The pinks and purples of dusk trailed across the darkening sky when Vivien finally walked into the Gypsy camp.
The dogs greeted her first, barking and growling, then wagging their tails in recognition. Distractedly, she patted one mangy head, then scratched another one’s ears. Conscious of a tight, hurting knot in her breast, she let her gaze search the campfires.
In the clearing in the forest, some twenty vardos formed a rough half-circle. The tang of smoke hung in the chilly evening air. Women in bright garb bent over the fires, stirring cauldrons of stew. Men moved among the horses tethered in the woods, grooming the animals or bringing them buckets of water from a nearby stream. Children laughed and played beneath the wagons. Bits of conversation in Romany drifted like music to her ears.
She was home.
Or was she? So many weeks had passed, so much heartache, that she simply didn’t have the answer.
In a welter of pain and confusion, she spied a familiar saffron-yellow caravan with tall blue wheels parked by the edge of the forest. On the steps perched a tiny woman with gray hair. She was hunched over her sewing, her needle flashing silver in the firelight. The other women chattered and laughed with each other, but she sat alone and forlorn.
Miro dye.
With a choked cry, Vivien plunged through the camp. People gasped in surprise, calling out to her, asking excited questions she did not really hear. Several children chanted her name, begging for a story. But she had eyes only for her mother. She waited anxiously for the moment when Reyna Thorne would heed the commotion and lift her head.
Then she did. Sadness haunted her dusky features, drawing down the corners of her mouth and wrinkling her brow. But the look didn’t last. Her dark almond eyes alighted on Vivien. Her lips parted, moving slightly, as if she were saying a prayer—or her daughter’s name. She rose slowly from the step, and the sewing slipped unheeded from her lap, falling to the dirt.
At the same moment, her father limped out of the gathering throng of people. He froze, leaning heavily on his staff, staring at Vivien as if she were a ghost. His dark weathered features held a certain wariness. Reyna stood unmoving, her hands held outstretched.
Vivien didn’t hesitate. Running the last few yards, she clasped her mother in a tight embrace. Though a head taller than Reyna, she burrowed against her like a child, breathing in her familiar scent of wood smoke and spices. All her emotional tumult poured out in tears of happiness and sorrow. “Miro dye," she murmured brokenly. “My mother.”
Reyna wept, too, her eyes shimmering with joy. She reached up to lovingly cup Vivien’s wet face in her small, careworn hands. “My not-so-little Vivi. I’ve so longed for this moment. To see you again.”
“I should have come sooner. How glad I am to see you both!”
Then Vivien spun toward her father. He seized her in a big bear hug, twirling her around as if she were no older than Amy. “I feared you might forget us,” he said gruffly as he set her down. “That you would like gorgio life so much you’d never wish to visit us again.”
“Oh, dado, I could never forget you or my mother.” Vivien reached out to draw Reyna closer. “I wanted to provide for you, that’s all.” She proudly opened the sack and pressed it into his father’s hand. “There, I’ve earned one hundred English guineas for you. I wanted it to be more, but...”
He shook his head, his eyes moist. “Daughter, I don’t know what to say—” he began, when a burly man stepped out of the crowd.
Vivien stiffened at the sight of Janus. In her rush to find the camp, she hadn’t spared a thought for him. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell her parents what had happened, that she was fleeing imprisonment, and they must all leave here under cover of night.
Janus fixed his smoldering gaze on Vivien. “It’s time you came to your senses, vestacha,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
His endearment struck her as blasphemy. “I am not your beloved,” she said coolly. “You will not address me so.”
There was a collective gasp from the watchers. A cluster of girls whispered excitedly among themselves. They were younger than Vivien, the women her age already having married into other tribes. She recognized Narilla, a shy child-woman with thick dark lashes. Ludu, a vivacious girl with a throaty laugh. Orlenda, a flirt with a sensual smile and glossy black braids. They all watched Janus admiringly, and regarded Vivien with something like shock because she would spurn such a man. She wanted to say they were welcome to him.
