by Janet Lane
“Don’t mock me. I worry for you.”
Sharai knew what Aydin worried about. What all men concerned themselves with, their belly, their purse, and their bed. “Kadriya and I can take care of ourselves.”
“Sadly, no. Your unfortunate incident two years ago proves that.”
Memories of the dark incident flashed before her.
“You know how I feel about you.’
“I appreciate your concern, but we’re capable. Really. Of taking care of ourselves.”
“As tribal king, I feel I must ask you . . .” He stopped and looked at Kadriya.
Sharai turned to her. “Sprig, go you to the river now, and catch us some frogs for dinner. Get some extra for Etti; they’re her favorite.”
Kadriya hesitated.
Sharai pulled her left earring, their private signal that she didn’t feel threatened.
Kadriya pulled hers in answer, signaling she’d stay close by.
After a second glance at Count Aydin, Kadriya retrieved her basket and walked down the bank, just out of sight.
Sharai tucked her smock, pulled loose from her tussle with Kadriya, into her skirt waistband. “Speak your mind, Count.”
“Very well. I’ve waited for you. Been patient, and watched over you. When I found the nobleman, I ordered him killed, and it was so done.”
The nobleman, Fletcher. She remembered his gentle smile, a gold necklace and a sweet kiss, then a choking grasp, the sound of tearing fabric, invasion, and pain. “I never asked for his death.”
“He deserved it. And after my devotion, I deserve you, Sharai.”
Sharai braced herself. “We’ve discussed this. You are corturari. I am vatrasi.” Though they were both Romani, the terms split them as decisively as russet and silk. Corturari were traveling Gypsies. Except when wintering over, the count never stayed in one spot longer than a moon’s passing. Sharai came from a tribe of Gypsies who settled. She had known the serenity of a permanent home, and yearned for one again.
“But we’re both Romani, and I am your king. You’re seventeen now, of the age to marry. I offer you a large wagon. The best horses. A fine tent.”
“Yes, but—”
“Gold.” He touched her cheek. “For your fingers. For your ears.” His gaze fell to her chest. “To wear about your neck.”
He thought she could be lured by a fancy wagon and baubles. To Sharai’s shame, she had been lured, with Lord Fletcher. That she could ever have been so young and thick-skulled brought a fresh rush of anger at herself, and at Count Aydin. “So you up the offer? I’m a fine specimen so you raise the bid.” She brushed his hand away. “This is not a horse auction.”
“Be not daft. You’re a treasure, and I will treat you as such. I will lavish gifts on you. I own papers of protection for all of England and France. I’ll make you my wife, and no one can hurt you again.” He drew her to him. “Break the tile with me, Sharai.”
His breath was hot on her face, and she smelled that odor again, faint but still detectable, a trace of an odd, decaying kind of smell. The count’s teeth were white and healthy, unlikely the problem. It seemed to come from deep in his throat.
He controlled her tribe. He was persuasive. Handsome to many, mayhaps, but that scent, and an unsettling darkness about him she couldn’t define, repelled her. Unable to tolerate his closeness, she pushed him away.
“I don’t want you.” She covered her mouth, but too late. The words had to be said, but they could have been kinder.
A dark gleam entered his eyes, a look of power and determination.
“I rule the tribe. By virtue of your association with Etti, you and Kadriya are part of it. Deny me, after all I have done for you. . . .” He paused and took a deep breath. “You look at no other, so I know you’re mine. ’Tis time you put your . . . ,” he paused, searching for the word— “. . . misfortune, behind you. I shall see you tonight. I enjoy watching you.” He gave her a tight smile and then turned and strode the narrow path back to the fair.
Chapter Three
Tabor sat in his tent, bent over his financial books. After a day of gambling, he’d fattened his purse by thirty pounds, three crowns, twelve shillings.
Cyrill pushed the tent flap aside and entered. His short, grey hair neatly framed his face over friendly grey eyes. “I trust you won enough to buy the horses?”
