Extend to me the hand so small,

Wherein I see thee weep,

For O thy balmy teardrops all

I would collect and keep.

Gypsy Poem

George Borrow

Chapter Three

CATHERINE FINISHED THE LAST of the stew the old woman brought her, grateful for an end to the gnawing in her stomach. Afterward, she climbed beneath the bright patchwork quilt that covered the soft eiderdown mattress, comfortable and warm for the first time in weeks.

Her eyes searched the interior of the wagon lit by the warm glow of a candle. Cupboards lined each side of the vardo, and everything was neatly put away. A full-sleeved, frayed homespun shirt hung on a peg beside one of shiny red silk. A yellow silk scarf, a worn pair of black breeches, and a vest stitched from bright scraps of gold-embroidered tapestry, a row of small gold coins glittering on the front, hung nearby.

The vardo looked like others she had seen, only neater and cleaner, and built of penny-farthing boards so that it fit more tightly together. The only thing that seemed out of place were the several leather-bound books jammed in a slot beside the carving of a tiny wooden horse.

Since Gypsies couldn’t read, why had he bought them? Or more likely, stolen them? She wondered, too, if the intriguing man named Domini had carved the small wooden horse.

Catherine blew out the candle, rolled to her side, and stared into the darkness inside the wagon. Her eyelids felt heavy, her body bruised and fatigued, but she dared not fall asleep. Instead she listened to every small sound outside, waiting for the footsteps of the man she was certain would come.

Why had he bought her, if not to warm his bed?

Catherine jumped at the hoot of an owl, then lay back with a sigh of relief when she realized what it was. Occasional laughter drifted across the camp from distant wagons, but it slowly faded away. As the night wore on, she identified the snorting of the horses, the last crackling embers of the fire, but no man’s footsteps came. Just before dawn, she finally fell asleep, only to be awakened at first light by the tall Gypsy’s husky male voice.

“The sun moves high, Catrina. Rouse yourself—unless you want company.” He jerked open the low wooden door and Catherine bolted upright, tugging the covers up to her chin.

“Do you always barge in on a lady in her bed?”

“Not always,” he replied with a rakish smile, “but often enough to find the pastime pleasant.” His eyes raked her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the smudges beneath her eyes, the tightness around her mouth that betrayed her sleepless hours. “You look worse than you did last night. You didn’t find my bed to your liking?”

Catherine bristled, her chin coming up, but a hand lifted self-consciously to shove back strands of her sleep-tousled hair. “I was afraid you would try to … I thought you might change your mind about our sleeping arrangements.”

He certainly didn’t look any the worse for wear, she thought. In fact he looked very well rested indeed. He had the most incredible features: straight Aryan nose, smooth dark skin, and thick-lashed obsidian eyes. His mouth could have been carved in stone, it looked so perfectly sculpted, and when he smiled, he flashed the whitest teeth she had ever seen.

“Disappointed?” he mocked, arching a heavy black brow. He was handsome, but not in the usual sense. There was an overall hardness about him, a leashed quality she had sensed from the start. It only made him more attractive.

“Hardly.”

Dominic smiled as if he didn’t believe her. Such arrogance! But then he was a Gypsy.

“There’s a pitcher and basin of water in the cupboard on your left.” He tossed her a blouse much like the one Vaclav had torn up, this one brightly embroidered. “My mother has coffee, bread, and brynza—sheep cheese. Make yourself ready and join us.”

She held up the blouse. “Your mother’s?” It looked much too big for such a frail little woman.

Dominic flashed a smile of amusement. Today he wore a silver earring in one ear. “I borrowed it from a friend. Would you like me to help you put it on?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then I suggest you hurry. If you’re not out here by the time I finish my coffee, I intend to come back in.” With a last bold glance, he turned and left the wagon.

Catherine hurriedly rolled from the bed, tugged off the tattered remains of her blouse, and quickly pulled on the clean one. At first she had been scandalized by the lack of clothing the Gypsies wore, just a skirt and blouse with no undergarments at all. In winter, they merely layered several sets of clothing one on top of another to keep them warm. It all seemed perfectly sensible now.

Using her fingers to work the tangles from her hair, Catherine washed her face, did her best to smooth out her wrinkled red skirts, and descended the stairs from the wagon.

