It had snowed during the night. Celia pushed aside the flimsy curtain to peer outside, shivering in the cold air inside the wagon. An ingenious little stove that held hot coals usually kept it warm enough, but the embers had died to gray ash now.
She scrubbed a hand through her hair, dyed dark at the insistence of Santiago, and she wore gypsy clothes—bright skirts and blouses—with nothing underneath. She had to admit it was much more comfortable than wearing confining stays. The stain on her hair made it rather stiff and dry, so that she usually wore it loose instead of up on her head or in neat plaits. Thankfully the dye was fading, the pale natural color returning with the passage of time.
Perhaps the danger had faded as well. No one had come near the camp, not in all the weeks she’d been here. It was on Northington land, the estate just beyond the line of woods and hill, and sometimes she thought she could almost see it if she walked to the top of the nearest hill. Most of the time she stayed in the wagon, and her one encounter with Marita had been unpleasant.
And revealing.
Tossing long dark hair, the girl had confronted her when no one else was near, the men gone hunting or into the village to peddle cheap wares.
“So,” Marita said, a sneer curling red lips. “Do you think because he has left you here that you are safe?”
“If I’m not, it will be your father who’s at fault,” Celia countered coolly. “He promised Lord Northington that I would come to no harm here. A matter of pride, he said.”
A hiss escaped between her teeth as Marita moved a step closer; tension vibrated through her slender body. She wore no cape or cloak for warmth, only several layers of wool skirts and blouses, her legs bare beneath the folds of striped red-and-blue wool. They stood at the edge of the small wooded copse where the wagons formed a tight circle, and save for a woman by the fire in the center and a string of horses tethered beyond the camp, it was deserted.
“Foolish one,” Marita said. “It is not safe anytime you are with us, for the good English citizens find reasons to drive us away whenever they can. We must travel constantly, and find ways to live. Few are like him. He has respect for us, and we repay it with honor. My father would never do anything to lose that trust, but even he has no control over men who do not mind destroying their own.”
“What are you talking about?” Celia didn’t like Marita; the girl was too bold, too arrogant, and she seemed to regard Colter as if he belonged to her.
Swinging her hips, Marita sauntered closer. “You were with him when those men fired at him, were you not? I can remember how angry everyone was and how you were thrown from your horse—”
“I jumped. And it was a horse that hadn’t even been trained, as you well know.”
Marita grinned impudently, and gave a shrug of her slim shoulders. “You said you could ride, so I believed you. What else was I to think?”
“Never mind that. What do you know about those men who fired at us?”
“Only that they were firing at you, not at the handsome lord. Oh, does that surprise you? Did you think you have no enemies?”
“No one has any reason to fire at me,” Celia said curtly, though she couldn’t help but recall the evening at the opera. Perhaps they hadn’t really tried to kill her, but someone definitely didn’t mind harming her. “And how would you know anything about it?”
“Because I am here all the time, and I learn things. I do not stay all day in the camp but go places, and I know. I know more than you, it seems, for you do not even believe me when I tell you this.”
But she did believe her. Despite the resentment between them, there was the ring of truth to Marita’s claim that she had seen the men that day, and had followed them.
“I meant only to follow you, because I knew you had lied and that the horse would throw you,” she said slyly. “But then I saw what happened. Men like to drink, and when they drink they often like to talk to beautiful women they think have no brains, or no ears to hear what they say.”
She shrugged. “So I listen, and I laugh, and I let them think I do not understand. And that is how I learn what I know—that you are not what you pretend to be.” She sidled closer. “And I know he does not know it. He thinks you are so honest, but all the time you lie, lie, lie.”
“Prove it,” she said flatly, and Marita’s eyes narrowed angrily.
“Do you think I cannot? I will. Oh, I will prove it to you and you will know I am not what you think—a lying gypsy girl with no honor!”
What could she possibly know? Celia wavered between denial and fear. Not fear for herself, but fear that she would be exposed before she had a chance to explain, to tell Jacqueline, and yes, Colter, that it was true she had come under false pretenses, that she’d lied, but now she wanted to tell the entire truth.
