? Is the queen ill again?”
“Sick at heart, as you and her son well know! But this is only part of the problem we must discuss. I have had dreams these past nights. They were good dreams, filled with hope. But last night…” Tamara paused and made a sign against the evil eye as a shudder went through her. “Last night, Charlotte, all the demons of hell plagued me while I slept.”
Two of the older women had paused on the trail, curious to hear what Tamara had to say to the gajo woman.
“Come,” Tamara said, nodding toward the eavesdropping pair. “We cannot talk here.”
Once they were alone inside the tent, Tamara poured tea to ward off the morning chill and took a seat across from Charlotte. The lovely Gypsy still looked tense and nervous. Dark circles under her eyes plainly showed that she had slept little the night before.
“What is it, Tamara?” Charlotte asked, covering her friend’s hand with her own.
The Gypsy woman shook her head sadly. “I only wish I knew. I have tried divining my dreams, but they make no sense to me. Has something changed between you and Mateo, Charlotte?”
Charlotte Buckland felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over her. Everything had changed since yesterday. But how could she admit that to Tamara? She dared not confess that she and Mateo planned to run away together this very day.
“I’m not sure what you m
ean. Changed how?”
The brooding woman swept up out of her chair and stood with her back to Charlotte, her forehead resting in her palm. “Oh, I don’t know. All I know is that I have never had dreams such as these that did not presage disaster. Something terrible is about to happen, but how can I do anything to stop it if I don’t know what it is?” Her voice was a wail of desperation.
“Tamara, please try to calm down,” Charlotte begged. “Maybe there’s nothing you could do, anyway. I thought you believed in Fate running its course.”
“I do. But now there is some evil outside force working against us all. If only I knew its source, I might be able to stop it.”
Charlotte sighed. She felt so helpless. There was nothing she could do to relieve Tamara’s troubled mind.
The other woman spun toward her suddenly and grasped both Charlotte’s hands. “I do not want you to ride today! It isn’t safe. Stay here. Don’t even go to Fort Leavenworth. Please! I beg of you, Charlotte!”
Tamara’s urgent tone was so unnerving that Charlotte squirmed in her chair. Was the fortune-teller saying that there would be an accident in the ring?
“You know I can’t disappoint Mateo. We’ve both worked so long and hard to be ready for this day. Besides, what could go wrong?” Charlotte asked.
“A thousand things and more. You must not gol”
As gently as she could, Charlotte replied, “I have to go. I’m sorry, Tamara.”
“I am afraid we will all be sorry before this day is through.”
The pall that Tamara’s doomsaying had cast over Charlotte’s bright mood did not disperse even as she donned the glittering golden costume she would wear in the ring. Perhaps Tamara’s dreams had come because of her plan to run away with Mateo. But somehow, even though Charlotte hated to admit it, she felt the meaning of those nightmares ran deeper. And she had lived among the Gypsies long enough to realize that each dream held its own message of good or evil.
Charlotte decided not to think about it any longer, since there was obviously nothing she could do. She would force herself to concentrate on the coming show.
Wearing the gold tights, she stood back and looked at herself in the mirror. They were spangled all over with tiny gold coins, throwing out sparks of reflected light in all directions. The bodice was tight and cut fairly low in front with more coins at the neckline. Carefully, Charlotte tied on the stiff little skirt of gilded netting. She twisted her long hair back and up, forming a halo braid on top of her head. The final touch was a tiara of gold in the shape of a sunburst. The total effect, when she finished, was almost blinding. Charlotte Buckland was, indeed, the Golden One.
Feeling eyes on her, she turned to find Mateo standing in the doorway, his muscled torso bare, his hips and legs encased in form-fitting scarlet satin trimmed in gold to match her costume. An admiring smile lit his face. Slowly the smile vanished, replaced by an expression of smoldering desire. He came toward her, never taking his eyes from hers.
Charlotte felt her nerves tingle, starting at the base of her spine and working upward. Breaking his gaze, she turned to give him the full effect of her costume.
“Do you like it?”
His hands were on her shoulders then, spinning her back to face him. Hot black eyes danced before her. His lips parted as he drew her near, and his tongue darted out to moisten them. His breathing was heavy, almost labored. She felt herself trembling in his grasp. The touch of his lips on hers gentled her. His breath warmed her. His hands on her bare arms soothed her.
The kiss came slowly, starting as he caressed her lips with his. His big hands moved up over her shoulders to settle about her throat. His thumbs circled downward, dipping into her bodice to massage the tops of her breasts. At the same moment, his tongue found passage to moister depths, making her sigh and tremble.
“Do I like it?” he said against her parted lips. “The only thing I will like better is stripping it off you later, my darling. But for now we must be satisfied with this.”
He never let her respond with words. Prince Mateo took his woman back into his strong arms and devoured her with hungry lips, sending tidal waves of longing surging through her gilt-clad body.
