As she leaned against the trunk of an oak, watching the dusk settle into soft shadows beneath the trees, Vivien heard the rumble of a clearing throat. Spinning around, she blinked at her father, who leaned heavily on his new cane of gleaming mahogany. “I’m sorry, dado. Have you been standing there long?”
“Long enough to see your unhappiness.” He tilted his head, his eyes dark with concern. “You are lamenting your errant husband again.”
If only he knew how much. Such folly it was to gaze toward Stokeford Abbey when the forest hid the house from view. So many times she’d debated going there, to see Amy and the Rosebuds ... and Michael. Each day, as she visited his tenants and gave out medicinals, she expected to hear that he and Amy had left for London.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Vivien attempted a smile. “This land is a reminder, that’s all,” she said firmly. “Michael will always be a part of me, but once we leave here, I’m sure to forget him.”
Pulika crossed his arms over his embroidered green coat. “We’ll go as soon as I finish my work. Another week perhaps.”
“A week?” Vivien said in dismay. For the past fortnight, despite his handicap, her father had filled in for the village blacksmith, who had taken ill. Each day, he hobbled off, whistling, returning at sundown. Her mother, too, seemed content to stay at their campsite on Michael’s estate. Though they’d been angry the day she’d come from the Abbey and tearfully told them what had happened, now their nonchalance left Vivien confused. Couldn’t they see how deep her hurt was? How desperately she needed to leave here?
With her bare toe, she nudged an acorn lying in a bed of fallen leaves. “Is there no gorgio who can do your job? We should be on the road, seeking a place to spend the winter.”
“I’m strong enough to work now. Besides, your husband asked a steep dowry.”
Her chin shot up. “No! I told him to pay you.”
“That’s a man’s business, and not for you to dictate.” Pulika slanted a surprisingly merry glance at her. “But I will say, it costs much to persuade a suitor to take an outspoken, impudent daughter.”
Had Michael taken any of her hard-earned hundred guineas? And why was her father joking about giving his meager savings to a rich lord? “You should demand he repay you. Better yet, I will.”
Laughing, her father said, “Sheathe your claws, little cat. Your husband didn’t ask more than I was willing to give.”
“He doesn’t deserve even a copper farthing,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you and miro dye such trouble.”
Pulika caught her in a bear hug. “Trouble, bah. How can the light of my life cause trouble? That husband of yours will soon realize so, too. He has much pride, but he will humble himself in the end.”
Wishing she could believe him, she blinked back tears. “Michael is a gorgio lord. He kneels to no one, much less a woman.”
“Ah, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Pulika said. “The man is smitten. Now come, else your mother will scold me.”
“Scold you?”
“For keeping you so long.” His jet-black eyes glinted mysteriously. “Tonight we’ll have a little party to cheer you. Zurka will play his fiddle, Shuri will tell her stories, and your mother will serve us her chicken stew.”
He put his hand at her back and propelled her toward the circle of vardos where the campfires shone through the gathering dusk. Vivien bit her lip. She had no heart for revelry, but how could she disappoint her parents in this? She owed them so much. They had taken her in as a baby, raised her as their treasured daughter, given her all the love in their hearts.
Reyna hastened forward, wagging her gnarled finger. “There you are, you laggard. What took you so long?”
Pulika cast a droll look at Vivien. “What did I tell you? I married a scold.”
“And I married a buffoon,” Reyna chided. “A big bear who is always teasing.” But she laughed when he enfolded her in his huge embrace.
Vivien’s throat tightened. There was something else her parents had given her: the ideal for a happy marriage. That closeness and love was what she’d wanted for herself. What she’d foolishly wanted with a gorgio lord.
Reyna motioned to her. “We must find you something more festive to wear, Vivi.”
Vivien glanced down at her serviceable green skirt and gold blouse. “I won’t wear my gorgio gown.”
“You don’t have to.” Like a little whirlwind, Reyna bustled her up the steps and into the vardo, where a lantern lighted their simple belongings, a brass brazier for heat, cupboards holding dishes and pots and curios, a bed for the cold nights of winter when they could not sleep outdoors. Vivien felt more like curling up there than pretending to be cheerful.
