He scratched his beard and huffed. “I have no blasted clue. I’ve traveled for so long, off on one adventure after another. I’m not sure what the world has in store for me.” He smiled ruefully. “I suppose I’ll see where the winds take me. I am Romani, after all.”
Pulling a wrought iron, even-armed cross from her neck, Contesse pressed it gently into his roughened hands. “Perhaps this will guide you. I had no idea how much comfort this trinket would bring.” Linking her arm with her husband’s, she placed her head on his shoulder. “I’ve found my life. Perhaps this will help you find yours as well.”
Talon swallowed the thickness lodged in his throat. Placing the cross in the pocket of his breeches, he lifted Contesse off her feet and embraced her. “Thank you, cousin.”
As Eric and Contesse took their leave, Talon squinted into the bleak horizon, his chest tingling. They were the only friends he had, and they were leaving him.
What in the bloody hell was he going to do now?
Six Years Later
Oxfordshire, England
June 1798
“No funny business tonight, Gypsy. I had to replace three windows because of your shenanigans last week."
As he entered the small pub just a few miles from the Romani camp, Talon dismissed the gadjo with a roll of his eyes. It had been a long spring bringing foals into the world. The last thing he needed was meaningless threats from ignorant folk. Right now, he needed to drown his troubles in alcohol.
Removing his hat, he walked to the bar and sank onto the wooden stool. “Give me a whiskey.”
Muttering an epithet, the barman poured a healthy dose of water in the glass along with the spirits and slid it across the bar. Talon caught his drink before it spilled. Throwing the miserable swill back, he demanded another.
“I’m cuttin’ you off at three, mind. I don’ need your kind roughin’ up me customers.”
Cursing under his breath, Talon pulled his hat lower and scowled. “Bloody git.” He hadn’t started the fight with that young merchant—although he had thrown the first punch. The gadjo had accused Talon of stealing his wallet. The bartender found the man’s belongings in the privy, but no apologies were issued.
Instead, he spat on Talon and blamed his kind for being dirty thieves. Their drunken brawl had ended when Talon tossed the lad through the window. Damned if he’d stand there and take insults from a snot-nosed kid nearly ten years his junior.
Damn gadjos. He shook his head as he sipped his drink. Very few Englishmen understood his culture. Most were suspicious and treated his family like vermin.
According to the whites, the Romani were nothing but vagabonds living in hovels and wandering about the countryside, pillaging aimlessly. Apparently, his brethren also stole babies in the night and bamboozled the country folk with rituals and dark magic.
Although the Englishwomen had no qualms about giving up their coin to have their palms read during summer caravans. Perhaps it made the gadjos angry. They weren’t nearly as shrewd at business as the Romani.
“Filthy gypsies. They’re everywhere.”
Narrowing his eyes, Talon scanned the pub. In the far corner, an older woman in a pink silk gown eyed him with haughty disdain. Her lips lifted into a sneer. “Be mindful of your pocketbook, Francis.”
Tapping his cane on the wooden floor, the man issued Talon a sidelong glance and shushed his wife. “Gads, Lettie, don’t stare at the scoundrel.” Bursting up, the man quickly paid the barkeep.
Scoundrel, am I? Leaning forward, Talon arched an eyebrow and smirked. “That’s a fine cloak you’re wearing, sir. It’s been cold of late, and apparently I’m in need.”
The barkeep groaned. The woman gasped. With wide eyes, the old man pulled his hat over his eyes and escorted his wife out the door.
Holding his arms wide, Talon glimpsed at his reflection in the large mirror behind the bar and muttered, “The woman’s right, you bugger. You look and smell like shite.” His unkempt curls limped to his shoulders as his coarse facial hair nearly touched his collarbone. His haggard wool breeches and white shirt hung from his limbs as if he hadn’t a thing to eat. His olive skin and long, dark hair usually made the locals suspicious, but he normally didn’t dress like the gamins occupying the streets of London.
At least he didn’t make a habit of putting on a show like many of his kin. Dressed in vibrant clothing, their caravans paraded through villages with the fanfare of a Parisian acting troupe. After spying for Edouard Blanchefort, Talon preferred to blend in. How could he hide in the shadows dressed so ostentatiously?
