“It is easier to milk a cow that stands still,” he said frowning. “With that one, I’d not have a moment’s peace.”
Grinning—her first heartfelt smile in days—she stole a sideways glance at him. The twitching of his lips and the intensity aglow in his eyes were far more revealing than the words of denial he spoke.
He rose then helped her to her feet. “There will be dancing tonight. Will you join us?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t. Not yet.
“In time, nukkidai.” After squeezing her shoulder, he turned to go.
“Thank you, Besnik.”
He stopped, bending his mouth into an understanding smile. Shrugging his wide shoulders, he said, “Ma-sha-llah. As God wills.”
Her gaze trailed him as he swiftly made his way to Yoska’s vardo. He was a good man. Far better than the fops she’d met in London. She relaxed against a tree trunk, observing Ailsa and her playful antics with the children and Lancelot. Yes, indeed. The bubbly maid might be exactly what the gypsy king needed.
A dust cloud on the horizon drew her attention. Numerous riders grew closer. It wasn’t unusual for the Roma to have visitors. Truth be told, it was quite common, even expected. Nonetheless, uneasiness gripped her. Guests didn’t stampede into the camp. They approached respectfully and waited for an invitation to enter. These visitors didn’t bode well. She folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.
Where was Ian? She must find him at once. Her intuition screamed something was wrong. Hurrying to the front of the wagon, she searched the encampment. Lifting her skirt, she ran to the improvised corral. Upon seeing her approach, he excused himself and ducked beneath the rope.
“What is it?” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Ian, look.” She pointed to the approaching riders. “I fear something is afoot.”
He followed her worried gaze. A scowl drew his dark eyebrows together, his eyes troubled.
Tobar approached, his focus fixed on the horsemen as well. “We best make our way to the others.”
Ian thrust Vangie at him. “Keep her with you,” he ordered before running to Yoska’s campsite.
By the time she and Tobar reached the center of camp, most of the other Roma were assembled, their unease apparent in their quiet murmurs and the anxious gazes they darted, over and over again, to the approaching horsemen. Even Yoska appeared concerned, his perpetual smile absent and replaced by a grim expression.
Ian, now attired in his hunting coat, joined them as the first riders thundered into the travelers’ encampment. The Roma scattered lest they be trampled. Another group trailed the first at a more sedate pace.
Vangie recognized Gerard and another five men from Somersfield stables. Despite the seriousness of the moment, she bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. Jasper, with a look of fierce concentration on his face, and his tongue between his teeth, clumsily drove an overflowing dog cart into the clearing.
Yoska and a handful of others, including Ian and Besnik, approached the newcomers. The gypsy king’s gaze met Ian’s, and he gave one curt nod.
Vangie inhaled sharply. Besnik had given his consent. The simple gesture implied much more. He’d proclaimed Ian one of them.
Yoska stepped forward. “Welcome to our humble camp, didkai,” he said cordially, though hardness edged his voice. “How can we be of service?”
A fleshy man spit, the nasty glob missing Yoska’s foot by a mere inch. The darkening of the bandolier’s swarthy skin was the only outer indication of his anger.
How dare he, the fiend!
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from objecting aloud. She sliced a glance toward Ian; the muscles in his jaw rippled. She swung her attention to Besnik. His face was impassive, but fury spewed from his black eyes. As his gaze slowly traveled the semi-circle, Nicu, Tobar, and several others dropped a hand to the knifes they wore at their waists.
She stiffened, fear coursing through her. No. They must not fight. The riders were armed. More than one sported a pistol in his hand. As was their custom when danger arose, the Romani women melted into the shadows along with their children.
“I’ve received several complaints you gypsies have been stealing poultry, livestock, and other goods,” the man sneered.
“That seems unlikely, Sir Doyle,” Ian countered.
Vangie glanced between the two men.
A droll smile touched Ian’s mouth, and his eyes held a dangerous gleam. “I’ve been here a fortnight and can personally attest that coins or goods have been exchanged for everything the Roma have acquired. Why, I’ve purchased some fine horseflesh from them myself.”
Sir Doyle belched and spit again. “A fortnight?”