“You’ve become as haughty as a gorgio rawnie.” His lip curled, Janus eyed her fashionable gown and the cashmere shawl tied carelessly around her shoulders. “You look like one of them, too.”
“I am one of them,” she said, amazed to feel the pride in herself. “Their blood runs in my veins, and I won’t be ashamed of that.”
“You are who you are,” her mother said firmly, placing her hand on Vivien’s shoulder.
Smiling at her parents, Vivien felt a lightness of relief in the midst of her pain. They accepted her without judgment. No matter what happened, she could always count on their love. “My heart drew me back here.”
“To me,” Janus said as he swaggered toward her. “So you’ve finally recognized your place, girl. You will honor our betrothal.”
“Enough,” Pulika said sternly, stepping into his path. “My daughter will marry the man of her choice.”
“You give her too much freedom. I would not—”
“Dosta!” Pulika slashed his hand downward to end the quarrel. “I’ve scarce yet spoken to Vivi. She hasn’t even told us if she returns here forever. Or if she only comes to visit.” Turning to Vivien, he gazed at her solemnly, awaiting her answer.
A lump clogged her throat. How could she explain that she might have stayed with the gorgios had she not been forsaken by the man she loved? That a piece of her heart would remain forever with a trio of elderly ladies, a motherless little girl...and a gorgio lord who did not know how to love. “Dado, I—”
A cacophony of barking interrupted her. The dogs yowled and paced at the edge of the encampment as hoofbeats thundered down the pathway. People turned to peer into the deep shadows of the forest, curious to see who would visit so close to nightfall.
Vivien’s pulse surged with panic. Surely Michael hadn’t discovered her absence already. Even if he had, he could not have tracked her so swiftly. The camp was hidden in a remote area of the woods, a short distance from an overgrown pathway scarcely wide enough to fit a vardo. She herself had had trouble following the signs.
But her hopes were dashed in the next instant as a horse and rider emerged from the gloom of the trees. Atop a bay gelding sat the man whose tenderness had won her heart and whose cruelty had shattered it.
With an intensity of purpose, his fierce blue eyes found her.
Michael spied her at once.
She stood tall and willowy, her gown the color of a ripe peach, in the midst of a flock of small Gypsy women wearing deep-colored dresses, their black hair glossy, their ears and throats adorned with gold pieces. The men were short and dark and husky in blousy shirts and loose-fitting trousers. Among them all, Vivien looked like a princess. Her skin was a shade lighter than theirs, and her fine features and proud bearing lent her a distinctly aristocratic aura. It was something he had never noticed before.
The comparison shook Michael. He had misjudged her in so many ways. No doubt he would be proven wrong about her past, too.
But first he had other amends to make. He would cajole her. He’d win her back and she’d consent to be his wife.
He swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a barefoot boy, who was joined by several other urchins in admiring the gelding. The half-wild, growling dogs bared their teeth, but kept their distance.
Michael cut between two brightly painted wagons, his gaze never leaving Vivien. The throng parted for him. Women gathered their children close, and men made threatening grumbles. As if the devil himself walked in their midst.
He felt like a devil. Hearing Charlotte’s confession of guilt had sobered him. Discovering Vivien’s chamber empty had panicked him. The bone-jarring ride had awakened him to the possibility of losing her.
But now that he had found her, his confidence returned. He had only to get her alone and explain matters. She would rant at him, and then he would kiss her. As soon as he took her back to the Abbey, they could engage in another long, hot session of lovemaking. They would find accord again in the bedchamber. She would forget her anger and hold him close, whispering to him in the darkness.
Vestacho...
Her features cool and disdainful, she stepped forward as he approached. “You cannot arrest me. I’ve done no wrong.”
“I haven’t come here to—”
“Arrest?” snapped a short, bearlike man with graying hair. Turning to Vivien, he rattled off something in Romany, gesturing angrily.
