Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Were you kidnapped?”

  Charlotte’s head snapped up, as did Mateo’s. “Who told you that?” she demanded.

  “Never mind. Just answer my question, young lady.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I can’t. It’s not that simple.”

  Custer rose and walked around his desk. “Oh, I think it is. Either you came to the Gypsies by choice, or you were taken by force. Which is it?”

  Charlotte stood, too, unwilling to allow the colonel an unfair advantage by towering over her. “How I came to them no longer matters. I intend to stay with Mateo. He is my man… not Major Krantz!”

  Custer’s eyes narrowed as he looked into hers. He had heard white women, taken as squaws, speak in much the same manner. But they could be rehabilitated. Perhaps there was still hope for Charlotte Buckland.

  “Major Krantz is very concerned for your welfare, Miss Buckland. He says your family is worried about you, too.”

  Charlotte laughed. “My mother cares only for herself. As for my grandmother, she sent me here.” She turned to look lovingly at the man seated next to her and pressed his hand with hers. “Besides, Mateo is my family now.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do, Miss Buckland. I mean to see you safely back in society and reunited with your real family.”

  “You mean you’re sending me back to Kentucky? No, I won’t go!”

  Mateo was on his feet, glaring at Custer. “You have no right. Charlotte and I are going away together… tonight!”

  Custer whipped out a pistol and leveled it at Mateo’s heart. “Stay right where you are! You and the others will be leaving tonight, but Miss Buckland will remain here under my protection. Now get out of here, round up your clan, and move on. This woman is going back to her family and her fiance!”

  Mateo rushed the colonel, struggling to wrest the gun from his hand. A shot rang out, and Charlotte screamed. The next moment half a dozen soldiers poured into the room, subdued Mateo, and hauled him away. She tried to keep the men away from him, but they pushed her aside into George Custer’s arms. All she could do was sob helplessly and watch the man she loved be taken away.

  “Calm yourself, Miss Buckland,” Custer said soothingly. “It’s all over now. You’re safe. He can’t force you against your will any longer.”

  Charlotte stared up at the colonel, unable to believe what she was hearing. Mateo, force her? Never! It was Custer and the other gajos who were doing the forcing. She would fight them with everything in her until they let Mateo go.

  A mousy-haired woman entered the room and took Charlotte’s hand, smiling sweetly.

  “Come with me my dear. You’re back with your own kind. No need to worry about that wild Gypsy any longer. He’s out of your life for good!”

  Charlotte went with Annabelle Delacorte, but she swore silently that Mateo would never be out of her life. She would bide her time. And when the right opportunity presented itself, she and Mateo would ride the wind.

  Chapter 18

  George Custer frowned as he watched Annabelle Delacorte lead Charlotte Buckland out of his office. Things certainly hadn’t gone as he’d planned today. That young woman had fouled him up royally.

  Originally, he had instructed his men to round up the Gypsy group as soon as their performance was over. He’d meant to lock up the lot of them in the guardhouse overnight and give them a stern lecture on staying clear of his soldiers and their wives. Then he’d planned to offer them their freedom, but only if they were ready to pack up their caravans and move on.

  Well, he had one Gypsy in the guardhouse all right! But what the hell was he supposed to do with him? Prince Mateo could prove to be a dangerous prisoner. These Romanies truly believed that one of their own would die if confined. They certainly weren’t going to sit by passively and let Gypsy royalty wither away in his jail. Of that Custer was certain.

  But the man had threatened him—fought him for his own gun and damn near shot him. He couldn’t just open the bars and let Mateo walk out. Besides, if he did that, what would happen to Charlotte Buckland? He’d probably kidnap her again and her family would never know what happened to her.

  Lord, it was a mess!

  The colonel flopped down in the chair behind his desk and heaved a weary sigh. Taking pen and paper, he started a letter to Libbie. If he couldn’t talk to her, at least he could pour out all of his troubles to his sweet wife in writing.