“Much better,” Dominic exclaimed with a look of approval. “You may find some privacy off to your left.” He glanced in that direction.

Grateful he had understood her need, Catherine walked off that way and completed her ablutions. She knew better than to try to escape. That was no easy task, alone and penniless, and unsure even which way to go. Instead she returned to the camp, and Dominic handed her a blackened tin cup filled with steaming hot coffee.

“Later today,” he said, “after you’ve helped my mother with her tasks, you will rest. Tomorrow you’ll feel better.” He smiled at the frail old woman. “This is Pearsa, my mother. I expect you to do whatever she tells you.”

Pearsa said nothing, just flashed her a look so cold it could have frozen stones. Another hateful old hag, Catherine thought. She could almost feel the bite of the willow switch slicing across her back and legs.

Not this time, she vowed. She was stronger now, not frightened as she had been in the beginning. Then she had been just an innocent young girl, too terrified to stand up to them. But during the months since she had been forced to leave her home, she had changed. She had lost her innocence, all but one last remaining vestige, but she had learned to survive.

“If she tries to beat me, I shall fight her,” Catherine warned, thinking of others who had treated her badly. Better to let them know where she stood right from the start.

Dominic eyed her a moment, then set his tin coffee cup down and crossed to the place in front of her. He tipped her chin with his hand.

“No one here is going to hurt you. You just do your share of the work and stay out of trouble. At night you may sleep in peace.” The long-boned fingers beneath her chin moved upward across her cheek, cupping her face and sending a tremor of warmth along her spine. “When I’m ready to claim what is mine, you will know.”

Dominic caught her sharp intake of breath, the rosy flush that colored her cheeks, and found her responses enchanting. He almost smiled. Though it hadn’t been his intention when he bought her, claim her he would—sooner or later. Every time he looked at her, he felt his body stir. There was something about her. Something different. Fascinating.

Last night in Yana’s arms, his hardness thrusting inside her, it was the flame-haired woman he thought of. The flame-haired woman he wanted. Where had she come from? What secrets did she keep?

That she had suffered at the hands of his people was becoming more and more apparent. Some tribes were more violent than others, some stole more, some strayed farther outside the law. And after the hundreds of years of the prejudice the Rom had suffered, all of them feared and hated outsiders. A Gadjo woman, bought and paid for, might be treated worse than a slave.

He looked at her now, eating the bread and cheese, sipping the sweet black coffee, and watching him furtively from beneath her heavy lashes, their color far darker than the fiery shade of her hair. He could see the tops of her high round breasts, gauge the narrow span of her waist, guess closely at the fullness of her bottom. When her lips parted to accept a bite of cheese, her small pink tongue touched the corner of her mouth, and Dominic felt the blood rush through his veins. His body tightened, and a sharp ache pulled at his loins.

How many men had taken her already? Used her brutally with no regard for her pleasure? Surely more than a few men had fallen prey to such splendid temptation.

He would have to go easy with her, let her get used to the idea of sharing his bed. He would give her some time, not much because he had so little remaining. Just enough to ease her fears and let her warm to him.

Dominic had no doubt he could bed her—quite willingly.

After all, Gadjo or Gypsy, she was only a woman.

*   *   *

Catherine worked beside the old Gypsy, gathering firewood, scrubbing pots and pans, mending a handful of well-worn clothing. She didn’t mind the tasks, in fact she had come to enjoy the small daily chores that made her feel useful. She stretched against an ache in her back, reached over and plucked a small yellow wildflower from a clump near the base of a tree. When she straightened, she saw the old woman watching.

“You may pick some if you like,” Pearsa said. “My son enjoys them, too.” That the woman spoke English came as little surprise, since most of them spoke several languages besides their own. Their wanderings took them through many different countries. It was necessary for them to move easily from place to place.

“These are the first I’ve seen.” Catherine sniffed the delicate petals, then bent to gather several more stalks.

Pearsa merely grunted and walked away, leaving Catherine alone. Which was just as well, since the old woman’s words about her son had sent Catherine’s thoughts in that direction. She couldn’t imagine the handsome, arrogant Gypsy enjoying a bouquet of flowers. He was probably just as hard and cruel as the others she had known. She remembered the words he had spoken, the way he had looked at her. When I’m ready to claim what is mine, you will know.

