Aware of an incipient panic, Vivien watched her father walk away. He went to her mother, who waited by their fire, and they whispered together, glancing at her and Michael. Reyna nodded, and then calmly knelt down to slice cucumbers into a wooden bowl.
Her mother wouldn’t come to her rescue.
Uneasily aware of Michael’s gaze on her, Vivien glanced around the campsite. Janus had scuttled off with his little adoring flock. The women had gone back to cooking dinner, the men to their whittling, and all of them watched her and Michael with unabashed interest. She felt uncomfortable and exposed, yet she couldn’t take offense. This was the most excitement they’d witnessed since Zurka had been pursued by an angry gorgio housewife after making off with a chicken.
Vivien didn’t know why she sat here. She didn’t want to talk to Michael. She didn’t want him to court her with pretty words and tempting reminders of their intimacy. He couldn’t be serious about wanting marriage.
“Look at me, Vivien.”
“I would sooner gaze upon people I can trust.”
He sat silent a moment. Their knees were only a few inches apart. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his tall black boots and tight-fitting buckskin breeches. She could sense the smoldering determination in him. He smelled faintly of brandy and his spicy cologne, a scent that evoked memories of the dark of night, her mouth on his skin.
“You’re right to despise me,” he said. “At one time, I was planning to do worse than Charlotte.”
Charlotte. The pain of her betrayal stabbed into Vivien. In the letter Charlotte had admitted to stealing the necklace and ring. She’d convinced herself that Vivien would be happier among the Gypsies. With raw candor, she’d condemned her actions and begged for Vivien’s understanding, if not her forgiveness. But Vivien felt too numb to consider that now.
Realizing what Michael had said, she turned her gaze to him. “Worse than Charlotte? Certainly! You had no faith in me.”
He regarded her warily. The faint glow of the campfire cast flickering shadows over his high cheekbones and noble features. His lip was puffy and bruised at one corner, his hair was mussed, and a smudge dirtied his cravat. But his slight dishevelment only made him look more rakishly handsome. And oh, those eyes. Deep and blue and seductive. In spite of her anger, she felt a lurch of longing.
Leaning forward, Michael propped his elbows on his knees. “From the beginning, I intended to charm you into my bed, Vivien. I meant to use your surrender to prove your low moral character to my grandmother.”
Outrage seared a path to her heart. She clenched her fists. “You were going to tell her? So that she would cast me out?”
“Yes. Devilish plan, wasn’t it?”
Her muscles stiffening, she started to lunge to her feet. “You are despicable—”
“Don’t get up, please,” he said urgently, putting out his hand. “You heard your father. He’ll forbid our wedding.”
“Let him.” But when it came to actually walking away, she couldn’t do it. She sank back down and crossed her arms, sitting as far back on the crate as possible. “Do you really think I would marry you now?”
He didn’t answer that. Instead, he muttered, “You said I know nothing of honesty. That’s why I’m telling you this. The least you can do is to hear me out.”
She pursed her lips. “If you wish to further damn yourself in my eyes, then so be it.”
“Try to understand, I believed you were defrauding my grandmother.” When she started to protest, he held up a hand to silence her. “I examined the letter from Harriet Althorpe. It looked like her penmanship—and yet it didn’t. There were...irregularities.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Althorpe had a habit of writing detailed notes on my schoolwork. She formed her r’s and s’s with a certain curl. I didn’t see that in the letter.”
Despite her antagonism, Vivien felt a cautious interest in the woman who had given life to her. “You have papers with her handwriting on them?”
“No. But I was twelve when she left. I remember her penmanship very well.”
Rankled, Vivien blew out a breath. “You remember! On such flimsy proof, you condemned me.”
He looked down at his hands, then up at her. “Yes.”
“I congratulate you on your success, then. You’ve driven me away. You must be proud of yourself.”
“I beg you to see the matter from my view. A young woman appears out of nowhere, claiming to be the natural daughter of my old governess—”
“I didn’t appear. The Rosebuds came and fetched me.”
“Yes, well, you were a Gypsy—”
“Does that make you better than me? Better than these wonderful people who have loved me without question? They would never forsake me.”
He winced. “Your story sounded implausible, too. Why would Harriet Althorpe wait eighteen years to contact my grandmother?”
“Because she was dying. And she wanted someone else to know I existed. I’m sure she never intended for me to be persecuted by the boy whose education she had guided.”
“For God’s sake,” he said roughly, tunneling his fingers through his hair. “All I knew was what I saw. Grandmama was vulnerable and alone, and could be easily taken advantage of. I had to protect her.”
Her heart softened, just a little. Despite his arrogance and blustering, Michael did care for Lady Stokeford. “Do you still believe I meant to swindle her?”
