Madam Caruthers angled her head, and he met her fathomless, penetrating gaze. Why did he feel like she measured him? Weighing him against something unsaid?
Eldra descended the wagon’s steps, balancing a jug and wooden mugs on a tray. She sashayed the few steps to the men and handed each a mug. Tugging the stopper from the jug, she filled the cups, leaving Ian’s until the last. Bent over him, she offered another tantalizing view of her full breasts. She smiled a blatant invitation as she poured his dram.
Ian kept his gaze trained on the vardo behind her, very aware of the five pairs of eyes assessing him. Eldra’s bosom was mere inches from his nose, her heavy, sultry perfume filling his nostrils. He angled away from her and took a healthy quaff of the beer.
Madam Caruthers said something in Romanese, and Eldra straightened abruptly. A pout on her full lips, she glared at the older woman. With a huff and a shrug of her bare shoulders, she strutted away, swinging her curvy hips. She joined a group of giggling women. They kept sending sidelong glances in Ian’s direction.
Surely they knew he was married?
He met Madam Caruthers’ gaze. “I assume my wife is in your wagon?”
Ailsa bounded across the clearing. Barely dipping Ian a hasty half-curtsy, she panted, “Madam, my lady asks for you. She’s in an awful way. It’s not her bruised ribs or one of her megrims either.”
“It’s as I feared.” Madame Caruthers closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “May God be merciful.” Opening them once more, she sent Ian an indecipherable look before she hurried to her wagon then nimbly climbed inside.
What was wrong with Vangie?
He directed his attention back to the quartet. They regarded him with hooded eyes. Worry niggled unrelentingly.
“Gentlemen, I shan’t be kept from my wife any longer.” He set his cup aside before striding purposefully in the direction of Madam Caruthers’ vardo.
No one tried to stop him, and he gave a silent thanks. A brawl wouldn’t endear him to Vangie’s family and clan, but he would not be deterred again. He slowed his steps as he neared the wagon. Just how did one go about seeking admittance to this miniature home on wheels?
Yoska appeared by his side, and Ian suppressed a start of surprise.
“You bid permission to enter, though they’ll not likely grant it just yet,” he said.
Could all Roma read minds? Ian was beginning to think so. It was uncanny and unnerving. He traveled the remaining few steps to the vardo. He could hear rustling around inside. Was that a woman softly weeping? Vangie?
“Madam Caruthers?” He spoke quietly, feeling irrationally uncertain.
Several moments passed before the door finally opened, and Ailsa poked her tousled head out.
“My wife?”
“Um, yer lordship, I’m to bid you—” She slid her gaze over her shoulder, then sucked in a bracing breath before forging on. “You need to cool your heels and rest your arse over yonder ’till the princess bids you come.” The maid slanted her head at a grove of trees behind the wagon and shut the door in his face with a firm thud.
Rest my arse?
Princess?
Ian wasn’t sure which statement shocked him more.
The camp resumed its activities, though an unmistakable aura of heaviness loomed over it now. He wandered to the maple trees situated some distance behind Madam Caruthers’ vardo. The Roma left him to himself, whether as an act of courtesy or pointed ostracism was unclear.
He relaxed against a trunk, alternating his attention between the camp and the wagon. What was happening inside? Was Vangie seriously injured? Surely Madam Caruthers would’ve told him if that was the case. Unless his wife had told her Lucinda’s lies, and Madam Caruthers believed them.
God’s blood. He should’ve sent for a physician the moment he arrived. He straightened, intending to pound on the wagon door until he had an answer. Patience, wisdom whispered in his ear. He slumped against the tree. He’d yet to master that virtue.
Dusk settled over the clearing, the smells of the evening meal permeating the temperate air, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breaking his fast early this morning. He shifted his stance away from the gypsies and stared blindly at the strip of water meandering along the shallow embankment.
So much had transpired since this morning.
He’d awoken with his arms wrapped around his incredible wife. His heart brimming with unfamiliar happiness, he’d slipped from their tousled bed. Standing nude, he’d been content to stare at her for several minutes.