But she would make the effort. “There’s my blue skirt, though I don’t see how it’s any better than—”
She faltered as Reyna drew forth the white bridal gown. The gown in which she had become Michael’s wife. The gown in which she had danced for him. The gown in which she had experienced such joy...and sorrow.
“No,” she whispered. “Not that.”
“Please, wear it to humor your old mother,” Reyna said, helping Vivien shed her garb. “You’ll look beautiful in it. Perhaps it will help you remember how happy you were.”
She needed no reminder of that glorious episode. Surely her mother knew that; it wasn’t like her to be so unfeeling. Then a thought riveted Vivien. Unless there was another reason for her mother’s lively smile. A reason for her father’s jovial mood. Perhaps he had spoken to Michael...
No. She mustn’t hope. She mustn’t let herself even think such reckless thoughts.
Outside, the dogs launched into a clamor of barking. Vivien’s heart took a leap. She looked at her mother, who held out the wedding dress.
“Quickly,” Reyna said, her eyes gleaming. “There is no time to waste.”
“What is it? Who’s here?”
“Put this on, and we’ll find out.” Reyna would say no more.
With trembling hands, Vivien slipped the dress over her head. The satin slithered downward, cool and caressing as a man’s touch. Her hair swirled down to her waist like an ebony cape. In the small square of mirror hanging on the painted wall, she could see the sparkle in her eyes, the high color in her cheeks. If only she could be certain...
Her mother shooed her out the door and into the twilight. A few stars winked in the heavens. On the step Vivien paused, transfixed by an unexpected sight.
At the edge of the encampment, the Rom crowded around a strange vardo. The vehicle was large and finely built, painted a rich crimson with gold wheels. The Stokeford colors, she noted distractedly. Several Gypsy boys were busily unhitching a pair of sleek black horses. From the wide seat at the front of the vehicle, a man leapt lithely to the ground.
Michael.
Their eyes met and he went still, staring at her from across the camp. He wore the blousy white shirt and dark breeches of a man of the Rom, with black knee boots and a red sash cinching his waist. The very air seemed to shimmer with her awareness of him. His gaze never wavering, he strode through the throng of Gypsies who stood admiring the fancy caravan.
He stopped before the steps where she stood. His gaze moved hungrily over her, and now she was glad she’d worn the white gown. Fiercely glad. He held out his hand. “My lady,” he said in his deep, silken voice, “I’ve something to show you.”
She should not let herself be romanced by this rogue. Michael probably believed he could sweep her off her feet with pretty words. He might even be right. Not that she intended to tell him so.
Ignoring his hand, she stepped down. “What is this all about?” she asked, trying to calm her racing heart. “Where did you find that fancy vardo?”
“I didn’t find it. I had it built. With the help of your father.”
“Miro dado?” she exclaimed. “But he’s spent his days at the blacksmith’s...” Vivien fell silent, looking across the camp to see her father grinning at her. Glancing around, she saw Reyna Thorne smiling in the doorway. They had both been in on the scheme.
“Pulika’s come to the Abbey every day to direct the workmen.” Michael gave her a serious, penetrating look. “The deception was my doing, not his. I wanted this to be a surprise.”
She was more than surprised. She was amazed, bewildered, and intrigued. “Why are you dressed like one of us?”
“You’ll understand in a moment.” Michael took her arm and guided her toward the vardo. “First, I want you to see the caravan. It has every modem comfort, the best that money can buy. I hope you’ll like it.”
The crowd parted to let them pass, murmuring in admiration and excitement. She could think only of the man at her side. Her husband. He walked her around the outside of the vardo, proudly pointing out all its amenities, the windows of etched glass, the comfortable driver’s seat with an overhang in case of rain, the brass lanterns to illuminate the night. The Rom trailed after them, oohing and aahing.
Michael had gone through all this expense and planning for her? It seemed too much to believe. She wished he would show her the interior so that she could ask him in privacy what it all meant.
But he sat her down on the step just outside the rear door. Before her astonished eyes, in front of her parents and the entire Rom, he knelt in the dirt and brought her hand to his lips.
“Michael?” she whispered, her voice wavering between awe and embarrassment. “Shouldn’t we go inside?”