“No.”
He didn’t hesitate. Nor did he shift his eyes away. Interesting...
Vivien found herself tilting toward him. He looked sincere and trustworthy, a man of honor. Then he ruined the effect by glancing at her bodice. His eyes darkened, causing a tight, tingling sensation in her breasts.
Blast him! She didn’t want to feel that twinge of response. The natural stirrings of her body mustn’t tempt her. He had been cruel. To him, she had been nothing more than another scheming female.
Hurting, Vivien looked away again. The women were beginning to serve the evening meal. Her father sat cross-legged on the ground with the other men, and their laughter and jesting drifted on the cool breeze. How normal the scene looked, how familiar and poignant. Yet she was very aware of Michael sitting mere inches from her, his mind still a mystery to her.
“There’s another reason you’re mistrustful of me,” she said, returning her gaze to him. “Lady Grace.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the irises turning opaque, his black lashes hooding his thoughts. “She has nothing to do with us.”
“Yes she does. So tell me about her.”
Michael made an impatient sound in his throat. “It can serve no purpose to dredge up the past. It’s best forgotten.”
“Develesa! You haven’t forgotten. Now you will tell me about her, else I’ll get up and leave.” She made a move to rise from the crate.
“Sit down!” he said irritably. “What do you wish to know?”
“It’s always wise to start a story from the beginning.”
Scowling, he sat back, his hands clenched on his knees, displaying the knuckles swollen and cracked from the fight. He worked his mouth a moment as if preparing for a disagreeable speech. “When I first saw Grace, she was dressed in white and standing beneath a chandelier that made a golden halo on her hair. She was surrounded by men, including Brand Villiers. I fell hard for her, secured her betrothal within a fortnight, and we married six weeks later. On our wedding night, I found out she wasn’t pure. It was my first warning that she was no angel.”
“Nor are you the Archangel Michael,” Vivien pointed out.
He grimaced. “I never claimed to be. But Grace pretended to be virtuous. She wept and begged for my forgiveness. She wouldn’t reveal the name of her lover, only that he’d been in the cavalry and killed in battle—a lie, of course, I found out later. She promised never to betray me, and like a fool, I believed her. I didn’t know she’d come to the altar already with child.”
“Amy,” Vivien breathed, feeling a smidgen of compassion.
“Yes.” He appeared outwardly calm, though his fingers pressed hard into his thighs. “When I did realize the truth, months after the birth, Grace confessed that Brand had seduced her on the very night before our wedding. She threw it in my face that she loved him, she’d always loved him.”
“Then why did she not marry him?”
“Greed,” Michael said through his teeth. “At the time of our betrothal, he’d little hope of attaining the title. There was his elder brother George, who had a son and heir. But by misfortune, cholera took their lives not long after my wedding, and Brand became earl. Money and rank made him more acceptable to Grace.”
Vivien remembered the dark turmoil she’d sensed in Lord Faversham. Was he evil as Michael clearly believed? Or was he bitter and grieving over losing the woman he’d loved? “Did you...find them together?”
“No, they were too clever for that. But they sought each other out at parties, at the theater, in the park. When I finally realized the truth, I forbade Grace to see him. But she would not be deterred. She made plans to run away with Brand to the Continent. By luck, I found out in time to stop her from taking Amy, else she, too, might have been killed.”
Vivien shuddered. “Lady Stokeford said there was a storm.”
“A tempest of heavy rain, the likes of which I’d never seen before or since.” He glowered down at his hands. “Despite the danger, Grace left to join her lover. Upon discovering her gone, I went after her. But it was too late. A bridge had been washed out. The carriage had overturned, and she lay dying. Even then she asked for him. She begged me...”
“Begged you?”
“To tell Brand the truth. About Amy.” The words sounded pulled from a dark place inside himself.
The night air had grown chilly. Vivien huddled into the warmth of the cashmere shawl. Against her will, she could understand his pain. “Oh, Michael. What did you do?”
“I went to kill him. We fought with swords. But when I pinned him to the wall, I was too much of a coward to deliver the coup de grâce.” He broke off, breathing hard as if he despised himself for something shameful.
She let her fingers brush his. “Of course you couldn’t murder him. He was your friend. He is Amy’s father, too, the man who gave life to her.”
“I am the only father she knows,” Michael said savagely.
“Yes, and it’s only right that you remain her father.” Vivien paused, bothered by something. “But how can you be certain that Amy isn’t yours?”
His gaze slid away from hers, seeking the darkness of the woods. “She takes after the old earl’s family with her copper hair and hazel eyes. That’s why I’ve kept her in London all these years, away from my grandmother. I feared she or one of the Rosebuds might realize the truth.”