A slow smile had bent his mouth.
She slept soundly, curled on her side and lips parted. Every few minutes, she made a soft noise in her throat. Did she dream of the vigorous night they’d spent together? Exploring each other’s bodies, reaching untold degrees of ecstasy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before?
He’d tried to introduce her to lovemaking gradually. “Sweeting, I don’t want you to be shocked or disgusted.”
“Pish, posh, Ian. God created this glorious gift for husband and wives.” She said while climbing to lie atop him. “I don’t understand why people whisper about it like it’s something wicked or sinful.” Peering into his eyes, a naughty glimmer in hers, she said, “I expect you to teach me everything you know.”
She proved to be a very apt pupil, completely uninhibited and eager to try whatever provocative idea he suggested. He hardened at the sensual memories, a smile hovering on his mouth.
“My lord?”
Ian swiveled to face Madam Caruthers. Engrossed in his musings, he hadn’t heard her approach. In the deepening dusk, he searched her countenance. She appeared drained. Defeated. Was that sorrow etched on her face and mirrored in her eyes?
“Vangie? Is she all right? Was she badly injured when the horse tossed her? Should we send for a physician?” He cursed inwardly. Why hadn’t he insisted someone go for a leech immediately?
“She suffered some bruised ribs—”
“So it’s nothing serious? There’s no need for alarm?” Ian released his breath in a whoosh.
“My lord.” Madam Caruthers laid her hand on his arm. “Sadly, she lost the babe.”
Ian gawked, his mind gone blank, not comprehending her words. He refused to believe what he’d heard. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the buzzing in his ears. “The babe? There was a baby?” he rasped, barely able to form the words. “She didn’t tell me.” Agony tore him asunder, stinging tears pooling in his eyes. He whispered hoarsely, “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Bright tears shimmered in her sympathy-filled gaze. “Zora didn’t know she was with child.” She lifted a shoulder and looked heavenward. “It happens sometimes. Especially with the first.”
Ian’s head reeled. Disbelief, fear, and absolute rage toward Lucinda buffeted him. And then…complete and utter devastation for his beloved wife. “I want to see her.”
Vangie’s grandmother tilted her head and studied him for a long, disquieting moment. What did she seek? Her lips curved into a sad, half-smile. “I thought you would.” Slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, she led him to her vardo. “My lord?”
“Please, call me Ian. After all, we are family now.”
“Ian, Zora—Vangie—is desolate. She needs time to heal, physically and emotionally.” She peered into his eyes, the evening shadows making it impossible to read her expression. “Please, permit her that. Don’t make any decision right now, no matter what she says.”
Surprised by her vehemence, he gave a slow nod.
She squeezed his arm. “Promise me, Ian.”
In the darkness, she hadn’t seen his curt nod. “I promise, Madam Caruthers,” he answered solemnly.
“As you said, we’re familia now, Ian. Please, call me Simone.”
“I give you my word, Simone. I’ll be patient with my wife.” Even if it killed him, he’d be patient and understanding.
“I’ll allow you some privacy then.” With a graceful angling of her head and a sw
irl of her colorful skirts, she strolled to a nearby wagon. A fire burned merrily before it, and Ailsa sat near the dancing flames talking animatedly to Besnik.
The gypsy raised his head, glaring at Ian. Across the distance, their gazes clashed, accusation blazing in the gypsy’s hostile glower. Now wasn’t the time to deal with the Roma.
Turning, Ian climbed the narrow stairs to the wagon’s entrance. He opened the door and paused, momentarily taken aback at the caravan’s deceptively roomy interior. A lantern hanging from an iron hook on the ceiling to the left of the door cast a soft glow on the still form huddled beneath a vibrant quilt. The bed looked more like a folding shelf, which was practical and efficient given the vardo’s close confines.
Vangie had her back to him. Was she awake?
Vangie stiffened. Though the door swung shut without a sound, she knew the moment Ian stepped inside. Two short steps, and he stood beside her. The stool scraped the floor as he scooted in near, and he bumped the small bed with his long legs when he sat.