She answered him in the same tongue, taking his hand and stroking it. A small older woman scurried closer to listen, and Vivien spoke urgently to both of them, glancing at Michael now and then. Her adoptive father and mother, no doubt. The other Gypsies listened avidly, making comments among themselves and directing resentful looks at him. He wondered uneasily if this was how Vivien had felt among the nobility, the object of scorn and suspicion.
One mustachioed young man in particular glowered darkly. Husky as a pugilist, he stood in the midst of several whispering girls who tried to catch his attention. Michael’s back stiffened. Though he’d only glimpsed the man that one night in the garden, he knew he was gazing at Janus.
A savage possessiveness gripped Michael. He’d had Vivien first, and no other man would touch her. He glared until Janus looked away, speaking to the girl who tugged on his sleeve.
Michael shifted from one booted foot to the other. “Vivien, I must speak to you. Alone. I’ve found out—”
“Scoundrel!” Her father shook his fist. “You will never put my daughter in prison. She is no thief!”
“I know,” Michael said testily. “That’s why I wish to talk with her.”
Vivien regarded him with scorn. “Whatever you have to say can be said right here. In front of my parents and the rest of the Rom.” With the perfect manners of a lady in the drawing room, she performed the introductions. “This is miro dado, Pulika Thorne. And miro dye, Reyna.”
Michael bowed respectfully to her mother and offered his hand to Pulika. The Gypsy kept his thick fingers firmly gripped around his oaken staff. Letting his hand drop to his side, Michael wondered uneasily if she’d confessed to her father about her seduction. He suspected he’d be laid flat on the ground if she had. “You know who I am, I presume.”
“You are not welcome here, Lord Stokeford,” Pulika spat. “So begone.”
The other Gypsies nodded their heads, and a few spoke curt words in their strange tongue.
Michael refrained from pointing out that they were camped on his land, and if there was any evicting to do, he alone had that right. One glance at Vivien’s closed expression made him focus on what was important. “I’m staying. Vivien needs to know that Charlotte Quinton confessed to stealing the jewels.”
Her beautiful eyes widened. Cold indifference changed to painful disbelief. “Charlotte?”
“Yes. She was jealous of you, jealous of the dowry the Rosebuds were providing you.” Murmurings rose from the listening Gypsies. Grimacing at the audience, he lowered his voice. “In particular, she was jealous of the attention I paid to you. I never knew it, but she worshiped me. Because I was the one who saved her from the fire that caused her scars.”
Vivien snorted. “You’re making this up. She wouldn’t betray me. Only you would.”
Michael knew he deserved the blow. He couldn’t blame her for not believing him. She considered Charlotte a friend. “Then perhaps you’ll accept it when you read her letter.”
Reaching into an inner pocket of his coat, he drew forth a folded sheet of parchment and then hesitated, reluctant to cause her more pain. He could turn around, ride away, spare Vivien this final disillusionment. But he wasn’t so noble. He intended for her to be with him when he left here. So he placed the missive in her hand.
She smoothed her fingertips over the thin wafer seal before opening it slowly. As she read the letter, she showed no sign of relief or thankfulness, only a sadness that stirred his protective instincts.
Damn Charlotte! Michael had always regarded her as an annoying stepsister. Because of the Rosebuds, their families had always been close, often visiting back and forth on holidays. The accident had happened on Christmas Day when she was a vivacious thirteen-year-old, and he a suave man of one-and-twenty who had no time to spare for an awkward young girl just learning how to flirt. Engrossed in a book, he’d been tolerating another dull family party when she had popped up from behind his chair and snatched the volume out of his hands. Irked, he’d pursued her, and she had laughingly backed away.
It happened in an instant. She stepped too close to the hearth and her gown caught fire.
Flames shot up her skirt to her arm. She screamed in terror and agony. Horrified, he thrust her to the floor and smothered the flames with a rug. Yet he hadn’t been able to prevent her from being badly burned.