His baleful glare flicked around the glen. “Why would you stay with the likes of them for that long?” Bending forward, he licked his full lips. “Is it true? The wenches spread their legs for a groat?” He narrowed his eyes before sitting straight again, his saddle creaking in protest. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “Course, I’d be afraid of getting the clap.” He grabbed his crotch and shuddered theatrically, his beefy jowls waggling with the movement.
At his vulgar insinuation, rage whipped through her. Revolting cur. She leveled him a scathing glare. An offended growl rumbled through the Roma, but Besnik raised his hand, and the furor gradually abated.
“Guard your tongue, Doyle.” Ian spoke softly, but the threat in his voice permeated the air.
With a condescending, ill-considered smirk, Sir Doyle dared, “Say, didn’t you make an honest woman of a gypsy wench?”
Indignation coiling her muscles into tight, tense knots, Vangie went rigid, Oh, how she longed to skewer the hoggish lout. She brushed her fingers over her thigh. Where was her dagger? Had she left it on the table behind the vardo when she opened Yvette’s letter?
A course laugh erupted from the magistrate, and his cronies cackled their approval. He slapped his thigh and swung his gaze over the crowd. His attention riveted on her, and a lascivious gleam entered his watery eyes as a lewd sneer curled his fat lips.
Utterly repulsed, she glared in defiance.
“I might even consent to spend a few days with these vermin if I’d that to sink my wick into.” He nodded in her direction, then licked his fat mouth once more.
When Vangie stepped forward, the outraged gasps and furious murmurs ceased abruptly. She angled her head and eyed him from his sweat-rimmed hat to his grimy boots. With icy disdain she said, “Hell would freeze over and the devil would dance in heaven with Christ himself before that ever happened.” She made no attempt to hide her satisfied smile when red streaked across Sir Doyle’s flabby face.
He kicked his horse, advancing on her until he was only inches away. “Why you little—” He raised a foot.
He wouldn’t dare kick her. Nevertheless, she stumbled backward, bumping into Ian.
The clicking of a pistol hammer reverberated uncannily loud in the too-still clearing. Ian leveled his gun directly at Sir Doyle’s head. “Vangie, step behind me.”
She didn’t argue but slipped just behind his left side. She’d seen the magistrate’s shifty eyes dip to the gun across his stout lap. No doubt he was trying to decide if grabbing it was worth the risk.
“Make another disparaging remark about my wife or her kin, Doyle, and I promise you, it will be the last thing you do,” Ian said with eerie calm.
A thrill vibrated through her. He defended her people. She took a step to the side, observing him from the corner of her eye. She wanted to throw her arms around him and rain kisses across his handsome face. He sent her a knowing glance and a half-smile before returning his attention to Sir Doyle.
The color drained from the magistrate’s face just as quickly as it appeared. He glowered at Ian, his gaze flitting to the pistol then to her. Malice contorted his features, and she stepped nearer Ian again. “You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you, Warrick?”
Ian
had yet to lower the pistol. “Threatening you?” He shook his dark head. “No.” He regarded the magistrate for a moment longer before aiming the pistol’s muzzle at the ground. “Let’s call it a warning. One you’d best heed.” He released the gun’s hammer, and as he tucked the pistol into the waist of his pantaloons, he shot a glance to Gerard. “Pray tell me, why are you in their company?” With a wave of his hand, he indicated Sir Doyle and his motley entourage.
Gerard dismounted. Grimacing, he stretched his bowed legs.
With a slight slant of his head, Ian indicated the other Somersfield staff should dismount too. They complied straightaway.
Removing his cap, Gerard scratched his balding head. After shoving the hat back on, he contemplated the magistrate before his attention gravitated back to Ian. “Well, my lord, we was nearly here to fetch the horseflesh like ye bid, when they come on us.” He angled his head in the direction of Sir Doyle and his henchmen. “I figured it prudent to arrive together.”
Vangie had no doubt the presence of a half-dozen armed Somersfield men gave the magistrate a moment’s pause. She smiled at Gerard, and flushing until his ears turned red, he averted his gaze.
