Her tormented mind tripped down another equally horrific path.
A child? Was that why Ian had been intimate with her last night? He wanted to impregnate her before abandoning her? Sucking in a tremulous breath, her eyes filled with tears, and her heart broke, sharp fragment by sharp fragment. The familiar queasiness welled up again, its nauseating waves clawing at her throat. She cupped her belly. Even now, did a poor, innocent babe lie there?
Righteous anger sluiced through Vangie, and she hardened her heart. From the moment she’d met him, Ian had plotted her ruination. Every caress and kind word—all were part of his perverse ploy. He was no better than the dowager. No—he was worse. Pretending anger at being forced to marry her. Making her feel guilty. Feigning affection in order to seduce her with the intent of destroying her.
Unconscionable, despicable knave.
“You’ll hurt me no more, Ian. Under Roma law, I divorce you.” Resolute, she turned away and barricaded her crushed heart, as well as her newfound love, from the man she once called husband. One could only forgive so much.
No matter what trials life brings, do not harden your heart, Nukkidai.
Vangie shook her head, purposefully turning deaf ears to the voice of wisdom whispering in her mind. Not this time, Puri Daj. By God, not this time. One doesn’t cast pearls before swine then complain when they are trampled upon.
Barely keeping his tempter in check, Ian studied Lucinda. Why did her attention keep veering beyond him?
Vangie. God damn, bloody hell.
Even before he half-turned and looked over his shoulder, he knew she stood there. At her devastated countenance, he sucked in a great gulp of air as if struck by a battering ram. Stuffing a fist to her mouth, she darted around the other side of the barn.
How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard? What exactly had she heard? Desolation had ravaged her beautiful face, and her eyes. God help him, the expression in her haunted, betrayed gaze.
“She believed me, Ian. Every calculated lie. Yes, even that you asked me to meet you here.” Lucinda laughed, an insane cackle reverberating amongst the early summer greenery. “I could see it in her eyes, stupid gypsy whore,” she gasped between her maniacal chortles.
Ian rounded on her, snarling, “Damn you, you evil, possessed bitch.” He lunged at her, itching to shake some sense into her. To punish her for what she’d done.
Stumbling backward a pace, she threw one hand to her throat, the other palm out to ward him off.
Breathing heavily, his fists clenched, he halted. “You’re not worth it. Confine yourself to the dower house and grounds until I make the arrangements for your banishment.”
Intent on pursuing his wife, he swiveled around. He’d taken a single step when Lucinda seized his arm. He tried to shake her off, but her frenzied grip was surprisingly strong. Her long nails bit into his flesh through the fabric of his coat. Witches talons.
“I want what’s mine,” Lucinda hissed, madness reflected in her glassy eyes. “You don’t deserve the settlement I brought to my marriage with Roger. Charlotte must have it.” Spittle gathered at the corner of her mouth as she clawed his arm. “She’s from my loins, not you. My monies, my lands, my holdings must go to my offspring, not Roger’s spawn.”
She’s utterly insane.
She scratched frantically at his coat. “They’re mine, mine, not yours.” Her last words ended on a shriek as he roughly shoved her away.
“You’re mad. Father long since sold the properties you brought to the marriage, and he frittered your settlement away decades ago. Every last guinea of it.” He didn’t have time for this. He must find Vangie.
“No, no. You lie!” She shook her head vehemently, causing several pins to come loose. Her graying hair hanging haphazardly around her head and shoulders gave her an even more demented appearance. “He couldn’t have. It’s not possible. I’ve planned for so long…” Head slanted, she peered at him bewildered, her eyes glazed with madness. She muttered to herself, “No one else would have me after…My father paid Roger a fortune to marry me. The settlement was enormous.”
“Lucinda, I cannot change what’s been done.” Ian impatiently shoved a hand through his hair. Every second she delayed him was time his beloved wife believed her lies.
Wringing her hands, Lucinda didn’t seem to hear him. “It cannot be gone. He’s lying. Of course he is. Charlotte must have my dowry.”
