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Claiming the Forbidden Bride
Gayle Wilson


Soldier Rhys Morgan is back home in England and in the market for a bride.But battle-scarred and jaded from the Peninsula wars, the simpering debutantes on the Marriage Mart don’t seem able to rouse his interest – let alone fire his blood. . . Dark-haired, dark-eyed Romany beauty Nadya Argentari, has a strength and passion to match his own.If he took her as his mistress, no one would blink an eye. But what if Honourable Major Rhys Morgan were to marry her. . .












London, 1814

A season of secrets, scandal and seduction in high society!

A darkly dangerous stranger is out for revenge, delivering a silken rope as his calling card. Through him, a long-forgotten past is stirred to life. The notorious events of 1794 which saw one man murdered and another hanged for the crime are brought into question. Was the culprit brought to justice or is there still a treacherous murderer at large?

As the murky waters of the past are disturbed, so is the Ton! Milliners and servants find love with rakish lords and proper ladies fall for rebellious outcasts, until finally the true murderer and spy is revealed.



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Silk & Scandal

From glittering ballrooms to a smuggler’s cove in Cornwall, from the wilds of Scotland to a Romany camp and from the highest society to the lowest…

Don’t miss all eight books in this thrilling new series!




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Silk & Scandal

COLLECT ALL EIGHT BOOKS IN THISWONDERFUL NEW SERIES






The Lord and the Wayward Lady Louise Allen

Paying the Virgin’s Price Christine Merrill

The Smuggler and the Society Bride Julia Justiss

Claiming the Forbidden Bride Gayle Wilson

The Viscount and the Virgin Annie Burrows

Unlacing the Innocent Miss Margaret McPhee

The Officer and the Proper Lady Louise Allen

Taken by the Wicked Rake Christine Merrill




About the Author






GAYLE WILSON taught English and world history before turning to writing full time. A winner of a number of prestigious writing awards, she is also the author of contemporary romantic suspense novels. Gayle Wilson is married, with one son, and lives in Alabama, USA.


REGENCY

Silk & Scandal

Claiming the Forbidden Bride

by Gayle Wilson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




To grandmothers everywhere in honour and recognition

of their love and guidance and dedication.



And to my newest, very beloved grandbaby, Aiden




Prologue







September, 1814. England

In an unthinking response to the image in the cheval glass, Major the Honourable Rhys Morgan, late of His Majesty’s 13


Light Dragoons, lifted his left hand to help the right in the adjustment of the intricately tied cravat at his throat. Pain seared along its damaged muscles and nerves, reminding him that, although he was finally home, the effects of the years he had spent campaigning on the Iberian Peninsula were still with him.

Incredibly, given the severity of his injuries—caused by a burst of grapeshot—the surgeons had managedto save his left arm. It was not the same, of course, and he had gradually become reconciled to the reality that it never would be.

A minor consideration, he reminded himself. He was glad to be alive. And infinitely grateful to be back in England.

This time, he used only his right hand to smooth over a persistent wrinkle that disturbed the line of his jacket. There had initially been some discussion of attempting alterations, but the scope of the required changes had proved those impractical. His chest was broader, for one thing; the muscles in his thighs and calves still hardened from long hours spent in the saddle. In addition to the debilitating effects of his wound, he had, since he’d been home, suffered another bout of the recurring fever he’d picked up on the Continent. As a result, his body was far leaner than it had been before his departure. In short, almost nothing he had left behind in England almost four years ago could be remade—not with the preciseness of fit that fashion demanded.

The local tailor had been called in to produce the coat of navy superfine he was wearing, as well as his striped waistcoat and close-fitting pantaloons. The tasselled Hessians that completed the ensemble were the only item that had been salvaged from his preservice attire.

The garments were neither in the most current style nor constructed of the finest materials, but theywould do for travel. Rhys had promised his brother that as soon as he arrived in London he would be properly outfitted from heel to crown by one of the capital’s premier tailors.

A prospect he wasn’t looking forward to, he acknowledged. Other than his surgeons, no one had yet been forced to view the carnage that had been inflicted on his body.

Determinedly putting that from his mind, he met his brother’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Shall I do?’

‘Very nicely,’ Edward said. ‘At least until you have time to visit my man in London.’

Rhys smiled. ‘If Keddinton doesn’t turn me away from his door, the credit shall be yours.’

‘He won’t turn you away. You’re his godson.’

‘A godson he hasn’t seen in more than five years.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Keddinton knows his duty.’

The word seemed to hang in the air between them, the crux of all the arguments that had marred the last few days. To break the suddenly awkward silence, Rhys returned his gaze to the reflection in the glass, tugging down his waistcoat.

‘A few more days can’t hurt,’ Edward said after a moment.

‘Unless the weather changes. Autumn can be unpredictable.’

‘All the more reason—’

Laughing, Rhys turned to face his brother. ‘One more day of sitting by the fire, Edward, and I promise you I shall go stark raving mad. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.’

‘You are mad. Surely, you’ve done enough for King and country. More than enough.’

‘I’m alive. Relatively sound of mind and body. And I’ve explored a great deal of geography during that service. Most of which, I remind you, is about to be carved up and redistributed in Vienna.’

‘You can’t expect Keddinton—’

‘You’d be surprised how little I expect,’ Rhys interrupted. ‘I simply believe that my experiences during the last few years might prove valuable to someone. That’s my hope, at least.’

It was a discussion they’d had several times during the previous month. One which had never satisfactorily been resolved on either side.

‘You can be useful here.’

Rhys laughed again, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘If I thought you really needed me, you know I’d stay. I owe you that and more. The truth of the matter is I should only get in the way of your very competent estate manager, and you know it.’

‘You owe me nothing, Rhys. I hope you know that.’

Rhys pulled his brother close, embracing him for perhaps the first time in their lives. Older by a decade, Edward had always seemed almost as distant as their father. Rhys had no doubt they both cared for him, but demonstrations of their affection had been few and far between.

‘You’ll forgive me if I disagree,’ he said. ‘You and Abigail have not only made me welcome, you have cared for me as if…’ Rhys hesitated, searching for an analogy that would express his gratitude, without making the other man uncomfortable.

‘As if you were my brother?’ Edward’s rare smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘My only brother, might I remind you. And having spent more than one night convinced you wouldn’t live to see the sunrise, I confess a reluctance to let you out of my sight.’

‘I managed to survive Boney’s best efforts to eradicate me. I believe I may be trusted to make it all the way to London without incident.’

‘Alone. And ridiculously on horseback,’ Edward added, shaking his head.

‘The saddest indictment of my boredom is that I’m looking forward to that journey immensely.’

He was. Despite the deep gratitude he felt toward his family, they had been determined to wrap him in cotton wool since his arrival at Balford Manor almost six months ago.

He’d endured his sister-in-law’s potions and his brother’s strictures until he’d wanted to throw the former at their collective heads. The thought of finally being free of their solicitous, if loving, supervision had done more for his spirits than had even the prospect of once more feeling his life had some meaning.

‘Take care,’ Edward urged. ‘Promise me that you won’t do anything foolish.’

‘If there are highwaymen about, I shall toss them your money with abandon. Believe me, Edward, I am not looking for adventure.’

Simply a little fresh air and anonymity. Both to be enjoyed with no one hovering over him.

He knew very well what the next argument advanced against this journey would be. It was one he had heard ad infinitum during the tedious days of his recuperation.

He didn’t intend to listen to another injunction that he must guard his fragile health. Not today. Today was an opportunity to escape the confines of that familial concern.

‘If I don’t start now, however, I shall not make Buxton by nightfall. I don’t fancy spending a night in the open. The dampness, you know.’ Unable to resist, Rhys closed his right hand into a fist, which he tapped lightly against the centre of his chest.

Edward’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but at the last second he came to his senses or perhaps he glimpsed the teasing light in his brother’s eyes. In any case, Edward clamped his lips shut before he nodded.

‘Off to adventure then,’ Rhys said, gesturing his brother out of the chamber door ahead of him.

‘Dear God, I hope not, ‘Edward muttered as he passed.

Rhys grinned again, but somewhere in the back of his mind was an acknowledgement that a small adventure would not come amiss. Perhaps he was not quite so ready for that promised boredom as he had imagined.




Chapter One







Rhys had kept the promise he’d given his brother about the leisurely pace of his journey. In actuality, the first day he’d spent in the saddle had reminded him of exactly how long it had been since he’d ridden any distance at all.

He had reached the inn at Buxton in the early afternoon, more than willing to continue the longer portion of his trip on the following day. His godfather’s invitation, issued some weeks ago, had been open-ended, and despite Rhys’s outward show of confidence, he had been concerned enough about his stamina to phrase his acceptance in like terms.

He was pleased that, despite the protest of sore muscles, he’d been up and on his way fairly early the next morning. The crisp autumn air had been an elixir for the ennui of the last few months. As had the beauty of the downs, still green despite the turning leaves.

A shout brought his mount’s head up and Rhys’s wandering attention back to the present. A young girl, screaming something unintelligible, ran across the meadow below him.

Instinctively his eyes swept the countryside behind her. There was no sign of pursuit.

Rhys’s gaze then tracked across the area in front of the running girl, where he quickly discovered the object of her concern. A child, her long pale hair streaming behind her like a banner, flew across the rough ground.

His lips lifted in response, remembering his own childhood. A day such as this had too often lured him from his studies. He had been older than this little girl, and he had usually paid the price for his escapades with a hiding from his tutor, but he had always considered those rare tastes of freedom to have been well worth the pain.

Almost idly, he considered the landscape that stretched in front of the child. As he did, the reminiscent smile faded.

From his vantage point, it was apparent that the field she flew across ended abruptly at a steep escarpment, one of many scattered throughout the area. The land rose slightly just before its edge and then fell away as if sliced by a giant’s knife. Below the dropoff, the shining surface of the rain-swollen stream glinted in the morning sun.

His eyes flicked back to the child, who was now toiling up the rise that led to the cliff. There was no way she could see what lay beyond. And no way, he realized, his gaze tracking backward, that the bigger girl running behind could intercept her before she reached the precipice.

As soon as he reached that conclusion, Rhys dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. Startled, his brother’s bay leaped forward, taking the slope at a dangerous pace. As soon as they reached the meadow, Rhys crouched low over the gelding’s neck, urging him to an even greater speed. They raced diagonally across the expanse of flat ground, Rhys’s eyes focused on that distant gleam of blonde hair.

Despite the best efforts of the horse, they seemed to move as slowly as in a dream. Or a nightmare.

The child came closer and closer to the edge as Rhys’s heart hammered in his ears, drowning out the pounding hooves of the beast that strained beneath him. He was aware almost subliminally that the older girl continued to scream, which had no more effect than before.

Rhys pressed his mount on, feeling its muscles begin to tremble beneath him. As he closed the distance between them, the object of his frantic chase evinced no awareness of his pursuit. She ignored horseand rider as completely as she ignored the importuning cries of her caregiver.

