“Sweeting, are you awake?”
Vangie stiffened. What was he doing here? She whispered, “Leave me alone.”
“Your grandmother told me about the 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 from him.
Her voice ringing with scathing condemnation, she 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?”
Vangie heard him suck in a great gulp of air.
“She was lying, Vangie.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs demanding release.
Was she? Or was Lucinda telling the truth, and Ian the liar?
When she didn’t respond he pressed, “Lucinda knew you were behind me. Her lies were contrived 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 covering her 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?”
“Vangie. . .”
“Perhaps downfall isn’t accurate. Putting me in my place? Giving me my just due? Ruining me?”
He said nothing. Had guilt rendered him speechless? She searched his face. His handsome features were etched with sorrow, and his eyes . . . was that regret? Or . . . could it be? Were those tears awash in the silvery depths?
Her heart twisted painfully. Blast and damn. No. She’d not feel compassion for him. She was the victim. She would offer him no quarter, no mercy.
“Well, did you?”
“That was before I. . .”
Pain, razor-sharp pierced her heart and left it bleeding. “It’s a simple question, Ian. Yes or no?”
“It’s not that simple—”
With a doggedness that surprised even her, Vangie persisted. “Yes or no?”
“Sweeting, I’d been told. . .”
Told? Fury whipped anew. She bit out, “Yes. Or. No?”
Absolute, resolute, demanding truth’s validation, either to mend her shattered heart or annihilate it completely, Vangie would have her answer. 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 voice choked with tears, “Go away.”
Her shoulders shook with the sobs she couldn’t suppress, couldn’t hide from him. She needed to find some meager degree of release for the pain destroying her soul.
“Vangie—” He touched her head.
Flinging his hand away, she sat up. A torrent of scalding tears flowed from her eyes. She knew her face mirrored the abject misery in her heart. She swiped at them angrily, then pointed to the door.
“Leave, you despicable bostaris. I’ve already divorced you,” she shouted, not caring the Romani camp could hear her every word.
Where was her dagger? She groped beneath the pillow until her fingers closed on the familiar engraved hilt.
Ian’s face paled. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“I’m not addled, just gullible.”
She revealed her dagger. “Now get out!”
The door was flung open, banging against the side of the vardo. Ian twisted on the stool to see who’d entered. Simone, hovered in the entrance, worry stamped across her face. He stood, shoving the stool beneath the bed once more. It scraped loudly in the tiny structure.
Scooting by him, Simone gathered Vangie in her arms. “Hush, bad inderi, my dear child.”
Tilting her head, indicating the gaping door, Simone silently ordered Ian to leave.
With one last glance at Vangie, he turned and took the two short steps to the open door. Bending to step through the narrow entrance, he faltered before descending the wagon’s 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, swung her gaze from Ian, to the closed door, and back to him. “Lord Warrick?”
He met her troubled eyes.
Flicking a glance to the door again, she had the audacity to blurt, “How could she divorce you?”
Ian felt a flush steal its way to his neck, then his face.
Holly hell.
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. 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?”
The gypsy’s deep voice echoed around the clearing.
Ian clenched his jaw so tight, a muscle started to throb.
Besnik 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.”
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.
“Caution, didkai, my gypsy friend,” Yoska said to Ian, then edged near him, advising softly, “Besnik is our, kallis, our king. To fail to show him proper respect would be most unwise.”
King? Dammit to hell. Could things get any more preposterous? Ian had no choice but to heed Yoska’s thinly 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 a brow 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?”
Besnik glowered at her. “Don’t you ever control your tongue?”
“Oh, tosh. 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 Ian—no, when she returned—a new lady’s maid would promptly be assigned. One who knew her station, with a mild temperament, and the ability to control her tongue.
Anger or perhaps it was astonishment whisked across Besnik’s face. Ian couldn’t be sure which.
“Be careful, manishni,” Besnik warned softly.
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.
Besnik shook his head. His dark eyes met Ian’s. “Gawji woman. That one needs a man’s firm hand on her bool.”
Ian refused to agree with the man, though he’d been harboring similar thoughts. Blister it, for all he knew, Besnik was baiting him, to se
e if he was the type of man who’d hit a woman. Ian’s gaze rested on the gypsy, then roamed 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 Ian a congenial smile. Did the man never stop smiling? His perpetual cheerfulness was irksome. He reminded Ian of his friend, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. Always smiling. Made you want to plant him a facer just to wipe the perpetual grin off his face. Ian didn’t dare draw Yoska’s cork, however.