The injury had changed a carefree girl into an acid-tongued woman. He cursed himself for failing to see just how bitter she had become. Or how much she desired his attention.
Vivien slowly looked up from the letter. Her hands shook a little, rattling the paper. Her expressive brown eyes showed a tearful anguish he’d seen that very morning, when he had damned himself by believing the worst of her.
“I must ask you to leave now,” Vivien said.
Her dismissal jolted him. He needed to romance her, to transform all that frosty hauteur into the warm, loving woman who had opened her heart to him. Heedless of her parents and the watching Gypsies, he stepped closer, wishing he could take her into his arms. “Charlotte hurt you,” he said in a low voice. “I hurt you, too. At least give me a chance to redeem myself.”
She regarded him as if he were a leper. “Redeem?” she said, her voice vibrating with fury. “Develesa! You would have sent me to prison. I could have been hanged for a crime I did not commit.”
“No.” That image had tormented him, kept him from summoning the law. “I wanted you to flee. That’s why I left you alone in your chamber.”
“Bah! How can I believe anything you say? The lies flow like honey from your tongue.”
“Not lies, but the truth. I’m sorry. I beg your forgiveness.” Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips. He heard her father’s huff of anger, a gasp from her mother, but Michael could see only the slight softening of Vivien’s eyes, the merest hint of a response. Desperate, he pressed his advantage. “I miss you. Amy misses you. So do the Rosebuds. Come back to the Abbey, please.”
“I won’t go back,” she said stubbornly. “I can’t live where I’m always regarded with suspicion. Every time there’s a theft, I’ll be blamed.”
“Not by me,” he said. “I’ll never doubt you again, darling. Come home now, where we can talk in private—” A bellow of outrage echoed through the clearing. Janus. He should never have turned his back on Janus.
Before Michael could do more than pivot slightly, Janus came barreling at him. The Gypsy slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.
Michael rolled, tasting dirt, his bones jarred. Women screamed and voices chattered. Blood lust seized him. His head pounding, he sprang to his feet, his fists clenched.
As one, the other Gypsies moved back, making a wide circle in between the campfires. Vivien stood by the yellow wagon with her parents. She tried to come forward, her expression fiery, but her father gripped her arms, speaking to her in a low voice.
“Stinking gorgio,” Janus growled. “You will not touch my woman.”
“Vivien is mine.” With an uncompromising firmness, Michael added, “She will be my wife.”
He saw Vivien go utterly still, staring wide-eyed at him. Good. Let her stew on that for a while. Let her realize how serious he was to state his intentions in front of so many witnesses. After she’d had time to reflect, she’d appreciate the honor he was bestowing on her.
Roaring, Janus charged again. “Pig!”
Michael feinted, hitting the Gypsy hard in the underside of the jaw. His teeth snapped shut. He staggered, shaking his shaggy head. But Michael had practiced the sport of boxing with champion pugilists.
Janus dove at him again, all brawn and no brains. He managed to clip Michael on the side of the mouth, but Michael smashed a powerful uppercut, then drove his other fist into the Gypsy’s belly. The breath whooshed out of Janus. Winded, his eyes dark with rage, he seized Michael and tried to kick him in the groin. Michael twisted to the side, bringing up his palm to jam the Gypsy hard in his nose. Janus fell back, blood spurting as he staggered sideways into a campfire, scorching himself.
He yelped like a kicked dog. A woman snatched up a nearby bucket and dashed water over him. A trio of Gypsy girls ran to him, cooing and clucking as he lay moaning on the ground, his hands clutching his backside. The men gathered around, laughing and calling out jests in Romany.
It was an ignominious end to the battle. Yet Michael felt a primal satisfaction. His knuckles stinging, he walked toward Vivien. He had a metallic taste in his mouth. With the back of his hand, he wiped away a trickle of blood.