As Winston Krantz thought back on the night of the buffalo hunt, he wondered if it had been the wine at the banquet or simply the moonlight that had cast its spell. Whatever the cause, he had done a most impetuous thing when he’d returned to his room after the banquet. He had written a long, sentimental letter to Jemima Buckland. He flushed even now at the thought of some of the phrases he had used. Why, it must seem to the woman that he had penned a love letter!
He had admitted to “dearest Jemima” that he was utterly homesick and distraught in this wasteland. He had extolled the virtues of marriage and told her how envious he felt of the officers who had their wives on the post to ease their loneliness. He had confessed to her that her “sapphire eyes” often gleamed before him in unguarded moments, and that her golden hair was not unlike “an angel’s shining halo” in his mind.
On the subject of her rebellious daughter, he had written only that “there is no fool like an old fool” and that he now “begrudged the hours I spent gazing so fondly on the child when they might have been spent adoring the woman.”
He had asked Jemima to return her thoughts by the next mail. And he had signed the letter “Your foolish but ardent admirer.”
He lay in bed the morning of the Gypsy circus, muttering recriminations to himself as he awaited the call of the bugle. She would have his letter by now. Whatever must she be thinking of him? Certainly nothing more derogatory than what he was thinking of himself. One would suppose he’d been raised in the gutter, to treat a lady so insensitively! She would undoubtedly be shocked and repulsed by his forwardness. What a cad he was!
Certain that he would sleep no more now that the sun was creeping up, he rose, washed his face, and pulled on his trousers. At least the Gypsies would be arriving soon. Perhaps their circus would divert his mind from Jemima Buckland and that cursed letter!
Lance Delacorte and his wife, Annabelle, were still maintaining a frosty silence this morning. She had not yet forgiven him for his escapade in town with the blonde Gypsy. He, on the other hand, felt himself the injured party. In spite of his lecherous intentions, nothing had happened that night. And he was furious with his wife for accepting Colonel Custer’s invitation to go riding—alone, with only Custer’s hounds to chaperone. Annabelle had been taking great pains with her appearance since that day, walking about with her pert little nose in the air and humming constantly. The Lord only knew what had transpired between the two of them!
“Must you keep up that infernal humming, Annabelle?”
She turned a sugary smile on him and continued making the bed in which they had slept—but not connubially for quite some time now. “I hum when I’m happy. And this morning I have a special reason to feel pleased and gay.”
“Oh?” he responded, trying not to sound as curious as he felt.
“Several reasons, actually. George has asked us to sit with him for the performance.”
“Are you sure he invited us?”
Annabelle giggled. “Well, actually, Lance, he invited me, but he did say that you would be welcome to join us.”
“That was big of the colonel!” Lance bellowed, stamping angrily about the bedroom. Then, wheeling on his wife, he demanded, “Dammit all, Annabelle, when is this going to stop? I’m sick and tired of you mooning over Custer this way. It isn’t decent! You’ll have the whole post talking about you.”
“My darling husband,” she said in a sweetly sarcastic tone, “how could they possibly find time to gossip about me, when your name is still on everyone’s lips? At least George Custer is a gentleman. I daresay even you would be hard-pressed to call your little blonde Gypsy a lady.” She resumed humming while Lance held his silence and scowled at her. “Cheer up, darling! You’ll get to see her again today. We’ll all get to see her!” A
nnabelle taunted him.
Lance didn’t wait for any more slashes of his wife’s sharp tongue. He stormed out of their bedroom and out of their quarters, pounding his way across the dusty parade ground, where even now the soldiers were setting up wooden bleachers and marking off the ring.
Annabelle watched him from the front window. She hated treating him so badly, but maybe he would learn his lesson once and for all. She’d put up with four years of him always having his way—always refusing to answer her questions—always taking, never giving. She loved him, but love had to go two ways, if it was going to work. She had a feeling this was her last chance—and she meant to make good on it!
She had Colonel Custer’s promise that he would do something about the Gypsies, and she certainly had her husband’s attention now that she’d spent three days primping for and flirting with Lance’s commanding officer. She’d never seen a man so jealous. Now maybe he was beginning to understand what he’d put her through all these years.
Annabelle Delacorte let the lace curtain drop from her fingers when Lance disappeared into the stable. She sighed wearily and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She only hoped all this pain was worth the effort.
George Custer strode about his living room, trying to get his thoughts in order. Everything had to work today with split-second precision, or it would fail and he’d have a riot on his hands.
He stopped by the piano and caressed the gilt frame containing his wife’s picture. He wished Libbie were here today. But in another way, he was glad she wasn’t. He missed her terribly, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her safety when all hell broke loose after the performance. He didn’t mean for anyone to be harmed. He only wanted to throw a scare into those copper-skinned devils so they would leave his territory of their own accord. At first, he considered cutting only the blonde Gypsy from the herd and sending her away. He didn’t think that would work, though. She was sure to have a man among the group—probably Prince Mateo himself—who would fight to the death for her. He finally decided it would be safest to arrest them all. But one never knew; anything might happen if some of them panicked.
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