“Charlotte is married—”
“To a penniless cork-brain!” she snapped, a glimpse of lucidity shining through. “No, my daughter must have position, wealth, a title.” She cut him a side-eyed glance, and an eerie light glimmered in her eye. “Men always take everything.”
Enough. His wife was his primary concern. “Lucinda, go to the dower house, and stay there. Or I swear, I’ll have you arrested today for imprisoning my wife.”
With a final hate-filled glare, she shuffled away, grumbling beneath her breath.
He ran a hand through his hair again, drawing in a calming breath. The woman was unhinged, and needed to be kept under constant surveillance. He’d exile her to his cottage in the northernmost part of Scotland with a couple of brawny Scots to oversee her care. She’d either live out the remainder of her days there or in Bedlam.
A more urgent matter consumed him. He must find Vangie.
Was she still nearby? Had she returned to the house?
He ran back to the stables.
A new stable hand hovered at the entrance, staring at Lucinda’s retreating form. He spit on the ground and turned to go inside the barn.
“You there.” Ian called. “What’s your name?”
The young man paused and flushed. “Ben, sir.”
“Have you seen Lady—”
Two riders exploded from the paddock, their stockinged legs exposed as they galloped their horses across the pasture.
Sprinting to the corral fence, Ian jumped onto the lower rail and yelled, “Vangie, stop! Let me explain.”
The wings of the gentle breeze sweeping across the clearing carried Ian’s words away. In frustrated horror, he watched Vangie’s horse rear. Good God, had his shouting spooked the beast? She slid off the horse’s broad rump, tumbling to the ground and lay in a heap, unmoving.
His heart stopped, terror numbing his mind. “Van—gie!” He didn’t recognize the tormented voice that ripped from his throat.
Ailsa swung her horse around, evidently intent on rescuing her mistress. But before she reached her, a gypsy on horseback emerged from the trees and pounded to her side.
The man at the pond.
Vangie obviously knew him, for she stumbled to her feet, holding her side. The Roma leaned down, and in one smooth movement, swung her behind him on his sorrel gelding.
She looked over her shoulder, and across the distance, her gaze collided with Ian’s. Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes before laying her head on the gypsy’s broad back.
With a yip, the unknown man kicked his gelding. He and Ailsa raced their horses over a knoll and out of sight.
Mind numb, Ian roamed his gaze over the stunned audience assembled in the paddock. A couple of stable hands coughed and averted their eyes. In full view of a dozen of his staff, his bride had fled with another man. Humiliation scorched his cheeks.
They didn’t know about Lucinda’s lies he reminded himself, though it did little to appease his battered pride.
Neither did Vangie.
Her mare dutifully trotted back to the enclosure, and Ben snared the reins. He led the docile horse into the barn, Ian close on his heels. At once he set to saddling Pericles. He was going after his wife and nothing would stop him from bringing her home.
Glancing up, he froze, eyes narrowed in furious disbelief. His focus trained on Ben, he walked around the other side of the stallion, pretending to adjust the saddle.
The groom had loosened the mare’s girth strap. Deftly, he edged his fingers beneath the saddle then casually slipped his fist into his pock
et.
Lashing out, Ian gripped the groom’s smaller hand in his own. “Give it over.” he demanded, rage lacing each syllable.
Ben dared bravado.
“S…sir?” he gulped, terrified. His eyes, already bulging in fright, widened further when his gaze swept the barn.
Ian glanced over his right shoulder. His men had formed a semicircle behind him. Their loyalty in the wake of Vangie’s flight was balm to his wounded pride. He squeezed Ben’s hand mercilessly, ignoring the cur’s gasp of pain.
“Ye better do as he says, lad. It will go better for ye if ye do,” Gerard advised solemnly before spitting.
With a cry of defeat, Ben relaxed his hand.
Blood and hair matted the horseshoe nail Ian snatched from the groom’s palm. Seizing Ben’s lapels, he jerked the boy eye level with him. “You ought to be thanking God my wife was able to ride away.” He gave the groom a teeth-cracking shake. “And you’d better be praying she isn’t injured, or so help me God, I’ll…”
Ben went ashen beneath the light fuzz smattering his pimply face.