Torn with indecision, she’d spent several sleepless nights agonizing over what to do.
And then last night a message had finally come from Colter that she was to meet him away from the gypsy camp. Bold masculine script was a terse scrawl on paper bearing his seal, and now that the moment she’d been dreading and anticipating was here, she found herself calmly accepting it.
Marita was to take her to him, not to Harmony Hill but to a more private spot, the brief note stated. “Go with Marita. She will bring you to me.”
It was signed with just his initials, but the seal pressed into fine parchment was unmistakable. She had seen it on glassware, stationary, even reproduced on towels.
Santiago, who had given her the note, gazed down at her with something akin to sympathy in his dark eyes, and his usually booming voice was soft.
“You look so sad, but you should not. Are you surprised that I see it? I may not know all the reasons, but I do know that whatever your fear, it can only be conquered with the courage you have inside. It is all that is left us at times, that strength to do what must be done. You are much stronger than you think. And he is more honorable than is said.”
He’d not needed to specify who he meant, for they both knew who mattered most to her. Was it that obvious? Yes, it must be, for hadn’t Marita known it even before she did? It had gleamed in those exotic black eyes from the very first, the recognition that there was far more in her feelings for Colter than she’d admitted to herself.
And now she would face him at last and tell him the truth of why she had come to England. After that, she would know if she had a place here.
So this morning, as the snow frosted ground and trees, she met Marita at the far edge of the gypsy camp.
“Come along,” Marita said softly, and motioned to her from the fringe of trees just beyond the camp when Celia moved toward the horses. “I will choose a horse for you, eh?”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll choose my own,” Celia replied tartly, and knew from her disappointed pout that she had foiled another of Marita’s tricks.
Mounted upon a rather docile, small mare, she followed the gypsy girl down a winding track; it was so quiet in the trees, snow muffling hoofbeats and even the sounds of birds muted, as if in a church. Peace shrouded the land, so that she could almost hear the whisper of snow striking bare limbs and dead stalks of grass that rustled in a light wind. The air smelled of the sea.
They rode out onto a lane that looked vaguely familiar, and Celia thought it must be very near Harmony Hill. She had ridden this way with Carolyn that day, though it had looked so different in soft sunlight and with gentle breezes. Now it was barren, with leafless trees standing sentinel along the edge. It curved near the top of the cliffs, finally in a thin ribbon.
A stone cottage squatted on a spur of land, remote and almost forlorn by itself. There was no sign of life, so that she frowned when Marita reined in her mount. The girl looked satisfied with herself, her voice loud to be heard over the rushing wind that smelled so strongly of the sea now.
“Not here. There. He waits for you. Oh, do you doubt me still? You will see for yourself that I speak the truth.”
“I see only a roofless hut, and no horses—”
“No, no, foolish one, beyond it. Do you not see? It is a good place to hide and wait, there in that granary.”
“Really, I do see the granary, but it’s as deserted as the hut.” Exasperated, she shot the girl a disgusted glance. “It’s not in much better condition. I have no intention of waiting in it. Nor do I see Northington’s horse. If he was already here, he would have come out to greet me. I’ll wait for him where I am.”
Marita’s eyes narrowed; she rode the horse with no saddle, bare brown legs sticking out from her bunched skirts, her feet clad in scuffed shoes. Now she slid from her horse to the ground, glaring up at Celia.
“Oh, you really are foolish! You are to wait for him, or did the note not say so? Yes, I think it did, but you are so used to your own lies, you think everyone lies.”
Celia stared at her. Rushing wind tugged at her skirts and hair, chilled her skin. She shivered. Overhead, a seabird made a piercing cry as it wheeled in the sky, and gray clouds seemed suddenly dark. Black thunderheads bunching on the horizon beyond the point of land marked a threatening storm.
“We should go back,” she said, “before it breaks.”
Marita reached for her horse’s bridle, shaking her head. “You are to wait. Or do you not trust him? Do you think he would lie to you as you have lied to him?”
Sudden premonition made Celia tense, and she turned her horse around. “No, but he should be here. He’s not, and I’m going back. Stay here or go with me, I don’t care.”