Catherine shivered, and not with the cold. Traveling with the caravan to the north, she had been protected by the Gypsies’ lust for gold. To the Turkish pasha, an untried woman commanded a small fortune, and they were determined to claim the reward.

And Vaclav had been easily duped, a feat she wasn’t really proud of but a necessity just the same.

This one, this dark mysterious Gypsy, was something else entirely. She had known this morning—without the slightest doubt—that he meant to take her to his bed. No man had ever looked at her the way he did. No man had ever made bending her to his will sound so easy.

And he was far too intelligent to fall for her trickery. She could see it in his bold dark eyes, feel it in the way he gauged her every movement.

Until this latest turn of events, Catherine considered in a way she had been lucky. Though she had been cruelly abused, she was no longer destined for a life of white slavery, and her virtue remained intact, a prize she would one day offer to her husband—once she returned to England. She had been lucky; bahtalo, the Gypsies called it.

But one glance across the clearing to where the dangerous-looking man called Domini worked patiently with his horses, and Catherine knew her luck was about to run out.

*   *   *

As Dominic had ordered, Catherine napped all afternoon and awoke feeling stronger than she had in weeks. She ate some cold venison the old woman gave her, freshened herself at the stream, and felt a growing readiness to face the challenge of making her way back home.

It would be difficult, she knew, nearly impossible. But she was no longer guarded every moment, or bound to the wagon at night. If she kept a watchful eye, waited, and prayed, sooner or later she was sure to find a chance to escape.

It came even sooner than she had hoped.

At dusk the following evening, a tinker rolled into the kumpania, the campsite, hoping to sell a few of his wares or sharpen some knives or scissors. Green paint peeled from the sides of his wagon, the once-bright sign of his trade now faded and old, but the wheels looked sturdy and the mule was sound.

“Armand is Romane Gadjo,” Dominic told her, walking to where she stood watching from the edge of the meadow. “He and old Jozsef are friends.” Most travelers didn’t venture near the Gypsy encampments, but this man was many years on the road and apparently he knew their leader. “Come. We’ll see what he has to offer.”

Dominic flashed one of his winsome white smiles and took Catherine’s hand. His fingers looked long and dark, gripping hers. She could feel their warmth and strength as he helped her step over the wagon tongue.

When she glanced up at his profile, she noticed the way the firelight outlined the hard planes and valleys of his face, giving him that hard-edged, dangerous look she had noticed before. His features were stronger than most of the English men she had known, his skin darker and smoother. In fact everything about Dominic seemed larger and more powerful than any man she had ever known.

“Domini! Bring the Gadjo woman. It is time we got a look at your prize.”

Dominic led her in the direction of the man’s reedy voice. Ducking beneath a rope strung between two wagons and draped with tattered but freshly washed clothes, they stopped in front of a group of people that included a tall, gaunt older man; a flat-faced, obese woman with a downy mustache; and a young pregnant girl. All sat laughing and talking around a small warm fire.

“Catrina, this is Jozsef, our leader,” Dominic said, “his wife, Czinka, and his daughter-in-law, Medela.”

“Hello.” Catherine forced an uncertain smile. All of them merely assessed her, their dark eyes running the length of her, then returning to her face. Not her face, she realized, her hair.

“Bala kameskro,” Jozsef said with what seemed approval. “Maybe she will bring us good fortune.”

“What does bala kam … kam—”

“Bala kameskro—” Dominic repeated. “Translated, it means sun-haired, but to us it means red-haired, a red-haired woman. It’s believed to bring good luck.”

Now that she thought about it, once during her time with the northern Gypsies, someone had approached her while she slept and cut off a lock of her hair. For luck she now understood, though at the time she’d been torn between anger and fear.

The pregnant girl came forward and touched the heavy golden-red mass almost with reverence, her hand stroking slowly down the thick, shiny strands. The woman’s long black hair, like that of her mother-in-law and every other married woman, was covered by a scarf, a diklo, which she tied at the back of her neck.

