He met her troubled eyes.
Flicking a glance to the door again, she had the audacity to blurt, “How could she divorce you?”
Ian felt a flush steal its way to his neck, then his face.
Holly hell.
Thank God the darkness concealed some degree of his humiliation. Aware of numerous ears straining to hear his every word, he chose them with care. “Ailsa, Lady Warrick is distraught. She hasn’t divorced me.”
Someone gave a contemptuous snort. Someone else, muttered, “Dinilo gawdji. Stupid non-Gypsy.”
Ian scanned the shadowed faces. Though not openly hostile, neither were they friendly.
Besnik stepped forward. He met Ian’s gaze square on, a challenge in his eyes. “Roma ways are different from the gawdji. Zora left you, aue?”
The gypsy’s deep voice echoed around the clearing.
Ian clenched his jaw so tight, a muscle started to throb.
Besnik shrugged, the crimson fabric accenting his muscular shoulders. “Then she has divorced you.”
“Gawd a’mighty,” Ailsa gasped, before slapping a hand across her mouth.
If the burly, entirely too handsome, Roma had landed a planter square on his jaw, Ian couldn’t have been more astounded. “Divorced? Surely, you jest. Only the Church can grant a divorce.”
“Not so with the Roma. If a manishni willingly leaves her rom, she’s divorced and can marry another.”
Fury, raw and savage pumped through Ian.
“And, dare I suppose you intend to be the other?” He growled, reconsidering his earlier decision not to exchange blows.
“Caution, didkai, my gypsy friend,” Yoska said to Ian, then edged near him, advising softly, “Besnik is our, kallis, our king. To fail to show him proper respect would be most unwise.”
King? Dammit to hell. Could things get any more preposterous? Ian had no choice but to heed Yoska’s thinly veiled threat.
“King? Blast and bugger me eyes,” Ailsa breathed.
Her gushing exclamation drew Ian’s attention. She stared at Besnik like he was the Prince Regent himself. Except the gypsy wasn’t obese or dissipated from years of excess. More’s the pity.
Besnik crooked a brow at her uncouth declaration, and his mouth firmed into a thin line of reproach.
Ailsa eyed him, then pertly asked, “Gawd, don’t you ever smile?”
Besnik glowered at her. “Don’t you ever control your tongue?”
“Oh, tosh. You’re so stiff. I bet you’ve got a stick up your rump.”
Good God, whose idea was it to make Ailsa Vangie’s abigail? If Vangie returned to Somersfield with Ian—no, when she returned—a new lady’s maid would promptly be assigned. One who knew her station, with a mild temperament, and the ability to control her tongue.
Anger or perhaps it was astonishment whisked across Besnik’s face. Ian couldn’t be sure which.
“Be careful, manishni,” Besnik warned softly.
Ailsa stuck out her tongue, taunting, “Go to the devil,” before she skipped away and scooped a toddler into her arms. They both giggled as she twirled them about the fire.
Besnik shook his head. His dark eyes met Ian’s. “Gawji woman. That one needs a man’s firm hand on her bool.”
Ian refused to agree with the man, though he’d been harboring similar thoughts. Blister it, for all he knew, Besnik was baiting him, to see if he was the type of man who’d hit a woman. Ian’s gaze rested on the gypsy, then roamed the restless crowd. Already a head taller than most of the men peering at him, he drew himself to his full height.
“I am not leaving without my wife.”
Yoska offered Ian a congenial smile. Did the man never stop smiling? His perpetual cheerfulness was irksome. He reminded Ian of his friend, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. Always smiling. Made you want to plant him a facer just to wipe the perpetual grin off his face. Ian didn’t dare draw Yoska’s cork, however.
“I would be honored if you’d consent to share my table and selta for the duration of your visit, my lord,” said Yoska.
Selta? What-the-hell was that? Ian didn’t recall ever feeling so out of step.
Eldra made no effort to conceal her delight. Looping her arm through his, she pressed her ripe breasts against him, while dragging him to her father’s campsite. Ian barely repressed a derisive snort. The woman he wanted, wanted nothing to do with him, and the one he wanted nothing to do with, quite obviously wanted him.
Was it his imagination or was she deliberately rubbing his arm against her bosom? He tugged his arm, but she tightened her grip and smiled seductively.
No, he wasn’t imagining it.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 29
Unable to sleep, Vangie rose and swiftly donned her Romani garments. She wanted no part of the English today, not even in her dress. Her shawl lay neatly folded on a shelf above Puri Daj’s bed. Grasping it, her gaze fell on her grandmother. She slept on, bundled securely in her narrow bunk. Poor Puri Daj, even in sleep, lines of worry creased her face.
Stealthy, holding her boots, Vangie crept from the wagon. Physically, she felt no different than she had upon wakening yesterday morning. Emotionally, she was forever altered.
The brisk early morning air sent stiff gooseflesh chasing the length of her arms. Shivering, she perched atop the narrow steps, then tugged on her boots. No one was about yet except the birds and a sleepy dog that raised his head when she stepped from the vardo. Wrapping the embroidered woolen shawl tighter across her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace for the river.
