There’s night and day … sun, moon, and

stars … wind on the hearth. Life is very

sweet.…

George Borrow

Chapter Nine

CATHERINE RETURNED TO MEDELA’S TENT while Dominic fed and watered his horses. Pearsa’s big bay had not yet returned, so Dominic had decided to ride back along the road they had traveled last evening to see if the animal might have stopped somewhere to graze.

Holding her shawl together against the brisk late afternoon breeze, Catherine made her way toward the circle of wagons.

Earlier, on their return from the lake, she and Dominic had gathered a load of firewood, which now lay neatly stacked beside the low-burning flames. They had known immediately all was well—Stavo, Medela’s lanky black-haired husband, sat beside old Jozsef and several other men, grinning and swilling great draughts of palinka. There was laughter and hearty congratulations, several of which were directed to Catherine for the gift of her hair.

“The little Gadjo brought kushto bacht.” Good fortune. “Too bad, my friend,” Stavo said to Dominic, “that she has not done the same for you!” Stavo laughed and Dominic scowled, but only for a moment, then he shrugged off the comment as nothing more than a result of his friend’s intoxication.

“You may not be feeling so fortunate when your little bundle of luck keeps you up half the night,” he replied good-naturedly. The men guffawed, slapped Stavo on the back, and took another swig of their fiery brew.

“Never were truer words spoken,” old Jozsef said, grinning, wiping the liquor from his mouth with the back of a wrinkled thin-veined hand.

Inside the tent, Dominic and Catherine found Medela resting comfortably—her strapping black-haired baby cuddled securely in the crook of a dark-skinned arm.

“You’ve given Stavo a fine-looking son,” Dominic told her. “You should both be proud.”

“He’s a beautiful baby,” Catherine agreed as the tiny infant began to root at its mother’s plump breast. She meant to walk off, allow Medela some privacy, but the young woman merely lifted the blanket, exposing her milk-ripe bosom until the tiny searching mouth found the nipple and covered it from view.

Catherine felt the heat creep into her cheeks, which flushed even more at the look of amusement on Dominic’s handsome face.

“I think we should let Medela rest,” Catherine said, turning away to cover her embarrassment. “I’ll come back a little while later.”

Dominic followed her out. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about, Catrina. A child nursing at its mother’s breast is only nature’s way.”

Catherine looked at him and suddenly felt foolish. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that things are so different where I come from.”

“Different, yes. Still it seems you’ve managed to adapt. If it should come to it, I think you could adjust to almost anything.”

There seemed some point to his words, though Catherine didn’t bother to pursue it. Instead, they had walked back to his wagon so Catherine could retrieve her shawl, and Dominic went in search of the bay.

Now, standing once more outside the tent, Stavo and Jozsef snoring soundly off to one side, Catherine smiled to think of the contented mother and tiny child lying on their sheepskin pallet within. One day she would love to have children of her own. Boys or girls, it would make no difference as long as they were healthy.

She thought of the child she had once been, of her mother, a slightly taller image of herself who had always been there to comfort her, and of her father, knowing what a grandchild would have meant to him. She imagined, if he were alive, how worried he would be for her now, how fearful for her safety. Then she thought of the man who had abducted her from her town house and forced her into a day-by-day fight for survival.

Who would do such a thing? she asked herself for the thousandth time, and for the hundredth time swore she would discover the truth of who it was and make the villain pay.

Catherine stooped to pick up a log, which she added along with several dry branches to the fire in front of the tent, filling the air with the odor of pine. Then she bent over and lifted the tent flap. Pearsa had not returned, but Czinka sat near where Medela lay sleeping.

“How is she doing?” Catherine asked.

“Medela is fine. Her cajori is fine. She has named him Sali, our word for laughter, because already he smiles and plays.”

“Sali,” Catherine repeated, “it’s a fine name.”

“As fine as the child,” Czinka said. “Your magic is strong. There are few Gadjos who would help a Gypsy mother bring another child of darkness into the world. We are grateful.”

Children of darkness. Catherine had heard them called that before. It seemed a sad prophecy of the life the tiny Romany boy would live.

And yet they were happy. Carefree in a way men envied. Catherine wondered if that were not part of the reason for their persecution. Gypsies had never formed a government, never waged a war, and never owned a territory. It was sometimes said there were only two classes who were truly free—the nobility, who were often above the law—and the Gypsies—who were below it.