As the little girl neared the lip of the rise, Rhys balanced his weight to the left, preparing to lean down and pick her up on the run. He had no other choice. She would be over the edge before he had time to dismount. And despite the noise they were making, she still seemed oblivious to their approach.

Guiding his horse on a course parallel to the treacherous edge of the cliff, he leaned to the side as he drew near, stretching out his left arm.

Despite the pain of that movement, he was determined to grasp the child’s clothing and snatch her away from danger. He added his own warning shouts to those of the nursemaid, but she continued to ignore both.

His heart lodged in his throat, Rhys knew it would be a matter of inches. One chance to catch hair or fabric before the child’s headlong rush carried her over the cliff.

As he prepared for the attempt, the little girl turned, finally reacting to his presence. He watched her blue eyes stretch impossibly wide when she caught sight of the horse.

In that split second, Rhys’s straining fingers touched the back of her dress. As she dodged away from his reaching hand, the ground beneath her seemed to give way, sending her tumbling over the edge.

The gelding was close enough to the precipice that Rhys could feel the crumbling earth shift under its weight. Frantically, he turned his mount aside. As soon as they were back on solid ground, he pulled the horse up. He had dismounted before their forward motion stopped. Running back to the place where the child had disappeared, he peered over.

The height was not so great as he’d feared. Below him, caught in the slowly moving current, a foam of white petticoat was clearly visible. The girl’s long hair, darkened by its immersion, floated behind.

He examined the bank, desperately searching for a way down. There was none. Other than that which the child had just taken.

His searching gaze found her again in time to see her disappear beneath the surface. Without another second’s hesitation, Rhys jumped, following her into the water.

It was far colder than he had expected, even for September. He fought his way to the surface, the weight of his boots pulling against him.

As soon as his head broke free, he began to scan the surface. Kicking, stroking with both arms, unconscious now of the pain and the limited range of motion of the left, he kept himself afloat as he waited for the child’s re-emergence.

As soon as he’d spotted her, he began to swim. He had always been a strong swimmer, but as during that frantic race across the meadow, he felt as if he were making little progress.

The little girl was being carried downstream by thecurrent more swiftly than his one-sided stroke could propel him. If she went under again…

Frantic at that thought, he urged his tiring body to a greater effort, one he would not have believed possible only seconds before. There was no time to look for her. He swam by instinct, or by faith, and finally was rewarded.

The fingers of his right hand, extended to the limit of his arm’s reach, touched something, only to have it slip away from his grasp. In some diminishing corner of rationality, he knew that what he’d felt might have been anything. A broken limb or some other piece of flotsam.

If it were, then all was lost. The only chance he had to rescue the child was if she were indeed the object his hand encountered. He knew she would not surface again.

Trusting once more to his instincts, Rhys dove beneath the surface, kicking with the last of his strength to force his body deeper. He opened his eyes, straining to see through the silt, and caught a glimpse of something that glittered before him like threads of gold.

He reached for them, strands of her hair gliding through his fingers as she continued to sink. Desperately he closed his fist around a handful.

Once his hold was secure, he began the laborious process of dragging himself and the drowning child to the surface. Sunlight beckoned from above. The same glint that had warned him before of danger now offered the promise of safety. If only he could reach it and then fight the current to shore.

His head finally broke the surface, his mouth open to draw in a gasping, shuddering lungful of air. At the same time, he awkwardly manoeuvered the child’s body so that her face, too, was above the water.

She had appeared so small when viewed from above. Now her weight seemed more than his numbed arms and fading strength could manage.

He had come too far to turn back, he told himself, calling on the same determination that had seen him through every danger and deprivation the French could throw at him. He would get her out or die trying.

And he well might, he conceded, when his eyes found the nearer bank. The distance seemed overwhelming, as did the child’s weight.

He glanced down at her face. Translucent eyelids, through which he could see a delicate cobweb of veins, hid the blue eyes. The water spiked colourless lashes, which lay like fans against the paleness of her cheeks. Her lips, blue with cold, were open, but no breath stirred between them.

Rhys had seen death more times than he could bear to remember, but never that of a child. And despite the damning evidence before him, he was unwilling to concede this one.

If he hadn’t startled her, perhaps she wouldn’t have taken that final step toward the edge. Her death would be on his hands, something he was unwilling to live with for the rest of his life.

There was nothing he could do for her here. Her only chance—his only chance—was if he could get her to shore.

Lungs aching with cold and fatigue, he forced his damaged arm around the child’s midriff. Then he leaned to his right, almost lying on his side in the water. Using his good arm, he laboriously began to swim toward the bank.

The girl lay practically atop his body, but his hold on her was precarious. Several times he had to stop and grasp her more firmly around the waist. The second time he did, she stirred, coughing a little.

That small sign of life gave him a renewed burst of courage, and he continued to pull himself and his burden across the deadly swiftness of the current. He refused to look at the shore, afraid that the distance remaining would defeat the thread of determination, all that sustained him now. That and the thought that if he let this little girl die, her blood would be eternally on his hands.

He was almost too exhausted to realize what had happened when his hand made contact with the bottom. He turned his head and saw that only a few feet separated him from his goal.

He allowed his feet to drift downward, feeling the silt shift beneath them. Holding the girl now in both arms, he dragged himself from the water. Staggering under the weight of his burden and his own exhaustion, he had taken only a couple of steps onto the verge before his knees gave way.

He attempted to break his fall, but his left hand slid across the slick rocks, throwing him forward. Unable to use his right arm, which was still wrapped around the child, to cushion his landing, his temple struck one of the stones.

The girl he had carried from the water rolled out of his arm to lie beside him. Wide blue eyes, opened now and staring into his, were the last thing he saw before the world faded into oblivion.

Nadya Argentari watched her grandmother sort through the goods in the peddler’s wagon. The quick movements of her gnarled fingers expressed contempt for their quality, but the three of them understood that was part of the timeless ritual in which they were engaged. Items would be selected, bartered for and finally accepted with the same lack of enthusiasm the old woman displayed while assessing them.

Having watched this process a hundred times, Nadya lifted her eyes to survey the somnolent encampment. She realized only now that, while she’d been helping her grandmother, the sun had slipped very low in the sky.

Anis should have brought Angel home long before now. Almost before the knot of anxiety had time to form in her chest, Nadya saw the fair hair of herdaughter catch the dappled light under the beech trees as she and the girl who had been instructed to take her for a walk moved toward the centre of the Romany camp.

Nadya raised her hand to wave. Angel broke away from her caretaker, running toward her mother and great-grandmother. She threw herself against Nadya’s legs, burying her face in her skirts. Laughing, Nadya put her hand on the little girl’s head, running her fingers through the colourless silk of her hair.

‘Did you have a good walk?’ she asked, raising her eyes to the twelve-year-old who trailed behind her charge.

The older girl nodded, her eyes shifting quickly to the old woman, who was still occupied with her examination of the goods in the cart. ‘I need to help my mother now. If that’s all right, drabarni,’ she added deferentially.

Nadya was accustomed to such deference. After all, the Argentari were one of the kumpania’s most prominent families, and her own reputation as a healer was unsurpassed among their people.

Nadya had almost nodded permission before she began to wonder why the girl was in such a hurry to be away. Her earlier anxiety resurfaced, causing her to pry her daughter’s fingers from her skirt so that she could get a good look at the little girl’s face.

The smudges on Angeline’s dress and her disordered hair didn’t concern her. Released from the confines of the camp, her daughter tended to run wild through the fields that lay just beyond the great forest. Perhapsshe’d fallen, and Anis was afraid she would be blamed for the accident.

‘Did something happen during your walk?’

The older girl’s downcast eyes flew upward. Her mouth opened and then closed, but eventually she shook her head.

‘Then why are you lying to the drabarni?’

Until her grandmother’s question, Nadya hadn’t realized Magda was listening to this. She knew the old woman would be angry to have her bargaining interrupted. Still, Magda had grown to love her great-granddaughter with a fervour that almost matched Nadya’s own.

‘You think she’s lying?’ Alerted by her grandmother’s observation, Nadya examined the girl’s face.

Anis’s gaze darted from one to the other, but it was Magda she answered, as befitted the old woman’s esteemed position in the tribe. ‘Nothing happened. I swear it, chivani.’

‘Be careful what you swear to, little one. Tell the truth, and I’ll see to it that no blame comes to you.’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ Nadya warned, kneeling to examine her daughter more carefully.

By now she had recognized that her grandmother was right. For some reason the girl who’d been instructed to look after Angeline was lying.

As Nadya put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, what she had failed to notice earlier became apparent. The child’s clothing was damp.

‘Why is this wet?’ she demanded.

Anis licked her lips. Her eyes moved again to Magda. Whatever warning or promise of succour she saw there convinced her to tell the truth. ‘Because she fell into the water.’

For a moment, the words made no sense. The only stream within walking distance ran through the small gorge it had cut into the chalk cliffs.

‘Fell? How could she possibly fall into the water?’ Even as she posed the question, Nadya’s hands were busy feeling along her daughter’s small, delicate body, searching for injuries.

When she raised her gaze again, reassured that the child was apparently undamaged, despite her misadventure, the older girl had begun to cry, tears coursing down her reddened cheeks.

‘I asked how she fell.’

‘She started running, drabarni. Across the meadow. I couldn’t catch her. I tried, chivani,’ she added, pleading her case now to Magda. ‘I didn’t think about the stream. I didn’t think she could run that far.’

‘And she just ran to the cliff edge and fell off?’

The girl hesitated, but her eyes had returned to Nadya’s face. Finally she nodded.

Relieved that what could have been a terrible tragedy seemed to have ended with no ill effects, Nadya pulled her daughter close, once more made aware of the state of her garments. She rose, intending to carry the little girl to her caravan to get her into something dry.

‘And you pulled her out?’ Magda’s tone was of interest only and not the least accusatory. ‘How very brave of you. Perhaps I should give you a reward for taking such good care of my chaveske chei.’

The older girl’s head moved slowly from side to side. Her eyes never left Magda’s, mesmerized by the old woman’s tone as the cobra is fascinated by the music of the snake charmer.

‘No?’ Magda asked kindly. ‘You don’t deserve a reward?’

The side-to-side motion was repeated.

‘Because someone else pulled her from the water,’ Magda suggested softly. ‘Isn’t that the truth of this?’

The answer was clear in the girl’s eyes even before she nodded. Although she was celebrated for her fortune-telling abilities, Nadya knew that whatever gift Magda had been born with was augmented by a keen understanding of human nature. She had read the truth behind the girl’s lies as if it had been written in a book.

‘Who?’ Nadya demanded.

As if she had been following the conversation, Angeline took her mother’s hand and pulled, urging her to go with her. The wide blue eyes shifted from Nadya’s face to the line of beeches from which the two girls had emerged.

