The next day, the camp bustled with preparations for the wedding.
Floating in a cloud of happiness, Vivien helped to prepare the lavish feast. Tonight, she would be wed by Gypsy custom, then in a few days, by English law in a church. Michael had sent cartload after cartload of foodstuffs from the kitchens of the Abbey, vegetables and fruits, rounds of cheeses, and an array of cakes, hams, and flanks of beef. At the abundance of meat, Vivien felt a tweak of humor. So, Michael did not wish to be served spiny creatures at his wedding.
While she peeled potatoes and seasoned the roasting chickens with aromatic herbs, she caught up on all the news. Old Shuri’s rheumatism had improved, Tesla would have another baby in the spring, Keja’s son had lost his first tooth. The women in turn teased Vivien about her rich, handsome man, admiring him for besting Janus, who now courted the sensual Orlenda with a single-minded determination.
Yet for all their camaraderie, Vivien was aware of a chasm between herself and these women. She was a gorgio now. She would live in the Abbey as a fine lady with servants to wait upon her and a house with more rooms than she could count. She would entertain guests and wonder which of them were her real friends and which of them might betray her.
She took a deep, steadying breath. She trusted the Rosebuds, especially Lady Stokeford who had been like a loving grandmother to her. She longed to be Amy’s mother.
Michael’s wife.
That thrilling prospect overshadowed her misgivings. The previous evening, he and her father had spent a long time discussing the terms of her bride price, her father stern at first, then gradually unbending until they’d traded jests and boasts. Forbidden to partake in the affairs of men, she didn’t know all that had been said, but she had warned Michael to break tradition and pay her father for her hand, rather than vice versa. At last, both men had appeared satisfied. With the formal agreement concluded, the wedding feast would take place immediately, in the custom of the Rom.
Toward sunset, she went inside the caravan to don the splendid white satin gown that her mother had lovingly sewn for her trousseau several years ago. The dress had wide sleeves and a full skirt, hardly the current gorgio fashion, but Vivien felt beautiful in it. As Reyna settled a crown of woven ivy leaves on Vivien’s freshly brushed and braided hair, the clamoring of the dogs sounded outside the encampment.
“Your beloved arrives,” Reyna said softly, stroking Vivien’s cheek with her careworn fingers. “How happy I am that you’ve found love. You’ve found your place in the world.”
“Yes.” Her breast aching, Vivien caught her mother’s hand and held tightly to it. “I’ll miss you and miro dado. You must promise to come back here often.”
Tears welled in Reyna’s smiling eyes. “But of course. Do you think we could stay away?” She gave Vivien a warm embrace, then drew back. “Go now, your beloved awaits his bride.”
With a shiver of anticipation, Vivien stepped out of the caravan just as Michael swung off his bay gelding. He wore a dark blue coat with silver buttons, his long legs encased in tight-fitting tan breeches. The dazzling white of his shirt and cravat made a striking contrast to his black hair.
His gaze met hers across the busy camp. He smiled, a cocky tilt of his mouth that ignited a fire in her heart. How she loved him. The world took on a radiance when he was near.
She hastened to his side, glancing past him down the empty path shrouded by dusk. “Did Lady Stokeford and Amy not come with you?”
He caught her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb. “It isn’t wise for Grandmama to be outside in this damp chill. And Amy will be going to bed soon.”
She felt a sense of loss at their absence. “Did you tell Amy I am to be her mother?”
“To a great squeal of delight.” Michael’s grin broadened, his teeth flashing white in the firelight. “She asked me a thousand questions and then ran off to give the news to Nibbles.”
Oh, how she wished she’d been there! “I’ll go to the Abbey tomorrow and visit her.”
“Beware the Rosebuds. They’re busily planning our church wedding.” He bent his head close so that the warmth of his breath brushed her cheek. “As for me, I must ride to Canterbury tomorrow and obtain a special license. Before the week is out, you’ll wed me again and become Lady Stokeford.”
His firm tone, the strength of his fingers around hers, rekindled that special glow inside Vivien. She cared little for titles or wealth, only for him. The promise in his eyes made her feel soft and womanly. He did care for her, truly he did. She would be his wife; she would show him how to love again.
