I had almost reached the narrow opening in the facade set up to separate our troupe’s backstage area from our audience when someone stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. The touch was gentle, brief, just a means to get my attention, but I was on edge, every muscle in my body tense with anxiety and frustration. I froze, finding it almost impossible to paste a smile on my face again. But keeping fans happy was my bread and butter.
“Excuse me.”
Oh, no. Please no. Not Jordan—anyone but him. I couldn’t turn around. I had no veil to mask my features, no disguise to hide behind. I quickly swept my long, bleached flaxen hair forward over my shoulders, dipping my head so it fell loosely around my face, doing my best to play the part of the shy innocent I’d just portrayed at the beginning of mine and Marek’s dance together.
“I am sorry,” I said, my accent intentionally thick and brusque. “I am in a hurry.” I could think of nothing else to say. “My troupe is waiting for me.” I took a step away from him.
“Please wait,” he said, his voice low but fervent. From the corner of my eye, I saw his head dip as he tried to get a better view of my face. “Is your name—are you—?”
“I must go now,” I interrupted, more firmly this time.
“Savannah? It is you!”
Like a beach ball with the plug pulled, I felt the breath I’d been holding leave my body in a long, slow exhale. No one had called me by my real name in a long, long time. I wouldn’t look at him, but I no longer pulled away. If Killian was back from his walk and waiting for me, I’d already know it. His noodle arms would be wrapped around my knees, his face pressed against me, smudging my skirts with a day’s worth of grime made up of dust, little boy sweat, and the smeared remains of anything he might have eaten. His husky little voice would have already interrupted whatever conversation I was having. Maybe I could hurry him along if I responded—I knew he’d figure out my identity and be back for me, but that didn’t mean he knew about Killian. I had to say something that would make him leave.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to lift my eyes to meet his. I didn’t want to see the questions, the assumptions, or the accusations there.
“Savannah.” There was no doubt in his voice this time. He stretched a hand out to me, let it hover just above my forearm, and then withdrew it again. Maybe he was as uncertain as I was about what came next.
Jordan Ransome. My only connection to home. My only link to my parents—to my old life. But I hadn’t seen him in almost three years. I hadn’t seen him since the day I ran away from home, taking my shameful secrets with me.
“How did you find me?” I asked, staring at his dusty shoes, my voice scratchy with tension. My fingers trembled as I toyed with the scalloped edge of the sash around my waist.
“I didn’t find you; I wasn’t looking for you,” he assured me. I’d made him promise not to. “You practically ran me over half an hour ago, remember?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and I wondered if his fingers were shaking, too.
“I didn’t think you recognized me.” I sounded petulant, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, trying to pin the blame on the one who’d caught her.
“I didn’t at first. Your hair. That veil.” He’d only ever known me with my dark brown curls and barely there makeup. A fresh-faced teenager untainted by the darkness of the world. “I saw in your eyes when you recognized me, though. At first, I just thought you had mistaken me for someone else. After I walked away, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me, like I should know you, too. So I grabbed a soda and came back.” He held up a paper cup and swished the ice around as proof.
I pressed my lips together, refusing to ask the question trying to push its way out of my mouth. Did you see that last dance?
“I got here just as you were being swallowed up by the crowd, and I lost you for a minute. They really like you here, don’t they?”
How was I supposed to respond to that? And what was he really saying, exactly? I lifted my head then, my chin jutting out with all the defiance I could muster. “Yes, they do. Because I’m good at what I do. People come here to be entertained; I give them what they pay for. And when I do my job well, they express their appreciation well, too. It’s a good living.” I did look at him then, and my breath hitched in response to what I saw on his face.
His eyes glistened, his expression a potent combination of emotions. Hope, relief, fear, frustration… but not an iota, not a hint of condemnation or judgment.
He didn’t know. Thank God, he didn’t know. Oh, please keep Killian away. Please keep him busy a little longer.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m glad for you. I—I’ve worried about how…” He paused a moment before continuing. “I’ve wondered how you were making ends meet. You never said.”
I snorted softly. “No. This isn’t something the folks back home would want to know, though, is it?” I turned slightly so I could watch over his shoulder for my son’s approach, but I angled my gaze toward Jordan.
“I’m not folks back home.” He kicked at a clump of wood chips near his feet. “And just to assure you again, for the thousandth time, I haven’t said a word to anyone, just as you wanted. Why would telling me automatically mean the folks back home would know?” A tinge of something I could only attribute to anger tightened his voice, and his eyes narrowed. “I have done everything your way, Savannah. I stayed silent while everyone you left behind searched for you, missed you, grieved for you. And I stood by when your parents released you, because you demanded it of them, of all of us, and I didn’t say anything.”
I took a step back. His words were fists, and I felt every blow land.
“I see you have a suitor, my love.” Marek’s voice slithered around me as he stepped through the door behind me and drew up close, one arm encircling me and pulling me tight against his side. He flashed Jordan a wide smile as disingenuous as his accent. “Savah is mine, my friend. Did you not witness me claiming her mind, body, and soul just now?” To an outsider, Marek may have sounded like he was teasing, but I knew his words for what they were. Threats and staked claims. “Come, my love. We have much to do before our next performance.”
“Savannah, wait.” Jordan shot his hand out, grabbing my wrist to make me stop, and Marek’s smile disappeared. Jordan, brave, foolish man, didn’t let go of me.
“You will unhand my woman. And her name is Savah.” I could easily imagine wisps of black smoke seeping out between Marek’s clenched teeth.
“Seriously? Unhand your woman?” Jordan’s eyebrows rose in disbelief at the melodramatic command.
“Unhand her now.” Marek’s voice lowered menacingly.
“Please,” I murmured as I pulled my arm free from Jordan’s grip and twisted away from Marek, too. “I need to find Pella. I’m sure she’s looking for me, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.” I didn’t want this to escalate into something more than it already was. It was rare that anyone challenged the imposing Gypsy King, and Marek didn’t take kindly to it. The guy was tall and beefy, like something right off the cover of a romance novel, with his long, mahogany hair and silk shirt opened nearly to his navel. An impressive six-pack below shapely pecs only added to the intimidation factor. When his charisma didn’t do the job, he had other ways of convincing people to give him what he wanted. I had bruises to show for it.
I ducked through the curtained door, making certain the panel of turquoise silk fell back in place behind me, leaving the two of them to beat their chests and growl at each other. I prayed it wouldn’t amount to any more than that. My mind was reeling with what this meant, with what I must do now to preserve this new identity I lived under. To protect Killian at all cost.
What was Jordan doing here? He just didn’t seem to me like a Renaissance Faire kind of guy. And of all the people to run into—literally—out of the hundreds of thousands of people who cavorted with the Faire Folk during these seven weeks each summer—out of all of them, it had to be Jordan Ransome.
Last I knew, he’d graduated from his fancy program in Hollywood and headed back to Midtown, having landed a job with Mid-U as a set designer for their drama department. “Duh,” I muttered, smacking my palm against my forehead a few times. “Set design. Of course.” He was probably here for research reasons. The Southern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire was the original modern historical fair of its kind in America. The stages and set designs, coupled with the architectural elements that went into putting the Faire together, was nothing short of brilliant, making the place an endless source for creative, structural, and versatile design ideas. Now that I thought about it, I was almost surprised I hadn’t seen Jordan before. This was my third year doing the historical fair circuit with Marek and the Gypsies.