Tabor felt the familiar pressure, squeezing his throat. His mother depended on him. The people of Coin Forest and his other holdings depended on him. He ran his hands through his hair. “Barely enough to buy two. And I still have incidentals to purchase.”
“Tourneys would bring more income.”
“You know my thoughts. With Hungerford about, we can ill afford to travel for extended periods. We need supplies now, for harvest. We can’t wait for the next big tourney. On the morrow, we’ll lure the goldsmiths into high wagers.”
Tabor tapped his finger on the numbers, willing them to look more promising. “I’ll find a way.”
Cyrill raised a brow. “Those numbers will not change for the staring at them. Come to the stage before the show is over.”
He lifted the tent flap, and Tabor heard more clearly the strains of music, lilting flute tones and drums. The music, the dancers’ bawdy jokes and easy passion—a welcome diversion. Tabor stored his papers and grabbed his money pouch. “I’m ready.”
At the dancers’ grounds, John’s yellow head stood out in the large crowd. Seated close to the stage, he waved them over. “By gad, you two owe me a favor for holding these seats. I all but lost my head a time or two.”
Indeed, most seats were filled. Even Count Aydin, the Gypsy with the red cloak and fine aim, was forced to stand at the sidelines. “Thanks, John.” Tabor settled in.
On stage, a dancer swayed to the beat of the drum. The drummer, a small fellow with a foxhead cap, increased the tempo, and her hips responded. Above them, her ample breasts swayed in opposing circles. She wore a gauzy yellow gown, pulled tightly below her breasts to accent them, and cinched again at the hips. Being of a fair volume, she resembled three short links of sausage, all undulating in different directions.
“Such full moons,” John’s voice sounded mellow and husky, and from the crowd, several whoops and raucous invitations arose.
On stage, she flashed white, straight teeth and encouraged them.
Her dance ended and she bent forward, giving the men a last gasping glimpse at the size of her breasts.
Cyrill strained forward. “More. More!”
She pulled the outer hem of her gown upward, creating a fabric trough. John rushed ahead, tossing farthings into her skirt. Other men followed suit. A man balanced with one hand on the stage and grabbed upward to cup her buttocks.
A burly guard with shoulder-length, wiry hair appeared, anger flashing behind a torn eyelid. He stomped on the man’s hand. “Down, you dogs.” He glared at the others. “All of you.”
She exited through the curtain, yellow fabric straining with coins while she blew kisses to her admirers.
Moments of quiet stilled the crowd, then the foxhead Gypsy began beating the drum again, a slow, provocative tempo.
Six dancers appeared and formed a circle in the middle of the stage. The music stopped and the dancers left the stage one by one, revealing a new dancer who stood alone.
The men had been rowdy through the previous dancer’s performances, but they grew quiet then, and Tabor leaned sideways to see past the stocky man in front of him.
Though small in frame and cloaked in yards of silk, the woman’s curves were apparent. Her face was veiled, her eyes cast demurely downward. Her bound hair swayed behind her, and she wore layers of different colored fabrics, soft blue, and shades of red vibrant as rubies in the flickering torchlight.
She strode to the front of the stage, her steps deliberate, almost as if in challenge.
Tabor rose to see her better.
A flutist played light, liquid notes, matching the movement of the fabric that breezed again
st her legs. She turned her back to the men, placed her hands on her hips, and froze.
Beside him, Cyrill growled, “We don’t want to see her backside.”
The bearded man turned and growled back. “Shut your hatch.”
Swaying softly, she moved to the music and lifted her hands in the air.
Her fingers curled like perfect fans, as if casting magic high, then drawing it back down upon herself. She untied the red scarf on her head and, reaching wide, stretched the fabric from hand to hand.
The drums beat faster and with a flip of her wrist the scarf jumped from her left hand, sailing into the air like a mist.
Such fluid movement and timing. Tabor likened her motions to those of a huntress, waiting for prey and releasing an arrow quietly and surely to the target. Beneath all the grace and allure, this woman possessed patience and purpose.