At his side, she walked proudly to the long tables that had been brought from the house. By custom, the bride and groom sat apart, and the dinner seemed to go on forever. Talk and laughter swirled around her, and she smiled at comments she didn’t really hear and ate food she didn’t really taste. All the while, she gazed at Michael and longed for the joy of his arms around her again.
At last Pulika stood up, and a hush came over the throng. With a vibrant emotion to his voice, he gave his approval to the marriage, thus sealing their union. Toasts were raised with glasses of fine wine from the cellars of the Abbey. Everyone congratulated the newlyweds, the men thumping Michael on the back, and the women murmuring blessings to Vivien. She felt cloaked in the trappings of a marvelous dream. She was Michael’s wife now. His wife.
Then, much to everyone’s surprise, Orlenda’s father stood up and announced her betrothal to Janus. Orlenda blushed and ducked her head with rare shyness while everyone cheered again. Zurka and Fonso began to tune their bashadis, and as the tables were cleared and put away for dancing, the lively sound of fiddle music sweetened the air.
A flock of chattering women led Vivien away. Reyna smiled through her happy tears as she unbraided Vivien’s hair so that its rich, wavy mass tumbled around her white satin gown. Speculations on Michael’s virility elicited envious comments from the women. Through it all, Vivien felt the beat of excitement in her blood. He was hers now, hers alone.
Once they had emerged from her parents’ vardo, a team of men pulled it a short distance from the camp so the newlyweds might have their privacy. With much jesting and laughter, they placed a feather mattress and eiderdown quilt outside the wagon. His jet-black eyes moist, Pulika gave Vivien a bear hug, which she returned with an intensity of love. Then he presented the bride to the groom, the moment when he formally relinquished his daughter to her husband.
Michael gathered Vivien’s hands in his. Bending to her, he brushed a chaste kiss over her lips. The women sighed, and the men made more ribald remarks. Caught up in a spirit of gaiety, the Rom returned to the campsite, where fires flickered in the distance and the fiddles resumed a merry tune that floated through the evening air.
Michael gazed after her people in bemusement. “Is there to be no ceremony, then, no vows?”
Laughing, she shook her head. “When miro dado announced the agreement, you became my husband then. That is the way of the Rom."
A slow smile curved his mouth, and his eyes darkened with a fierce tenderness. “Then kiss me well, wife. I’ve been thirsting for you.”
With a cry of joy, she went into his embrace, lifting her mouth to his. This time, there was nothing restrained about his kiss. It was deep, carnal, intimate, a prelude to their lovemaking. His hands glided down her back and pressed her against him so that she could feel his desire. The world slid away until only the two of them existed, two souls straining to become one.
When he ended the kiss, she clung to him as he led her to the bed on the other side of the vardo, where the low, boxy caravan would shield them from curious eyes.
But she was not yet ready to lie with him. First she would entice him, tease him, increase his hunger.
She stepped nimbly away, and though he grumbled, she urged him onto the eiderdown. “I promised once that I’d dance for you.”
That caught his attention. Shrugging out of his coat, he lay down to watch her. To the faint, haunting melody wafting from the kumpania, she began to sway, moving sinuously, showing him all the love and the longing he aroused in her. The past two days had been filled with emotional highs and lows, and now she wanted nothing more than to revel in the needs of their bodies.
Michael’s eyes glinted through the gloom. The woods formed a secluded bower, and stars shone through the canopy of autumn-bare branches. A chilly breeze skimmed across her skin, yet Vivien did not feel the cold; the fire within kept her warm. As she danced, she drifted closer and closer to him. She cupped her breasts like an offering; she undulated her hips in a timeless expression of desire. Then at last she drew the white gown over her head and let it drop to the ground so that she danced naked in the moonlight for her lover.
Her husband.
Uttering a feral sound, Michael lunged up from the bed, tumbling her down onto him. He rolled onto her and kissed her hard and long. His hot mouth moved down to her breasts and then to the place that ached most for him. Her gasp of surprise changed to moans of unabashed pleasure. She arched to him, her fingers tangling in his hair as the need in her heightened, taking her to the verge of madness. Unable to resist the plunge, she fell straight into rapture.