Why did she have the feeling he wasn’t telling her everything? “But they haven’t noticed, so the resemblance must be slight.” Troubled, Vivien studied his harsh countenance. “Perhaps it’s time to lay aside your worries and your hatred. You said yourself that the past is best forgotten.”
“You don’t understand,” he said fiercely, returning his gaze to hers. “Amy is my daughter. I loved her from the moment I held her in my arms for the first time. Even if Brand Villiers can’t take her from me, I don’t trust him not to spread gossip. I won’t permit anyone to cast slurs upon her birth.”
The ice around Vivien’s emotions thawed a little. How devoted he was to Amy, how unwavering was his love for the child of his enemy. He must be a worthy man, her heart whispered. And if he could show such devotion to Amy and his grandmother, why not to her, as well? Certainly his mistrust had been a betrayal, yet he had felt driven to protect his family...
Reyna Thorne scurried toward them, carrying two tin plates of food and two small knives. “You are hungry,” she said. “So much talking you do.” Curiosity shining in her dark eyes, she looked from Vivien to Michael, studying him as she might assess a future son-in-law.
He flashed her an engaging grin. “Ah, stew made with...some kind of meat. It smells delicious.”
Vivien watched her mother melt before his charm. Reyna smiled modestly, her lashes fluttering. “It is but poor fare, sir.”
Did he beguile every woman he encountered? “It isn’t poor fare,” Vivien said, picking up her knife and spearing a chunk of meat. “My mother is the finest cook in this kumpania."
Michael made no comment on the lack of a fork or spoon. Using his knife, he sampled a bite, then said, “An excellent flavor. What is this dish called?”
Reyna beamed proudly. “Hatchi-weshu. ”
He looked inquiringly at Vivien.
“It means ‘prickly thing of the woods.’” Vivien waited until he popped another piece of meat into his mouth before adding, “It’s hedgehog.”
He stopped chewing. His eyes widened and his mouth puckered. Then he looked at her mother, who hovered anxiously over him. Giving her a rather wan smile, he swallowed. “It’s truly a meal beyond compare.”
“I will bring you tea.” Smiling happily, Reyna scurried off to the fire to pour from the copper kettle that hung there.
“I’m eating a spiny rat,” Michael muttered.
“You’ve been honored with a favorite delicacy of the Rom." Vivien savored another mouthful of the sweet, tender meat, so reminiscent of her childhood. “It’s no worse than you gorgios eating turtle soup or eel pie.”
A spark of humor tempered his disgruntlement. “And I can’t expect you to adapt to my world if I don’t adapt to yours, too.”
She arched an eyebrow. “For a gorgio, you’re a perceptive man.”
Much to her surprise, he resumed eating with gusto. He seemed determined to be agreeable. Having partaken of no food since the previous day, Vivien found herself ravenous. She ate every bite, sopping up the rich gravy with a bit of bread and licking her fingers. Michael copied her actions, his gaze intent on her all the while, making her skin tingle with awareness.
After bringing them mugs of sweet hot tea and water to wash their hands, Reyna disappeared into the caravan and emerged a few moments later, clutching something to her bosom. Hesitantly, she stepped toward Vivien. “I’ve kept this for you, Vivi. The blanket that wrapped you when you were brought to us.”
Vivien caught her breath. Her gaze riveted to the small folded square of cloth. Slowly she put her plate on the ground and reached for the blanket. The fleecy bundle was woven of the finest cream-colored wool with a fringe on the ends. Stroking it, she realized with a coil of warm emotion that Harriet Althorpe must have touched this blanket. She had wrapped her infant daughter in it, never knowing that her lover would whisk the baby away in the dark of night. Holding it to her cheek, Vivien breathed deeply, able to detect only a faint musty odor.
Her throat taut, she looked up at Reyna. “You saved it for me all these years. Why?”
Reyna’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I thought...someday you might like a token from your gorgio mother.”
Vivien sprang up to hug the older woman. “You are my mother. The mother of my heart.”
After a moment, Michael’s hand curled around Vivien’s arm. “Sit down before your father notices,” he muttered, pulling her back down onto her crate. “Now, what are you two saying?”
She realized they’d been speaking in Romany. Quickly she related what her mother had said.
“May I see it?” he asked.
Reluctantly she gave him the blanket.
He shook it out, holding the cloth up to the light of the campfire, turning it this way and that. “It’s quite ordinary,” he said.
Vivien bristled, snatching back the blanket and hugging it to her breast. “Does that mean you do doubt the story of my birth?”
