“Zora,” Simone breathed, alarmed.
Vangie deftly loaded the small gun. “It’s only a precaution.” She met Grandmother’s worried eyes. “Ian’s out there. He might need me.” With that, she slipped from the wagon and into the riotous night.
Sidling along the vardo, she took stock of the situation. Only four of the assailants remained on their horses. The others had either been killed or were fighting on foot. Nicu dispatched one assailant with his blade while Besnik wrestled violently with another.
Ailsa charged to his aid. “No, you don’t,” she shrieked, laying a stout branch across his opponent’s head. The man toppled over, a nasty gash in his skull. “Besnik.” She burst into tears before throwing herself into his sturdy arms.
“Shh, pirrini,” he soothed, caressing her shoulders and back.
A few feet beyond them, Vangie spied Ian grappling with a scruffy man. The scarf intended to mask the bandit’s face had come loose and hung around his neck.
She gasped recognizing one of Sir Doyle’s men.
The man outweighed Ian by a good three stone, but Ian’s quicker reflexes gave him the advantage. He danced circles around the clumsy oaf, his sharp jabs hitting home each time.
His opponent swung his beefy hand. Ian ducked and planted a solid facer on his foe’s ruddy cheek. The man tottered, weaving unsteadily. His legs crumpled beneath him, and he sagged into a heap in the dirt. A rider charged forward with a gun pointing straight at Ian’s back.
Please, God, no.
“I-a-n!” Vangie screamed. Aiming the gun, she fired. Click. Nothing.
She threw it to the ground, stark terror ripping through her. At a dead run, she yanked the dagger from her waist then hurled it. The blade sliced through the air with lethal accuracy, landing between the man’s shoulder blades. He was dead before he toppled to the ground.
The unholy, animalistic fear permeating Vangie’s voice raised the hair on Ian’s nape. He wheeled around, sidestepping a horse’s thrashing hooves. Astonishment etched the rider’s face. He pitched from his saddle, so close, his lifeless fingers brushed Ian’s chest.
Sunk to the hilt, Vangie’s dagger protruded from his back.
Holy Mother of God.
Twice she had killed to protect him. Where was she? He whirled around. She stood tight-lipped and sagging between Ailsa and Besnik. Terror lingered in her sapphire eyes. Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. She was in shock. The remaining marauders pounded from the clearing like the cowards they were as Ian bolted to her.
He embraced his shaking wife and held her firmly against his chest. “Shh, sweetheart.”
His gaze met Yoska’s and Besnik’s in turn. Both men’s mouths were twisted into grim lines, and fury simmered in their guarded gazes. Blood dripped from a gash in Yoska’s lip, and bright reddish-blue fingerprints marked Besnik’s neck.
“This,” Ian’s gaze prowled the clearing, “wasn’t random, was it?”
“Niks.” Yoska shook his shaggy head while wiping at the scarlet dripping down his chin.
The fury faded from Besnik’s eyes, replaced by a kind of defeated weariness. “We’ve not been so blatantly attacked before, though a small kor or two is not unusual.”
Ian surveyed the ravaged camp. He’d wager Somersfield that Lucinda and Doyle had orchestrated this. The attack reeked of the magistrate’s greed and treachery, and it was just like him to send his henchmen to do his dirty work while he kept out of harm’s way. “I fear, my friends, I may have brought this upon you,” Ian said.
“How so?” Yoska asked.
Vangie trembled in his arms, pressing closer to him. Ian cast a swift glance at her bowed head. He met Yoska’s probing gaze and gave a slight negative shake of his head.
The gypsy inclined his.
Good. He understood. Ian wanted to keep his concerns from Vangie, at least for now.
Yoska’s dark gaze searched the shadows. “Here are our tikna’s.” He waved at them. “Come, it is safe now.”
With trepidation, the Romani women and children hiding in the woods crept into the encampment, grief and bewilderment stamped on their faces.
Simone bustled forward toting a large basket, and Jasper tagged behind her, lugging an equally cumbersome satchel. “Zora, I need your help.”
Puri Daj’s voice roused Vangie from her fear-laced stupor. Ian held her in a tight embrace, and she tipped her head to look at him. “I must help tend the wounded.”