As the wild sensations slowed to a sweet lassitude, she saw Michael standing up, shedding his clothing with an intensity of purpose. The cool, clear moonlight coursed over his taut muscled form and the rampant proof of his passion. Coming down onto the bed, he entered her at once. She welcomed him with a glad cry, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his thighs. How completely he filled her; how complete he made her feel. His thrusts aroused her again to a fever pitch, and this time he came with her into paradise.
They lay spent, panting for breath, their limbs tangled. Her cheek rested in the hollow of his shoulder, and she felt the strong beating of his heart against her breasts. The words rose out of the depths of her own heart. “Michael...vestacho. I love you.”
He said nothing to that, but with a rough tenderness, he stroked her hair and kissed her brow. She sighed and lifted her face to him, unwilling to let his reticence mar the magic of the night. In his arms, she felt desired and secure, and that must be enough for now. His touch was gentle and caring, surely a sign that he felt the affection of a husband for his wife.
From a distance, the music played and the festivities continued far into the night. But here, in their snug warm bed beneath the stars, cloaked in the privacy of darkness, they enjoyed their own celebration. Michael knew many clever ways to thrill her, she soon discovered. He whispered to her, praising her beauty and her passion as he bestowed caresses between her thighs. He suckled her breasts until she nearly wept with need.
She, too, found ways to torture him. She found that he liked to be touched and kissed all over. He liked for her to ride him, to tease him until he groaned with pleasure. He especially liked—nay, loved—for her to lavish attention on his manhood, rubbing his hot length, lightly squeezing the velvety sacks beneath. She learned every part of his body, and he learned hers as well, stroking her in ways that left her gasping. He could stir her body to life when she thought for certain he’d wrung every ounce of passion from her.
The night stretched out into searing ardor and endless pleasure, with long, sweet moments in between when they lay whispering or dozing. Vivien wondered hazily if they would ever tire of each other. As weary as she felt, he could make her want him again with only a few whispered words, a compelling caress.
She slept finally in his arms, and when she awakened in the first glimmering of dawn, she was nestled with her back to his front, his heavy arm looped over her waist. Despite the chill in the air, she felt warm and cozy, drifting in drowsy contentment. By his deep breathing, she thought he was asleep until she felt him swell and harden. She shifted invitingly, and when he entered her from behind, it seemed like part of a wonderful dream. He strung lazy kisses over her neck and back, and as passion kindled in her, she closed her eyes and savored their joining. His thrusts were slow, gentle, tender, as if he, too, did not want the night to end.
By the time they found completion, the air had grown lighter, the branches of the trees visible against the pale gray sky. Michael’s hand moved idly over the bare skin of her back. Enjoying his ministrations, she felt loath to stir. But in the fervor of their mating, the covering had slipped down to their waists, and though they were in a remote part of the woods, she wouldn’t take the risk of being seen.
She reached for the coverlet. “We should go inside the vardo,” she whispered. “There is much time yet to love.”
He made no response. His hand had ceased its mesmerizing massage, and his fingers lay rigid on the indentation of her waist. As she attempted to draw the quilt above her breasts, he pushed it back down.
“Michael!” she chided, laughing a little.
Smiling, she looked around, certain he was teasing her again. But his gaze was fixed on her lower back, where a blemish the size of a guinea stood out against her skin. She never thought much about the spot, which was the color of port wine. It was as much a part of herself as the brown of her eyes and the length of her legs.
“This mark,” he said hoarsely, running his fingertip over its smoothness. “How long have you had it?”
“Since birth, my mother says.” Vivien paused, the horror on his face making her confused and uneasy. “Does it matter to you? It is only a small imperfection—”
“My God,” he grated. “It can’t be true.”
“What? If you find me unworthy because of a blemish—”
“No!” His quick angry answer silenced her. He sat up, his fingers plowing his hair so that he looked rumpled and rakish. “You misunderstand me. I simply can’t believe...”
Spurred by a strange anxiety, she scooted up into a sitting position beside him. “Believe what, Michael? Tell me.”
His stunned gaze scanned her features as if he were seeing her in some new and frightening way. “That birthmark,” he muttered. “Brand Villiers has one exactly like it.”