“It is very beautiful,” Medela said as a heavy burnished curl wrapped itself around her finger. She smiled softly, almost shyly, so unlike the other Gypsy women Catherine had known.

“Thank you.” Catherine’s eyes swung to Dominic’s. “If she would like, I could cut some off and give it to her.”

A warm smile touched his face. “Medela would be pleased.” Dominic looked pleased as well, his features less severe as he watched her in the firelight.

“If you would do this, I would wear it here, against the child,” Medela said, patting her swollen belly.

Dominic propped his boot on the wagon tongue, reached inside the top, and slid out a slender, bone-handled knife. “Turn around.”

Catherine didn’t like the gleam of the wicked-looking blade, but did as he told her. Dominic lifted away the top strands of her hair and sliced off a small lock from beneath. He handed the hair to Medela, who fairly beamed.

“Mandi pazzorrhus,” she said, “I am in your debt.”

Czinka shifted her huge girth, jingling the bells that dangled from her fat-lobed ears, her full skirts bunching around her hips. “It may yet be that the price you have paid was not too high after all,” she said to Dominic, who looked uncomfortable at the reminder, but made no reply.

The four of them talked of the weather, of the warming that would soon ease their days, of the coming horse fair to which they would journey, and finally of Armand the tinker’s arrival.

“As always, he comes to sell us his cheap wares for too high a price,” said Jozsef, but there was affection in his voice.

“It will be good to see him again,” Dominic put in.

They said their farewells, and Dominic once more took her hand, his grip warm and solid as he led her off toward the tinker. The Frenchman’s wagon sat a goodly distance across the meadow, surrounded by Gypsy men and women engaged in lively bartering. Several mangy dogs yapped and frolicked nearby.

“Domini!” the old man called out to him. “It has been too many years, mon ami.” The little man grinned, exposing a mouthful of rotting teeth, but his smile was one of friendship, and Dominic responded with a warm smile of his own.

“You have not changed,” Dominic told him in the same French the tinker used. “You are still the only Gadjo who could ever outwit the Gypsy.” The two men laughed and spoke of the past as if it had been merely days.

Catherine felt Dominic’s hand at her waist, his touch lightly possessive. When she tried to move away, his hold tightened and he flashed her a cool look of warning.

“You have taken a wife, I see,” said the tinker. “It is certainly way past time.”

Dominic’s hand fell away. “She is English,” he said, as if that should be explanation enough. “She is not my wife.”

Merely my possession were the unspoken words, and Catherine stiffened. You may think so, but you are wrong.

“How long will you camp with us?” Dominic asked.

“I cannot stay. I eat and drink with Jozsef, listen to Ithal play his violin, then I go. I have business in Arles that cannot wait.”

Dominic merely nodded. From among the tinker’s metal pots and pans, bells, knives, and other sundry items, Dominic picked up a tiny tin box fashioned in the shape of a heart.

“For you,” he said lightly, his good humor restored, “to hold the pretty ribbons I shall buy you.”

Catherine looked down at the object he held out to her. She wanted to tell him he could keep his foolish presents. If the box were made of purest gold, it wouldn’t be enough to buy her favors. Instead she smiled sweetly and accepted the small tin heart.

“Thank you.”

Dominic’s hand found her waist again. Catherine felt the heat of it and a matching warmth slid through her body. She wasn’t sure exactly what caused it, but she had her suspicions, and she didn’t like them one little bit.

“I think I’ll enjoy buying you gifts, fire kitten.” His husky voice rolled over her like a caress, and Catherine’s heartbeat quickened.

“Shouldn’t we be getting back? Your mother will need my help preparing supper.”

She knew by now that where his mother was concerned, Dominic was overly protective. He had been greatly pleased by the amount of Pearsa’s work Catherine had done these last few days. And to her surprise, as his mother had said, he’d enjoyed the bright yellow flowers.

“I suppose you’re right.” He tossed the old French tinker a coin for the heart-shaped box. “Au revoir, my friend. I wish you bahtalo drom until next we meet.”

It meant lucky road, a Romany farewell Vaclav had often used. Catherine released a wistful sigh, wishing she were the one headed off toward the coast—closer to England and home.

That was the moment it struck her. An idea so simple, so amazingly uncomplicated it just might work.

