Was he daft, kissing her mere inches from the coachman? Flustered, Vangie bent to her task once more, efficiently tying off the last bandage.
“There you are, Malcolm.”
She rested against the plush seat, clenching her hands in her skirt. “You’ll need to see a physician of course—to be sure it has been treated properly.”
Now the crisis was past, she was self-conscious, unsure of her skills. “I’ve not dressed a firearm wound before, only knife gashes.”
“Knife gashes?” Ian posed the question.
She nodded. “Sometimes the brethren are involved in fights with each other, but more commonly, with gadjo, non-Roma. Knives are the Roma’s weapon of choice.”
Ian reached over, tugged her knotted hands loose, then raised one to his lips. “You were marvelous.”
He kissed the back of her hand, before turning it over, to place a hot, lingering kiss on her palm. His thumb caressed the inside of her wrist causing her pulse to frolic alarmingly. Or mayhap it was the smoldering look in his eyes that sent her heart cavorting.
Oh dear.
“Uh hum.”
Malcolm noisily cleared his throat once more.
“Yes, milady. I ain’t ne’r seen a lady o’ quality willin’ to dirty ‘er hands.”
Gifford offered this compliment from the open door, nodding his head all the while. He gingerly placed her dagger on the seat. The blood had been cleansed from the blade, erasing any indication of its recent resting place.
“Me either, yer ladyship. Thank ye. It’s grateful I be.” Malcolm made this pronouncement while gingerly exiting the coach.
Vangie beamed, delighted with their approval, and more importantly, their acceptance of her Romani heritage. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
Suddenly, concern gripped her. “Malcolm, you don’t mean to drive?”
“Nay. I jus’ needs be next to this goosecap. He’d be lost inside five minutes.”
“Wouldna,” objected Gifford indignantly.
“Aye, lad, ye would.”
Still arguing, the two climbed aboard the outer seat, and with a yell and the crack of a whip, the coach lurched forward and continued on its way.
“Ian, what about—” Vangie sliced a glance at the shadows outside and shuddered, gooseflesh prickling her neck and shoulders.
“Gifford pulled their bodies to the side of the road. I’ll send for a magistrate when we stop for the night a few miles farther along.”
She gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose that will have to do.”
“Sweeting—” Ian hesitated, looking like a confused schoolboy. “Did your grandmother truly teach you to use a knife?”
She curved her lips at the corners. She’d wager her pin money, if she had any, he’d been burning to ask the question since she’d disposed of the robber. Guilt and remorse washed over her once more stealing her smile with it.
Ian had taken the seat beside her when they resumed their journey. He declared the opposite seat would need to be cleansed of blood before it was usable again. He wore only his waistcoat and shirt. A dark claret-colored stain marred the collar. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and the shirt’s top buttons were unfastened.
Thoroughly unnerved by his close proximity, and his state of undress, Vangie was unable to concentrate on anything but the muscular leg pressing intimately against her thigh. Or the hand and forearm smattered with fine dark hair, which rested inches from her leg.
She raised her eyes to his. He regarded her expectantly. “Hmm? Did you say something?”
“Grandmother? Knife?”
Vangie smiled, nodding. “I’m quite skilled with blades. Puri Daj was adamant I be, so she and Yoska taught me the art.”
“Yoska?”
“The bandolier, the leader, of our clan.”
She picked up the dagger, then laid it in the medicine basket. “It isn’t unusual to have unfriendly or unwelcome visitors at the encampment. Assault is not common, but it does happen. Roma women do what we must to protect ourselves.”
Vangie scrutinized his face. Her disclosure didn’t appear to have disturbed him. This might though. She grinned. “Uncle Gideon insisted Yvette and I be trained in weaponry. Whenever I visited, he’d give me lessons. I’m proficient with firearms too.”
Ian’s brows climbed to his hairline.
An unwelcome thought snaked its way into her mind, where it lay coiled menacingly. The robber knew she didn’t travel alone.
“Ian, why did the highwayman ask where you were? How did he know there was a gentleman traveling with me?”
The same thought troubled Ian, though he was loathe to reveal it. If he counted the vagrant who’d attempted to waylay him on his journey to London, this was the third time in as many weeks he’d been set upon by ruffians. And there had also been the carriage wheel incident—
He settled on the most plausible explanation. “It would be most unusual for a female to travel alone,” he reassured her. “Naturally, he assumed you’d a male companion since there was no female present in the carriage.”
Ian didn’t believe it himself. A persistent notion niggled in the recesses of his mind. He was missing something. He frowned, but only for a moment. He’d not worry on it. The answer would come to him. It always did. His mind had a way of sifting and sorting information subconsciously, forming a logical explanation from a conglomeration of facts, nuances, and details. It was extraordinary really.
Not as extraordinary as his new bride, however.
Blades and pistols.
He wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or concerned with this newly acquired knowledge about Vangie. Damn. She was turning out to be a deucedly fascinating catch after all. His face split with what he was sure was an imbecile’s grin. He chuckled inwardly. He liked the idea of having taken a gypsy to wife. Life would never be dull. He was certain of it.