It wasn’t right. She’d experienced more discomfort and bleeding the morning after losing her maidenhead than she did after losing her child. No, it wasn’t right. There was nothing the least bit right about any of it.
Nothing would ever be right again.
At the river’s edge, Vangie stood gazing at the glorious sunrise. A bevy of jays, magpies, and other hungry birds scolded her for interrupting their breakfasts. Her riotous thoughts churned.
What was she to do now? Ian had used her. He cared nothing for her. How could she not have known she was with child? The dowager was despicable. So was Ian. She didn’t want to love him. Poor, sweet babe.
She closed her eyes, trying to stop the chattering in her mind. On and on prattled the inner voices until she wanted to cover her ears against the silent onslaught and shriek at them to stop tormenting her.
At a particularly loud squawk from a raven overhead, her eyes flew open. She frowned at the display on the horizon. How could God allow the splendid pink, lavender, and coral streaks to splay across dawn’s newborn sky? The day should be dark and grim, with gloomy shadows and dismal gray clouds to reflect her crushed spirit. Not this jubilant, hopeful new day.
The joy of her love for Ian had vanished. Vangie was certain she’d carry her sorrow for the rest of her life. The remnants of her shattered heart she buried under the guise of self-preservation. She’d sent him away last night, and despite his unconscionable betrayal, her soul ached at his going. She loved the knave even now, God help her.
Vangie place a hand on her flat stomach. The loss of the babe only magnified Ian’s treachery. She hadn’t known she cradled a child in her womb, but oh, how she wanted it.
Was it a boy or a girl?
Stop it! Such thoughts serve no purpose.
Vangie didn’t have any aspirations about acquiring a title or wealth, or advocating for a cause—other than her Roma kin. Her heart’s desire, for as long as she could remember, was to have a child. She needed someone to love unconditionally and who would love her in return.
She wandered to a log, her boots crunching on the riverbank gravel. Sitting, she watched the river. A trout jumped, snatching a hovering insect.
What would it have been like to hold h
er baby? Her heart was full of love, waiting to be poured out to another. Except for the infrequent visits with Uncle Gideon and Puri Daj, her life had been void of love and compassion since she was six. She hadn’t felt sorry for herself. There’d always been the hope she’d have a child to love. Until now.
She’d even convinced herself Ian felt something for her. He’d been so tender—
Vangie kicked a rock. Fool. Ninny. Goosecap.
Exhaling slowly, she spoke aloud. It helped sort her thoughts. “Without Ian’s love, could I have been content?”
She toed another round rock. “Especially surrounded by our children?”
Bending over, she selected a smooth, flat greenish stone. “I would have loved him and always hoped he might come to love me.”
She sent the stone skimming across the burbling water, then stood and stretched. Would that have been enough? Perhaps not for some women, but for her? Yes, it might have been. She turned her lips up. Dash it all, it was her Romani blood. Her people were perpetually optimistic.
But now? Things were different now.
Ian had intentionally sought to cause her misery. Why? Trudging through the trees, she pressed her lips together. The unanswered question taunted her. Vangie shook her head in disgust. She was naive, the intricacies of love far beyond her ken. It was one thing to harbor hopeful, adolescent fantasies about unrequited love. It was another entirely to have the object of her affection black-heartedly contrive her disgrace.
Soft nickering drew her attention. Sweeping a glance at the horses, she was caught off-guard. Blister it. Ian, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, stood inside the makeshift corral speaking with Tobar. Their backs were to her, their attention riveted on a magnificent honey-colored mare prancing at the end of a lead rope.
Ian must have sensed her presence. He swiveled, his haunted eyes roaming over her. His gaze lingered on her face. She felt his visual caress across the distance.
No. She wouldn’t think of him like that anymore.
Tucking her chin to her chest, she continued on her way. The ruffles of her layered skirts swished through the green blades. She lifted the skirt and carefully picked her way up the slippery slope, casting sideways peeks at the corral the entire time. She couldn’t face him. She had to get to the vardo.
She slipped. Dratted, damp grass.
Ian started toward her. He turned his head when Tobar spoke to him, drawing his attention back to the horse. He said something and gestured in her direction, then ducked beneath the rope.
Vangie picked up her pace, slipping again on the dew laden grass. Ian reached her as she crested the ridge. Dash it all. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to cry.
“Vangie, please, wait.”
Keeping her head bowed, she didn’t stop. Lawks, blasted tears again? What was he still doing here? She thought he’d left last night.
Ian gently grasped her elbow, forcing her to halt. “How do you fare?”
He sounded genuinely concerned. She flicked a glance at him, then lowered her gaze. He looked exhausted. She knew she looked a sight herself. No doubt dark circles rimmed her eyes from a sleepless night and the many tears she’d spent at his expense.
“Why are you here? I thought you left last night.” Vangie plucked at the shawl’s fringe, refusing to meet his eyes again.
“I won’t leave you. You’re my wife.”
The breath hissed from between her teeth. She hadn’t expected that. Tobar came up behind him. Pausing briefly, his black eyes questioned her. He answered the gentle shake of her head with a terse nod and strode past them. She didn’t need him to fight her battles.