  Short of fighting the woman off and taking her chances at running the gauntlet of soldiers to escape by the main gate, Charlotte had no choice but to go along quietly to the Delacortes’ quarters.

  “My husband won’t be sleeping here tonight, Miss Buckland. He’s had a bad time of it today and the surgeon thinks he should spend the night in the infirmary. So it will be just us girls.”

  “How exciting,” Charlotte muttered. She wasn’t paying much attention to Annabelle’s words; she was too busy scanning the post to try to spot the guardhouse. There it was—across the compound, tucked in behind the stables.

  Annabelle took her key out and fumbled at the lock. “No more unlocked doors around here! Not after what happened this afternoon. The very thought still makes me feel faint. Why, my husband could have been killed by those thieves!”

  “I thought you said nothing was stolen,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh… well, that’s right. But still, they broke into my house!”

  “Not if the door was unlocked.”

  “Just never you mind!” Annabelle cried in an exasperated tone. “I’m still going to take extra precautions from now on. What if that one they arrested broke out during the night and burst in on us—two defenseless women all alone?”

  “Don’t I wish!” Charlotte said under her breath.

  “Well, here we are, my dear. It’s not much, but it’s home. And I want you to consider it your home until we can contact your family and make other arrangements.”

  Charlotte came into the living room but remained very near the door, as if she meant to take flight at any moment.

  “Mrs. Delacorte,” she said quietly, “I know you’re only trying to be hospitable, but I really won’t be here that long. I’m about to be married.”

  “Oh, I know,” Annabelle said, beaming. “Major Krantz told me all about it while you were in with the colonel, and I’m so happy for both of you. I think it’s just the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard—you two being separated and then finding each other again way out here.”

  “We weren’t separated. I ran away. I didn’t want to marry him then, and I certainly don’t plan to now. I am going to marry Prince Mateo.”

  Annabelle took a step back and put a hand over her heart. “You can’t mean that wild heathen you performed with in the ring! Why, my dear, he’s no more civilized than a red Indian! You come from a fine old Southern family with high standards, traditions, a heritage going back to the Mayflower! Major Krantz told me all about Fairview when he dined with us one evening. Do you really think you could take that savage with the gold rings in his ears back to Kentucky to meet your dear mother? Oh, it’s too outlandish even to consider!”

  Charlotte saw that she was getting nowhere convincing Annabelle Delacorte of her intentions, so she dropped the subject.

  The other woman was surveying her now. “Hmm, I think the first thing we’d better do is get you some decent clothes.”

  Charlotte spread her cape wide and looked down at herself. She didn’t think she looked indecent.

  “Oh, please, no!” Annabelle cried, covering her eyes. “I don’t want to see. The feminine form should at all times be covered and protected, not exhibited in such a vulgar, unnatural manner. Those Gypsies are tasteless heathens to make you display yourself so.”

  “Mrs. Delacorte, the Gypsy woman who made this costume is neither tasteless nor a heathen. Tamara is one of the most loving, understanding women I’ve ever met. My mother could take lessons from her!”

  “Charlotte,
shame on you! You can’t mean that.”

  “No, probably not. My mother is too stubborn to learn anything worth knowing!”

  Annabelle patted Charlotte’s shoulders. “You’re just tired and grumpy after all you’ve been through, dear. You’ll feel better once you’ve cleaned up and changed. I’ll go find something for you to put on.”

  “I had clothes,” she called after her hostess. “Winston Krantz took them when he searched the stable for your husband’s murderer. Can’t I have those back now?”

  Annabelle leaned her head out of the bedroom door, an apologetic look on her face. “Oh, I am sorry, dear, but those had to be burned.”

  “Burned?”

  “Major Krantz’s idea. He was afraid they might be… infested.”

  Charlotte narrowed her brown eyes and took a step toward the woman. “What are you talking about?”

  Annabelle glanced this way and that as if afraid someone might overhear. She looked most uncomfortable. “Oh, you know how unclean those Gypsies are, Charlotte. They never bathe or change clothes. The major only wanted to guard against their lice spreading about the post.”