Where was Puri Daj? Why had she allowed him in? She’d told her grandmother she didn’t want to see him. Ever again.
“Sweeting, are you awake?”
What was he doing here? Hadn’t he caused her enough heartache? She whispered, “Leave me alone.”
“Your grandmother told me about our baby.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so very sorry.”
Oh, how she needed a comforting touch. But not his. Never again his. She wrenched away and her voice ringing with scathing condemnation said, “Tell me, Lord Warrick. Are you terribly disappointed I’ll not have a distended belly proclaiming to the world I carry your seed before you discard me?”
He sucked in a harsh gulp of air. “She lied, Vangie.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs demanding release.
Did she? Or is Lucinda telling the truth, and Ian is the liar?
When she didn’t respond, he pressed, “Lucinda knew you were behind me. She contrived those lies to cause you pain and grief.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re legally married. By all that is holy, I swear it.”
What did he know of holiness?
Vangie struggled to turn over, the weight of the quilt adding to the burden of her grief. She pinned him with a direct look. “Tell me one thing,” she rasped, “Did you or did you not venture to London for the express purpose of causing my downfall?”
He paled slightly. “Vangie—”
“Perhaps downfall isn’t accurate,” she snapped. “Putting me in my place? Giving me my just due? Ruining me?”
He remained silent. Had guilt rendered him speechless? She searched his face, once so dear to her. Sorrow etched his handsome features, and his eyes… Was that regret glimmering there? Or, could it be? Were those tears awash in the silvery depths?
Her heart twisted painfully, but she smothered her sympathy. No. No. No. She wouldn’t feel compassion for him. She was the victim in this, and she would offer him no quarter, no mercy. “Well, did you? Is that why you asked me to dance?”
“That was before I…” He pinched his eyes shut for a blink.
Pain, razor-sharp pierced her heart, leaving it shredded and bleeding. She had her answer, but she’d hear it from his mouth. “It’s an easy question, Ian. Yes or no?”
“It’s not that simple.” He tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away.
With a doggedness that even astounded her, she persisted. “Yes or no?”
“Sweeting, I’d been told—”
“Told?” Fury whipped anew within her breast. She bit out, “Yes. Or. No?”
Absolute, resolute, demanding truth’s validation, either to mend her shattered heart or annihilate it completely, Vangie would him admit the truth. No more a corked-brained, beguiled miss, blinded by love. Looking through the twin lenses of betrayal and deceit, she could at last see Ian clearly.
His eyes pleaded with her to understand. His voice low and filled with self-condemnation, he uttered but one syllable. “Yes.”
Vangie rolled onto her side, murmuring in a tear-choked voice, “Go away.” Her shoulders shook with the sobs she couldn’t suppress or hide from him. She needed to find some meager degree of release for the agony destroying her soul.
“Vangie?” He brushed a finger over her hair.
Flinging his hand away, she jerked upright. A torrent of scalding tears flowed from her eyes, and she had no doubt her face mirrored the abject misery in her heart. She angrily swiped at them then pointed to the door. “Leave, you despicable bostaris. I’ve already divorced you,” she shouted, not caring the Romani camp could hear every bitter word.
Where was her dagger? Her heart splintering impossibly further, she groped beneath the pillow until her fingers closed on the familiar engraved hilt.
“Divorced” Ian’s face paled, and he lifted a hand in supplication “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“I’m not addled, just gullible.” She revealed her dagger, brandishing it before her. “Now leave!”
The door flung open, banging violently against the vardo’s side. Ian twisted to see who’d entered. Simone, hovered in the entrance, worry stamped across her face. Sighing, he stood and shoved the stool beneath the bed once more. It scraped loudly in the tiny structure.
Simone scooted by him and gathered Vangie into her arms. “Hush, bad inderi, my dear child.” Tilting her head, indicating the gaping door, she silently ordered Ian to leave.
With one last glance at his sobbing wife, he turned and took the two short strides to the open door. He bent to step through the narrow entrance and faltered briefly before descending the short flight of stairs. A group of concerned Roma had gathered outside the wagon. From the reproachful looks on their faces, he guessed they’d heard every word of his painful exchange with Vangie.