“Ian. . .”
“Please, let me explain.” He blew out a breath, running his hand through his russet hair. “I’ve wronged you, terribly, deplorably, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”
Vangie stood gazing at a bunch of bluish-purple lupine waving in the early morning breeze. A carpet of bluebells and cowslip blanketed the slope. Her gaze intent on the flowers, she murmured, pain lacing her every word, “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you?” Ian reached across the distance separating them and touched her face. “Sweeting, I do not hate you. I. . .”
Angling her head away, she broke the contact. She couldn’t think straight when he touched her.
Ian dropped his hand to his side. “I love you.” he whispered hoarsely.
That was the wrong thing to say.
Vangie snapped her head up. Disbelief whipped through her turning her grief to ire. Furious, she glowered at him. “Oh, so that sets everything right? Do you expect me to throw my arms around you? Tell you I forgive you and vow my undying devotion and love?”
She poked him in the chest. “You’re sorely mistaken, Ian Warrick!”
Hands on her hips she railed at him. “If I were a man, I’d call you out. You’re cruel, to jest about something so precious. Something you know naught of, or you’d never have treated me with such calculated contempt and callousness.”
Turning, she ran several steps before wheeling around to face him. Her shawl dangled off one shoulder. “You know nothing of love.”
She tugged the shawl around her back, then across her chest, never stopping her tirade. “Love is patient, kind, considerate . . . It’s what I’ve tried to show you, day after day. . .”
Her voice broke as emotion rendered her nearly incapable of speaking. She pulled in a shaky breath. “Only to have you repeatedly trample my heart underfoot.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle in an effort to ease the crushing pain in her chest.
Ian lifted his hands in supplication. “I do love you. I wanted to tell you, tried to tell you the day we first explored the gardens together.”
Vangie’s thoughts skipped to that morning. Ian had opened his mouth to say something, more than once in fact. She’d thought his inability to speak was caused by renewed grief brought on by discussing Geoff’s duel with the duke.
A thought flashed, unbidden into her mind. She stood stark still.
Lord, no.
Her head whirled. She clutched a nearby oak to steady herself. She must be wrong. Oh, God, please let me be wrong. She wasn’t though, and she knew it with every fiber of her being.
“Vangie? Are you all right?”
“Lord, how you must be laughing.” Her voice shook with the strength of her emotion. “The duke . . . your brother . . . the woman whose honor he defended. It was me, wasn’t it?”
Ian paled beneath his tan, his slate eyes rounding in guilt. He closed them briefly, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
It made sense now.
She continued, speaking to herself. “That’s why I never saw either of them again. Geoff called the duke out. They both died— because of me.”
She lifted her gaze to Ian, accusing him with her eyes. He sucked in his breath.
“You knew, Ian, and that’s why you sought me. You said you were determined to meet me. You planned on leaving me half-naked in the retiring room, didn’t you?”
“Vangie, I had a change of heart—”
So, he as much as admits it. She’d rather he denied it.
She shook her head, and grimaced.
“I’d be ruined with no hope of atonement. But you didn’t leave soon enough and were caught in your own trap.”
She heard a laugh, a pathetic gut-wrenching, agony filled laugh ending on a sob. Was that her? He’d reduced her to this.
“No wonder you were furious.”
“Sweeting, I’ll admit. I was at first but. . .”
Vangie turned her back to him. Blasted waterworks. She scrunched her eyes tight against the stinging. Clenching her hands, she bit her lip to stop the sobs struggling to escape. Ian Warrick didn’t deserve her tea
rs.
She would cry no more for him. She knew what she must do.
“Just leave, Ian. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
Sucking in a shaky break, her voice devoid of any life, Vangie delivered the death blow.
“I hate you.”
Ian had no idea how long he remained staring at the spot Vangie vacated. She’d revealed her soul to him, then crushed his with her tormented words. He’d no one to blame but himself.
Simone found him there some time later. She didn’t question him. Instead, she handed him a plate piled high with food. “Eat, Ian. Without wood, the fire would die.”
His gaze traveled between her and the food. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
She smiled. A pang kicked his ribs. Vangie had her smile. “You can’t fight for what you most desire when you have an empty stomach.”
Lifting his eyes to her calm, sympathetic gaze, he asked, “Is there any reason to fight?”
She cocked her head to the left, then laid her hand on his arm. “Love is always a reason to fight. It is the reason to fight, to hope, to endure.”
Ian shook his head. “I fear it’s too late. I’ve wronged Vangie. Mightily. She has good cause to distrust and despise me.”
“Ah, but is that not the key? Zora doesn’t despise you, and for that you should be praising God,” Simone advised sagely.
He wiped a hand across his brow. “She said,” his voice caught, “she hates me.”
“At this moment, she may believe she does. But trust me in this Ian, she does not. Now eat.”
She pointed at the plate. “It is peržala, scrambled eggs with meat and herbs.”
Leaning against a tree, Ian lifted the spoon to his mouth. He took several bites of the tasty concoction. Simone lingered nearby, gathering wildflowers. He was sure she had more to say to him but wanted to give him a chance to eat first. He was beginning to understand how wise she was.
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 24