The drummer stopped and her hair, freed from the confines of the scarf, tumbled past the small of her back. It shimmered in the torchlights, black as a moonless night and shiny with rich waves, swaying in invitation.
A strong urge rose in Tabor to feel the weight of that hair in his hands, feel it brushing his arms, his chest.
Bending sideways, she tied something on her ankles and the shimmering fabric of her gown seemed to glow.
The musicians stopped and the men, having fallen under her spell, remained silent, waiting.
She resumed dancing and a tiny melody tinkled from small chains of bells that graced her ankles. Her movement stopped, silencing the bells and, in a flourishing sweep of her left hand, she pulled her veil free.
Her oval face held high cheekbones, with round, thick-lashed eyes, dark and challenging. Her lips, full and upturned on the right side, taunted Tabor, drawing him closer.
His heart faltered. He remembered those eyes, that smile.
Sharai.
A shiver coursed through him. It was the girl who had saved his life. She had also become every bit as beautiful as he had anticipated. And she was here, not with her rich noble.
She spun, dancing her bare feet over the stage.
The floorboards didn’t squeak. He remembered her suggestion, five years ago, that he help Etti by fixing the stage boards. He heard no squeak, only the melodic ring of her bells. Who had fixed the floor for her, he wondered.
The silk covering her legs parted slightly, affording a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs and her smooth, flawless skin. Her finely toned muscles flexed with the movement of her dance.
She possessed the breasts she had yearned for earlier, not full moons like the previous dancer, but firm mounds swelling the top of her costume.
Coins sparkled in her hair near the temples, and she wore a gold necklace that caught the torchlights, bright and dazzling.
“Sharai,” he murmured.
A man stood on the bench, blocking Tabor’s view.
Tabor fought his way around him to the front.
Sharai lilted across the stage, her movements delicate. She tipped her shoulder and slowly raised her lashes, taking them all in, innocent but suggestive.
Shouting their appreciation, the men banged empty mugs on their tree stumps, creating a clamor.
She withdrew to the back of the stage and bowed primly, signaling the end of her performance.
Tabor took advantage of her bow and flipped a coin, arcing it low, and it slipped neatly down the bodice of her gown.
Instinctively her hand rushed to her breast and extracted the coin. Looking from the coin to Tabor, she gave him a trace of a smile and held his gaze.
His heart stirred in a way it had not in years.
She left then, and the stage lost its color and mystery, reverting to a basic square of frayed ropes and rain-rotted lumber.
Tabor stood in the afterglow of the spell she had woven.
Coins continued to sprinkle the stage, and the men called for more. The wiry-haired brute with the torn left eyelid reappeared on stage. “Show’s over.” He directed a young boy to clear the floor of Sharai’s coins. He waited, legs spread and arms folded, blocking the stage door, until all were collected.
From the right of the stage four more guards appeared, prepared to keep order. Discouraged, the men turned away from the stage and elbowed their way to the mead barrels.
Cyrill tapped him on the chest. “What ails you, Tabor? Close thy mouth, and let us away.”
Tabor’s gaze remained on the stage. The man had taken Sharai’s coins. Who was he?
* * * * *
Sharai slipped into the dancers’ area, a simple wooden storeroom that housed merchant signs and served as the performers’ dressing room.
The guard, Wilson, handed her the coins.
“My thanks, Wilson.” She disliked the coarse men who grabbed at her, as intent on impressing the other men with their brashness as they were at feeling a woman’s flesh. She would never have agreed to do it had Etti not assured her she would always have a guard, and had it not been for the income.
The coins the men tossed often totaled thirty pence or more, enabling her to make in less than a bell’s time what it would usually take a week to do. It would help her repay Etti, at least regarding finances. She could never fully return the favor Etti extended when she saved Sharai’s life ten summers ago.
Wilson resumed his position at the side door.
Several dancers stood by the dressing table and mirror, but two, Diana and Codi, peeked through the curtains at the men.
Codi turned to Sharai. Her thick eyebrows were arched high. “Sharai. Your handsome admirer, Tabor, refuses to leave. Count Aydin’s talking to the reeves. They’re approaching Tabor, but still he pushes forward.”