It took all her will to subdue her whirling thoughts and let Dominic guide her back to the wagon. Along the way, several small children ran beside his long legs. He stopped to pick one of them up and hoisted the child up onto his broad shoulders.

“Janos, this is Catrina,” he said to the shirtless, barefoot boy. It was amazing the way the children never seemed to notice the cold.

“Hullo.” The boy smiled shyly.

“Hello, Janos,” Catherine said. She loved children, always had. At home she had been involved with a group called the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor, working to educate children of the lower classes. Thanks to her efforts, and those of her father before he died, children of the villagers at Arondale attended school regularly. She had stopped by often. Seeing the little boy reminded her of her homeland, the family she hadn’t seen in weeks, and a hard lump swelled in her throat.

She glanced away from the child, who rode Dominic’s wide shoulders by holding on to a handful of his wavy black hair. When she looked back at the tall dark Gypsy, he was watching her with an odd look in his eyes.

He set the boy on his feet, and the child raced off with the others. “You like children?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Very much so.”

Dominic said nothing more.

They ate a supper of fried potatoes, cabbage, and roasted chicken—one of those taken from the cage beneath Pearsa’s wagon. Catherine had learned that Gypsies kept chickens of every color so that if a nearby farmer should come in search of a stolen one, there would be others of that same kind to disguise the one that had been taken.

Dominic sat beside her—a little too close to suit her—conversing pleasantly about the weather, which, though the nights remained cold, had begun to warm just as Vaclav had said. He spoke of his horses, which he seemed quite passionate about, and the trading he would do at the upcoming horse fair.

“I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said. “It’s quite a colorful gathering.”

He certainly spoke proper English for a Gypsy, she thought vaguely, but in truth had trouble keeping her mind on the conversation. She was thinking of exactly which moment she should choose to steal off to the tinker’s wagon, praying she wouldn’t be too late, and working to ignore the muscular length of thigh that pressed far too boldly against her own.

“I’m still a little tired,” she finally said. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’d like to get some sleep.”

“You’re certain you don’t want company?” he teased. Jet-black eyes swept over her and something fluttered in Catherine’s stomach.

“Quite certain.”

His hand came up, and he lifted a heavy lock of hair away from her face, barely brushing her skin with the side of his finger. Catherine felt it like the wings of a moth, and her heart speeded up even more.

“Good night, little one,” he said. With a last too-thorough glance, he turned and walked away.

Catherine hurried up the stairs, opened the door to the wagon, and stepped inside the candle-lit interior, seeking its scant protection, but from what she wasn’t quite sure.

A little while later, she blew out the candle and lay down to wait and listen in silence. She didn’t think the tall Gypsy would come. He wasn’t the kind of man to break his word. He would let her know when he meant to take her—only Catherine wouldn’t be there.

*   *   *

Waiting for the long minutes to pass set Catherine’s nerves on edge. Dogs barked, horses whinnied, children scrambled about, but eventually the Gypsy revelers began to quiet. She hadn’t heard the rattle and clang of the tinker’s wagon as it left the camp, so she figured she still had time to steal inside. She would ride with the wagon as far as she dared, then leave and find some other means of travel.

Catherine left the warmth of Dominic’s soft bed with some reluctance and moved through the night’s chill air to the low wooden chest on the right side of the wagon. She had seen him remove the coins he needed to pay his debt to Vaclav—she prayed there were more to be found.

Digging through an assortment of blankets, bits, bridles, curry combs, and other gear he used to tend his horses, she finally reached the bottom of the chest and found another pouch heavy with coins, more money than she ever would have dreamed.

She wished she didn’t have to steal, but there was really no other choice. Once she reached home, she would find a way to see the money returned. Taking only what gold she would need, Catherine stuffed the coins in the pocket of her skirt then grabbed her tattered woolen shawl and draped it around her shoulders. She listened to be certain no one was near, opened the door to the wagon, and quietly descended the stairs.

Pearsa slept in a wagon on the opposite side of the fire, but Dominic was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh of relief she hoped wouldn’t be short-lived, Catherine crossed the open spaces between the wagons, skirting the dying embers in each glowing fire and creeping quietly along in the shadows.