“I was looking for something that might help us identify your father. Though I suppose it’s asking too much to find a coat of arms embroidered on a swaddling cloth.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “If Harriet Althorpe had an affair while at the Abbey, then likely he was someone the Rosebuds knew. It’s odd that they wouldn’t have known.”
Vivien’s heart beat faster. She had refused to wonder who had sired her, for the beast had abandoned an innocent babe. But Michael had a point. Did the Rosebuds know more than they’d let on?
Turning to Reyna, he asked, “Can you describe the man who left Vivien with you?”
Reyna bit her lip, then shrugged. “’Twas dark,” she said in her accented English. “He stayed inside his coach. But he was a tall man. I saw him kiss Vivien before the driver brought her to us.”
“And the coachman? What did he look like?”
“That one came earlier in the day to our little camp, asking many questions. Friendly he was, short and fat with spots on his skin like the gorgios sometimes have.”
“Freckles,” Vivien said.
“He wouldn’t reveal his name,” Reyna went on. “And we did not press him. We were too happy to hear his master wished to give us a child, too afraid he might change his mind. You see...I had lost yet another little one from my womb. For that reason, we camped alone, while the kumpania went on without us.”
“Where did this happen?” Michael asked.
“On a road near Lil-engreskey gav."
“‘Book fellows town,’ ” Vivien translated slowly. “It’s the Romany name for Oxford. But in her letter, Harriet claimed she’d gone south to the Isle of Wight.”
She and Michael exchanged a puzzled glance; then he bowed his head to Reyna. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorne. You’ve been most helpful.”
She smiled again, touching Vivien’s cheek lovingly, her eloquent brown eyes communicating affection. Then she took their plates and went to wash them in the stream.
Vivien smoothed the blanket in her lap. She resented the man who had callously left his bastard with strangers. He couldn’t have been certain of her safety or happiness no matter how many questions his servant asked. Yet she had no regrets. She had been raised by the best of parents.
“Curious, that letter from Miss Althorpe,” Michael mused. “I still think there’s more to it than meets the eye.”
She stiffened. “If you question my honesty again—”
“Calm down,” he said, chuckling a little. “You’re as prickly as the hedgehog that went into our dinner.”
Oh, he was charming when he laughed. Aware of her leaping senses, she drank from her mug of tea, its dark smoky sweetness refreshing. Somehow the night took on a sparkle. She could smell the smoke from the fires, the crisp autumn flavor of the woods, and Michael’s elusive scent.
“I’ve a confession, too,” she said. “I didn’t intend to stay with the Rosebuds more than two months. Two hundred guineas were enough to secure my parents’ future.”
He winced. “I thought you wanted to be named Grandmama’s heiress.”
“There’s more. When first we met, you were so arrogant that I wanted to entice you into falling in love with me. So that when I left, I could spurn you.”
“I didn’t give you much to like, did I?” He leaned forward, his eyes caressing her. “I want to make it all up to you. Marry me, Vivien.”
She couldn’t draw a breath for a moment. There was a tightness in her breast. Not an angry tension, but a sweet, foolish hopefulness. “I’ve no wish to return to your gorgio world,” she said coolly. “Life here is simple and free. I don’t have to trouble myself with intrigues and deceptions. Nor do I need to encounter people like the duchess.”
His face darkened. “Everyone will know what she did to your father. Many will condemn her. She’ll lose her precious standing in society.”
“I don’t want revenge anymore.” It was true, Vivien realized, with the lightness of relief. “I only wish to see my parents live out their years in peace and comfort.”
“Then let me give them all they need. As for society, it won’t always be easy to face snobs like the duchess. But I’ll be right there at your side.”
It was wonderful to think that Michael would defend her. “This is home to me. Here, the woods are my walls and the stars my ceiling.”
He inched closer, perching on the very edge of the crate, his knees brushing her gown. “I’ve a library full of books. And a bed big enough for both of us.”
A little shiver ran over her skin. “I have a mother and father who love me. They would never betray me.”
“I have a grandmother who misses you. And a little girl begging to hear another story.”
In the midst of her softening, she remembered. “I left Amy a story on my desk. Did you find it?”
“I was too anxious to find you. To bring you home.” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed the back. “We belong together, Vivien. I want you, I need you. Marry me, and I’ll make love to you every night for the rest of your life.”
Michael hadn’t professed to love her, only that he wanted to love her body. She wanted that, too, to be one with him if only for a few brief moments of joy. He was a charmer and a rogue, she reminded herself. She should resist the appeal in those rakish blue eyes. She shouldn’t want to embrace a life with this gorgio lord. Yet all her hurt and anger melted away, leaving her heart lying in a puddle of longing.
Reaching out, she caressed his rough cheek. “Oh, Michael, I love you so,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll be your wife.”