“No.” The lamplight showed the intensity of his blue eyes. “What I have to say, I want everyone to hear. I’ve behaved like an arrogant ass. But if you’ll come back to me, we’ll travel with your family for part of each year. Amy can come along, too.”
She quivered, afraid this was all a dream, and she would awaken if she even dared to breathe. “I thought you wanted to live in London.”
He pressed his finger to her lips. “No. I’m not afraid to take risks anymore. I’ve a special license, and if you like we can be married tomorrow in the chapel at Stokeford Abbey. The Rosebuds have made all the arrangements.” He drew a deep breath. “I invited Brand, too.”
Michael had done even that for her. Because Brand was her brother. She scarcely knew what to say, how to thank him.
Pulika stepped forward. “For his dowry, he asked only that we spend each winter here with you, Vivi.”
She was struck mute by that, too. She could only stare at Michael, unable to stop the hope that rose so sweetly in her breast.
He said quickly, “Please don’t refuse me, darling. These past few weeks have been hell without you. You’re a fire in my heart.” An unveiled longing burned in his eyes. He brought her hand to his chest so she could feel the strong beating of his heart. “I love you, Vivien.”
Sighs eddied from the women. Wives leaned against their men. Pulika and Reyna stood together smiling.
“Oh, Michael, I love you, too.” Giddy with joy, Vivien threw herself into his arms, almost knocking him to the ground.
Saving her from a tumble, he sat up and chuckled, brushing his lips over hers. “Does this mean you’ll let me be your husband again?”
“Yes, oh yes. Now will you show me the interior?”
His teeth flashed in a grin. “With pleasure.”
Amid cheers from the Gypsies, he helped Vivien to her feet, dusted off her white skirt, and pushed open the door. She heard her father shooing away the curious, herding them back toward the campfires. But she had eyes only for Michael.
He carried the brass lamp inside and hung it from a wall hook. The light illuminated a sight so cozily elegant that she gasped with delight, turning around slowly so she could take it all in. Near the entrance, there was a small washroom behind a partition, and opposite it, cupboards filled with fine china and silver. A plump chaise stood against one wall. In between two curtained windows sat a small mahogany desk and above it, a glass-fronted case full of books. But what snared her attention was the wide bed situated at the far end of the caravan.
Gold cord drew back the crimson draperies to display an ornate headboard that was crowned by the gold Stokeford crest. The nest of pillows and the satiny coverlet seemed to beckon to Vivien. She went toward the bed, the fine Persian rug cushioning her bare feet.
“There’s a table over here that folds down,” Michael said, demonstrating its operation, clearly proud of all the gadgets. “And this chaise opens into a small bed where Amy can sleep.”
“Why don’t you show me how this works, Michael?” Giving him a sensual smile, Vivien let her fingers glide over the crimson quilt.
He dropped the cushion, left the chaise half-undone, and walked straight to her. Oh, how she had missed that cocky stride of his, the way his mouth slanted with wicked promise, that scorching intensity in his midnight-blue eyes. Without a word, he caught her to him in a long, deep kiss that left her hot and aching and gasping for breath.
“Ah, yes, the bed. My pièce de résistance.” He settled down against the pillows and drew her into the hard cradle of his body, her long white dress draped over her like a bridal veil.
“It’s very comfortable,” she said, snuggling against him. “But we could enjoy it better without all these clothes.” She began to unbutton his shirt, kissing the skin she exposed, smoothing her fingers over his muscled chest.
Holding her close, he kissed her brow. “Vivien...my God, how I’ve missed you. I’ve thought of no woman but you from the moment I saw you in Grandmama’s boudoir, reading her palm.”
“Kosko bokht,” she said, smiling up at him. “It’s good fortune that brought us together. Now, give me your hand and I’ll tell you what lies in store for you.”
He gave her that look, the seductive one that said he already knew what would happen in the very near future. But he thrust out his hand anyway, and she touched his broad palm, tracing the lines there, admiring the strength and sensitivity of his fingers.
“One true love,” she murmured. “That is what I predict for you, milord marquess. You’ll find much happiness so long as you please your beloved.”
Chuckling, he took his hand from hers and let it rest on the warm skin just above her breasts. “So, my love, let the pleasuring begin.”