Then, with her free hand, the child made the first sign Nadya had ever taught her. The one that carried the strongest possible warning she could ever have given her daughter.

Gadje. The word used to indicate anyone not Romany.

Nadya’s eyes met her grandmother’s. The old woman lifted her brows as if to ask, ‘What will you do now?’

‘Did you see him? The gaujo?’ Even as Nadya questioned the older girl, Angeline tugged at her hand, trying to draw her toward the woods.

‘She didn’t want to leave him. She made us stay by him all afternoon,’ Anis said, ‘but he was too heavy to move.’

As Nadya struggled to make sense of the words, she realized that she was dealing with someone who was little more than a child herself. Someone into whose care she had foolishly trusted her daughter.

‘Are you saying that the man who saved Angel was injured? And you left him there?’

‘I tried to wake him, drabarni.’ The girl scrubbed at her tear-stained cheeks with grubby knuckles. ‘But it was late. I knew we should get back or you’d be angry.’

‘So you left him.’

‘He’s gadje,’ the child said dismissively. ‘Let them look after him.’

‘What if he’d said that about Angel?’

‘But drabarni, she’s…’ The words the girl had been about to offer in her own defence died unspoken.

‘Can you take me to him?’

Looking after this gaujo wasn’t a responsibility Nadya wanted. Nor was it one she would ever have sought, despite her skills.

Whatever else the injured man was, however, he was apparently Angeline’s saviour. Seeing to his safety was an obligation she couldn’t refuse. Not according to tribal law.

Or, she acknowledged, her own sense of right and wrong.




Chapter Two







Darkness had fallen before they reached the escarpment where Angeline had fallen. Under Nadya’s direction, the men of the tribe had come prepared for that eventuality. Their hand-held torches led the way for the small procession that followed them down the steep slope to the stream.

The light, horse-drawn cart they had brought to carry the gaujo, living or dead, back to camp had been left at the top. Under Nadya’s watchful eye, they searched the bank of the stream, softly calling directions to one another in the stillness of the sleeping countryside.

Angeline had refused to be left behind. She’dscreamed uncontrollably, seemingly inconsolable, until Nadya had relented. Now she huddled against her mother’s skirts, eyes wide as she watched the searchers.

Anis, who had been brought to give directions, stood off to one side. She seemed reluctant to get near enough to Nadya to chance the punishment the girl still feared would be inflicted.

Although she had been angry at first, by now Nadya had acknowledged that what happened wasn’t Anis’s fault. The responsibility for this near disaster lay squarely on her shoulders for trusting someone else to look after her daughter. That was her job—her joy—and the thought of what might have happened…

‘We found him, drabarni.’

The shout prevented her from having to acknowledge that terrible what-might-have-been. Taking Angel’s hand, she hurried to the place where the men were gathered around something on the ground. Sparks from their torches swirled in the wind.

‘Is he alive?’ Her voice sounded tremulous in her own ears.

‘For now. Whether he’ll stay that way…’The shrug that accompanied Andrash’s comment seemed as heartless as the flash of his white teeth revealed by the torchlight. What did he care about a gaujo, even one who’d saved the life of a little girl?

‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Nicolaus asked as four of them hefted the man’s limp bodybetween them, carrying it as they would have a boar they’d killed in the forest.

Although her grandmother would disapprove, Nadya knew there was only one answer. ‘Take him to my caravan.’

Her instructions didn’t cause even a raised brow among the men. After all, that’s where she had cared for Nicolaus when he’d broken his arm and where she had stitched up the knife wound in Michael’s shoulder.

The vardo was also where she kept all of her remedies. At least until she knew what she was dealing with, it was the only possible place for the injured gaujo.

As the men passed by, Panuel leading the way with two of the torches, Nadya caught a glimpse of the face of the man they carried. The flickering firelight seemed to emphasize his features: high cheekbones, reddened now with the cold; an almost roman nose; and an equally strong chin. She found herself wondering about the colour of his eyes and his hair, darkened now by the water.

As the small cavalcade began to struggle up the slope, a tug on her skirt brought Nadya’s gaze down to her daughter, who was standing at her knee. The tear tracks beneath her eyes were exposed by the same torchlight that had illuminated the injured man’s countenance.

Nadya smiled at the little girl as she nodded reassurance. Then, unable to resist the impulse, despite the child’s disobedience to Anis and the tantrum she’dthrown at the threat of being left behind, Nadya bent and put one arm around the small shoulders, pulling Angel close.

‘It’s all right,’ she said aloud. With the thumb of her other hand she made a soothing gesture along the child’s cheek. ‘We’ll fix him.’ Leaning back, Nadya added another smile to the words her daughter couldn’t hear.

With the reassurance of her mother’s touch, the concern in the blue eyes melted away. Their focus shifted to the older girl. Seeing the direction of her daughter’s gaze, Nadya tilted her chin upward, giving permission.

The child ran to where Anis stood, her arms wrapped tightly around her thin body. Angeline tugged at the older girl’s hand until she bent down. Then the child drew her tiny thumb along Anis’s cheek, repeating the gesture her mother had made.

As she watched the scene, a reluctant smile tugged at Nadya’s lips. Whatever heartache this little one had known, it was clear all was now right in her world.

And thanks to the actions of the unknown gaujo, in Nadya’s as well.

She owed her daughter’s life to the man being carried up the slope to the waiting cart. Whatever she had to do in order to satisfy that debt, she vowed it would be paid.

When the men had deposited the gaujo on the bed at the front of the caravan, they stood in its narrow aisle, awaiting Nadya’s instructions. If she asked them, they would remove his wet clothing, but she found that, despite the shivers that now occasionally racked his body, she would rather do all that herself.

There was little room in her profession for prudishness. Not when lives were at stake. That was the first thing her paternal grandmother, who had been drabarni before her, had taught her. The mysteries of the human body. All of them.

‘Thank you,’ she said to the men without looking up.

‘You want us to help you undress him, drabarni?’

‘I’m not sure how badly he’s injured. Maybe it would be better if I determine that first.’

‘As you wish, drabarni. Call us when you need us.’

She had asked Anis to take Angeline to Magda for the night, so that, as the last of her helpers exited her caravan, she found herself alone with the Englishman. She bent over the platform bed she had converted for her patients’ use from what had once been her father’s workbench.

Thom Argentari had been a silversmith of great renown, even in the world of the gadje. He had bought this caravan from a travelling showman in order to have a safe place to keep his tools and the precious gemstones and metals with which he worked. At his death, the vardo had passed to Nadya.

As soon as she’d entered tonight, she had lit the lamp that provided light for the front of the caravan. Now, as she moved it to the table at the head of the bed, her initial impression of the injured man’s features was verified.

The gaujo would be considered handsome by any standards. Even, she acknowledged, her too exacting ones.

Dismissing that evaluation from her mind, she gently turned his face into the lamplight, examining it for injuries. She found what she had expected, given his prolonged unconsciousness, above his left temple. The gash no longer bled, but with a blow to the head, she knew that whatever was going on beneath the skin was often more serious than what was visible.

Carefully, using only the sensitive tips of her fingers, she felt the area around the cut. Then, using the same method, she traced over the rest of his skull, searching for the telltale signs of fracture as her grandmother had taught her.

When she straightened, this part of her examination complete, it was with a sense of relief. She had felt no breaks in the bone that protected the brain. As for his continuing unconsciousness.

She shook her head, still puzzled by that. Then she directed the same careful attention she’d given his head to the rest of his body. She felt along his torso and then down each extremity, looking for damage, which her experienced fingers would quickly identify. Once more she discovered nothing.

Now she sat down on the edge of the bed besideher patient. She struggled a moment to understand the intricate folds of the knotted cloth at his neck, but was soon able to pull it free. When she had, she pushed aside the edges of his shirt to expose his throat.

She placed her fingers against the pulse in his neck, reassured by its strong and steady beat. After a moment, she raised her hand to put the back of it against his forehead.

The heat she found there confirmed her suspicions. Since she had found no other injury that would explain his condition, the gaujo was obviously developing a fever, undoubtedly the result of exposure after his immersion in the icy water.

As she began to take off the rest of his garments, she tamped down a renewed sense of outrage at the girl who had left him, injured and alone, on its banks. Quickly discovering the impossibility of removing his coat, given the fashionable snugness of its fit, she briefly considered sending for her helpers. Instead, in the interest of efficiency, she used the tip of a knife to slit the seams, removing it in pieces and then the waistcoat.

She decided that, with its looser fit, she should be able to take off his shirt by slitting it from the deep neck opening to the hem. Once that was done, she eased his right arm from its sleeve by the simple expedient of rolling his body slightly toward the front of the bed as she’d worked the material off.

That accomplished, she slipped her arm under his left shoulder in order to push his torso in the opposite direction, which would then allow her to remove the other sleeve. As soon as she applied pressure, he moaned, the sound low and anguished, as inarticulate as an animal in pain.

Startled, Nadya glanced up to find his eyes were still closed. Perhaps this shoulder had been dislocated when he’d jumped into the water. That could be remedied easily enough, although she would have to call the men back in to hold him while she manipulated the joint into place.

She eased him down against the bed and then pushed aside his shirt. As soon as she did, she realized the injury that had caused him to cry out in pain had been inflicted long before his rescue of Angeline. Hardened by years of dealing with the variety of wounds and accidents suffered by members of the tribe, she was still shocked by the extent of the scarring. Was it possible he still had the use of his arm after such damage?

She pushed his sleeve upward, revealing that the muscle in both the lower and upper arm appeared almost normal. Despite whatever had happened to him, the limb hadn’t atrophied. Manipulating his shoulder more carefully now, she managed to remove the shirt without provoking any other outcry.

As she tucked a dry blanket around her patient, she bent to take another look at the cut on his head. There was still no swelling, and the clot seemed to be holding.

Other than that, she had found no evidence of new injuries. In an older person, she might suspect an inflammation of the lungs. In someone his age, who seemed to be in relatively good physical condition, that seemed unlikely.

All she could do tonight was watch over him. If his fever increased, there were remedies for that, even if she was unsure of its cause.

In her very limited experience with prolonged unconsciousness, there were only two possible outcomes. He would wake up on his own, his faculties intact. If he didn’t, eventually he would die. And despite all her grandmother’s careful teaching, Nadya knew of nothing that could tip the scales toward the more favourable outcome.

As she had expected, due to the rapid onset of symptoms, her patient’s fever began to climb during the night. She knew that her English colleagues, with the advantage of their medical degrees, would at this point begin a very rigidly proscribed course of treatment. The patient would be bled and then blistered. If the fever did not abate, both remedies would be repeated until it did. Or until he died.

Nadya instituted instead a regimen she had learned from her grandmother. She’d had the men remove the rest of his clothing, and then, despite the night chill, she pulled the blankets they had put over the Englishman down to his waist. Using a cloth dipped into a basin of water drawn from the barrel that served as the camp’s cistern, she bathed his face, neck and torso.