He relaxed his arms, but worry shone in his eyes. “Are you able?”
She nodded, giving him a wobbly smile.
He cupped her face against his chest and rested his cheek on the crown of her head. “Thank you. Once again, you saved me from certain death.”
Vangie closed her eyes and breathed his scent. Yes, she’d killed to protect him; her husband, her lover, and God willing, the father of her children. Bitter tears pricked behind her eyelids. No, she’d not think of it. Later, she would grieve and ask God for forgiveness for killing again. But at present she focused on her joy.
Ian is alive.
“You cannot discharge your obligations so easily,” she mumbled against his shirt. When he didn’t respond, she plastered a pleasant smile on her face and tilted her head upward.
He frowned at her, his bewilderment endearing.
“You promised me a dozen children.”
His quick-silver eyes deepened to charcoal. “I did indeed.” He kissed her nose as he released her. “You’ve tear streaks…” He rubbed her cheek with his thumb.
Scrubbing at her damp face, Vangie surveyed the encampment. Eight raiders lay in the dirt. Two were unconscious thanks to Ian’s sound right hook and Ailsa’s questionable skill with the branch. Were the others dead?
The sobs and cries of Romani women filled the clearing. How many Roma were hurt? Dead? Her stomach churned.
“Zora,” Puri Daj called. “Come.” Grandmother knelt beside Nicu. His arm lay at an odd angle and lacerations marred his face and chest. Weeping loudly Eldra cradled his head in her lap, dabbing at his wounds with her skirt.
Vangie rushed to them. “How is he?”
Puri Daj met her eyes before combing the groups huddled around the other wounded. “He’s injured the worst. His ribs are cracked and his arm broken.”
“No Roma are dead, truly?” Vangie inhaled an unsteady breath, struggling to contain her tears of relief.
“No, praise God.” Puri Daj paused, sitting back on her heels. She assessed Vangie with her intelligent eyes. Affection sparkled in their depths. “You are leaving.” Covering her hand with her own she said, “That is how it should be.” She cast a glance at Ian and smiled. “He loves you.”
Warmth infused Vangie. “Aue, I know.”
An hour later, just as dawn whispered her palette of colors across the sky, she hugged Puri Daj. “I’ll return with the land deed in a fortnight.”
Grandmother brushed an errant curl from her cheek. “Your father and mother would be proud, tikna. What you’ve done for our people…”
Emotion clogged Vangie’s throat, and she sent a loving look to Ian sitting patiently atop Pericles. He threw his head back, laughing at something Yoska said. “Ian made it possible, and he is the one who deserves the Roma’s gratitude.”
Besnik lifted her to sit before Ian, and Yoska handed her Lancelot. Her gaze fell on Jasper, sitting on the dog cart seat. His spine ramrod stiff, he led the caravan from the encampment. The two surviving bandits, had been stuffed into the box of the dog cart, bound and gagged. Gerard and the other stable hands led a string of horses. Pericles brought up the rear of the odd entourage.
Shifting, she peered over Ian’s shoulder and smiled at Ailsa standing beside Besnik. Vangie waved gaily. “We’ll return for the wedding. Two weeks will pass before you know it.”
Besnik stood with his arms folded, a surly scowl on his face.
Ian cocked a slanted eyebrow. “Sweeting, why’s he so churlish?”
She giggled. “He wanted the we
dding to take place immediately, but Ailsa insisted on waiting two weeks. She said her family would want to attend. She wasn’t even going to remain in camp, but Besnik, poor besotted fool, wouldn’t hear of her leaving.” Tapping her chin, Vangie mused. “Would Charlotte mind overly much if I sent one of her gowns for Ailsa to remake?”
He nuzzled her neck and squeezed Pericles in the sides with his heels. “Send her a dozen of the blasted things.”
The stallion ambled forward, and with one last wave to her grandmother, Vangie settled against Ian, peeping at him through her lashes. “I don’t understand it.” She smiled coyly while trailing a finger across his chest. “Besnik wasn’t the least pacified. Even after Ailsa kissed him soundly.”
“I doubt he’ll have to wait two weeks for what he wants,” he muttered as he tugged Vangie against him and cupped her breast beneath her shawl.