She came rushing at him in a fury. Grabbing him by the arm, she pushed him down onto the step of the wagon. “Sit! Such a big man you are, always fighting! Do you think to win me with fists?”
He watched in bemusement as she put Charlotte’s letter inside the wagon and brought out a clean, folded rag and a basin of water. Dipping the cloth into the water, she leaned close to him and scrubbed angrily at the blood on his chin. Her scent drifted to him, light and pleasing, bringing hot memories. He wondered if she knew he could see down her bodice to the ripe mounds of her breasts.
He caught her wrist. “I’ll win you with kisses.”
“Hah,” she snapped, yanking free. She scoured his jaw so hard he winced. “I’m not a prize to be won. I’m a woman with the freedom to choose my man.”
“Then choose me. You know I can give you pleasure.” He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “I meant what I said, Vivien. I wish to marry you.”
Her dark velvet eyes glared with disdain. She seized his hand and went to work with a fury on his split knuckles. “You know nothing of honesty. One cannot build a lifelong marriage on a few moments of pleasure.”
“More than a few moments,” he objected. “We made love for half the night, and I promise more when I get you into my bed—”
“Dosta!” she hissed. “Do you wish my parents to hear you?” She glanced over at Pulika and Reyna Thorne, who hovered nearby, watching them with concern. “They mustn’t know about last night.”
“They’ll know I mean what I say.” He caught her face and held her still for a kiss. For a moment he felt a subtle softening in her; then she jerked her head away, her breasts rising and falling with her rage.
“Do not touch me! I could never wed one such as you.”
Pulika limped toward them. The red kerchief tied at his throat fluttered in the breeze. Though gray streaked his hair and he leaned on an oak staff, he looked tough and brawny as he glared down at Michael. “Take your hands from her. My daughter has not agreed to your suit. Nor have I.”
Michael rose from the step. “I ask your permission to court her, then.”
Pulika gave him a long, hard, assessing look, then did the same to Vivien. His brown eyes bored into Michael again. “I could enter your house, steal everything you own, and it would be nothing compared to what you’ve stolen from me.”
Pulika had guessed that she had lost her innocence. Resisting the urge to flinch, Michael repeated, “I wish to court your daughter.”
“Agreed. But you will abide by my rules.”
Gasping, Vivien hurled the wet rag onto the step. “I don’t agree—”
Michael ignored her. “If I do, you’ll look favorably upon a speedy wedding.”
Pulika grinned at that, his white teeth flashing. “It seems you must convince Vivien first. She is no docile mare to be led by a tether.”
Proving his point, Vivien pushed her way in between them. “I spurn this courtship.” Then she focused her glare at Michael. “You can say nothing that will convince me to marry you.”
“Then you needn’t fear listening to me,” Michael said smoothly. He glanced at the darkened woods, thick and silent, and felt his blood rise at the thought of being alone with her. It would be so much easier to soften Vivien without using words. He caught her arm. “Come, we’ll take a walk.”
“No,” Pulika said flatly, holding out his hand. “First rule: you will court Vivien right here.”
“There are too many people watching,” Michael objected. “I demand privacy.”
“You won’t touch her, either,” Pulika went on, scowling until Michael reluctantly released her arm. Picking up a stick, Pulika drew two lines about a foot apart in the dirt just outside the circle of wagons. His movements labored, he fetched two wooden crates and set each behind a line. “Vivien, sit there. Stokeford, take your place opposite her. Should one of you walk away, there will be no more courting. And no wedding.”
Resenting being treated like a schoolboy, Michael nevertheless sat on the makeshift stool. Vivien flounced to the other one and plopped down, pointedly turning her gaze to the encampment. Clearly she disliked this as much as he did.
He felt caught in the jaws of a mantrap. How the hell was he to convince her to marry him without using his persuasive touch? She wouldn’t even look at him.
“Now,” Pulika said, rubbing his palms in satisfaction, “you talk.”