At first, his shivering had increased, so strongly that at one point his teeth rattled with the strength of the tremors. He tossed and turned, as if trying to escape the discomfort of what she was doing, but she persisted.

On the morning of the third day, when the congestion of the lungs she feared had not materialized, she added another of her grandmother’s remedies to the treatment. With endless patience she dribbled tea brewed from her small supply of a dried bark, supposedly acquired from some medicinal tree in Peru, between his parched lips.

At some point during her vigil, the Englishman’s inarticulate noises had become words. Uttered in the throes of delirium, they made no sense to Nadya, but she listened as he called names and issued directives to the phantoms he seemed to believe had gathered around his bed.

Finally, near dawn on the sixth day, her efforts were rewarded by the formation of a dew of perspiration along his upper lip. Exhausted, unable to remember the last time she had eaten a complete meal or slept for more than a few restless hours, Nadya discarded her basin and cloth as the rays of the sun crept steadily into the caravan.

She sat down on the low stool beside her patient’s bed and laid the back of her hand against the gaujo’sbrow, which was as cool as her own. Now that the fever was broken, his body would attempt to heal itself through sleep. Not the restless, fever-induced unconsciousness of the last few days, but a restorative rest that would almost certainly last for several hours.

Since it was safe to leave him, she would ask Magda or one of the other women to sit with him. She needed something to eat. And after she’d seen Angel, a few blessed hours of uninterrupted sleep for herself.

Rhys opened his eyes and then quickly closed them against the light that had seemed to stab through them, like a knife thrust into his brain. On some level, he realized that he had been aware of the agony in his head for a long time. Finally, its persistence had dragged him from sleep.

He had a vague memory of being carried from the field, but he couldn’t think what battle they’d been engaged in. As adjutant, he should certainly know, but in spite of his struggle to remember, there was nothing about any of that left in his consciousness.

Perhaps that was because there was room there for nothing but pain. And a thirst so profound it was almost worse than the other.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Even in the makeshift field hospitals set up near the lines, someone always brought water to those awaiting treatment. If he could only make them aware of his need.

He dragged leaden eyelids upward again, but more cautiously this time. Through the slits he allowed, he saw that what he had avoided before was a single candle. And that its light was not bright at all.

He turned his head, trying to locate one of the orderlies or even a surgeon. A shard of the previous agony sliced through his skull.

He clenched his lips against the resultant wave of nausea, one so severe it threatened his determination never to move again. Hardly daring to breathe, he willed himself not to be sick.

He tried to think of something—anything—other than the overwhelming urge to vomit. And finally, in his travail, realized that in the split second his eyes had been open, some still-functioning part of his brain had recognized that, wherever he was, it was like no hospital he’d ever seen.

And like nowhere else he’d ever been.

Curiosity engendered by that realization was almost enough to quell his roiling stomach. His eyelids again opened a slit, and for the third time, he peered out between his lashes.

The light was definitely a candle. It had been pushed into a twisted holder made of some unidentifiable metal, blackened with age or use.

Beyond was a blur of colour, reds and golds predominating. He turned his head another fraction of an inch in an attempt to bring his surroundings into better focus.

The wall opposite where he lay was so close that, if he had had the strength, he could probably have stretched out his arm and touched it. And every inch of it, from floor to ceiling, was crowded with objects.

He allowed his gaze to follow their upward climb, trying to identify what was there. Baskets, woven of vine and stacked full of what appeared to be dried roots. Earthenware crocks, their tops sealed with wax. Glass jars whose contents were indistinguishable, dark and strangely shaped. And sitting incongruously in the middle of what he had now realized were a series of shelves was a rag doll, exactly like those sold in every penny shop in England.

England.

He was no longer in Spain, he knew with a flash of clarity. He hadn’t been for months.

If that were true.

He raised his right hand to touch his face. Clean-shaven. Which must mean he’d been here—wherever here was—only a short time.

His gaze came back to the table. A measuring cup and a small medicine bottle stood near its edge.

A memory swam to the surface of his consciousness. A pair of long, slender fingers had poured out a measure of the liquid the bottle contained. Then a hand had slipped behind his head, raising it enough to allow him to swallow the dose. He tried desperately to retrieve the image of the face of the person who had administered the medication, butthe only thing he could remember after that was the same searing pain he had experienced a few minutes ago.

He closed his eyes, releasing the breath he’d been holding in a long, slow sigh. Something moved against his leg. He opened his eyes to see what and realized gratefully that the pain in his head was less than before.

A little girl, perhaps four or five, stood beside his bed. Her eyes, the exact colour of the hyacinths that bloomed in his sister-in-law’s garden, were surrounded by long, nearly colourless lashes. In contrast, the unbound hair that framed her face seemed almost golden in the candlelight.

When she saw that his eyes were open, the child’s mouth rounded into an O of surprise. Clearly his visitor hadn’t expected him to be awake. Which made him wonder how many times she’d stood at his bedside as he slept.

‘Lo.’ His voice was little more than a croak, which made him remember his thirst.

The Cupid’s bow lips rounded even more. Then the child whirled and disappeared from his sight.

Rhys resisted the urge to follow her movement, remembering what that curiosity might cost him. Instead, he allowed his eyelids to fall once more.

Although there had been no physical activity during this brief period of wakefulness, he was aware of an almost terrifying sense of fatigue. Maybe he’d been wrong about the fever. Maybe someone had shaved him. Or maybe.

Suddenly, trying to piece together what might have happened became too difficult. And far less important than the sleep that again claimed him.




Chapter Three







‘Wake up, chavi.’

At the childhood term of endearment her grandmother still used for her, Nadya opened her eyes to find the old woman bending over the bed. Her first thought was that something had happened to her patient.

‘Is his fever up?’

‘No, no. That one’s fine.’

‘Then why aren’t you with the gaujo? You promised you’d watch him.’

‘Angel is watching him.’

‘Angel?’ Nadya struggled to clear the cobwebs from her brain as she sat up. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. All she knew with any certainty was that it hadn’t been nearly long enough. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Stephano’s back. I thought you would want to know.’

Although he was the Rom Baro, titular head of their kumpania, her half-brother had spent most of this year away from camp. And since Nadya had no doubt what his feelings would be about the Englishman she was caring for, to have Stephano unexpectedly show up now, with her patient on the verge of recovery, seemed the height of irony.

‘Have you told him about the gaujo?’

Nadya knew that if Magda hadn’t, she soon would. The old woman shared a bond with her grandson stronger even than that between the two of them.

‘He’s just arrived. I came to let you know while the others are welcoming him home.’

‘Someone’s bound to tell him.’

‘Of course they will, chavi. It’s his right to be told what has gone on here in his absence.’

‘That should take a while,’ Nadya said bitterly.

She flung her covers off and then ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to think. Her reasons for succouring her daughter’s rescuer were valid, but Stephano harboured a deep-seated hatred of all gadje, especially those belonging to the same social class as his English father.

To Nadya, that made the fact that Stephano chose to live among them rather than with his mother’s people more incomprehensible. Of course, her half-brother had been reared as a privileged member of that world for most of his childhood. In her opinion, the bitterness he felt for the gadje had far more to do with the interruption of that idyllic existence than did his Romany blood.

‘What are you going to do?’ Magda asked as Nadya threw her shawl around her shoulders.

‘See to my patient, who has apparently been left in the charge of a four-year-old.’

Nadya had hoped to return to her own caravan before her half-brother came looking for her, but as she descended the high steps of her grandmother’s vardo, she saw Stephano coming across the compound. His long stride checked when he spotted her.

‘We need to talk,’ he called.

‘Later. I have something important to see to.’ Pretending to believe that would satisfy him, she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and continued on her path.

She had no doubt Stephano would follow, but at least this way their confrontation wouldn’t be witnessed by the entire camp. As she hurried toward her wagon, head lowered against the bite of the evening wind, she almost ran into her daughter.

Angel grabbed a handful of her skirt, tugging at it imperiously. With one finger she pointed in the direction of the caravan they shared. Then, looking back up to make sure she had her mother’s attention, the little girl closed her eyes very tightly and before opening them wide again.

Apparently the Englishman was awake. Just in time to be introduced to her arrogant half-brother, Nadya thought resignedly.

A hand on her shoulder, as demanding as her daughter’s had been on her skirts, turned her. The sight of Stephano’s furious face drove any other consideration from her mind. Clearly, it hadn’t taken as long as she’d hoped for someone to share with him all that had happened while he was away.

Stephano opened his mouth, but Angel’s headlong rush toward him postponed whatever invective he’d been prepared to spew. His dark eyes flashed a warning to Nadya that this wasn’t the end of it before he bent to pick the little girl up and toss her high into the air. When he caught her, Angel wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging her uncle with delight.

‘Someone’s glad to see me.’ He looked pointedly at Nadya over her daughter’s shoulder.

‘I’m glad to see you. Actually, it’s been so long since you’ve graced us with your presence, I’d almost forgotten what you look like.’

‘Or perhaps you were too busy with other, more pressing concerns to think about me,’ he suggested with a mocking smile.

‘We all must be busy with something, I suppose.’

After her lightly veiled reference to Stephano’s mysterious affairs, she turned to continue walking toward her caravan, knowing he would follow. And every step he took lessened the odds that the others would overhear his tirade.

Of course, their grandmother had been correct. Stephano had every right to question her actions. Or those of any member of the kumpania.

Thus far, however, none of the others had seemed to find anything strange about what she’d been doing. And until the Englishman was well enough to leave, she had wished for nothing more devoutly than to keep it that way.

‘Why in God’s name would you do this?’

That demanding voice dragged Rhys reluctantly from sleep. He opened his eyes, instinctively searching for whoever had asked that question. Although it seemed he was now able to turn his head without setting off a cataclysm of pain, he couldn’t locate the speaker.

‘Because he saved Angel’s life,’ a woman said. ‘What would you have done?’

The answering shout of laughter was harsh. Full of derision. And clearly male.

Two voices. The feminine one low, almost musical. The other, the derisive one, was different somehow. A difference not only in tone and volume.

Rhys tried to piece together the clues that had led him to that conclusion. Only when he realized the argument he was eavesdropping on concerned him, did he give up that frustrating process.

‘What would I have done? I should have wondered briefly at his motives,’ the masculine voice mocked, ‘and then forgotten him.’

‘I don’t believe even you are that cynical.’

‘Cynical enough to know that no gadje means us well.’

‘He saved my daughter’s life.’

‘Angel isn’t your daughter.’

‘In every way that matters. Don’t judge me by their standards.’

The masculine laughter this time was softer. No longer derisive. ‘You’re right. You aren’t one of them. But he is. The sooner he’s gone, the better for all of us.’

‘What if I tell you he’s my guest?’ In their culture guests were treated with great courtesy, given the finest food and drink, even if that might be a hardship for the host.