“Ian, stop.” She pushed at is hand. “Someone will see.” She cast a worried glance around them.
Grinning, he wiggled his fingers beneath the covering.
“Lout.” She swatted at his hand.
Lancelot latched onto one of Ian’s fingers, sinking his needle-like puppy teeth into the soft flesh.
Ian yelped. “Let go, you little bugger.”
“He thinks you’re playing.” Vangie erupted into giggles.
Shaking the off pup, Ian returned to exploring beneath her wrap. He brushed the nipple protruding through the soft fabric of her blouse, and Vangie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning aloud.
“Ian?” She tried to sound scandalized, difficult to do when sultry yearning permeated every syllable. “You’re wrong about Ailsa.”
He murmured in her ear, “Am I?”
Unconscionable cur, teasing her so. She nearly melted from the delicious sensations his warm breath tickling her ear aroused. Instead, she sagged against him and filled her lungs with a deep gulp of bracing air. “Indeed. I heard her myself. ‘I’m no easy wench you can tumble before our vows, Besnik Bailey.’”
“Ah, my lady, therein lies the difference. We’ve exchanged our vows.”
Vangie tried to hide her blushes for the next several miles as Ian proceeded to explain in great detail, precisely how he intended to tumble her. When Pericles stopped before the mansion at last, she wiggled her numb bottom against Ian’s loins.
“Stop it, minx,” he ground out. “I’m already hard as stone.”
“Fifteen minutes, my lord.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
She drew his head downward and whispered in his ear.
“Vangie,” Ian called.
Vangie smiled and waved at him striding across the meadow, a basket dangling on his arm. Jasper must’ve told him where she’d gone off to. She eyed the sky doubtfully. Mayhap if they hurried, they could squeeze a picnic in before the clouds burst.
She’d left Lancelot at the house so as to enjoy her romantic picnic.
“Look, Ian.” She hurried to the other side of the rickety bridge and pointed to the black swans circling below. She’d been tossing bread crumbs to the ducks and geese for the past half hour. A strong gust of wind blew across the pond creating small frothy peaks. “A baby is riding on its mother’s back. Isn’t it cute?”
“Careful, sweeting. That rail is still in need of repair.” Ian set down the basket. He grasped her elbow as she peered over the edge. “Do you know how to swim? The water is deep at this end.”
A nearby oak tree groaned and crackled as it wrestled with the wind. Another flurry ruffled her skirt and teased the curls around her face. She smiled and nodded. “Like a fish. Puri Daj insisted I learn after my parents drowned.”
She raised her eyes to the churning, pewter sky. It had been a day much like today when a fierce summer storm had orphaned her. Her parents’ carriage had been swept downriver after a bridge gave way. A chill washed over her as she scanned the tree tops. Dark gunmetal gray clouds swirled above them, and the trees swayed and dipped, their branches waving wildly. Damp earth, pine, and lily of the valley scented the air.
She tossed another crust of bread to the birds. Apprehension squeezed her ribs, but her head didn’t ache. Not yet, anyway. The megrims had started after the death of her parents, and storms—like stress—almost always brought on an episode. She bathed Ian with a loving gaze. Perhaps this time would be different, for she wasn’t lonely and afraid anymore.
“You shouldn’t come here unaccompanied.” Hands on his lean hips, he surveyed the area, obviously looking for the men he’d assigned to guard her. “Where are Beau and Bryce? And your new maid? What’s her name?”
Vangie almost giggled. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t always remember names. “Ayva. She’s helping Mrs. Tanssen with Ailsa’s wedding preparations. They are twins after all.”
“What was the good Lord thinking, molding two of them?” He shook his head in disbelief. “What about the men assigned to guard you?”
“Gerard sent a message. He needed them in the stables to help move something.” Throwing the last piece of bread in the water, Vangie sent Ian a sideways glance. Worry hardened his features. He had been edgy and troubled since they’d arrived home.
Well, not the first day. He’d been quite content that afternoon. She smiled to herself at the fond memory. “I’m sorry, Ian. I thought it would be all right. There’s been no sign of your stepmother since Jasper reported her disappearance.” She heartily hoped the woman had left for good.