Spanning the few inches separating their hands, he closed his hand round hers. She’d not donned her gloves after tending to Malcolm. His finger rubbed against her ring.
“It was my mother’s.”
Vangie’s gaze found his, an unspoken question in them. He smiled an answer, chagrined to see a hopeful light flicker in his wife’s gorgeous eyes. She so wanted his acceptance, his approval. She deserved it after proving her loyalty to him—no—deserved it before then, when she’d gone willingly to his bed, an untried maid, trusting him, her-stranger-of-a-husband.
He’d let her down, betrayed her, though unintentionally. A spark of anger flared. He’d not be as forgiving with his stepmother and sister as his bride had been with him. They’d caused incalculable harm to Vangie, though his conscience whispered, he was to blame for listening to their gossip and reacting with anger instead of reason and logic.
Ian’s gaze hovered on Vangie’s lips. Slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to turn away, he lowered his head. When his mouth met hers, a wistful sigh escaped her plump lips.
Gently, reverently, he kissed her, not a kiss of passion or lust, but a tender kiss of apology. He explored the mystery of her, seeking, knowing he’d find what he desperately sought within the honeyed cavern of her sweet mouth, forgiveness, though unwarranted.
With one final press of his lips against her beautiful mouth, he leaned away, a contented smile on his face. She hadn’t rebuffed him. He knew now what he must do to win over his wife.
He’d woo her.
There’d been no courtship before the exchanging of the marriage oaths, but he vowed, he’d charm his bride. He’d dazzle her with everything a young damsel’s heart desired. She’d willingly give herself to him, and not only her luscious body, but her heart as well.
What a turnabout.
Hardly a week ago, he’d been cursing fate for her role in forcing him to marry Vangie. Today
, he rejoiced at his providential good fortune. He caressed his wife with his gaze. Sensing his perusal, she gifted him with an exquisite smile. More optimistic than he’d been the whole of the previous week, he returned her smile, gently squeezing her hand. Perhaps he’d found favor with God at last.
Why the recent streak of misfortunes then? If only there wasn’t the persistent notion he had missed something obvious.
Chapter 17
Ian jolted awake. The carriage no longer rocked and swayed. Blast and damn, he’d fallen asleep. Bending forward, he peered through the window’s glass. They were parked alongside the entrance of The White Stag Inn. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was well into the late night hours; a dangerous time to be on the road.
He nudged Vangie. “Sweeting, wake up.”
Her head was nestled against his shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around her. A loaded pistol lay on the seat beside him.
The gut-wrenching terror tearing through him when he’d seen her cornered at gun-point whipped him anew. He knew the salacious intentions of the blackguard he’d consigned to the grave, courtesy of the lead ball Ian planted in him. He tightened his arms around her reflexively. God help anyone intending to harm this woman. His woman. His wife.
“Hmm?” Shivering, Vangie snuggled further into his side.
“We’ve arrived at the inn.” Ian’s gaze roamed her face.
He hoped she felt something too. Mayhap she didn’t understand the emotion. Perhaps it was what compelled her to take a life to protect him. The elusive emotion was foreign to him. He was just now beginning to recognize the sentiment. It left him desperate and vulnerable.
And, utterly terrified.
Were he and Vangie predestined for one another? Had God ordained from the beginning of time that they should find each other and through freewill, or otherwise, bound them together? A week ago he’d have scoffed at those notions, calling them balderdash and claptrap, but now. . .?
Vangie stirred sleepily, her eyes fluttering half-open. A shy smile teased her mouth.
Ian placed a feathery kiss on her tempting lips. Her smile widened. Elated, he settled her closer, never breaking contact with her lips. This was not a kiss of desire, but one of tender, awe-inspiring sentiment. A tantalizing kiss which offered his heart to her.
Somehow, he knew she perceived it. She reached between them laying her hand against his heart. Lifting his head, he kissed her on the forehead, before edging away.
“I’ll see to our rooms.” With his forefinger he flicked the curls tumbled to her shoulders.
“You might want to restore your appearance.”
He winked at her. “People might talk.”
A tiny squeak escaped Vangie. She immediately reached to straighten her hair. A roguish chuckle reverberated in Ian’s chest. He was teasing her. She grinned. Gone was the shell he’d erected around himself. Even in the dim carriage light, she could see an unmistakable glimmer in his eye. She drew in a deep breath. His doting attention excited her, causing her heart to beat a pace or two quicker.
“I’ll be but a few minutes,” he said.
Once he stepped from the carriage, she smoothed her skirt, replaced her hat and gloves, and waited for him to return. She deliberately avoided looking at the stains on the opposite seat.
A wave of nausea assailed her accompanied by a burst of pain behind her eyes. It spread, becoming an incessant throbbing spanning her forehead and temples. Searing agony radiated from her temple to her jaw.
Another? So soon? Would she never be free of them? Thirteen years she’d suffered these horrid megrims.
Better now than when she’d needed her wits about her to save Ian’s life.
She could yet see the face of the man she’d killed. A shudder rippled through her. Surely God would forgive her for taking his life. His wasn’t innocent blood, but that of a devious, black-hearted scoundrel. And she’d killed to protect her husband.
She drew in a shallow breath. She’d do it again, too.