Still, he’d let himself go as of late. The sunken cheeks and circles rimming his dark eyes told the tale of a man who hadn’t slept well in years.
Tossing his drink back, he attempted to right himself on the barstool. He rubbed his aching joints with a groan. At two and thirty, he felt ancient. His knees and elbows no longer moved like they did when he was young. Some days it was hard to stand without hurting all over.
Nothing a little whiskey can’t solve.
He nipped another drink. The spirits coated his throat, numbing the heartache he’d endured the past year. His grandfather’s death had taken a toll on their family. As expected, his father Luca had taken his rightful place as voivode of their clan. As the eldest son, Talon had no choice but to manage their breeding operations.
But his heart wasn’t in it. Familial obligations had stifled his passion for life. His surly attitude often riled his brothers, causing dissension amongst the family and the clan. Unfortunately, their business had suffered.
Recently, his younger brother Carlo had taken matters into his own hands, and Talon handed over the reins without a fight.
The clan pariah.
Irritation niggled at his gut as he threw back his second drink. He had talents, but his clan refused to accept his unconventional ways. As a child, he’d had a gift for the dramatic. He’d dreamed of joining their family’s caravan horse act. His grandfather wanted Mika, their greatest showman, to train Talon. Mayhap that’s why spying came so easily.
But his aunts, uncles, and cousins mocked him with snide comments that he wasn’t a real man, that he was nothing more than the gypsy the gadjos painted him to be.
How could he argue? Indeed, wanderlust coursed through his veins like the very steeds he tried to tame.
It certainly hadn’t stopped his father from lecturing him every day about family expectations and honor. Luca wanted his children to be happy—as long as they led an honorable Romani life.
Raising a finger, Talon summoned the bartender. “Pass me another, Keep. And don’t water it down this time.”
Scowling, the man slid the cup down the counter. “Last one. Then yer leavin’.”
Mumbling a curse, Talon pursed his lips around the rim of the glass and drew in a sip. I’m too damn old for this bloody shite.
Since Talon had little interest in the business, Luca had set out to find him a good wife. Unfortunately, the prospects weren’t good. And his father was wasting his time. Talon had lost all hope for love and a family when his betrothed had run away with a gadjo eight years ago. Despite enduring the pain of losing his best friend and the love of his life, he’d had no choice but to carry on.
As the tangy liquid slid down his throat, he closed his eyes and let the whiskey engulf his body. He’d need it for the journey ahead.
A sennight past, Luca had approached him with an interesting prospect. Apparently, a French revolutionary needed assistance with a dangerous mission. Upon recommendation from one of Blanchefort’s loyalists, the man had sought Talon out. His gypsy soul conquered common sense and he begged his father to leave. And Luca had given him his consent—and his blessing.
Elation and guilt pummeled Talon’s heart like the summer rains. Aye, he was ready to escape his clan’s strict ways. But the blasé attitude of the rest of his clan didn’t give him much confidence. His brothers hadn’t spoken to him in days. His sister told him he needn’t bother returning. For a
ll intents and purposes, his family had given up on him.
Not that he would have changed his mind. His bags were packed. Tomorrow, he would begin his life’s pursuit. Hopefully, he’d find a way to heal his broken soul.
The bell at the oak door clanged. Talon shielded his eyes, the warm afternoon sun blinding him. He scowled as the light cast his little brother’s silhouette upon the dingy wall.
Stiffening his shoulders, he hummed against the lip of his glass. “Jesus, not now.”
Tipping his hat at the barkeep congenially, Carlo requested an ale. Without invitation, he sat upon the stool next to Talon. As the bartender served his drink, Carlo tipped his glass against Talon’s in a silent toast.
Saint Carlo.
Talon’s mood darkened, the uncomfortable silence smothering them. He hadn’t always been a brooding jackass. At one time, he might have welcomed his responsibilities. When his mother had died giving birth to his baby sister, his responsibilities changed. While he spent his days catering to the only girl in their family, Carlo stepped up to help his father. Indeed, his other brothers still looked to Carlo for guidance.