‘I’d say that he’s been your guest long enough. I want him away from here.’

‘He isn’t well enough—’

‘Then let his own care for him. Get rid of him, Nadya. I mean it.’

‘Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.’ The feminine voice had now adopted the ripe sarcasm of the other. Her assumed humility dripped with it. ‘What else can I, a poor Gypsy girl, do to please his lordship?’

‘Stop it.’ Anger this time, rather than mockery.

‘I don’t tell you what you should do, Stephano. Youdo what you feel you must. I understand that. So remember, please, that I’m not yours to command.’

‘Get rid of him.’ The man’s voice was deadly quiet. Whatever raillery had been between the two had faded into animosity.’ Or had you rather I arrange that myself before I leave?’ he asked silkily.

‘If you do,’ the woman said, ‘you’ll be sorry.’

‘Is that a threat, jel’enedra?’

‘I don’t make threats. You of all people should know that.’

The silence that followed lasted long enough that Rhys had time to wonder if the quarrelling pair had moved out of earshot.

‘Get rid of him, Nadya,’ the man said.’ Or I’ll do it when I return. I don’t want that gaujo here. And I still have the authority here to see to it that what I want happens. You of all people should know that!

A slight movement of the surface on which Rhys rested awakened him. Somewhere a door creaked open—a sound he knew he’d heard before. No light came into the room, but a whiff of wood smoke drifted inside before it closed.

Rhys’s eyes strained against the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the person who’d entered. The sound of a flint being struck across the room preceded the faint glow of a candle.

He lay perfectly still, waiting for the person who’d lit it to move into his field of vision. As the light came closer, his heart rate increased slightly, driven by curiosity about the owner of the feminine voice he’d heard outside.

Her back to the bed, the woman set the candlestick down on the table where it had rested earlier. Curling black hair, held back by a kerchief, cascaded down her spine. The shawl around her shoulders was intricately patterned, its rich colours glowing faintly in the candlelight.

Finally she turned, reaching out to touch his forehead. Her hand hesitated in mid-air when she realized his eyes were open. As the long seconds ticked by, silently they regarded one another.

The mocking phrase ‘poor Gypsy girl’ had prepared Rhys for much of what he now saw. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the effect of the rest.

A few dusky curls escaped the restraining kerchief to cluster around the perfect oval of her face. Her skin, like the colours of the shawl, was almost luminous in the candle’s glow. Only the almond-shaped eyes, as black as her hair, hinted at the ethnic claim she had made during the argument he’d overheard.

Finally she swallowed, the candlelight tracing the movement down the slender column of her throat. ‘You’re awake.’

‘I don’t know. I think so.’

His meaning was ambiguous, even to him, but the corners of her lips curved upward. Coal-black lashes quickly fell to hide the laughter in her eyes, which she controlled before she looked up at him again.

‘Good.’ The hand she had begun to extend completed its journey, resting cool and light against his brow.

Something peculiar happened to Rhys’s breathing. The normal functioning of his heart and lungs seemed to hesitate for the first time in the thirty-two years of his existence. After a moment, the Gypsy removed her hand, allowing both to resume their normal rhythm.

‘No fever.’ Her pronouncement held a trace of satisfaction, as if she were somehow responsible for that.

He nodded agreement, and then realized he still had no idea why he was here—or even where here was. A dozen questions formed in his brain, but she turned away from the bed before his befuddled mind could frame them.

When she came back, the slim fingers he’d remembered held the medicine cup again. As she had before, she slipped her hand under the back of his head, lifting it enough to allow him to sip the liquid it contained.

The taste was bitter, almost numbing his tongue with its astringency. At least this time that, rather than the agony in his head, was his primary sensation. Relieved, he swallowed the remainder of the potion, realizing only after the fact that she might have been giving him anything.

‘Water?’ he requested hoarsely.

‘Of course.’

Again she moved out of his line of sight, giving him a brief respite from emotions that had been running rampant since the moment she’d appeared in front of him. Too long without a woman, his friends would have jeered. Time to think about settling down, his brother would have advised. Smitten, Abigail would have proclaimed smugly, just as she had when he’d obediently fetched punch at a country dance for the prospective bride she’d chosen for him.

Perhaps all of those things were true. Or perhaps his brain was merely addled by the pain in his head or by another attack of fever. Still, whatever had happened in the last few moments had been quite beyond his experience.

Smitten. He had never been completely sure what that term meant. Other than that someone was about to become an object of ridicule to his fellows.

The strange thing was he didn’t feel ridiculous at all. What he felt was as alien as his surroundings. Territory as unexplored as any he’d encountered during the long years he’d spent in Iberia.

‘Here.’

He lifted his eyes to find the girl leaning over his bed again. Once more she slipped her hand beneath his head, raising it as she placed a horn cup against his lips. He swallowed gratefully, the coolness of the water relieving the seemingly constant dryness of his throat.

As he drank, he was aware of her closeness. A strand of midnight hair had fallen over her shoulder to rest against his pillow. It smelled of sunshine.

She lowered the rim of the cup when he’d finished all it contained.’ Enough?’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Disoriented, ‘he answered truthfully. ‘Where are we?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘You’re in my home. Which at the moment happens to be in the middle of Harpsden Wood.’

‘At the moment?’

‘I fear you’ve fallen among the Rom, my lord. My home is on wheels.’

Fallen among the Rom…

Which made it sound as if he’d come here through some misadventure. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what that could have been.

‘Had I been overcome by fever?’

‘And a blow to the head.’ With her thumb she touched a place on his temple, causing him to flinch.

The movement was too sudden, setting off the now-familiar peal of anvils against his skull. He closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was endure until the pain and the nausea had faded.

‘I’m sorry. I should have known better. I can give you something for the pain.’

She began to turn, but before she could complete the motion, his fingers fastened around her wrist. ‘No.’

He’d had experience with the drugs the doctors gave to deaden pain. And far more memorable experiences with learning to do without them. He could better endure the ache in his head than endure that again.

Her eyes had widened at his command, but she didn’t argue. Nor did she pull her arm away.

‘As you wish,’ she said simply and then waited.

After a moment Rhys found the presence of mind to release her. Even after she’d gone, however, taking the candle with her, it seemed he could still feel beneath his fingertips the cool, smooth skin that covered the slender wrist he’d grasped.

And despite his exhaustion and the Gypsy’s potions, it was a long time before he could sleep.

Nadya blew out the candle she carried and set it down on the floor beside the bed in her grandmother’s caravan. Angeline was already asleep there, snuggled under the covers like a tired puppy.

Nadya lifted the piled quilts and slipped under them. She pulled the little girl to her, relishing the warmth of her body. Her chin settled atop the child’s head, but she didn’t close her eyes for a long time. Instead, she stared into the darkness, thinking about the Englishman.

Stephano’s ultimatum didn’t worry her. After all, he would be away for the next few days—as he had been for most of the spring and summer. Although her half-brother certainly had the authority he’d bragged about tonight, his own concerns had kept him from exercising the kind of control on the kumpania’s activities that her father had enforced. Besides, given the fact the gaujo was coherent tonight, his recovery would, in her experience, occur very quickly now.

It wasn’t the possibility that she couldn’t get him out of the encampment fast enough to suit Stephano that kept her awake, staring into the darkness long after her daughter had fallen back into the innocent sleep of childhood. It was rather, she finally conceded, the probability that he would be gone long before her halfbrother returned to see if his orders had been obeyed.

Why should she care if the gaujo she’d never laid eyes on until a week ago disappeared from her life? England was full of gadje. And most of the ones Nadya had met were more than eager to further their acquaintance with her.

So what could it possibly matter if she never saw this one again? she asked herself with a small shrug of disdain. Feeling that motion, Angeline turned, settling more closely against her. As she returned the little girl’s embrace, Nadya reiterated the mantra she’d only tonight found necessary to formulate.

She had everything she needed. A child she loved. Respect in her community. More than enough money to meet her needs and the capacity for earning more.

Everything, she told herself again, she could possibly want.

Even as the thought formed, she knew it for the lie it was. She had the same physical needs of every otherwoman. And, though the capability to assuage her needs was always at hand, both here in camp and elsewhere, she had so far chosen not to avail herself of those opportunities.

More fool you. If you have an itch for a man, there are far better choices than a gadje lord.

That sort of liaison had never meant anything but dishonour and heartbreak for her kind.

She knew that. Had long ago acknowledged it. Yet tonight.

Tonight, when she had leaned down to put the cup to the Englishman’s lips, she had instead wanted to fasten her own over them. To taste his kiss. To know, however briefly, what it would feel like to be held in his arms.

And for the first time in her very pragmatic existence, Nadya Argentari couldn’t rationalize away the strength of that very emotional response. Or deny its reality.

She was still trying when she fell asleep.




Chapter Four







Rhys opened his eyes to sunlight. The first thing he realized was that it didn’t hurt his head. The second was that it allowed him to get a much better look at his surroundings than he had been able to before.

He knew, because the Gypsy girl had told him, that he was in her caravan. Her home on wheels.

This morning, a section of wall in the part where he lay had been propped open to allow both light and fresh air inside. The slightly medicinal scent he’d been aware of last night had been replaced by the crispness of the English countryside in autumn.

He drew a deep, savouring breath of it into his lungs. As he did, he identified other smells, familiar from his campaigning days. Wood smoke. Fresh meat turning on a spit somewhere.

The sounds were the same as well, he realized. A low hum of conversation. The occasional masculine laugh.

A movement at the periphery of his vision caused him to turn his head. The little girl he’d seen yesterday was again standing at his bedside.

This time her lips immediately curved into a smile, which he couldn’t have resisted responding to, even if he’d been so inclined. She raised her hand and, holding it directly in front of his face, moved two of her fingers up and down.

Puzzled, he shook his head, attempting to soften the denial with another smile. She repeated the motion, cocking her head to the side when she was through, as if waiting for his response.

Again Rhys shook his head, relieved that the movement, which yesterday would have produced blinding pain, didn’t bother him at all this morning. ‘I don’t understand,’ he confessed.

Once more the child made the gesture, clearly frustrated with his lack of understanding.

‘I’m sorry, little one.’ he began.

Apparently, she’d had enough. She turned, disappearing from his field of vision.

Alone again, Rhys raised his eyes to the opening at the end of the caravan. The beech leaves were molten gold in the morning sun. As they swayed in the wind, they cast dappled patterns of light and shade onto the walls of the caravan, reminding him of the countryside he’d ridden through after he’d left Buxton. And, he realized, that was the last thing he did remember.

I fear you’ve fallen among the Rom, the woman had told him. But she’d given him no explanation of how that had occurred. Or of how he’d been injured.

No matter how hard he tried, searching his memory for answers, he could remember almost nothing after he left the inn. All he knew was that he’d been thoroughly enjoying his first taste of freedom since he’d returned to England.