The tinker’s wagon sat at the edge of the camp, the tall meadow grass nearly obscuring it on one side. Approaching the wagon from the rear, Catherine crouched low among the stiff blades, lifted the canvas flap and climbed in.

From her uncomfortable position behind a wooden crate on the cold wooden floor, she could hear old Armand in the distance, speaking in French to Jozsef. The music of the violin had stopped some time ago; she hoped he’d soon leave. Wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a blanket, Catherine rested her chin on her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around them against the cold, and settled in to wait.

*   *   *

Dominic stood in the shadows beside Yana’s wagon. At first he had been baffled by Catherine’s appearance outside the warmth of his vardo, but after watching for a moment, her intentions became only too clear.

“Domini?” Yana’s sultry voice drifted down from the back of her wagon. She stuck her pretty head out the opening, and her almond-shaped eyes, black as the darkness around them, fixed on his face. “Why do you not come in? You have kept me waiting far too long already.”

Glossy black hair hung heavily around her shoulders, bare above the low-cut neckline of her blouse. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, the dusky nipples forming tight, stiff peaks against the cold.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer,” Dominic said. “Something has come up.”

Yana smiled seductively. “That is as it should be. Come inside, my love. Let Yana please you.” She stretched out her arms, graceful and beckoning, but Dominic ignored them.

“Later.” Turning, he walked away. In truth, he had been standing outside her wagon for some time, deciding whether or not to go in. He had meant to join her as he had promised, but had dallied instead, sipping palinka, a strong Gypsy brandy, smoking a thin cigar, checking the horses, delaying his meeting with the voluptuous Gypsy woman when he should have been looking forward to it.

Dominic swore softly, knowing it was Catherine, not Yana, he had wanted again tonight. Catherine, not the woman who for weeks had been warming his bed. Catherine—the flame-haired minx who was right now trying to escape him.

Dominic crossed the open field, jerked open the door to his wagon, and entered the dark interior. Among the Rom, there was no need to worry about thievery—a man did not steal from his brothers. But the Gadjo woman he had saved at the cost of his pride was something else altogether.

Lighting the white wax candle on the shelf, he went straight to his heavy wooden chest and flipped open the lid. Though his hand groped the bottom, first one side and then the other, in his heart he knew he would not find the gold. He’d been a fool to trust her—and the woman’s betrayal tasted bitter in his mouth.

He rummaged farther, his face growing harder with each passing second. At the moment his search was to end, his fingers closed over the rough leather pouch. He drew out the bag and hefted it. Lighter, but only by a little. Why hadn’t she taken it all?

He didn’t have an answer, but the fact that she hadn’t, lightened his dark mood considerably. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her that still lingered in the wagon. Clean, like the soap she had used, yet honeyed by some sweetness he couldn’t quite name. He thought of her hiding in the back of the wagon. She had to be cold and uncomfortable.

Good, he thought, but found himself smiling instead of scowling as he should have been. It took courage to leave the warmth and comfort of his vardo, the certainty of a fire and a belly full of food, to steal off in the night by herself.

Not that he wouldn’t give her a good dressing-down when he brought her back. Still, she had spirit, and an English woman with courage and spirit like hers was a treasure worthy of the outrageous price he had paid.

Dominic left the vardo, saw that the tinker’s wagon had already pulled out, and headed off toward his horses. He relished the look on Catherine’s lovely face when he caught up with her. Looking forward to the challenge, Dominic could hardly wait.

*   *   *

Pots and pans clanging, the wagon creaking and swaying, they rumbled along the dusty road toward the distant city of Arles in the French Camargue. Catherine worked her way toward the rear of the wagon and peeked beneath the canvas flap, looking back the way they had come. Gypsy campfires burned in the distance, but soon they would disappear out of sight. It would be hours until dawn, when Dominic would find her missing. Hours away from the Gypsy encampment and the man whose dark looks stirred something peculiar inside her she would rather not explore.

Catherine leaned back against the rough wooden side of the wagon and let the first real taste of freedom wash over her. The air smelled sweeter, the sounds of the night more serene. For the first time in weeks, she allowed the feeling of hope to enter her heart and drowsily settled back to pass the hours until morning.