“It’s of no consequence, sweeting. I’ll speak with Gerard and remind him the two have other duties until further notice.” He smiled, the tension easing from his face as the wind whipped through his chestnut hair.
She rather liked the unkempt look. Securing her shawl tighter, she shivered. The weather had turned foul fast, and it appeared as if the promised picnic would have to wait—again. She searched the pond, rather startled to find it deserted and the water now a mass of seething foam. “Where are the birds?”
Ian wrapped his arm around her waist and pointed with his other hand. “Look across the water there. They’ve taken sanctuary in the marshland.” He eyed the turbulent sky. “We’d best return to the mansion ourselves.”
Even as he spoke the heavens opened with a torrent of frigid rain. A raging gust of wind pummeled them, and Vangie caught her breath at its intensity. Icy pellets buffeted her, making it difficult to see. He gripped her hand, and they turned for the manor house, only to pull up short.
Sir Doyle and the Dowager Viscountess Warrick blocked the bridge. Each wielded a pistol.
The storm had allowed the pair to sneak up on her and Ian unawares. She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you.”
Shouldn’t Beau and Bryce have returned by now? Likely they’d assumed she’d already returned to the manor because of the weather.
She peered past the dowager and magistrate to the trail that ended at the stable. A subtle movement caught her eye. Did someone lurk in the woods? She squinted against the driving rain. No, it was only the wind twisting the trees’ shadows.
“You’ve made it so very easy. Out here, away from the manor and your henchmen otherwise engaged.” A warped smile contorted the dowager’s mouth. “You must be commended, on your dutiful staff, Ian. Why, those two nincompoops arrived at the stables less than ten minutes after your wife gave them the note I sent.”
He speared Vangie a rueful glance, a crooked grimace twisting his mouth. “I should’ve known. Gerard cannot write.”
“How could I have been so gullible?” Vangie fumed.
“This storm is most providential.” The dowager waved her pistol toward Ian. “Alas a tragic accident might occur.” She giggled, an eerie demented cackle. “It’s not quite fair, I suppose, as only we have weapons.”
That was what she thought. Vangie slipped her hand from Ian’s. “Miri tshurii,” she whispered through stiff lips, sliding her hand to her thigh.
Had he heard her? Did he understand?
Ian turned his s
opping head, his acute gaze tangling with hers. “Scran pushka tshurri,” he murmured.
Thank God above, he understood.
Sir Doyle stepped onto the bridge. It swayed and groaned, protesting beneath his weight. “Speak English, not that filthy gypsy gibberish.”
“He was but reassuring me,” Vangie said, inching forward a mite, forcing herself to meet the magistrate’s lecherous gaze. The picnic basket concealed a knife and a gun Ian had said, but the basket sat between them and Doyle and the dowager.
Rivulets of water streamed into her eyes, and she wiped them away with her soggy shawl.
Ian stepped forward, half in front of her, shielding her from their pistols. “I’ve already alerted the authorities that you’ve tried to kill me, Lucinda. If anything happens to me or Vangie, you’ll hang.”
Her heart lodged in her throat, she spun to face him. Fear, outrage, and disbelief sluiced through her in rapid succession. “She tried to kill you?”
His gaze never straying from the dowager or the magistrate, he gave a brief nod. “More than once.” He looked pointedly at his stepmother before his focus dipped to her weapon. “You won’t get away with it.”
“Shan’t I?” Her crazed laugh echoed above the howling wind. “Fool. I already have.” She crowed again then licked her lips. Insanity glimmered in her wild, unfocused eyes.
“Sir Doyle, why are you doing this?” Vangie gestured at the dowager. “You’ll hang right alongside her.”
He wiped his bulbous nose on his sleeve, and his bulgy-eyed gaze darted to the woman beside him. Did his lips curl the merest bit? “With both of you out of the way, Charlotte inherits everything. She’s a minor, so naturally, her mother will control her estate.” He puffed out his flabby chest. “I shall receive half of everything. I’ll be a rich man.”
“But Charlotte is married.” Vangie pulled her eyebrows together. Her husband controlled her monies now.
“Not for long.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “She’s about to become a widow.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 28