It was possible he’d been attacked by robbers. If so, he had no memory of it. Still, being set upon by highwaymen would explain the blow to the head, so that version of events seemed logical. Whether the Gypsies had been his attackers or his rescuers, however—

‘Angel said you were awake. How do you feel?’

The woman who’d given him the medicine last night was back. Today the kerchief had been replaced by two gold combs, which glittered among her midnight curls as if bejewelled.

The shawl that had covered her shoulders had also disappeared. The cap-sleeved blouse she wore would offer little protection against the morning’s chill, but the white fabric flattered the smooth tan of her shoulders.

Despite its décolleté, something he was suddenly extremely aware of, the garment was no more revealing than the gowns he’d seen at the country party his sister-in-law had dragged him to. Merely the fashion, he told himself. Still, he hadn’t reacted to those rounded white shoulders in quite the same way his body was responding to these.

‘Angel?’ The question was a form of self-defence, since he was certain of the source of her information.

‘Her name’s Angeline, but… ‘The woman shrugged, the movement again drawing his eyes to the beginning curve of her breasts, visible above the low neckline.

Rhys raised his eyes, smiling into hers. ‘I’m afraid she wasn’t very pleased with me.’

‘Really? She seemed excited you’re awake.’

‘She kept doing something with her fingers. I think she expected me to be able to figure out what it was, but.’ He shook his head.

‘Can you show me?’

Feeling foolish for having brought it up, Rhys repeated the gesture the child had made.

The woman laughed. ‘She wanted you to come with her. And since she is, I’m afraid, too accustomed to having her own way, I’m sure she thought you wouldn’t hesitate to oblige.’

‘I should have tried. If she’d told me what she wanted.’

‘Angel doesn’t speak. Nor does she hear what we say.’

‘She’s deaf,’ Rhys spoke the sudden realization aloud, and then wondered at his own stupidity in not understanding the situation sooner. ‘Forgive me. You must think me very slow.’

‘I think you’ve had a severe blow to the head. It’s to be expected that things seem strange. As all of thiscertainly must.’ One slender hand gestured at their surroundings.

‘You said last night I’d “fallen in” with your people. I’m afraid I can’t remember how that happened.’

Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Nothing?’

‘Very little beyond setting out from the inn at Buxton. I assume that was yesterday morning. Unless, that is, I’ve enjoyed your hospitality longer than I’m aware.’ His voice rose questioningly on the last.

‘Then…you don’t remember Angel at all?’

‘She was here once before when I woke up. That must have been…last night?’

‘Do you remember being brought here?’

‘I thought—’ Rhys hesitated, for some reason reluctant to confess that during that journey he had imagined he was back in Spain.’Perhaps,’he amended.’Parts of it.’

Even as he said that, it seemed he did remember. They’d put him on a cart of some kind. And the ground they’d pulled the conveyance over had been very uneven.

Rough enough, he thought with an unexpected clarity, that he’d been more than willing to sink back into the unconsciousness their painful ministrations had pulled him from.

‘What about my horse?’Another memory that had suddenly risen to the surface of his consciousness.

‘A gelded bay with a star on his forehead?’

‘That’s it. He’s my brother’s, actually. I should hate to lose him.’

Rhys had had several mounts shot out from under him in Iberia. More than enough to teach him not to become attached to any of them. Still the bay had been responsive, seeming as pleased with the freedom of their journey as Rhys had been.

‘One of the men found him this morning. Don’t worry. He’ll be ready for you when you’re well enough to ride.’

‘When do you think that will be?’ Right now, he couldn’t imagine sitting on a horse, but given the crowded conditions of her “home,” he also couldn’t imagine imposing on her any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘I’m a healer, not a fortune-teller, my lord,’ she said with a smile. ‘I can send for my grandmother if you’d like to make inquiries about your future.’

‘I’m no lord.’ Rhys wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important that she understand that.

‘All English gentlemen are lords to us.’ The smile tugged at the corners of her lips again. ‘We discovered long ago that a little flattery goes a long way. Especially when your livelihood depends upon the goodwill of those with whom you conduct business.’

‘And what kind of business do you conduct?’

Her chin tilted upward fractionally. ‘Assuredly not the kind you’re thinking of. As I told you, I have some small skill with herbs and potions. I can set bones and sew flesh so that the limbs involved are still usable. My grandmother can tell you what your future holds, ifyou’re foolish enough to desire that information. As for the others.’ She made that expressive movement with her shoulders again.’We’re blacksmiths, tinkers, leather workers, basket weavers, woodworkers. Craftsmen of all kinds. And we buy and sell all manner of things.’

The Rom were known for all those things. And for many others as well. For centuries every type of roguery—from cheating at games of chance to stealing children from their beds—had been laid at their door.

With that thought, the image of the little girl’s wide blue eyes surrounded by colourless lashes was in his mind’s eye. How did a child like Angeline come to be in a Gypsy camp? Rhys didn’t believe for a moment that Angel was her daughter.

That was, however, a subject he couldn’t afford to pursue. Not while he was flat on his back and at the mercy of these people. At least one of whom very much wanted him gone.

He wondered what this woman’s relationship was with the man who’d ordered her to get him out of camp. Was he the tribal leader? Her father? Husband? Lover?

The last two choices were more distasteful to him than they should be. Despite his attraction to her, the worlds they occupied were separated by an abyss of custom and prejudice. The Gypsy had taken care of him, for which he would always be grateful. As for the other.

The sooner he could leave, the better it would befor all concerned. The woman who had tended to him could once more have her home back. Whoever had demanded she get rid of him would be satisfied. And more important, Rhys would be on his way once more to his godfather’s house.

With the memory of his journey’s purpose, he realized that unless he sent word to Keddinton that he’d been delayed, his godfather was apt to sound the alarm, which would send Edward rushing into the countryside to find him. It was lucky he hadn’t been more exact in his letter about the date of his arrival. Perhaps if he sent Keddinton a message now, he could forestall the humiliation of his family’s search.

‘Some of you have occasion to travel outside this camp?’

‘Of course,’ Despite her ready agreement, the woman seemed puzzled by his question.

‘I was hoping someone could take a letter to my godfather, Viscount Keddinton. His home is Warrenford Park. NearWargrave. He’s expecting me. If I don’t show up there soon, he may institute a hue and cry.’

Although Rhys had attempted to phrase the possible consequence of his non-arrival lightheartedly, the woman’s face changed. Only then did he realize that his presence might represent a danger to the Rom. And on reflection, he had no doubt his brother and even Keddinton would assume the worst if he were discovered to be convalescing in a Gypsy encampment.

‘Of course,’ she said evenly.’I’ll bring you something with which to write your message and see that it’s delivered as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you. My arrangements were not so exact as to cause immediate concern, but I think it best we forestall any unnecessary worry.’

‘Of course,’ she said again, but her eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He had finally escaped his family’s solicitous care of him. Now he must concentrate on regaining his strength in order to escape the possibility of further humiliation. Not all of which, he admitted ruefully, involved his family.

‘How is he?’ Magda asked.

‘Stronger.’ Nadya dipped a ladle into the pot of porridge that hung over the fire near her grandmother’s caravan. She had already put the writing materials she’d promised the Englishman in the pocket of her apron. ‘He doesn’t remember what happened with Angel or how he came to be here.’

‘He doesn’t remember saving her?’

‘No. And I’m not sure it’s to our advantage to tell him.’

‘As it stands now, he believes he’s beholden to you. Magda had immediately grasped her dilemma.’If you tell him what he did for your daughter, the shoe is on the other foot.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And yet you feel like a cheat for not telling him.’

Nadya looked up at the old woman, marvellingagain at how easily she was able to read her thoughts. ‘He deserves my gratitude, Mami. If he hadn’t been there…’A tightness in her throat prevented her from finishing the thought.

‘It wasn’t only that he was there, chavi. According to the girl, he put his life at risk to save Angel.’

‘I know. And for a child he didn’t know. A child who was nothing to him.’

‘An English child. One of his own kind,’ Magda reminded her.’If your daughter had looked like you, chavi, I wonder if he would have gone into the water to rescue her.’

Nadya couldn’t argue with what her grandmother was suggesting. She had lived her entire life with the kind of unthinking prejudice that held her people to be less worthy of every measure of respect accorded to the fairer-skinned population among whom they lived.

‘What do you think?’ Magda asked.

‘About what?’Without meeting her grandmother’s eyes, Nadya wiped the rim of the bowl she’d just filled with the edge of her apron.

‘Do you think he would have done that for another child? For Tara? Or Racine?’

‘How should I know what the gaujo would do? All I know is what he did.’

‘And that’s enough for you?’

‘It’s enough for today,’ Nadya said as she straightened.

‘And for tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow he’ll be gone, and I won’t have to wonder about him ever again.’

The dark, far-seeing eyes of her grandmother held on hers. Then the thin lips, surrounded by their network of fine lines lifted, curving at the corners.’There are lies more believable than the truth, chavi. The one you just told isn’t one of them.’

‘Your old sayings may work with the gadje, Mami, who are willing to believe anything you tell them. You’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. Besides, Stephano has decreed I have to get rid of the Englishman before he returns.’

‘When have you ever worried about obeying Stephano’s orders? Except when they track with your own desires.’

‘Then isn’t it convenient that in this case they do? Go peddle your fortunes to the villagers. We shall need their shillings come winter.’

‘Before it, if we keep feeding strangers.’ One dark brow rose in challenge, but the old woman’s grin widened.

And when Nadya turned to take the gaujo’s breakfast to him, she, too, was smiling.

As she rounded the corner of her vardo, she discovered the Englishman dressed and sitting on its high seat. Flat on his back, he had sent her normally unflappable senses reeling. Upright, he proved to be even more of a threat to them.

Much the worse for its recent immersion as well as for the now-mended mutilation she’d performed on it, the lawn shirt was stretched across a pair of broad shoulders. She had removed his cravat when she undressed him. He hadn’t bothered to replace it today, so that the strong brown column of his neck was visible at the open throat.

‘Out for the sun?’ She shaded her eyes with her free hand to look up at it.

‘I thought it was past time I was up.’

‘Then you’ve discovered the answer to your question.’

‘My question?’

‘About when you’ll be well enough to ride.’

His lips flattened, but he didn’t respond to her teasing. She waited a moment, unsure what had just happened, and then held the bowl she carried up to him.

‘Do English lords eat porridge?’

‘I’m sure they do.’The green eyes again held a trace of amusement.

‘Do you?’

‘I have been known to partake of porridge. When I was lucky enough to have it at hand.’

‘Then…’ She lifted the bowl a little higher.

He hesitated a moment before he reached down to take her offering. ‘I’ll be more than happy to pay you for whatever you’ve expended on my care. If you’ll provide me with—’

She wasn’t sure what he saw in her face, but whatever it was stopped him in mid-sentence. ‘It’s porridge,’she said. ‘We’ve plenty of it. And no matter what you’ve heard, we aren’t accustomed to charging our guests for their food.’