Nodding, Ian said, “Excellent decision, Gerard.” He turned his steely eyes on Sir Doyle. “Who, exactly, has grumbled about the Roma?”
The magistrate snorted causing his jowls to jiggle. “I don’t have to reveal my sources to you.”
“No? Well, it will be difficult to bring charges, now won’t it? What are you going to do, take tales of a few missing chickens and ducks to London’s busy courts?” Ian’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. Idly flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his well-tailored coat, he eyed Sir Doyle contemptuously. “Who do you suppose the courts will believe? A magistrate, whose reputation is, shall we say, less than pristine? Or a lord of the realm, whose connections to the Home Office, the peerage, and the Crown are favored?”
Well done, Ian.
He squared his shoulders and met the magistrate’s infuriated glare directly. “I shan’t hesitate to reveal every illegal and despicable act you are rumored to be connected with if you breathe a word of this drivel in London.”
Vangie wanted to applaud.
His face bright red, Sir Doyle nearly gnashed his teeth. “It doesn’t matter leastways,” he said. “They’ve,” his gaze scanned the Roma, scathing contempt written across his face, “been here more than the allotted time. His Majesty’s edict says they must move on.”
Vangie gasped, clasping a hand to her chest. She’d never been present before when the Roma were evicted. Naturally, she’d heard tell of it, but her visits to the camp typically occurred when the travelers first arrived, not when they were forced to leave. She sought Ian’s eyes, then Puri Daj’s, who smiled in composed reassurance.
When had she joined the crowd?
Jasper climbed from the cart, and with the dignity and aplomb of a titled lord, marched to Ian. His progress was momentarily impeded when his foot sank into a fresh pile of horse manure. He shook off the offending shoe and continued onward, his gait now lopsided due to his one stockinged foot.
Vangie hid a smile. Did the man never lose his composure?
Once he stood before Ian, Jasper withdrew official-looking documents from beneath his arm.
Ian’s brow rose, and his lips twitched.
“You did say to make haste in delivering them, sir,” Jasper said with his usual formality.
Ian’s gaze strayed to the butler’s stained stocking before meeting his austere gaze. “Indeed, I did,” he offered drolly.
Vangie tried to imagine the staid Jasper driving the dog cart the entire distance from Somersfield. As if reading her mind, he winked at her. A grin teased her lips, and she winked back. Jasper was an absolute dear.
Perusing the papers, a broad smile widened Ian’s mouth.
“Get on with you.” Sir Doyle issued orders for the disbandment of the gypsy camp. “I want you vermin gone within the hour.”
The Roma scurried about in preparation.
Vangie didn’t know what to do. Should she go with Puri Daj? Would Ian come too?
“Halt.” Ian’s firmed voice boomed across the site. Every eye turned to him in expectation.
The magistrate’s and his men’s gazes contained irritation and something a tinge more malevolent.
She looked at Ian expectantly. What was he about? They needed to make haste.
“Roma friends, you do not have to depart,” he announced, triumph resounding in his voice.
Sir Doyle straightened in his saddle. “Here now, Warrick, old chap.”
Ian stiffened beside her. Sir Doyle dared to address him so familiarly? He quirked his eyebrows in askance at the magistrate’s impudence.
“You don’t have authority to make such a declaration, my lord. The law is clear,” he reminded Ian. “Gypsies cannot camp on public land beyond the duration the King’s law allows.” Sir Doyle made a sweeping gesture. “These, people,” he couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice, “were to be gone weeks ago. They’re vagrants, thieves, and trespassers, and they must go.” The last was spewed in a threatening growl.
A wave of guilt swept Vangie. The Roma had lingered longer than usual in hopes of seeing her. And then, when she’d fled Ian and he’d followed her here, they couldn’t very well pack up and leave, could they? She was responsible for their predicament, and she feared for them. If Sir Doyle was as unscrupulous as she suspected, her people were in danger.
Ian gave an amiable nod. “What you say is true.”
Her heart sank, and a sickening sensation crept into her vitals. She gazed around the encampment. How could they possibly depart within the hour? They’d have to leave possessions behind, and they’d so little to begin with.