“Tell Medela I’ll stop by again tomorrow,” Catherine said. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Czinka smiled, rocking forward on her heavy thighs, the coins below her fat earlobes jingling. “I will tell her, but she will already know. Good night, Catrina.”

Always they referred to “knowing” or “seeing.” Maybe they did possess some special powers. Whatever the truth, the belief had been instilled in them for hundreds of years.

“Good night, Czinka.”

By the time Catherine left the tent to return to Dominic’s wagon, the sun had gone down and campfires burned into the clear black sky It was a pleasant time of evening, when violin music drifted through the cool spring air and laughter floated up from distant wagons.

The woman were serving the evening meal. In most families the men ate first, served from behind, the women careful never to lean across them. Women never walked between two men, but always walked around, something Catherine had trouble accepting in the beginning, but now did without conscious thought.

She had almost reached Dominic’s wagon, usually set up on the perimeter because of his work with the horses, when a man’s thin hand clamped over her mouth. Catherine tried to scream and started to struggle, but he urged her to silence with a finger to his lips.

When she nodded her understanding, the thin man released his hold. “What is it you want?” she asked in French, recognizing the man for a peasant. He stood a good foot taller than she, spare to the point of gaunt, his face a study in angles and planes.

“We have come to help you, mademoiselle. It was learned in the village that the Gypsies are holding you prisoner. We have come to see you safe.”

Another man stepped from the trees, this one thick-chested, with beefy thighs and hands. He wore a leather vest over a homespun shirt, dark brown breeches, and a soft brown slouch hat pulled low across a wide forehead.

“Come, mademoiselle, we must hurry,” he said. Each man took an arm and urged her forward.

Catherine looked from one man to the other, gauging them, her mind spinning with thoughts of leaving—and the promise Dominic had made to see her safely home. The villagers looked scruffy and unclean, and there was something in the way their eyes ran over her that warned her to beware.

“The story you’ve been told is wrong,” she said. “I’m here by my own wishes. I do not need your help.” She tried to stop but the beefy man shoved her forward.

“You will come, pretty one. With us you will be safe.”

Catherine’s heartbeat quickened. Again she tried to halt their forward progress, digging in her heels—already they were leaving the camp behind. “Let me go! I don’t want to go with you.”

The lean man chuckled. “You will go, chère Anglaise. You will give to us what you give to the filthy Gypsies.”

Catherine screamed then, as long and as loud as she could. The beefy man slapped her, gripped her arms, and jerked her hard against him. She could feel the scratchy fabric of his shirt, smell the sour odor of stale red wine. Heart hammering, Catherine tore free and started to run. She stumbled over several loose rocks, fell and scraped her knees, stood up and started running again.

“Dominic!” she screamed. “Somebody please help—” But the man’s thick fingers cut off her plea. She was breathing hard, struggling against his heavy frame. The Frenchman merely wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her deeper into the woods.

“Do you think someone will come?” the gaunt man asked his friend, craning his neck toward the camp with a look of unease. Catherine thought she heard the sound of voices shouting in the distance, but couldn’t be sure. “You worry for nothing, Henri. They will be far too busy to worry about the Anglaise” Both of them laughed.

As they dragged her deeper into the woods, Catherine twisted against the iron hold of the beefy Frenchman, clawing, kicking, and biting to no avail. He only squeezed the arm that encircled her, cutting off her air supply until the world spun crazily and small black circles danced with menace in front of her face.

The Frenchman hauled her down behind a clump of bushes, and Catherine felt her legs kicked out from under her. She landed with a jolt of pain beneath the barrel-chested man, his heavy weight once more making it hard to breathe. She heard the slight rending of fabric as he jerked her blouse off one shoulder, baring a breast, then thick blunt fingers dug into her flesh. When he removed his hand from her mouth, Catherine tried to cry out, but he silenced her with his hot sticky lips.

The bile rose up in her throat. Love of God, she couldn’t bear it!

With a fresh surge of will, Catherine fought against him, struggling to free the arms he pinned between them, kicking her legs, and twisting her mouth free of his. At another muffled scream, he raised his arm to slap her, but the hand stopped in midair and his heavy weight jerked backward. He stumbled but Dominic’s grip on the back of his vest held him up.

“Mon Dieu,” the Frenchman growled as Dominic whirled him around. A hard brown fist punched him solidly in the chin, and the Frenchman staggered backward. Catherine pulled her blouse back up to cover herself, struggled to her feet, and stumbled out of the way.