‘I’m hardly a guest.’

According to his lights, he was right. He didn’t remember what he’d done to earn her gratitude, and she had thus far, for her own selfish reasons, chosen not to tell him. But it was past time for the truth.

‘You are my guest. An honoured one. For as long as you wish to stay.’

‘That’s very kind, but—’

‘You saved my daughter’s life,’ she interrupted. ‘At considerable risk to your own.’

‘Your daughter? Angel?’

‘She’d fallen into a stream, and you rescued her. I’m not sure when or how you struck your head, but it was in the course of that rescue.’

‘She told you that? I thought.’

‘The girl who was supposed to be watching her witnessed it all. You still don’t remember?’

A furrow appeared between his brows as if he were trying to. Finally he shook his head.

‘None of it. I remember riding out that morning, revelling in the freedom of being in the saddle, and then… I remember being placed on a cart. At least I think I do. That may have been something else—’ Again he hesitated.

‘Something else?’

It seemed the Englishman, too, had things he’d chosen not to reveal, but she couldn’t imagine what. If he remembered the rescue, then in his situation, it would be to his advantage to lay claim to his heroic actions.

‘Another memory, perhaps. I remember thinking at the time that I was being carried from the field. And then. then I thought I must have dreamed it.’

‘The field? A battlefield? You were a soldier?’

‘Better or worse than being a lord? ‘The amusement was back.

‘From my perspective? I suppose that would depend on whether or not you were a wealthy soldier.’

‘Another disappointment, I’m afraid. All the wealthy soldiers were lords. It takes a great deal of money to buy a commission these days.’ He spooned a bite of the porridge, blowing on it before he put it into his mouth.

‘Ah, well,’ she comforted as she watched him, ‘I suppose you’ll just have to share porridge with the rest of us then.’

‘And very good porridge it is, too. Thank you.’ He lifted the spoon in a small salute before he used it to secure another bite. ‘For this and everything else.’

‘I believe the weight of debt is still rather heavily in your favour, my lord. If porridge and a few decoctions can make payments on that balance, perhaps one day it may be paid in full.’

‘Consider it paid already. If what you say is true, then I’m glad I was at hand when your Angeline needed a rescuer.’ He looked up from the bowl, the green eyes serious now. ‘And very glad you were at hand when I needed one.’

‘At no risk to myself.’

His gaze left hers to survey the compound. Despite the fact that the normal morning activities were ongoing, more than one pair of eyes had been focused on the two of them.

The Englishman smiled and nodded a greeting to those who seemed interested in their conversation. As he did, most had the grace to turn their attentions back to the daily tasks at hand.

Andrash, who had helped carry the Englishman back to camp, lifted a hand in response. The ex-soldier responded in kind before he looked down at her.

‘At no cost to yourself?’

She laughed. ‘If you’re imagining that my position here is in jeopardy because I choose to take you in, you’re mistaken.’

‘At least one person objected rather strongly to your kindness. And, although I have no way to verify his claim, he said he had the authority to enforce his displeasure.’

He meant Stephano, Nadya realized. Given their proximity to the caravan when her half-brother had issued his ultimatum, she shouldn’t be surprised to find that her patient overheard them.

‘Is that why you’re up? Because you felt…threatened?’

‘I’m up because I felt well enough to try.’

‘And well enough to succeed, it seems. Congratulations.’

‘You may hold your applause until I can do more than sit in the sun.’

‘Granted, your bay will prove more of a challenge.’

‘My brother’s bay,’ he corrected softly.

There was some issue there. A rivalry? Or simple envy of the firstborn’s rights under English law?

‘Shall I ask Andrash to bring the gelding?’ She turned her head, seeking the smith, who had apparently found occupation in another area of the camp while they’d been talking.

‘Maybe I’ll check on him. Later, I think.’ He held the half-empty bowl down to her.

Although she noted the slight tremor in his fingers, she didn’t comment on it. ‘At your convenience, my lord. I assure you your brother’s horse will be here and well tended when you are ready for him.’

‘If you insist on a title, then major will do.’

‘Aren’t majors’ commissions purchased?’ she teased.

‘It happens mine was awarded. My previous ranks were purchased, however. By benefactors,’ he added when she cocked her head as if to challenge his denial of wealth. ‘My brother and my godfather, actually.’

‘That reminds me.’ She fished the paper and pencil stub out of her pocket, holding them up to him. As he took them, his fingers brushed hers. ‘So, Major…?’

‘Morgan. Rhys Morgan.’

‘How do you do, Major Morgan.’ She lowered her head as she had seen the ladies in the village do.

‘Better than yesterday, thank you.’

‘And not so well as tomorrow. That I can promise you. Don’t be impatient.’

He nodded, his eyes on hers.

After a moment, she deliberately broke the contact between them by looking down at the bowl he’d handed her. ‘We can do better than this for dinner.’

He shook his head. ‘You’d be surprised how grateful one can be for porridge.’

For some reason she believed him. Of course, as a soldier, he had undoubtedly known deprivation.

Now, however, he was back in England, where his kind wanted for nothing. Except, perhaps, the favours of a well-placed benefactor. Or of a Gypsy girl.

‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

Surprised, her eyes came up, as she debated whether or not to tell him the truth. And then, deciding that it couldn’t possibly matter if he knew, she did. ‘My name is Nadya Argentari.’

‘Your servant, Miss Argentari.’ He repeated her earlier gesture, making rather more of it than she had.

‘Somehow I doubt that, my lord.’

‘Major,’ he corrected again.

‘Major Morgan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients who seem to still be in need of my skills this morning.’

‘But none, I assure you, who will be more grateful for them.’

‘No matter your denial, I see that you are indeed a milord.’

‘A simple soldier, ma’am, I assure you. And quite willingly at your service.’

He inclined his head slightly. Despite all her strictures to the contrary, Nadya found her senses once more stirred.

Like a schoolgirl taken with the first handsome gentleman she encounters.

Or at least the first she had encountered in a very long time, Nadya admitted. And, she reiterated, this time strictly to herself, the sooner he is gone, the better it will be for everyone concerned.

Especially for me.




Chapter Five







The following morning Nadya was surprised to discover her half-brother back in camp. As she crossed the centre of the compound, she saw one of the men taking Stephanos black stallion to the horse pens to be cared for. Sadly, the animal appeared to be in need of the attention.

Riding his mount to exhaustion was not something Stephano would normally have done, but the act was typical of his single-mindedness of late. Consumed with events in his past, he was, in her opinion, abdicating his current responsibilities.

Not that he was interested in her opinion.

If only his lack of interest might extend to her activities.

Taking a deep breath, she walked toward her grandmother’s caravan. There was no sense in postponing the confrontation she knew would occur. She had deliberately disobeyed Stephano’s orders, and he would demand an explanation. And she had none, other than the one he’d already rejected.

As she approached Magda’s caravan, eyes on the ground, her half-brother jumped down from it and came toward her. She saw that he had been in camp long enough to change out of his gadje attire and back into the traditional garb of their people.

The small gold earring he wore when in camp glinted in the sun. The colourful vest, long-sleeved shirt and loose trousers were exactly the same as those worn by the other men, but Stephano’s good looks and air of confidence would make him stand out anywhere.

Even among the English Ton he professed to despise, she thought with a small sense of pride.

Today, nothing about his appearance suggested his mixed heritage. And when he was with the Rom, that was exactly the way Stephano wanted it.

When he reached her, there was no kiss of greeting, as there usually was between them. Apparently her half-brother had already discovered that the Englishman was still here.

The first words out of his mouth confirmed that impression.’I told you to get rid of him.’

‘And I told you he’ll leave as soon as he’s well enough.’

‘He’s well enough now.’

Without slowing, Stephano strode past her and toward her caravan, so that Nadya was forced to run to catch up with him. She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off.

‘Listen to me.’ This time she used both hands to grasp his wrist, holding tightly enough that he would have had to use force to free himself. She was relieved when he turned toward her instead.

Although his face was closed, Nadya tried once more to argue her case. ‘The man saved Angel’s life. Surely that means something to you, if for no other reason than because it means so much to me.’

The hard black eyes softened almost imperceptibly. If she had not known him so well, however, she might not have been able to tell her argument had had any impact. The stern lines of Stephano’s face hadn’t altered.

Which shouldn’t be surprising, she conceded, considering he’d had a lifetime of practice in not revealing what he felt.

‘Magda says he’s well enough to leave,’ her brother said.

‘The next time you suffer an injury, shall I let Magda decide your treatment?’

His lips tightened, but he didn’t dispute her point. She was the drabarni. Questions about healing were her domain, not that of their grandmother.

‘But he is conscious?’ Stephano demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘So who is he?’

‘His name is Rhys Morgan. He’s an ex-soldier, recently returned from Spain.’ She couldn’t see how revealing what his service had cost the Englishman could advance her cause. Stephano had grown so hard that he might instead take those wounds as a sign of weakness.

‘And?’

‘That’s all I know. That and the fact he was travelling to his godfather’s house when he rescued Angel.’

As she mentioned Rhys’s godfather, she realized that her half-brother would be the ideal person to deliver his message. Not only would he be returning to London shortly, he also knew the ways of the gadje and, because of that, would be less likely to raise concerns within Rhys’s family.

‘He asked me to find someone to deliver a note to him.’ She removed the folded paper Rhys had given her from her pocket and held it out to him.

‘To his godfather? Did he mention a name?’

‘Keddinton, I believe.’

‘Keddinton? Are you sure?’

The name had meant nothing to Nadya, but clearly it did to her half-brother. He unfolded the paper to read what Rhys had written, the gesture revealing the silver bracelet her father had made for him.

‘Do you know him?’

Stephano laughed. ‘I don’t travel in the elevatedcircles Lord Keddinton occupies. Not any more.’The bitterness of the last was apparent.

‘Then.?’

‘I know of him,’ he clarified, closing Rhys’s note. ‘So would you if you weren’t so concerned with your “daughter” and your herbs.’

‘A concern for which you’ve had reason to be grateful in the past. And may again.’ Stephano suffered debilitating headaches, which with her herbs she had been able to mitigate to some small extent. ‘Who is this Keddinton?’

‘Someone influential in the capital. More influential than the title he holds would indicate. Your gaujo has powerful connections, jel’enedra. Which makes me wonder why he’s content to recuperate in a cramped vardo under the care of a Gypsy healer. I wonder if that could that have anything to do with you, my dear?’

That very English appellation jarred, especially coming so closely on the heels of his usual name for her. Almost from the moment her father had brought Stephano back to them, he had referred to her as jel’enedra. His little sister.

‘I imagine this is not so different from what he’s accustomed to. I told you: he’s a soldier.’

‘Whose godfather is one of the most powerful men in England.’

‘What can that possibly matter to you?’ She was beginning to fear that her half-brother was considering how he might benefit from Rhys’s connections.