As if reading Talon’s thoughts, Carlo sighed. “You’re leaving us.”
Pressing his lips into a thin line, Talon muttered, “Aye. At first light.”
Carlo raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, brother. But I agree with Pa-
pa’s decision. Perhaps this trip will be good for you.”
Talon glowered at him. The last thing he wanted was pity from
his younger brother. “I don’t need your approval.”
Carlo bit out, “And I don’t understand your attitude. You’ve been ill-tempered since Granpapa died. Nay—since Lina left. You haven’t let anyone forget how miserable you are. Perhaps if you find your way, you’ll return in better spirits.”
Jerking his head up, Talon slapped his brother on the back with a sneer. “Thanks for mentioning Lina, Carlo. Makes me feel loads better.”
“I’m only trying to help. You don’t see me cursing the world, do you? I’ve lost just as much as you have... Mama and Granpapa.” Narrowing his gaze, Talon arched an eyebrow. “Have you, now?”
Carlo blanched. “Forget Lina. Papa can find you a good wife, one who makes you feel like a man.”
Talon barked a laugh. Carlo’s wife, Mia, was a boorish and homely woman, although she had given him two sons. Long ago, Talon and Lina had talked of having a family. He’d longed for it... for children to fill his home with laughter.
Until she betrayed him.
Throwing the rest of his drink back, Talon swallowed. “No way in hell, mate.”
“And why not?”
Talon glowered at him. “I haven’t found a woman I can tolerate.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Carlo said dryly. “You have a winning personality.”
Recoiling, Talon growled low in his throat. “Why does everyone think I need a woman to make me happy? They’re nothing but heartache.”
“If you say so.” Draining his ale, Carlo replaced his hat and stood. “Papa accepts you for your peculiar ways, and as our voivode, I respect his wisdom. Go sow your wild oats.” Placing his palms on the bar, he stared at Talon, his gaze unyielding. “But remember this, big brother: wherever you go, whatever you do, you are Romani.” Without another word, Carlo exited the pub.
Circling the rim of his glass with his finger, Talon stared after his brother in a stony silence. Despite his desire to adventure beyond their world, he could never forget his Romani ways. He had no intention of dishonoring his upbringing. His family values were ingrained in him.
Tossing some quid on the bar, he stuffed his favorite hat on his head and stood. To hell with his brothers, his clansmen, and Lina. If they couldn’t accept him, he’d find his place elsewhere.
Chapter 2
LONDON, ENGLAND
June 1798
“I hate this blasted city.”
Picking up his feet, Talon scowled as he tripped over a beggar woman lying in the street.
“Watch yer head, mate!”
From a living unit above, an old man slopped waste out the window. Covering his head with his hands, Talon ducked. Spatters of excrement covered his boots as the mess landed in the gutters. “Hell and damnation, I just polished these!”
Clenching his jaw, he stalked down the alleyway. He couldn’t wait to leave this godforsaken place. The city folk’s unsanitary ways would be the death of him. It was no wonder yellow fever and dysentery plagued England.
The streets were crowded and the inns were usually filthy. He’d refused to touch anything at the last place he stayed. Even though he’d shaken out the sheets, tingles infiltrated his skin as if parasites had already attacked. After enduring three days of poverty, filth, and congestion, he wanted nothing more than to return to the countryside.
However, not all was lost. He’d visited the apothecary to check on Iain Radford and Madame Claire for a spell. The obstinate woman still ordered the good doctor about. Fortunately, the man would toss it back to her when she stepped over the line. For all their bickering, they seemed happy and very much in love. It was more than Talon could claim for himself.
Scowling, he pushed the sentimental notions aside. He couldn’t think about such tripe. He needed to meet his new employer. Unfortunately, the details were sketchy.
Pulling the parchment from the horse satchel at his hip, he perused the messy script. The Frenchman, Colonel Michel DuPont, had summoned him to the headquarters of the Societé des Amis on La Rue du Temple in Paris. Once there, he was to use the password to get in. Loyalty.