“Henri!” the big man yelled, searching wildly for his companion.

“Your friend has fallen asleep,” Dominic said with sarcasm, glancing at the gaunt man lying on the ground a few steps away. Only the telltale bruise on his cheek and the blood that trickled from his mouth conveyed the truth of his fate.

“I will kill you!” the big man roared. Lowering his head, he charged, but Dominic sidestepped, jerked him upward and slammed a fist into his stomach. The Frenchman grunted in pain and outrage, and swung a hard blow to Dominic’s middle, doubling him over. He spun away, regained his balance, and delivered a reeling blow to the bigger man’s jaw. Two quick jabs followed by another crushing blow to the face, and the beefy man went down.

Blood ran from his nose and his eye had begun to puff closed. Still, he climbed to his feet. Several blows were exchanged, then Dominic threw a powerful punch that snapped the big man’s head back. He staggered and swayed then crumpled toward the earth, landing with a groan face down in the dust. For a moment, Dominic stood over him, his face a dark mask of rage, his hands still balled into fists.

At last he turned and his black eyes fixed on Catherine. She saw his look of concern, the fear for her he couldn’t disguise, and started running toward him. He caught her up in his arms, pressing her against him, his hand lacing into her hair as he cradled her head with his palm. He pressed his dark-skinned cheek against her softer fair one.

“Dominic,” she whispered, clutching his neck, holding him as if he were all that saved her from the raging fires of hell. “I didn’t think you would hear me.”

He swept back heavy locks of her golden-red hair, clearing away the dirt and twigs with a shaky hand. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Thank God you came when you did.” A lump swelled up in her throat and her voice broke on the last word.

“I found the bay. I was just leading him back to camp when I heard you cry out.” Dominic tightened his hold and squeezed his eyes closed against the image of Catherine struggling beneath the bulky peasant, her blouse pulled down, her lovely milk-white breasts spilling into the Frenchman’s hands.

Her body trembled against him. Dominic tipped her chin with his hand and realized she was crying. It was the first of her tears he had seen and something tightened around his heart.

“Hush,” he soothed, “you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you—not as long as I’m alive to stop them.” It surprised him how much he meant the words.

Catherine only clutched him tighter. “Why did this have to happen? Why can’t I ever feel safe anymore? I always felt so protected, so loved. Now…” She wept quietly into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. “Every day seems harder than the last.”

He cradled her against him, his hands sifting through her silky hair. Tilting her chin up, he brushed a tear from her cheek with the tip of his finger.

“Fear is a way of life for my people,” he said, his voice still rough with emotion. “They never feel safe, no matter where they are.” His thumb moved gently back and forth along her jaw. “But you soon will. I shall see you returned to England, back where you belong.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Back where I belong.”

She spoke the words, but he could have sworn they rang with a note of hollowness. Did she hate to leave him then? Would she miss him if he let her go? He prayed the answer was yes and that she would accept his plan to keep her with him.

Catherine sniffed and wiped away the balance of her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I never cry anymore. I guess I was just…”

“It’s all right, cajori, women are supposed to cry.”

Catherine smiled tremulously and released a weary breath. “I found out long ago crying is just a waste of time. There is very little in this world worth my tears.”

He wanted to argue, to tell her there was much besides sorrow for a woman to cry about. There was beauty and laughter, and times of joy with the people who really mattered.

“We’d better be getting back,” he said instead. “Those two ruffians will be waking up soon enough. I don’t think they’ll bother you again, but they may cause trouble in the village. We’ll have to tell the others what happened, pack up and leave just as soon as we can.”

Catherine looked surprised for a moment, then resigned. What she might have said got lost in the sound of gunshots coming from the kumpania.

“God in heaven, what now?” she whispered.

There wasn’t time to answer. “Come on.” Grabbing her hand, Dominic raced back in the direction of the camp.

As they drew near, he could hear Gypsy voices raised in anger, the terrified neighing of horses, the crack and groan of timbers and the heavy thud of wood as it crashed against the earth. Smoke billowed into the clear night sky, French villagers shouted in triumph, and Dominic ran faster.

By the time they reached the wagons, the villagers were leaving the camp, pitchforks and lanterns in hand, some on horseback, some walking, dust rising up from their heavy boots as they trod the fields back toward their homes.

The destruction they had left behind clenched Dominic’s stomach into a hard, tight knot.

“Dear God,” Catherine whispered.