‘I’m not sure it does,’ Stephano said with a shrug. ‘It’s simply something I find interesting. And potentially useful.’

‘How could that possibly—’

‘I said potentially useful, jel’enedra. Do you think it would come amiss if I inform Lord Keddinton of your kind services to his godson?’ He held up the note for emphasis before he pushed it into the pocket of his vest.’Maybe he’ll even see fit to reward you for them.’

‘I don’t consider caring for the man who saved my daughter’s life deserving of a reward.’

‘Then it’s just as well you’re content with your lot. Those who are never use the tools fate hands them to achieve a better one.

‘As you have done, I suppose.’

‘A lesson I learned early. And too well. But then I had sterner masters than you. You should be grateful for that.’

‘You didn’t used to be this way, Stephano. Bitter and vindictive.’

‘Or perhaps you didn’t know me so well as you thought.’

‘I know you’ve changed. Something or someone has changed you.’

Stephano laughed.’Ask Magda if you want to know why I’ve changed.’

‘Magda?’

‘Who sees and knows all. Have you ever asked what future she sees for you?’

‘You don’t believe in her drabbering. No more than do I.’

‘I believe in destiny. Someone has tampered with mine.’

‘Did Magda tell you that?’ Nadya’s tone was derisive. Leave it to the old woman to try and stir up his ambitions.

‘Magda tells me things because I pay attention. Do you?’

‘To Magda’s prophecies?’ Nadya laughed. ‘Did you remember to cross her palm with silver, Stephano? Be warned. If it wasn’t enough, she may weave you a bad fortune. Maybe she’ll even put a curse on you.’

‘Someone’s already done that, my dear. Magda is simply trying to help me find a way to remove it.’

With that, her half-brother made a sweeping bow, as if they were in some London ballroom and the cotillion had just ended. Before Nadya could think of a suitable rejoinder, he had walked away.

As she watched, he joined a group of men smoking beside one of the tents. Their heartfelt welcome made her realize anew how adept Stephano was at playing the chameleon.

Someone’s already done that, my dear. Magda is simply trying to help me find a way to remove it.

Clearly Stephano preferred to remain cryptic about his intentions. Nadya knew the old woman well enough to know that she would, no doubt, relish the telling of how the two of them were scheming to get back at the gadje who’d ruined Stephano’s life.

Nadya glanced back at her vardo. It seemed that her half-brother might be content to leave Rhys alone until he had considered every possible way in which he might use the Englishman and his connections.

That meant that, for now at least, her patient was safe. And she would have a chance to find out what poison their grandmother had been feeding Stephano.

‘I thought you didn’t have any use for the past. That’s what you always tell me. “None of your old stories, Mami. What’s done is done.”’

Her grandmother wasn’t as forthcoming as Nadya had anticipated. Still, she had years of experience in dealing with the old woman. Making a mystery of things was part of Magda’s stock in trade.

‘People change,’ Nadya said. ‘Look at Stephano, for example.’

‘You think he’s changed? Maybe you’ve simply become more aware of the difficulties your brother faces because of his birth.’

‘What difficulties? Stephano does exactly what he wants. He’s successful both here and in the gadje world. He comes and goes between them as he pleases. If anyone is master of his fate, it’s Stephano.’

‘And you envy him that.’

Nadya shrugged, but she couldn’t deny her grandmother’s perception. Nadya knew that she was very lucky not to live under some man’s thumb. Neither a husband nor a father.

The influence Stephano exerted as head of their kumpania was the closest thing to control she was subject to. Given their blood ties, his rule over her had always been remarkably loose. Now, distracted with whatever was going on in the other world her halfbrother inhabited, he had been even less concerned with her affairs.

If it hadn’t been for Stephano’s increasingly obvious unhappiness, she would have been content to leave matters as they were. But because she loved him, she wanted to know what was driving his self-destructive behaviour.

‘Why shouldn’t I envy it?’

‘Your brother had suffered in ways you can’t begin to imagine, chavi. As a child, Stephano was assured of everything a man could desire. Money, position, power. With his father’s murder, all those promises disappeared. Whatever Stephano has now, he stole from the hands of fate. Nothing was given him.’

The English lord who was Stephano’s father had been stabbed by a friend. After his death, his widow’s family had quickly seen to it that the half-breed bastard he’d foisted on her was sent away to a foundling home. It didn’t bother them in the least that they were throwing a seven-year-old child out of the only home he’d ever known.

‘What more can he want than what he has now?’

‘Justice,’ Magda said simply. ‘For his father. And for himself.’

‘When has the Rom ever had justice? Especially at the hands of the gadje.’

‘Ah, but that’s the difference between the two of you. You don’t expect the world to do right by you, so you’ll do right by yourself. Stephano, on the other hand.’ Magda’s shrug was expressive.

‘Stephano expects the gadje to treat him fairly? He isn’t that naïve.’

‘Not expects, chavi. Demands. There’s a difference. Stephano believes justice is his birthright.’

‘Stephano is half Rom. That half, if nothing else, precludes justice at the hands of the gadje. As for his English half, the courts hanged the man responsible for his father’s death. Isn’t that justice enough?’

‘Your mother didn’t think so.’

‘Because she was obsessed with the death of her lover.’

‘How would you feel if it were your father who’d been murdered, chavi? Or your lover?’

For an instant, the handsome features of the exsoldier she’d cared for the past week were in her mind’s eye. Nadya banished the memory with the practicality she had learned from both her grandmothers.

‘What can Stephano hope to accomplish after all these years? His father’s dead. The nobleman who murdered him has been punished by the English courts. Under their laws, Stephano has no claim to his father’s title or estate. Instead of encouraging him in this insanity, you should make him realize that what’s done can’t be undone.’

That was a truth Nadya’s mother Jaelle—Magda’s beloved daughter—had never accepted. Overcome with grief at her lover’s death and obsessed with seeking justice for her lost son, Jaelle had eventually hanged herself.

In doing so, she had left Nadya motherless and her Romany husband heartbroken. Thom Argentari had never recovered from the loss of his wife or from the sense of betrayal her suicide had engendered. Nadya would always believe that had played a role is his own too-early death.

Left in the care of her beloved grandmothers, Nadya had thrived, despite her grief. Perhaps if Stephano had been returned to the Rom after his father’s death, he might not have been scarred to the extent Magda suggested he had been. As for what he was doing now.

‘I don’t understand why Stephano would choose their world over ours,’ Nadya said. ‘Here he’s loved and respected. There.’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever success he has will never be enough. The fact that he can never be all those things his father promised eats at his soul. If you encourage him in that, Magda, you’ll destroy him.’

‘It’s his destiny, chavi, and he must follow it. Just as you must follow yours.’

‘I don’t want your fortune-telling, thank you. I have quite enough trouble living in the present.’

‘You don’t reject what your Argentari grandmother taught you.’

‘She taught me to save lives, to heal and to mend. You wanted to teach me how to cheat and deceive those who are gullible enough to believe that someone can see their future by looking into their palms.’

‘Then you are no different than your brother, chavi. You, too, reject your heritage.’

‘You think that’s my heritage? No wonder the gadje believe we’re all thieves and liars.’

‘Does he think that? Your gaujo?’

‘He isn’t my gaujo. And I don’t know what he thinks.’

‘Stephano wants him gone.’

‘So he said. And he will be. As soon as he’s well enough.’

‘And that day can’t come soon enough for you, I suppose.’

Her grandmother’s lined face was devoid of expression, but Nadya wasn’t fooled.’ What does that mean?’

‘It’s too late to reject what I offer. I’ve already seen your palm, chavi. I saw it the day you were born. Neither it—nor your future—hold any secrets for me.’

Nadya laughed. ‘Whatever you’re expecting from it, Mami, I hope you aren’t disappointed.’

‘I won’t be, chavi. I can promise you that, if nothing else.’

Although Stephano had been in camp less than a day, when Nadya returned from taking the eveningmeal to her patient, her brother was saddling his stallion. Nadya stopped to run her hand down the horse’s silken nose, smiling when the animal pushed against her chest in response.

‘Off so soon?’ she asked as she watched Stephano’s hands smooth the blanket he’d thrown over his mount’s back.

His Romany clothing had again been packed away in the trunk he kept in Magda’s caravan. Her half-brother looked every inch the English gentleman once more.

‘Don’t pretend you aren’t delighted to be rid of me.’

‘Why should I be?’ Nadya asked. ‘Your place is here, among people who love you. I know that, even if you seem to have forgotten it.’

Stephano turned, looking directly at her for the first time. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘Then why go? They turned their backs on you, Stephano. All of them. No one here has ever done that.’

‘Unfinished business.’ His attention was deliberately refocused on the task at hand.

‘And you think you can finish it? Your father’s dead. You can’t bring him back to life. Or force his family to accept you.’

He laughed at her suggestion. ‘Is that what you think I want? Acceptance? From them? I’m not that big a fool.’

‘Then what do you want? Revenge? Against whom? Your father’s murderer was hanged. By the Crown. What possible—’

‘Those who helped to bring about his death don’t deserve to prosper.’

Nadya shook her head. ‘You’re going to right the world, to set it spinning anew on its axis so that only the righteous prosper? And you think me naïve.’

‘I think you know nothing about what I’m doing.’

‘I know it takes you away from your people. And that this quest has cost you—both physically and emotionally. It may even be the cause of your headaches.’

‘If your drugs come with the price of meddling in my affairs, I’m afraid I shall have to do without them.’

‘Other than Magda, I’m the only family you have left. Perhaps that means nothing to you, but it means a great deal to me.’

‘Then wish me well in my undertaking.’

‘I would, if I thought this…whatever it is…would make you well.’

For a moment, he seemed to consider the beech trees, golden in the evening sunlight. When he looked down at her again, his face was more relaxed than she’d seen it in months.

‘If it doesn’t, jel’ enedra,’ he said softly, ‘then nothing will.’

Nadya tried to analyze the emotion she heard in his voice. Regret? Or was it despair?

‘What you’re doing is dangerous,’ she warned.

The line of his lips, once so mobile and quick to smile, ticked upward slightly at the corners. ‘Not to me. Or rather,’ he conceded, ‘not only to me.’

‘But since you are the only brother I have, lost to me once and then returned, I don’t want to have you lost again.’

‘Then be at peace, little one. Magda assures me this is the only way I shall ever resolve the things that trouble me.’

‘And you believe her?’ Nadya mocked.

‘You doubt her gifts because your father’s family devalued them.’

‘I doubt her “gifts,” as you call them, because I’ve seen too many fortune-tellers through the years. I’m not a woman of the gadje, willing to be taken in by promises of a meeting with a handsome stranger or of finding untold wealth waiting around the next bend.’

‘Nor am I. Have a little faith, I beg of you.’

‘In you? All you wish. In Magda’s fortunes? I’m not that gullible.’

‘And in Jaelle’s curse against those who brought about my father’s death?’ Stephano asked quietly.




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