  Charlotte exploded. “Lice? Those were my best clothes’. Are you saying you think I might have bugs?”

  “Well, of course you don’t, my dear. But those others… We can’t be too careful, now, can we?”

  Charlotte thought of the icy water in the stream and the sounds of women laughing and singing as they bathed every morning. She vowed to get even with this petty gajo woman and all like her. Suppressing a smirk, Charlotte reached her hand up to her head and scratched vigorously.

  Annabelle Delacorte paled. “Oh, dear me! I’d better heat some bathwater immediately!” She left Charlotte scratching and scurried into the kitchen to fire up the old black cookstove.

  A dozen armed soldiers shoved, poked, and prodded Mateo to the guardhouse. He considered putting up a fight, but that would have been madness. They all had their guns trained on him, and he guessed correctly that a few of them would have cherished his scalp as a trophy. So he went along quietly, not giving one of them the chance to act the hero.

  But once he was inside the guardhouse, a scheme began to form in his mind. The sergeant on duty had been drinking—not heavily, just enough to make him drowsy and less than interested in his new prisoner. Streaming curses across the room, the jailer hustled Mateo into a cell.

  Before he could lock the door, Mateo said, “You might as well leave it open. The others will be coming for me soon.”

  The tall, rangy man squinted at him, seeming to sober up in an instant. “Huh? What’d you say?”

  “My people will be here to collect me from your jail anytime now.”

  “Well, by damn, I don’t reckon they’ll get you, mister!”

  Mateo, still in his scarlet and gold tights, lounged against the back wall, crossing his arms over his broad bare chest, and laughed. “Oh, you don’t know my men! Nothing can stop them. I’ll be free before dawn.”

  “Like hell you will! I got my rifle right here and enough ammo to cut down a whole tribe of redskins. Ain’t no mangy pack of Gypsies getting in my jail or even near it.” The soldier was shouting now.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Mateo said quietly. “I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. At any rate, you won’t know when it happens. The Rom come on silent feet. Barred gates and locked doors mean nothing to them. One moment you will be sleeping in your chair—snoring, perhaps, and dreaming. The next moment your dreams will vanish, because your throat will be cut from ear to ear.”

  Smiling broadly, Mateo drew a finger across his own throat while making a slitting sound.

  The jailer shuddered. “Je-e-sus!” he breathed. Then he straightened and shook off his look of fear. “You might as well settle yourself down and get some shut-eye, mister. Ain’t nobody coming in here tonight to disturb anybody’s sleep, much less do any throat-cuttin’.”

  Pretending to ignore Mateo, the soldier took his seat at the desk.

  “You go on and take a nap. I’ll wait up for them.”

  The man whirled back toward the cell door, which he had forgotten to lock since Mateo had drawn his attention away from it. “I ain’t shuttin’ one single eye as long as you’re awake. You hear?”

  “Then I’m afraid, my friend, that we are both in for a long night. Unless they come early, that is.”

  “They ain’t coming! Now you just shut up about it!”

  Mateo did shut up. But by this time, the man was so unnerved that he was jumping at shadows and popping out of his chair at the slightest sound. Pretty soon, after first checking the front door to make sure no one was coming, he pulled a flask from inside his jacket and took a healthy swig to calm his nerves. Mateo watched as the man leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Very softly, Mateo began singing an old Gypsy lullaby. The jailer sighed and slipped lower in his chair. Mateo continued singing as he edged toward the unlocked cell door. His time was running short. This was the night of the full moon. He must escape from here, find Charlotte, and be away before it rose. He reached for the door. It creaked on rusty hinges and the jailer was out of his chair in an instant—wide awake.

  “Here now!” he shouted. “You get on back in there! How’d you get that door unlocked?”

  Once again, Mateo found himself at the business end of a gun. He backed away, his hands up. The lock clicked shut, putting thick bars between him, his freedom, and the woman he loved.