Loud voices and the sound of curses and fists on jaws came through the curtain.
Sharai peeked. Tabor had broken free and was picking something up from the stage floor. One of her ankle bells.
His dark hair brushed his collar and framed a strong nose and cheekbones. She admired the clean lines of his face, his smooth, healthy skin, and his jaw line, framing full sensual lips. His eyes held a burning, determined interest. A shiver of excitement bolted through her.
Such feelings brought disaster. She tamped them down and turned away.
Codi stayed at the curtain. “The reeves have taken him. Poor Tabor. By the saints, he is a handsome devil.”
“That’s Lord Tabor,” corrected Diana, her voice rich and throaty. Her tight blond curls bounced with each turn of her head.
Codi laughed. “He just punched the reeve a good one. I remember those large hands.”
Diana laughed. “He knows just how to use them, too.”
Sharai held her arms to her body. “Prithee keep your pleasuring details to yourself.” Diana and Codi were Gorgio, non-Romani, and entertained the men with private pleasures.
Codi nodded. “He has lover’s hands. You should try them, Sharai. I enjoyed him in London.” She grinned. “And ’tis not just his hands that are large.”
“I don’t share your thoughts about men.”
“Oh, you’d like him well enough, Sharai,” Diana purred. “He knew just where to put that coin, now, did he not?”
Sharai turned the coin in her hand and blinked. He had tossed her a crown.
“Aha, my girl. You blush. You do like him.” She strode forward in triumph, linking her arm in Sharai’s. “He can take you straight to heaven with those hands. I felt guilty taking his money. ’Tis almost that I should have paid him. If all men could be so—”
“Diana.” Etti appeared from behind the hanging clothes, her dark eyes flashing. “Leave Sharai in peace. You know what happened to her. If she wanted a chronicle of your customers, she’d ask you.”
Diana straightened. “I saw the way she looked at him. Believe you me, I know yearning, and yearning is what passed between those two. I saw it.”
Etti frowned. “Leave her be.”
Diana laughed, a deep, self-indulgent rumbling that made Sharai wonder how Diana had become so womanly that even her l
augh sounded sultry. “You must break out of your cage some time.”
“I’m in no cage. I lost my purity, nothing more nor less. And in my mind nothing . . .” —she glared at Diana for emphasis and repeated it— “. . . nothing about the activity bears repeating.”
Codi put her arm around Sharai’s shoulders. “Try this, pet—just share a kiss with him,” she whispered. “Innocent enough. Just one, and I wager you’ll believe us, then.”
“Never.”
“Just one.”
“Cease.”
Codi laughed. “You’re afraid. Afraid we might be right.”
“Men are barbarians. I’ll suffer this foolishness no longer.” Sharai slipped the coin into her waistband and spun away from them toward the door.
“Sharai, wait.” Jennamine, the voluptuous dancer who preceded her on stage, approached, her round face pinched in worry. “Prithee help me. My seam has split again.” She turned to show the yellow fabric, strained and torn with a gaping three-inch hole in the side seam.
“By the saints, Jennamine, again?”
She grimaced. “I know, but you’re so skilled with the needle, you can fix it, can’t you? Say you will or Etti will have me quartered. She warned me twice now about my weight.” She patted her hips and waist as if willing the inches away.
“’Tis not your weight Etti worries about, but your girth. Fabric is costly.” Sharai pulled her behind a row of trunks. Leaning close, she whispered. “Breathe out and hold it. We’ll get you out of your gown, and I’ll see if I can add an inch or two.”
Jennamine peeled the fabric away from her ample curves. “You’re our best seamstress ever, Sharai. All the girls say so.” She handed the gown to Sharai. “Many thanks.” She leaned closer. “Don’t be angry with Diana and Codi. They mean well, and pleasures with a man can be good.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I enjoy them with Wilson.”
Wilson? The guard, with his wild hair and ragged eye? “Jennamine! Etti will have him flogged.” She thought of Kadriya. “And what if you get with child?”
