The time had come to deal with his stepmother.
Chapter 31
Vangie looked to the sun again. Perhaps two minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked. Stop looking. It was late afternoon. Ian hadn’t returned last evening like he’d promised. Sighing in resignation, she lowered her gaze in disappointment. Dash it all. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. Liar taunted her heart.
She’d believed him to be a man of his word before they married. She didn’t know what to make of him now. The hoof beats of an approaching horse echoed in the distance. She was afraid to look. Afraid it wasn’t him. Afraid it was.
From beneath her lashes she dared a peek. There he sat, straight and tall and handsome, and looking straight at her. He slowed Pericles from a gallop to a cantor when he reached the periphery of the Romani camp.
Relief swept over her—only because she’d been concerned for his welfare of course. Vangie firmly set her other emotions aside. She remained beside Puri Daj and the young girl, Lala, Pur Daj was treating for a campfire burn.
Ian rode Pericles directly across the clearing, then stopped before her. Something delicious skimmed across her senses before she returned her attention to the child. She handed Puri Daj a soft linen cloth to wrap Lala’s calf in.
Ian had returned.
She truly hadn’t thought he would. Surely the fluttering in her middle wasn’t gladness?
After what he’d done?
She wasn’t completely addle-witted. No, she’d not eaten anything since morning. She was hungry—that was all.
She watched him from the corner of her eye. Holding the reins in his left hand, he grasped the horse’s mane. He swung his right leg over the stallion’s hindquarters, and giving a powerful shove, dropped to the ground.
With a smart bow, Ian honored Puri Daj by greeting her first. “Droboy tume Romale.”
A pleased look flashed across her face. She inclined her head in welcome. “Thank you, Ian. You learn our language. This is good.”
She smiled her approval.
He was learning Romanese? Vangie squelched the happiness attempting to bubble to the surface. Balderdash and rubbish. It meant nothing. If he thought he could wheedle his way into her affections by learning a bit of Romanese—
Drat, now he was smiling at Lala.
Ian bowed to the child. “Droboy tume tinka.”
Lala giggled and buried her face in Puri Daj’s skirt. Vangie dipped her head and hid a smile. He could charm a stick into throwing itself into a fire, then have it thanking him for the honor.
“Vangie—” His deep voice interrupted her musings. “I’m sorry I didn’t return last evening.”
Ian rubbed Pericles’s forehead before patting his sweaty neck. “I was delayed.”
Vangie placed the stopper on the jar of pungent ointment, then wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s of no importance.”
She searched his face. Lines of fatigue marred his brow and crinkled the corners of his eyes. Faith, had he slept at all? Unease washed over her. Something was wrong. Picking up the ointment, she tucked the jar into the medicine basket.
“Come tinka,” Puri Daj said, taking Lala by the hand. “Let’s see if your mother has finished the pirogo. Mayhap she’ll give us a taste while it’s yet warm. It’s my favorite dessert.”
“Mine too,” piped the child as she limped away.
Vangie watched them go. Faith and bother. She couldn’t even think of an excuse for asking Pur Daj to stay. The silence after her departure hung heavy and awkward with constrained emotion. Ian’s gaze kept wandering: first to Yoska’s vardo, then the river and corral, and finally to the hillside behind the camp.
“All is well here?” He scanned the clearing again before he settled his gaze on her once more. Something indecipherable glimmered in his eyes before he masked it. “You are well?”
“Yes.” Vangie cocked her head.
Ian seemed reserved and preoccupied. Did he regret his promise to return? His gaze roved around once more.
“A letter arrived for you.” He withdrew the slightly crumpled paper from inside his coat pocket. “It’s from your cousin.”
Vangie took the letter. “Thank you.”
“Forgive me, Vangie, but I must speak with Yoska and Tobar.” He bowed, then leading Pericles, he went in search of the men.
She stared after him, perplexed. Untying her simple apron, she tossed it across the makeshift table. She didn’t know what to make of his peculiar greeting. He’d seemed happy to see her, almost anxious to talk to her. Then he’d retreated into his shell of indifference. She’d not seen him like that since the night she stabbed the highwayman.
Well, there had been those few moments in Somersfield’s drawing room too.
Why had he returned if he only meant to keep her at a distance?
Did she really want to know?
No. Yes. No. Oh, bother and blast. She’d never been so double-minded in her life.
She turned the letter over. Yvette’s dainty writing slanted across the front. Finding a quiet spot behind Puri Daj’s wagon, comfortably settled on a blanket, Vangie broke open the letter’s wax seal. She quickly scanned the contents.
Papa is expanding his shipping enterprises once
more. He is moving us to Boston, Massachusetts for
two years. Dearest cousin, how can I bear being
away from you so long? We are to leave in September.
Papa has said I may come for an extended visit next
month. . .
Yvette was leaving England? Two years? Vangie fought back tears. She should be overjoyed at the prospect of a visit. But despair better suited her mood. She worried her lower lip while twisting a strand of hair. What was she to do? She wasn’t ready to explain her altered marital status with anyone yet, most especially her family.
She could already envision the secretive pitying looks. It simply wouldn’t do to have Yvette to visit if Vangie weren’t in residence at Somersfield. But how could she tell Yvette she couldn’t come? And Vangie did want to see her before she sailed.
“Latchi divvus, Zora.”
Vangie hadn’t heard Besnik approach. Smiling a welcome, she patted the blanket. “Good day to you too. Come, sit with me, dear friend.”
Besnik’s dark gaze searched her face. “You are well, nukkidai?
“Aue.”
“Will you remain with us now?”