The camp lay in shambles, cooking pots overturned, sacks of flour and sugar trampled into the dirt, clothes and bedding scattered from one end of camp to the other. Babies wailed and stiff-haired dogs slinked, tails between their legs, beneath the wagons. One vardo lay on its side over a smoldering campfire, the flames now beaten to blackened wood and smoking embers. A sign in big red letters had been hastily nailed to the side: STATIONNEMENT INTERDIT AUX NOMADES—GYPSIES FORBIDDEN.

Dominic walked straight to old Jozsef, who stood wringing his hands, looking haggard and far older than he had just hours ago.

“Is anyone hurt?” Dominic asked.

“Stavo tried to stop them. He nurses a bloody nose and his ribs are cracked. The others are older, wiser. They knew better than to try to fight back.”

“Medela and the baby?” Dominic asked.

“They stayed inside the tent. Luckily the villagers were more intent on destroying the wagons. But Ithal lost his violin.”

Dominic glanced across to where the white-haired old man cradled his dearest possession, the two halves of the instrument resting in his arms like a stricken child, the broken strings trailing over his weathered hands.

“How did this happen?” Catherine asked, moving to Dominic’s side. “Who would do such a thing?”

As if he had awakened from a trance, Jozsef swung his gaze in her direction, his eyes, dull and listless just moments ago, now burned with a furious light. “You!” he shouted. “You have brought this curse upon us.”

“Me!” Instinctively, Catherine stepped back, but Dominic’s arm around her waist held her firm. “What have I done?”

“Do you deny you asked the villagers to help you escape? That you told them the Gypsies held you captive?”

Dominic let go of her waist. He turned to face her, his eyes no longer gentle, but dark and strangely accusing. “You were trying to leave again? That’s what you were doing with those men in the woods?”

Catherine wet her lips, which suddenly felt so parched she could barely speak. “It—it wasn’t that way. I told them what they heard in the village was wrong. That I was here by choice. I didn’t want to go with them, but they forced me.” She looked up at him, her green eyes pleading. “You must believe me, Dominic. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I just didn’t know.…”

He didn’t know either—didn’t know if he believed her, couldn’t have imagined how much he wanted her words to be true. One thing was certain. As she glanced at the destruction around them, he had no doubt about the sorrow she felt, her regret at what had happened. He could read the anguish in the depths of her lovely green eyes.

“But you did speak to the villagers,” he pressed, because he had to know for sure. “You told them you wanted to leave.”

“That was before … before I believed you would help me go home.”

“Surely you are not fool enough to believe her.” This from Yana, hands on hips, raven hair tumbled around her shoulders, thick black strands blowing wildly in the breeze. “The Gadjo woman brings trouble. If Dominic cannot control her, then she must go!”

“What Yana says is true,” Vaclav put in, coming to stand in front of Dominic. “You believed yourself man enough to tame the witch, but you have failed. You stopped me from doing what should have been done from the start. Take the woman in hand, Domini. Prove you are a man.”

There was relish in Vaclav’s words. Yana’s face glowed with triumphant satisfaction.

“He is right,” old Jozsef said. “It is the men of this camp who must see to the safety of the others. Either you are one of us, my son, or you are not. Will you see to your woman?”

“She does not know our ways,” Dominic argued, seeing Catherine’s stricken face, the way her hands gripped the folds of her skirt. “She is not one of us.”

“She is your responsibility,” Vaclav argued. “Yours and yours alone.”

Pearsa stepped from the shadows of the overturned wagon. “The woman came to us as a slave. She acts as any of us would whose freedom has been taken. She has worked side by side with the rest of us. She has been a friend to Medela—she has brought her and the child good fortune.”

“Yes,” Medela put in, thrusting her head through the opening of her tent, her babe in her arms. “Catrina would not wish us harm. She did not understand.”

“Hush!” Stavo warned her. “This is men’s business. Get yourself back inside the tent and see to our child.” Medela hesitated only a moment, then ducked back into the tent.

“The gift of her hair brought your babe into this world.” Czinka waddled toward her son-in-law, gold bracelets jangling. “You should be grateful.”

“She also brought me these!” He pointed toward the bruised ribs visible through the remnants of his bloody, tattered shirt. “It is a wonder no one was killed!”

“I warned you, didikai,” Vaclav sneered at Dominic. “I told you she would bring trouble. Now we will see—are you a man, or has she turned you into something less?”