  Charlotte felt as if she were locked inside some medieval torture chamber. Her breasts and ribs, accustomed now to loose clothing and natural circulation, chafed inside the corset Mrs. Delacorte had insisted she wear. The bleached muslin gown was starched so stiffly that it could well have stood alone. And the tight little borrowed slippers were blistering her feet. She longed to kick them off but knew the action would only bring on another tirade on propriety from her hostess.

  So Charlotte sat ramrod straight on a chair in the living room, trying to sip her tea daintily while her head whirled with plans of escape. There was no way she could endure this torture for more than a few hours. Besides, she had to free Mateo.

  “Charlotte dear, you look charming.” Annabelle offered her a motherly smile. “One would never suspect that you’ve been living with that wild band of Gypsies all these weeks. Why, my dear, you would fit right into any Bostonian drawing room!”

  At the mention of Boston, Charlotte’s head shot up and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I have a surprise for you. Major Krantz is coming to pay a call this evening.”

  Charlotte sprang to her aching feet. “I don’t want to see—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Too late,” Annabelle said brightly. “That’s probably your fiance now. I’ll just let him in and then leave the two of you to get reacquainted.”

  Mateo’s jailer was snoring. One hand dangled limply over the side of his chair. The empty flask lay where it had dropped on the floor. Not even the fly buzzing around the man’s face woke him. The time had come.

  Without making a sound, Mateo slipped a thin dagger from its sheath inside his boot and walked to his cell door. The sun was just going down, which meant he had enough time before the moon rose. Quietly he slipped the blade of his knife into the lock and turned. It clicked and opened.

  The whole post was celebrating tonight. Custer had decided to make a day of it—first the circus and then a barbecue for his soldiers. There were a few sentries posted around the walls, but their watchful eyes were turned outward, searching for Indians or for Gypsies coming to rescue the prisoner. The layout of the fort was such that Mateo could slip out the back door of the guardhouse, steal around behind the stables, and reach the back window of the Delacorte quarters. He had heard Custer say that Charlotte would be there. In no time at all, the two of them would be away and safe again in each other’s arms.

  Mateo met no resistance as he made his way arou
nd behind the buildings. For a time, it looked as if one of Custer’s hounds might give him trouble. But the halfwild dog responded to Mateo’s Romani words and let him pass. When he was in back of the officers’ quarters, he checked window after window before finding the right one.

  It stood open the barest crack. The room was dark, but the door was open and he could see through the hallway into the living room.

  He heard Charlotte’s voice before he saw her. “Winnie, it’s very good to see you again.”

  “Charlotte, my dear!”

  Mateo felt his heart twisting as the two of them moved into his line of vision. The officer took Charlotte into his arms and held her for a moment, kissing her cheek. She seemed to welcome his affection.

  Mateo studied her for a long time. The gajos had stolen her from him already. She was no longer his Golden One in loose blouse and scarlet petticoats. She wore her own kind’s stiff clothing along with their closed, smug expression. She looked every inch the gajo with her waist drawn in, her breasts bound and pushed up unnaturally high. She appeared the way she had at their very first meeting—foreign, like someone not of his world.

  “I’ve heard from your mother, Charlotte. She’s very distressed over your disappearance. You gave her quite a turn, leaving that way.”

  “And what about you, Winnie? Were you distressed when I left?”

  “Charlotte, my darling, you know I was! Why, I expected to be your husband by the very next day!”

  Mateo watched Charlotte’s head droop in a dejected manner and heard words that stabbed him deeply. “I’m sorry, Winnie. I’ve hurt you. It was a terrible thing for me to do. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Charlotte, Charlotte,” Krantz crooned, taking her into his arms once more. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’re here now. Everything will be all right. I promise you.”

  Mateo’s blood boiled. He felt like climbing through the window and tearing her from the other man’s embrace. He pulled the window open and poised himself to enter—then froze. The major was lifting Charlotte’s lips to his. The next instant, he was kissing her—tenderly, possessively. His white gajo’s hands caressed her while their kiss became ever more intimate. Charlotte made no protest.