“But these travelers are not trespassers.”
What?
Vangie’s attention flew to Ian.
He took her elbow and lowered his head. “Trust me, sweeting.” His warm breath caressed her ear. “I’ll explain all.”
Trust him? How she wanted to. But did she dare? He’d just defended her and the Roma. She nodded, cautiously.
“What say you, Lord Warrick?” Sir Doyle exclaimed. “Of course they’re trespassers.”
Ian shook his head, making no attempt to conceal his glee.
She was thoroughly confused. What was he up to?
“’Fraid not, Doyle, old chap.” A grin curled Ian’s mouth, and a merry glint twinkled in his eyes.
She suppressed a smile at his boyishness. He was thoroughly enjoying the magistrate’s agitation.
“The property on this side of the river is part of Sheffleton Cottage Estate. Though the manor house is some distance away, these grounds are privately owned,” he said.
Sir Doyle shrugged his massive shoulders. “What do I care? Gypsies cannot camp on private property either.”
Ian scratched his nose. “True, but they can be deeded portions of estates.” He lifted the papers in his hand. “I’ve the paperwork allowing such an act.”
Clearly annoyed by the turn of events, Sir Doyle rubbed his chin with a ham-like fist. “If you’ve acquired Sheffleton, I’ve not heard of it. I make it my business to be abreast of everything in my jurisdiction.” He folded his arms across his massive chest. “You wouldn’t be lying to an officer of the Crown now, would you?” A nasty smile skewed his mouth. “Are you certain you own Sheffleton Cottage, my lord?”
“No, I do not,” Ian offered wholly unperturbed. “But my wife does.”
“Pardon?” Vangie’s stunned gaze flew to meet his. “What do you mean I own it?”
His tone hushed, Ian swiftly explained. “It was part of the terms of the marriage contract. I had the entire settlement transferred to you before we married.” He brushed a stray lock of hair off her face. “You can deed a portion of the estate to the Roma if you wish.”
“Oh, Ian,” she breathed, overcome with emotion. He’d done this wonderful thing, even before they were married. The gl
int in his gaze caused her heart to skip. It left a giddy pattering in its wake. She stared into his eyes, momentarily forgetting the world around her.
“Shit.” Sir Doyle’s crude curse yanked her back to the present. He spit again before threatening, “I best not hear another complaint, or I’ll arrest the lot of ’em.” He jerked a thumb at a group of women and children.
Ian crooked an eyebrow mockingly. “All of them, truly? There are at least two score Roma, not including infants and children.”
Fury contorting his face, Sir Doyle ignored Ian. “I intend to investigate the legality of deeding gypsy tramps good English soil. I ain’t accepting your word for it.”
“You do that, Doyle,” Ian said, grinning
Tugging on his unfortunate horse’s reins, the magistrate spewed foul oaths at the solemn-faced Roma as he thundered from the encampment.
“Good riddance, oversized, flatulent windbag.” Jasper’s declaration earned him an appreciative smile from Simone.
“Mr. Jasper-Faulkenbury, may I offer you refreshment?” she asked. “After your long journey, I’m certain a spot of tea would be in order.”
“Please, call me Jasper. Everyone else does.” He sent a tolerant glance in Ian’s direction. “I would be delighted to accept your gracious offer, madam. First, however, I have an issue of importance to impart to his lordship.”
Ian faced his man “What is it, Jasper?”
“The dowager has disappeared,” he said without preamble.
Disappeared? Blast and damn. This wasn’t good.
Lancelot came bounding across the camp.
“There you are.” Vangie bent to scoop him into her arms, but before she could, the pup introduced himself to Jasper by wetting on his stockinged foot.
The butler’s nostrils flared the tiniest bit as he bowed to Lancelot. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, too, sir.”
“Naughty dog,” she chastised, gathering the pup in her arms. She buried her face in his coat, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Jasper lifted his dripping foot, eyeing the offensive appendage as if he’d like to sever it from his body. “I fear, my lord, I am in need of a new pair of stockings.” He crinkled his nose while casting a sidelong glance at his stuck shoe. “And shoes.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 26