Catherine glanced at the smoldering wagon, the crying children and scattered remains of the camp. Though the women, all but Yana, seemed to side with her, the men wore hostile, unforgiving expressions that clearly blamed her—and ultimately Dominic—the man responsible for her conduct.

She looked up to find his hard black eyes fixed on her face. “They expect me to beat you,” he said with soft menace, and Catherine’s insides churned. “It is the way of the Romany male to rule his woman.” His hand came up to touch her cheek. “For the trouble you’ve caused, you probably deserve it but I … in the name of Sara-la-Kali, I cannot bring myself to lay a hand on you.” He glanced toward the men who muttered their displeasure around them. “Maybe Vaclav is right—maybe you have bewitched me.”

She hated the defeat she heard in his voice, the condemnation she saw on the face of the others. She knew how much Dominic’s Gypsy heritage meant to him, how badly he ached for acceptance, and in that moment she could not bear the thought of him being rejected.

She tossed back her hair and squared her shoulders, cold determination setting in. “What’s the matter, Domini? Can’t you handle a lowly Gadjo woman?” A smile of challenge curved her lips. “Maybe you’re afraid of me, afraid of my powers—is that it?”

Dominic’s jaw clamped hard and a muscle ticked in his cheek. “Have you lost your mind?” he hissed between clenched teeth.

“Maybe you’re afraid I shall run away and leave you,” Catherine taunted, drawing each of the men’s attention. “Maybe you couldn’t bear to live without me.”

Blazing black eyes, so dark they seemed bottomless, bored into her. Dominic grabbed her arms and jerked her up on her toes. “I’m warning you, Catherine.”

Catherine swallowed hard, met his frightening dark look, and willed him to know what she was doing. “Why should I listen to you, Domini—you’re nothing but a worthless Gypsy!”

Something flashed in Dominic’s eyes, then it was gone. For an instant, she thought he had understood, then the grip on her arm grew tighter and she knew that she had been wrong. He turned to the men who still clustered around them, said something in Romany which made them all laugh, and dragged Catherine toward the center of the circle of men.

Sweet Jesus, what had she done? Dominic’s fury rippled through every muscle and sinew. Catherine strained against his powerful grip, for the first time truly afraid. He was a big man, stronger than any she had ever known. And his eyes—God in heaven, she had never seen such anger. An image of the beefy Frenchman, reduced to a mound of battered flesh, rose up in her mind.

Catherine closed her eyes, certain she would feel the bite of his fist at any moment, then her world turned upside down. She landed with a grunt of pain across Dominic’s sinewy thighs, and several layers of her skirts were tossed over her head. He had seated himself on an overturned crate, and pulled her across his lap.

“Scream, damn you,” he warned, so low that only she could hear, “and a few more tears would not be remiss.”

“Let me go!” she shrieked, never meaning anything more. “Damn you! Damn you to hell!” She felt his palm through the last remaining layer of petticoat, but the powerful blow she had expected felt little more than a playful sting.

“Scream,” he warned, and this time, though the blow made her gasp, it was only meant as a warning. He knew! she realized with a wave of relief and began to scream her lungs out. From the corner of her eye she watched the furious-looking blows he delivered that were in truth quite bearable.

All but the last two, which he delivered with what must have been relish. He was grinning when he jerked her to her feet and the men around them were cheering. Catherine rubbed her bottom and gave him her very best glower.

“From now on you’ll do exactly what I tell you,” he commanded. “Isn’t that right, Catrina?”

She tried to look meek and repentant. “Yes, Dominic.”

“Tell these people you’re sorry for the trouble you caused.”

“I really am sorry. I never wanted anyone to get hurt.” This she said with sincerity, for it was the truth.

Vaclav turned to Yana. “Maybe Domini is smarter than I thought,” he said. “You would do well to heed this lesson, or you may receive a little of the same.”

Yana’s dark eyes went wide. “You would not dare!”

Vaclav stepped toward her with a look of menace. “Should you doubt it, I will show you. Now get back to your wagon. I will join you there in a moment.”

When she didn’t move quickly enough, Vaclav grabbed her arm, swung her around, and gave her a hard swat on the bottom. Yana hurried away with a backward glance that could only be deemed respectful.

Even Stavo seemed satisfied. “I shall remember this, my friend. I have always dreaded the day my pretty wife might come in need of direction. Now I believe I will look forward to it!”