Talon folded the paper and smirked. It seemed ridiculous and all too clandestine for him. Aye, during the revolution, he’d spied on royalty, diplomats, and scum of the earth, but Edouard had always informed him of his assignments before he accepted them. Talon knew nothing about this DuPont fellow, and his father hadn’t any further details. Just that he should go.
“Only one way to find out.”
Pulling his satchel over his shoulder, he gripped the straps and hurried toward the Thames. Walking along the wharves, he scanned the numerous dinghies, looking for his contact. At the end of the pier, an old fisherman waved him over. “Barberry?”
Talon glanced around. “Aye. Who might you be?”
“Your blasted ride.” The man darted a glance over his shoulder. Grabbing Talon’s arm, he ushered him to a keelboat bobbing on the river. “Come, now. Don’ dillydally. You wanna cross the channel before dark sets, aye?”
With a nervous wave of his hand, the man tipped his hat to a pair of Redcoats walking along the docks. Soldiers were everywhere. Sensing the skipper’s apprehension, Talon hastened his steps.
The fisherman grabbed his bag and threw it in the boat. “Climb aboard. We be pushin’ off soon.”
Talon glowered at the man. “Show some respect, aye?”
As the skipper ambled across the deck muttering under his breath, Talon settled on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches at the bow. Dread snaked down his spine. From the squirrely sailor to the shrouded details of this mission, he wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Not that he trusted anyone to give him the truth. It wasn’t in his nature.
The skipper and his son untied the ropes from the pylons and pushed the keelboat away from the dock. As they raised the sails, they tacked out of the small harbor as quickly as the wind would take them.
Once they were a safe distance from land, the skipper’s nervousness dissipated. Clapping Talon on the back, he leaned forward with a toothy grin. “Heading into enemy territory, are ye? Yer a brave man, to be sure.”
Talon grimaced at the portly chap that stunk of rotting fish. “How do you mean?”
“There’s a war going on, mate. They be sending extra security to the harbors. Gettin’ our goods through is a nightmare, ’specially at Dover and Calais. Keep an eye out, aye?”
Sitting upright, Talon scanned the hor
izon. “You think we’ll run into trouble before we reach Calais?”
The man’s son snickered. “Not likely. We got orders to take you to a more covert drop off.”
Bugger! Talon’s heart thundered in his chest like a sudden storm. No wonder the man appeared jumpy. Shifting on the bench, Talon perused the harbor, hardly visible in the distance. His first instinct was to dive off the top of the boat, but that was no longer an option. They were too far out for him to swim back to shore.
Growling, he seized the skipper by his collar and pulled his knife from his boot. “Who arranged this?”
With wide eyes, the man held his hands over his head and cowered. “I just do wha’ I’m told. I don’ know nothin’, do I Frank?” He motioned to his grungy son. The lad shook his head vehemently as he steered the boat.
Glaring at the men, Talon released the skipper. It wouldn’t do any good to waylay them. Returning to his seat, he cursed his luck. It was almost as if fate was teasing him. Isn’t this what he wanted? Intrigue and adventure?
Reaching into his pocket, he rubbed the small talisman Contesse had given him. He’d packed the charm because his cousin’s thoughtfulness had touched him. He didn’t adhere to the old superstitions of his grandfather’s generation, but hopefully, her luck traveled with him this evening.
With the wind at their backs, the boat glided across the calm seas like a waterfall trickling down a cliff, and they landed on the coast of France earlier than expected. Talon helped the sailors bring in the ropes as they drifted into the unfamiliar cove.
The skipper maneuvered the twenty-foot keel beside the dock, and Talon hitched the boat to the pylons. When they’d fully stopped, he grabbed his rucksack and stepped onto the wooden platform, both feet safely planted on land.
With a nod, the skipper motioned for his son to disembark. He glanced at Talon nervously. “We got orders to wait here, sir.”
Irritation gnawed at Talon like a diseased rat. Storming across the quay, he grabbed the scraggly sailor by his shirtfront and lifted him off his feet with a snarl. “Enough, you bugger. I demand to know where you’re taking me. My orders were to travel to Paris from Calais.
Pure Temptation Page 2