He scowled and lowered his chin defensively.
Ailsa, her eyes huge and worried, swung her gaze from Ian, to the closed door, and back to him. “Lord Warrick?”
He met her troubled gaze.
Flicking a glance to the door again, she had the audacity to blurt, “How could she divorce you?”
Holy hell. Ian felt a flush steal its way to his neck then in blazing glory, to his face. Thank God, the darkness concealed some degree of his humiliation. Aware of numerous ears straining to hear his every word, he chose them with care. “Ailsa, Lady Warrick is distraught. She hasn’t divorced me.”
Someone gave a contemptuous snort, and someone else, muttered, “Dinilo gawdji. Stupid non-Gypsy.”
Ian scanned the shadowed faces. Though not openly hostile, neither were they friendly.
Besnik stepped forward. He met Ian’s gaze square on, a challenge in his eyes. “Roma ways are different from the gawdji. Zora left you, aue?”
Ian clenched his jaw so tight, a muscle throbbed painfully, and his teeth threatened to crack. He wasn’t answering this damn interfering man.
The gypsy shrugged, the crimson fabric accenting his muscular shoulders. “Then she has divorced you.”
“Gawd a’mighty,” Ailsa gasped, before slapping a hand across her mouth.
If the burly, entirely too handsome, Roma had landed a planter square on his jaw, Ian couldn’t have been more astounded. “Divorced? Surely you jest. Only the Church can grant a divorce.”
“Not so with the Roma. If a manishni willingly leaves her rom, she’s divorced and can marry another.” The gypsy’s deep voice echoed around the clearing.
Fury, raw and savage pumped through Ian. “And, dare I suppose, you intend to be the other?” He growled, reconsidering his earlier decision not to exchange blows. A good fight might be just the thing. It had been the night of the ball.
“Caution, didkai, my gypsy friend.” Yoska edged near Ian, advising softly, “Besnik is our kallis, our king. To fail to show him proper respect would be most unwise.”
King? God dammit to hell. Could things become any more preposterous? He had no choice but to heed Yoska’s thin
ly-veiled threat.
“King? Blast and bugger me eyes,” Ailsa breathed.
Her gushing exclamation drew Ian’s attention. She stared at Besnik like he was the Prince Regent himself. Except the gypsy wasn’t obese or dissipated from years of excess. More’s the pity.
Besnik crooked an eyebrow at her uncouth declaration, and his mouth firmed into a thin line of reproach.
Ailsa eyed him then pertly asked, “Gawd, don’t you ever smile?”
“Don’t you ever control your tongue?” Besnik glowered at her.
“Oh, tosh.” She waved a hand at him. “You’re so stiff. I bet you’ve got a stick up your rump.”
Good God, whose idea was it to make Ailsa Vangie’s abigail? If Vangie returned to Somersfield with him—no, when she returned—a new lady’s maid would promptly be assigned. One who knew her station, possessed a mild temperament, and had the ability to control her tongue.
Anger or perhaps astonishment whisked across Besnik’s face.
Ian couldn’t be sure which.
“Be careful, manishni,” Besnik softly warned.
Ailsa stuck out her tongue, taunting, “Go to the devil,” before she skipped away and scooped a toddler into her arms. They both giggled as she twirled them about the fire.
“Gawji woman.” Besnik shook his head, and his dark eyes met Ian’s. “That one needs a man’s firm hand on her bool.”
Ian refused to agree with him, though he’d been harboring similar thoughts. For all he knew, the gypsy king baited him, to see if he was the type of man who’d hit a woman. His gaze rested on the gypsy before roaming the restless crowd. Already a head taller than most of the men peering at him, he drew himself to his full height.
“I am not leaving without my wife.”
Yoska offered him a congenial smile.
His perpetual cheerfulness was irksome. He reminded Ian of his friend, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. Always—always, blood sodding hell—smiling. Made a man want to plant him a facer just to wipe the unending grin from his face. He didn’t dare draw Yoska’s cork, however.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 23