“I would be honored if you’d consent to share my table and selta for the duration of your visit, my lord,” said Yoska.
Selta? What-the-hell was that? Ian didn’t recall ever feeling so out of step.
Eldra made no effort to conceal her delight. Looping her arm through his, she pressed her ripe breasts against him, while dragging him to her father’s campsite. Ian barely repressed a derisive snort. The woman he wanted, wanted nothing to do with him, and the one he wanted nothing to do with, quite obviously wanted him.
Was it his imagination or was she deliberately rubbing his arm against her bosom? He tugged his arm, but she tightened her grip and smiled seductively.
No, he wasn’t imagining it.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 29
Unable to sleep, Vangie rose and swiftly donned her Romani garments. She wanted no part of the English today, not even in her dress. Her shawl lay neatly folded on a shelf above Puri Daj’s bed. Grasping it, her gaze fell on her grandmother. She slept on, bundled securely in her narrow bunk. Poor Puri Daj, even in sleep, lines of worry creased her face.
Stealthy, holding her boots, Vangie crept from the wagon. Physically, she felt no different than she had upon wakening yesterday morning. Emotionally, she was forever altered.
The brisk early morning air sent stiff gooseflesh chasing the length of her arms. Shivering, she perched atop the narrow steps, then tugged on her boots. No one was about yet except the birds and a sleepy dog that raised his head when she stepped from the vardo. Wrapping the embroidered woolen shawl tighter across her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace for the river.
It wasn’t right. She’d experienced more discomfort and bleeding the morning after losing her maidenhead than she did after losing her child. No, it wasn’t right. There was nothing the least bit right about any of it.
Nothing would ever be right again.
At the river’s edge, Vangie stood gazing at the glorious sunrise. A bevy of jays, magpies, and other hungry birds scolded her for interrupting their breakfasts. Her riotous thoughts churned.
What was she to do now? Ian had used her. He cared nothing for her. How could she not have known she was with child? The dowager was despicable. So was Ian. She didn’t want to love him. Poor, sweet babe.
She closed her eyes, trying to stop the chattering in her mind. On and on prattled the inner voices until she wanted to cover her ears against the silent onslaught and shriek at them to stop tormenting her.
At a particularly loud squawk from a raven overhead, her eyes flew open. She frowned at the display on the horizon. How could God allow the splendid pink, lavender, and coral streaks to splay across dawn’s newborn sky? The day should be dark and grim, with gloomy shadows and dismal gray clouds to reflect her crushed spirit. Not this jubilant, hopeful new day.
The joy of her love for Ian had vanished. Vangie was certain she’d carry her sorrow for the rest of her life. The remnants of her shattered heart she buried under the guise of self-preservation. She’d sent him away last night, and despite his unconscionable betrayal, her soul ached at his going. She loved the knave even now, God help her.
Vangie place a hand on her flat stomach. The loss of the babe only magnified Ian’s treachery. She hadn’t known she cradled a child in her womb, but oh, how she wanted it.
Was it a boy or a girl?
Stop it! Such thoughts serve no purpose.
Vangie didn’t have any aspirations about acquiring a title or wealth, or advocating for a cause—other than her Roma kin. Her heart’s desire, for as long as she could remember, was to have a child. She needed someone to love unconditionally and who would love her in return.
She wandered to a log, her boots crunching on the riverbank gravel. Sitting, she watched the river. A trout jumped, snatching a hovering insect.
What would it have been like to hold her baby? Her heart was full of love, waiting to be poured out to another. Except for the infrequent visits with Uncle Gideon and Puri Daj, her life had been void of love and compassion since she was six. She hadn’t felt sorry for herself. There’d always been the hope she’d have a child to love. Until now.
She’d even convinced herself Ian felt something for her. He’d been so tender—
Vangie kicked a rock. Fool. Ninny. Goosecap.
Exhaling slowly, she spoke aloud. It helped sort her thoughts. “Without Ian’s love, could I have been content?”
She toed another round rock. “Especially surrounded by our children?”
Bending over, she selected a smooth, flat greenish stone. “I would have loved him and always hoped he might come to love me.”