Something in Besnik’s tone caused Vangie to twist and peer at him intently. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
Angling back onto his elbows, one knee crooked, he smiled, revealing strong, white teeth. He truly was a handsome man, and if her heart weren’t already engaged, she might have come to love him.
“You kam him?”
Vangie tilted her head. “Aue, I love him.”
His gaze roved her face. “I would still gladly make you my rommadi.”
Yes, if only she hadn’t met Ian, hadn’t danced with him at that wretched ball. She’d have been blissfully happy as Besnik’s wife. But now. . .? It wouldn’t be fair to Besnik when her heart, though mangled, belonged to another.
Laying her hand on his muscled arm, Vangie offered a nascent smile. “Thank you, but no. My heart is full of him. You deserve someone who will love you with her whole heart.”
Besnik accepted her rejection, with a slight inclination of his raven head. “I thought as much, but I wanted to be sure.”
He looked around. “Where is your jakkel?”
“Ailsa is playing with Lancelot.”
His gaze followed the fair-haired lass as she darted through the encampment with her usual entourage of children. As if sensing his perusal, she looked up, then smiled and waved cheerily before continuing on her way.
“She’d make a good wife.”
“It is easier to milk a cow that stands still. With that one, I’d have not a moment’s peace.”
Vangie grinned, 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 was far more revealing than the words of denial he spoke.
Besnik stood, then helped Vangie to her feet. “There will be dancing tonight. Will you join us?”
She shook her head. “No . . . I’m sorry.”
“In time, nukkidai.” After squeezing her shoulder, he turned to go.
“Thank you, Besnik.”
He stopped and smiled at her. Shrugging his wide shoulders he said, “Ma-sha-llah. As God wills.”
Vangie’s 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, watching 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 Vangie’s attention. Numerous riders grew closer. It wasn’t unusual for the Roma to have visitors. Truth be told, it was common, even expected
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, then tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.
Where was Ian? She must find him at once. Every instinct in her 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 gaze. A scowl drew his dark brows together, his eyes troubled.
Tobar approached, his gaze fixed on the horsemen. “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 Vangie and Tobar reached the center of camp, most of the other Roma were assembled. Their unease was apparent in their quiet murmurs and the anxious gazes they darted, over and over again to the approaching horsemen. Even Yoska looked concerned, his perpetual smile gone, 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. Besnik’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 indication of his anger.
How dare he!
Vangie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from objecting. She sliced a glance toward Ian. The muscles in his jaw rippled. She swung her gaze 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. The Romani women melted into the shadows along with their children.
“I’ve received several complaints you gypsies been stealing poultry, livestock, and other goods,” the man sneered.
“That seems unlikely, Sir Doyle,” Ian countered.
Vangie looked 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. I’ve purchased some fine horseflesh from them myself.”
Sir Doyle belched and spit again. “A fortnight?”
His baleful glare flicked round the glen. “Why would you stay with the likes of them for that long?”
He bent forward and licked his lips. “Is it true? The wenches spread their legs for a groat?”
He narrowed his eyes before sitting up 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 waggled with the movement.
Rage whipped through Vangie at his vulgar insinuation. Revolting cur. She leveled him with a scathing glare. An offended growl rumbled through the Roma. Besnik raised his hand, and the furor abated.
“Guard your tongue, Doyle.” Ian spoke softly, but the threat in his voice permeated the air.
With a condescending smirk, Sir Doyle dared, “Say, didn’t you make an honest woman of a gypsy wench?”
Vangie went rigid. Indignation coiled her muscles into tight knots of tension. Oh, how she longed to skewer the hoggish lout. She brushed her fingers over her thigh. Blister and damn. 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. His cronies cackled their approval. He slapped his thigh and swung his gaze over the crowd. His gaze riveted on her. A lascivious gleam entered his watery eyes, and a lewd sneer curled his lips.
She glared at him, repulsed.
“I might even consent to spend a few days with these vermin if I’d that to sink my wick into.” He nodded in Vangie’s direction, then licked his fat lips once more.
The gasps and murmurs of outrage ceased abruptly when Vangie stepped forward. 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 first.”
She made no attempt to hide her satisfied smile when red streaked across Sir Doyle’s flabby face.
He kneed his horse forward, advancing on her until he was only inches away. “Why you little—”
He raised his foot.
He wouldn’t dare kick her.
Vangie stumbled backward, bumping into Ian. The clicking of a pistol hammer reverberated in the clearing.
Ian leveled his gun at Sir Doyle. “Vangie, get behind me.”
She didn’t argue but slipped just behind Ian’s 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.”
A thrill vibrated through her. Ian was defending her people. She took a step to the side, watching 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 Vangie. Malice contorted his features. She stepped nearer to Ian again.
“You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you, Lord 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 barrel at the ground. “Let’s call it a warning. One you’d best heed.”
He released the gun’s hammer. As he tucked the pistol into the waist of his pantaloons, he shot a glance to Gerard. “Pray tell me, w
hy are you in their company?”
With a wave of his hand, Ian indicated Sir Doyle and his entourage.
Gerard dismounted, then 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, then looked to Ian.
“Well, my lord, we was nearly here to fetch the horseflesh like ye bid, when they,” he angled his head in the direction of Sir Doyle and his henchmen, “come on us. 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. He blushed and averted his gaze.
Nodding, Ian said, “Excellent, Gerard.”
He turned his steely eyes on Sir Doyle. “Who, exactly, has grumbled about the Roma?”
The magistrate snorted, and his jowls jiggled. “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 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 War Office, the peerage, and the crown are favored?”
Ian straightened and met the magistrate’s infuriated glare square on. “I won’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.”
Well done, Ian.
Vangie wanted to applaud.
His face 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.”
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