“Hell.” Ian shoved him away.
Staggering backward, Ben almost fell. Not a single man offered him a hand.
“The only reason I’m not beating you to within an inch of your miserable life is because I don’t have the time to waste.” He returned his attention to hastily saddling his horse. Teeth clenched, he grated, “You have exactly fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and leave Somersfield lands.”
“Good riddance.”
“Rotten scunner.”
Seemed he was no favorite with the other grooms. Ian jabbed a finger toward him. “Venture within twenty miles of Somersfield again and I’ll have charges brought against you—after you’ve felt the lash.” Ian veered his gaze to Gerard. “You’ll see to it, and notify the magistrate?”
Not that informing Sir Doyle amounted to a whole lot. The man was an incompetent, dishonest buffoon.
Nodding, Gerard spit again. “Aye, yer lordship, with pleasure. Never took to the boy. Her ladyship insisted I hire the corn-faced lad. Distant relative, she said.” He snorted, giving Ben a hard shove. “Get on with ye then, ye bloody cur.”
Tell-tale moisture darkening the front of his trousers, Ben scurried to do Gerard’s bidding.
Hours later, after making numerous inquiries, Ian located the Romani encampment. Sitting atop a knoll, he peered down on the deceptively peaceful scene. Except for a dagger concealed in his boot, he’d come unarmed. In his haste to reach his wife, he hadn’t thought through with his usual logic. Truth be told, he didn’t have a plan of any sort.
Rage and worry had befogged him. Only within the past half hour had his rationale returned. He couldn’t very well ride into the encampment and demand they hand over his wife.
Can I?
The Roma were notorious for their hospitality and their skill with knives. Scrutinizing the encampment once more, he wiped his brow with his forearm. What had Vangie told them? Would he be received as friend or foe? He released a gusty breath. It mattered not. They had something of his. Something precious he’d not leave without.
He highly doubted the fiercely loyal and occasionally hot-tempered gypsies would see it his way. He oughtn’t to have come devoid of reinforcements, but it was too late to remedy the oversight now. Perhaps riding into the camp unaccompanied would be less threatening to the leery travelers, and perchance his unannounced arrival would work in his favor.
Ian sent a silent prayer heavenward that it be so. He’d done more praying since meeting his wife than he had the whole of his life prior. Shaking his head, he grunted. He was becoming soft. No, love was subduing him. He smiled wryly. Ah, the truth will out.
Pericles took a couple prancing steps, and Ian patted his neck. He didn’t doubt there’d been a short nail or two impaling the horse’s back beneath the saddle when he’d tossed him weeks ago. Poor beast.
Standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs, he stiffened.
One broken curricle wheel.
His rump hit the saddle with a sharp thud.
Two thrown riders.
Pericles side-stepped and snorted his displeasure.
Three random robbery attempts.
Job’s own luck? Coincidence? Not bloody-well likely.
Dammit. Why hadn’t he considered this before? Lucinda had always been obsessed with power and position. Her erratic behavior and even more irrational speech this morning pointed to one thing—she meant him harm. An image of Vangie’s pale face in the south tower loomed to the forefront of his mind.
Not only him, but his wife.
“How could I have been so blind?” he muttered aloud.
Because, altogether foreign sentiments had crept into every fiber of his being. They’d muddled his good sense and distorted his sound judgment, making him impervious to everything but winning his beautiful gypsy wife’s affections.
Rot and rubbish? Not anymore, the devil take it. Love was indeed hazardous.
Pericles snorted and impatiently shifted his stance as if to say, Let’s get on with it, shall we?
“Aye, my friend, let’s be about it then.” Ian clicked his tongue while giving a light twitch of the reins. Pericles lunged forward, eager to run, but Ian held him to a slow canter, still mulling over his epiphany.
The pieces snapped neatly into place now. Lucinda’s intent at last became glaringly apparent. His stepmother sought to secure through any means what, in her unhinged mind, she believed rightfully belonged to her. Another nasty niggling taunted the recesses of his conscious, but he dismissed it as the Romani camp loomed before him.