They all laughed at that, and Catherine left them laughing. She smiled a little herself. Dominic’s pride had been saved, and the men seemed satisfied as well.

Catherine kept on walking, thinking the sacrifice had been little enough to pay for the sake of the man she loved. She stopped dead in her tracks, appalled that a thought so absurd could have somehow crept into her mind.

Sweet Jesus! It was just that the violence she had witnessed had left her emotions in turmoil, she told herself firmly, and pushed her musings in a safer direction. There was much to be done back at the wagon if they would be leaving this eve. When she reached it, she found Pearsa already at work. Catherine silently joined in, uprighting spilled barrels of flour, shaking out trampled bedding, refilling the water supply. Thank heavens neither of their two wagons had been badly damaged, just a board broken loose here and there.

They had just about finished storing everything away when Pearsa reached over and took her arm. Eyes as dark as midnight touched her face. “I am grateful,” she said, “for what you did for my son.”

Catherine just nodded, feeling a sudden tightness in her throat. For the first time, she realized how much the old woman’s approval had come to mean. Though she had tried her best not to, Catherine had worried what her taunting words to Dominic might have done to the women’s nebulous relationship. She smiled now, thankful Pearsa had understood. With luck, the old woman would see that the others did, too.

It wasn’t much later that Dominic arrived with the horses, hitching them up to the wagon—Pearsa’s lost bay among them. She climbed up on the wagon seat, and Catherine started to join her, but Dominic took her hand.

“You’ll ride with me,” he said simply, leading her back to his wagon instead. He helped her up on the seat, then climbed up beside her. Pearsa pulled her team of horses in behind the other wagons, and Dominic drew his in line. They rode along in silence for a while, Catherine wondering at his thoughts.

“Why did you do it?” he finally asked, turning to look at her. “I don’t understand.”

Catherine smiled softly. “I know how much it means to you, being one of the Rom, being accepted. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

He raked a hand through his hair, but several shiny black locks tumbled back across his forehead. “It was you who might have been injured. For God’s sake, Catherine, I’m more than twice your size. What were you thinking to do such a thing?”

“I hoped you would know why I was behaving as I was. I believed you would not hurt me and I was right.”

Dominic studied her face, his eyes moving over the curve of her cheek and coming to rest on her mouth. “Catherine…”

One hand cupping her face, he leaned over and kissed her, softly at first then with greater and greater urgency. She could feel his need for her and it kindled a need inside her. Catherine parted her lips for him, allowed his tongue to slide in, tasted it, and touched it with her own. Dominic groaned.

She felt a sudden slowing of the wagon as he pulled the animals to a halt, and dust from the lane swirled up around them.

“We’ll catch up with them later,” he said, his voice husky.

“No! It’s dangerous here. There are those men you fought with earlier, to say nothing of the villagers who came to the camp.”

Dominic hesitated a moment, then he sighed with resignation. “I suppose you’re right. The last thing either of us needs is more trouble.” With an expression that looked none too pleased, he slapped the reins lightly on the horses’ rumps and they leaned against their harness, quickly catching up with the rest of the wagons. “Besides, you’ve had quite enough excitement for one night.”

His broad chest rumbled with laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“You thought for certain I was bound to commit murder, didn’t you?”

“You ought to be on the London stage.”

“Every Gypsy learns to act by the time he’s three years old. “Mong, chavo, mong! Beg, boy, beg!” He grinned, white teeth flashing. “When it’s necessary, we can play any role from a beggar to a king.”

Catherine rolled her eyes skyward. “You certainly had me fooled.”

“I didn’t really hurt you, did I?”

“No, but I credit you enjoyed yourself far too thoroughly.”

He laughed again, such a rich male sound. “All too true, fire kitten, all too true.”

Catherine poked him playfully in the ribs, and he grunted in imagined pain. She smiled and leaned back against the seat, then she sighed, beginning to feel the stressful events of the evening. Resting her head against his shoulder, she felt the strength there, the warmth of his body, and closed her eyes.

Beneath her, the wagon creaked and moaned, rumbling toward the distant horizon. She wondered where they were going, but as long as they traveled closer to England, she didn’t really care.

England. Back to her life as the Countess of Arondale, a life away from the Gypsies and their constant fight for survival.

Away from the warmth and protection of the man who sat beside her.

A hard knot balled in Catherine’s stomach. For the first time since her ordeal began, she wondered what it would be like to go on without him.

And knew without doubt that without him, she would never be quite the same.