The drumming in her head increased ferociously, pounding and thrumming like the leather-topped djembe’s played during Romani celebrations. She raised a shaky hand to cup her forehead. Dear God.
Through the buzzing in her ears, Vangie could hear Ian talking to Malcolm and Gifford, no doubt giving them instructions for the night and their departure on the morrow. The door opened, and he poked his head in, smiling. She detected a smidgeon of worry when his perceptive gaze lit on her face.
“Have you a headache?”
She didn’t dare nod her head. “Yes.”
“Come, I’ll help you alight.” Ian lifted her from the carriage, then set her on her wobbly legs.
She attempted a weak smile, grateful for the bracing arm he slipped around her waist.
“The White Stag Inn is a farmhouse turned public lodgings,” he said escorting her inside.
As long as there’s a bed.
Vangie was beyond caring. She needed to lie down. Through the fog numbing her senses, she saw the blazing fire burning in the common room.
Spots began floating before her eyes. She clutched at Ian’s arm. She’d never cast up her accounts before but feared she might this time.
A rotund woman, her wiry grey hair constrained in a semblance of a bun, with cheeks rosy red and a smile to match her substantial girth, trundled to them. She dropped an awkward curtsey. “Yer, room’s been made ready, my lord, and I’ll have yer food. . .”
She stopped mid-sentence. “Yer ladyship, ye be ready to keel over!”
Vangie swallowed, fuzziness encapsulating her. Lord, how she hated this.
“Ian?”
She heard the panic in her voice.
Without preamble, he scooped her into his arms. “Our room?”
Waddling to the stairs, the proprietress beckoned, “This way, yer lordship.”
Vangie daren’t close her eyes. Blackness would engulf her. She pressed her head against Ian’s chest. Squinting against the sparkling zigzag lines rotating before her eyes, she concentrated on the woman’s ample backside.
The innkeeper labored up the staircase. Opening a door at the end of the corridor, she shuffled to the bed, tossing back a quilt. “I’ll have Peg bring ye some water and yer supper.”
Her chuffy face crinkled with concern, the hostess asked, “Do her ladyship be needin’ anythin’?”
Ian laid Vangie on the bed. The room swirled, gyrating as the black, spiraling tunnel tried to suck her into obscurity. He touched her forehead, and traced a gentle path over her cheek. She looked into his calm, reassuring eyes.
He glanced at the innkeeper. “Have you any smelling salts?”
Vangie tried to focus on Ian’s voice. It seemed so far away.
The woman shook her head, her loose chins flapping with her vehemence. “Nay, sir. Not much call for salts.”
It’s too late—
Vangie awoke, snuggled beneath layers of blankets, more refreshed than she’d felt in weeks. She sighed contentedly, burying her face in the pillow in an attempt to avoid a persistent ray of sun angling across her face. It took a few moments for her to realize she wasn’t alone in the bed.
“Good morning, my lady,” Ian purred close to her ear.
She cracked open her eyes. He lay in his pantaloons and shirt atop the bedding, his dark head but inches from hers. Her voice, a mere breath of a sound, she replied softly, “Good morning.”
He bent and kissed her lightly. His gaze held hers. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. He said not a word, but something deep in his eyes spoke to her spirit. A firm knock rattled the chamber’s door shattering the moment.
Ian bounded from the bed. “Breakfast, at last. I’m ravenous.”
Vangie scooted to a sitting position. She was wearing her threadbare nig
htgown. How?
Ah, her ill-fated episode last evening. Faith, Ian must have undressed her. The blush sweeping across her face wasn’t entirely due to embarrassment. Her hand skimmed her thigh. Where was her dagger?
She quickly scanned the room.
He’d turned from the door and now watched her. “Your blade is on the nightstand. Do you always wear it strapped to your leg?”
He looked pointedly at her thigh.
Vangie nodded. “Almost always. Many Roma women do.”
Her gaze transferred to the pillow beside her. A couple of strands of wavy chestnut hair lay atop it. She smiled. Had he slept here, in this room with her all night? She followed him with her gaze as he carried a tray from the door to a small table. A jar filled with wildflowers stood atop it. It was a charming chamber. She’d taken scant notice of it last night.
Simple gingham curtains hung from the lone window, and braided rag rugs were placed on either side of the bed. The table and two chairs occupied one corner of the chamber, a washstand and mirror the other. The nightstand with its oil lamp was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Leaning closer, Vangie examined the hand-painted porcelain lampshade. An intricate bouquet of blue and white roses graced the surface. She curved her mouth in appreciation. Self-taught, she adored painting. She was quite good at it too, though the opportunities to indulge the pastime just for pleasure were few.
“Are you hungry?” Ian placed the tray on the table, then peeked under the serviette.
She nodded, even as she slipped from the bed, then approached the table. “Yes, I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I’m famished.”
As if to confirm her hunger, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“So I can hear,” he quipped.
She put her hand on her middle. “Goodness.”
Glancing at her rail, Vangie hesitated. She couldn’t eat with nothing on but her thin nightgown. Ian must have sensed her concern. He crossed to her open valise, and after digging around, removed her robe.
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 14