His practiced gaze efficiently scanned the clearing. Vangie wasn’t in sight. A score of brightly-painted wooden caravans and several simple tents were neatly arranged beneath the towering trees. An equal number of laughing children and barking dogs played beside the wagons or cavorted throughout the encampment.
Two larger vardos, one at either end of the glen, drew Ian’s attention. A handsome woman sat within the opening of one of them, watching him with keen, assessing eyes. She tilted her head when their gazes met, almost as if she were greeting him across the distance.
In a roped-off area near the river, two score horses and mules milled about. Several nickered upon catching Pericles’ scent. The stallion shook his head and neighed a greeting. Highly impressed, Ian took in the magnificent horseflesh. Tattersalls boasted no finer horses than many of these. Making a mental note to pursue that avenue later, he returned his attention to the encampment.
Several men and women were engaged in various activities along the river’s edge. Others gathered in small groups around fires, some smoking pipes, or strumming mandolins or violins. A few Roma, settled against the massive trees, played cards.
Conversations ceased, and even the children stopped their joyful antics, as he rode to the camp’s center. As a single entity, the Roma turned their dark, expressive eyes to stare at him.
Four men separated themselves from the others, including the striking gypsy who’d taken Vangie behind him on his horse hours ago. Who the devil was he? A relative? A would-be-lover? Jealousy ripped a jagged course through Ian.
Steady old chap. Keep your head.
A distinguished-looking man, his hair peppered with gray and sporting a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard, approached him. The Roma bowed. “Sastimos, Lord Warrick, I am Yoska Bailey.”
So, they had been expecting him. No surprise there.
Yoska made a sweeping gesture, “I am bandolier to these noble people. Please, won’t you dismount, and join us in a cup?”
Ian gave a sharp nod. As he dismounted, he combed the area of any sign of Vangie. He searched in vain. If she was here, and from the greeting he’d just received, he’d wager Somersfield she was, she hid from him.
“I’ll see to your horse, your lordship.” The lad reaching for Pericles’ reins looked vaguely familiar. “Thank you. He would benefit from a drink…”
“Milosh, my
lord.” The boy gave him a toothy grin before leading the stallion away.
Ah, he was the boy Vangie had spoken to in Brunswick. Ian watched him with the horse. The lad knew what he was about. Pericles would be fine.
He turned his attention to the man who’d carried Vangie off.
The man elevated an arrogant eyebrow, and returned Ian’s bold perusal.
He wanted to punch him. “Where’s my wife?”
Smiling, his white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin, Yoska gently chided, “In good time, your lordship, in good time. Come, sit with us,” he cordially invited gesturing in the direction of the other, larger vardo. “My nephew, Besnik, brought Zora to us.”
Ian met Besnik’s hard, unyielding stare. No contrition gleamed in his black eyes, and Ian curled his hands into fists. He really, really wanted to punch him. Scowling, he said, “Zora?”
Still smiling—did the man perpetually wear a smile?—Yoska explained, “Evangeline is Zora’s Gadžo name, her Christian name. All Roma have one.” He angled his head toward the other men trailing behind them. “The brothers Zimmar, Nicu and Tobar.”
Each man inclined his head though they, like Besnik, remained silent.
At the vardo, Yoska indicated a stool with a wave of his hand. “Please, have a seat, my lord.” He waited until Ian was seated then claimed another stool. “Eldra, bring lavina.”
A stunning young woman leaned from the wagon and smiled seductively. The loose neckline of her canary-colored blouse gaped, exposing her heavy, swinging breasts. One of the gypsies—Nicu?—frowned at her blatant display before lifting impassive eyes to Ian.
“Aue, Dai, at once,” she murmured in a husky, accented voice.
The woman Ian had noticed upon first entering the clearing approached. Though middle-aged, her hair threaded with silver, she was still remarkably beautiful. She greeted him in flawless English. “I am Simone Bašavel Caruthers, my lord. Zora’s grandmother.”
He rose and swept her a formal bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madam Caruthers. Vangie speaks of you often.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 22