She sent the stone skimming across the burbling water, then stood and stretched. Would that have been enough? Perhaps not for some women, but for her? Yes, it might have been. She turned her lips up. Dash it all, it was her Romani blood. Her people were perpetually optimistic.
But now? Things were different now.
Ian had intentionally sought to cause her misery. Why? Trudging through the trees, she pressed her lips together. The unanswered question taunted her. Vangie shook her head in disgust. She was naive, the intricacies of love far beyond her ken. It was one thing to harbor hopeful, adolescent fantasies about unrequited love. It was another entirely to have the object of her affection black-heartedly contrive her disgrace.
Soft nickering drew her attention. Sweeping a glance at the horses, she was caught off-guard. Blister it. Ian, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, stood inside the makeshift corral speaking with Tobar. Their backs were to her, their attention riveted on a magnificent honey-colored mare prancing at the end of a lead rope.
Ian must have sensed her presence. He swiveled, his haunted eyes roaming over her. His gaze lingered on her face. She felt his visual caress across the distance.
No. She wouldn’t think of him like that anymore.
Tucking her chin to her chest, she continued on her way. The ruffles of her layered skirts swished through the green blades. She lifted the skirt and carefully picked her way up the slippery slope, casting sideways peeks at the corral the entire time. She couldn’t face him. She had to get to the vardo.
She slipped. Dratted, damp grass.
Ian started toward her. He turned his head when Tobar spoke to him, drawing his attention back to the horse. He said something and gestured in her direction, then ducked beneath the rope.
Vangie picked up her pace, slipping again on the dew laden grass. Ian reached her as she crested the ridge. Dash it all. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to cry.
“Vangie, please, wait.”
Keeping her head bowed, she didn’t stop. Lawks, blasted tears again? What was he still doing here? She thought he’d left last night.
Ian gently grasped her elbow, forcing her to halt. “How do you fare?”
He sounded genuinely concerned. She flicked a glance at him, then lowered her gaze. He looked exhausted. She knew she looked a sight herself. No doubt dark circles rimmed her eyes from a sleepless night and the many tears she’d spent at his expense.
“Why are you here? I thought you left last night.” Vangie plucked at the shawl’s fringe, refusing to meet his eyes again.
“I won’t leave you. You’re my wife.”
The breath hissed from between her teeth. She hadn’t expected that. Tobar came up behind him. Pausing briefly, his black eyes questioned her. He answered the gentle shake of her head with a terse nod and strode
past them. She didn’t need him to fight her battles.
“Ian. . .”
“Please, let me explain.” He blew out a breath, running his hand through his russet hair. “I’ve wronged you, terribly, deplorably, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”
Vangie stood gazing at a bunch of bluish-purple lupine waving in the early morning breeze. A carpet of bluebells and cowslip blanketed the slope. Her gaze intent on the flowers, she murmured, pain lacing her every word, “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you?” Ian reached across the distance separating them and touched her face. “Sweeting, I do not hate you. I. . .”
Angling her head away, she broke the contact. She couldn’t think straight when he touched her.
Ian dropped his hand to his side. “I love you.” he whispered hoarsely.
That was the wrong thing to say.
Vangie snapped her head up. Disbelief whipped through her turning her grief to ire. Furious, she glowered at him. “Oh, so that sets everything right? Do you expect me to throw my arms around you? Tell you I forgive you and vow my undying devotion and love?”
She poked him in the chest. “You’re sorely mistaken, Ian Warrick!”
Hands on her hips she railed at him. “If I were a man, I’d call you out. You’re cruel, to jest about something so precious. Something you know naught of, or you’d never have treated me with such calculated contempt and callousness.”
Turning, she ran several steps before wheeling around to face him. Her shawl dangled off one shoulder. “You know nothing of love.”
She tugged the shawl around her back, then across her chest, never stopping her tirade. “Love is patient, kind, considerate . . . It’s what I’ve tried to show you, day after day. . .”
Her voice broke as emotion rendered her nearly incapable of speaking. She pulled in a shaky breath. “Only to have you repeatedly trample my heart underfoot.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle in an effort to ease the crushing pain in her chest.
Ian lifted his hands in supplication. “I do love you. I wanted to tell you, tried to tell you the day we first explored the gardens together.”
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