“Oh, you are so impatient!” Marita circled in front of her. “If you will only wait, you will see him soon.”
“No, I think I’ve had enough of your tricks for today, and I have no intention of letting you amuse yourself at my expense any longer.”
The small mare danced sideways as Marita snared the bridle with one hand, staring up at Celia with a scowl. “You have come this far. At least wait a few more minutes.”
Celia hesitated. Caution bade her flee, but logic told her that this girl couldn’t have written the note on Colter’s stationery or used his seal, nor could she have composed such a coherent, if terse, letter. Finally, against her better judgment, she dismounted rather clumsily when it began to rain.
“A few minutes more,” she said. “But if he doesn’t come soon I’m going back to your father’s camp.”
She tied the horse under the cursory shelter of a wind-twisted yew, then followed Marita to the tumbled-down stone granary behind the cottage. Weeds sprouted between fallen rock, and rubble shifted underfoot. A surprisingly solid door stood ajar, swinging slightly in the wind and rain.
Pale gray light darkened the inside of the round structure, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. There was a strong smell of burnt wood, and she frowned as she saw the evidence of a recent fire on a ledge. Wall stones had been removed to form a window of sorts, and charred limbs and bits of brittle black charcoal were scattered about.
Celia crossed to peer out the opening at the gray wind-lashed sea. It stretched endlessly, though a curtain of rain moved across the surface like a creeping beast, stealthy and inexorable. She shivered suddenly, the wet air washing over her like a tide.
Was she being foolish to come here with Marita, who had made it plain how she felt? But even Santiago had expressed no reservations. After all, the note must be from Colter or there would be no seal, no recognized messenger from the estate. Yet she could not help the uneasy feeling that bored into the back of her mind, the premonition that all was not as it should be, that surely Colter would have made other, more suitable arrangements for them to meet. Why had he not come to the camp again?
Marita leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest as she regarded Celia with what seemed to be a smugly satisfied expression on her face.
“Why do you stare at me like that?” Celia asked sharply when she turned to look at her. “You make me think you’ve another trick in mind for me.”
“Perhaps I have,” the girl said with a soft laugh. “But I would not be so foolish as to tell you if I did. Is it me you do not trust, or your fine gentleman? I did not write the letter to you, and you must know that.”
“Yes, it’s obvious you didn’t.” Irritated, Celia turned back to look out the window. Why had Colter sent this girl to bring her here? Surely Santiago, or even Mario, could have brought her so she would not have had to endure this insolent creature’s disdain.
Celia crossed her arms over her chest for warmth against the damp wind seeping through cracks and the tiny window, and suppressed another shiver. If only he would come. It was the anticipation, the not knowing what he would say or what she would say that kept her in torment. Would Colter believe that she’d not meant him any harm? Oh, but how could he, when she must tell him that she’d intended his own father a great deal of harm? Even when he knew what Moreland had done, he may not understand, may not even believe her until she showed him the documents that detailed the charge of murder.
When an eerie creak sounded behind her, Celia whirled, but it was too late. The heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of a grating bar was a dull, scraping thud. The granary was plunged into sudden darkness, the only light seeping inside through the small hole in the wall.
“Marita!” She dashed to the door, banged on it with her fists, shouted at the gypsy girl to open the door at once. “Damn you, stop playing your nasty tricks! Open the door or, by God, I’ll make you sorry for this. I swear I will, you stupid girl!”
Celia shouted until she was hoarse, until the gray light outside began to dim even more, and she had the horrified thought that this time Marita’s vicious trick might truly endanger her life.
But finally she heard a masculine voice over the noise of the wind and rain, and heard the bar slide back. At last! Colter had rescued her yet again, and he would deal with the girl, she hoped grimly, so that she’d never try such a trick again!
Then the door swung open. Silhouetted against the misty glow behind him, she glimpsed Marita’s gloating face, and her heart thumped in alarm. There was something triumphant in that expression. Her gaze moved slowly to the man who blocked the opening.
It wasn’t Colter.