A Breath of Scandal

by Connie Mason

  “Ill, ye say. Are ye sure he’s yer husband?”

  “Aye, the man inside is my husband.”

  A whisper of warning reached Lara’s ears, but it was too late now to back down.

  Crockett opened the door and ducked inside the wagon. “Mayhap I’ll have a look.”

  Lara glanced toward the motionless form on the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. The gadjo’s face was partially obscured by the blanket. But her relief was short-lived when she realized that Crockett would know the moment he saw the gadjo’s white skin that he was no Gypsy. She sent a silent plea to Ramona.

  “Ye say the man is yer husband?” Crockett asked again.

  “Aye, Drago, my husband,” Lara repeated for the third time.

  Ramona moved up beside her to lend support and Lara grasped her hand.

  “Awaken him,” Crockett ordered.

  “He’s too ill. I don’t know if he’ll awaken.”

  Crockett pointed his pistol at the still figure beneath the blanket.

  “Don’t shoot!” Lara cried, rushing to the bed. “I’ll awaken him.”

  Crockett advanced a step toward the bed. Ramona placed a restraining hand on his arm. “No! Drago has smallpox. Approach him at your own risk.”

  Color leeched from Crockett’s face. “Smallpox? Why should I believe ye?”

  “Go look for yourself.”

  Crockett hesitated, his fear palpable. He stepped back and glared at Lara.

  “Awaken him, wench. I wish to question him.”

  Lara clamped down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling as she gently shook the gadjo. When he failed to respond, she shook harder. He moaned and opened his eyes.

  Julian gazed up into a pair of mesmerizing dark eyes. He had no idea where he was, or why he hurt so badly. He only knew that he must be in heaven. The face that went with the eyes was that of an angel. An angel like no other, one with fiery depths and spirit. A wanton angel with curly black hair and snapping black eyes. He liked that.

  “Drago, can you hear me?”

  Her voice held a smoky quality that pulled him from the depths of his misery.

  “Drago. Answer me. ’Tis Lara.”

  Drago? Who in the hell was Drago? He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to play along with the woman. Did she say her name was Lara?

  “Aye,” he said groggily. Was that his voice? He hardly recognized it.

  “Must I continue?” he heard Lara ask someone who must have been standing nearby.

  “He’s awake. I’ll ask the questions now.”

  “Drago!” Crockett called out. “Can ye hear me?”

  “Aye.”

  “The wench here says yer her husband. Is that true?”

  Julian would have laughed aloud had he the strength. Husband, that was rich. Since he never intended to marry, he could be no woman’s husband. But Lara was looking at him so intently, he felt compelled to please her.

  “Aye, I am Lara’s husband.”

  His words were slurred but understandable, carrying beyond the open door to those standing outside. A collective gasp rose up from the crowd and didn’t subside until Ramona’s stern look hushed them.

  “Do ye have smallpox, Drago?” Crockett probed relentlessly.

  Smallpox. It was a possibility. He certainly felt sick enough to have smallpox. He was clinging to consciousness by a slim thread and would agree to almost anything at this point. Besides, for all he knew he did have smallpox.

  “Aye.”

  That one word was enough to clear the small wagon of Crockett’s threatening presence. He joined his men in their flight to escape the dreaded illness.

  “You know what you’ve done, don’t you, Lara?” Ramona asked gently.

  “Aye, Grandmother, I know. It couldn’t be helped. ’Twas the only way to save him. Thank you for not interfering.”

  “ ’Tis not an easy course you’ve set for yourself, little one. Fate has taken a hand in your future, and there is little you can do now to stop it. You are married to a stranger you know nothing about. You proclaimed him your husband three times before witnesses and the gadjo acknowledged it as the truth. You know the ways of our people. You are now wed to the gadjo. May God protect you.”

  Aye, may God protect me, Lara thought as she gazed at the man she knew only as Drago.

  Chapter 3

  Julian awakened to pain, and the thrilling realization that he was alive. Though he had no idea where he was, he did know that the bed upon which he lay was not his own. His first thought was that he was back aboard the smuggler’s ship, but the clean, sweet-smelling sheets soon disabused him of that notion.

  Julian tried to jog his memory but failed. He moved, which proved a huge mistake. A searing flame radiated from his shoulder and traveled down his back, touching every part of his body. The pain was so severe it almost made him wish he was dead. He tried to swallow but his mouth was as dry as a desert. He craved water. Had he said the word aloud? He must have, for immediately someone held a cup of cool water to his lips. He drank thirstily. When he’d drunk his fill, he tried to focus his eyes on his angel of mercy.

  His sight cleared slowly, revealing an alluring vision that he vaguely remembered from his dreams. He tried to reach up and touch the angel’s face, but he lacked the strength to do so, and his hand fell back uselessly to the bed.

  “Are you real?” he rasped.

  Her husky laugh was mesmerizing. But it was her throaty voice that sent waves of awareness through him. “I’m real. Welcome to the world of the living. For a while we feared you wouldn’t join us.”

  “We? Where am I?”

  “In a Romany camp. I am Lara, and this is my wagon.”

  Julian frowned, trying to recall something of importance that he had forgotten. The woman’s name sounded vaguely familiar. “How long have I been here? What is wrong with me?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “Not everything. Refresh my memory.”

  “I found you on the beach and brought you to our camp. You have been with us for several days. Grandmother removed the bullet from your back, and the second wound in your shoulder was badly infected. You lingered between life and death and would have died if not for my grandmother’s skill.”

  Julian’s memory was still hazy. “Bullets?”

  “Aye. You were shot twice. Once in the shoulder and again in the back. Do you remember who shot you?”

  The mist clouding his mind lifted and Julian recalled precisely why he had been shot and who had done it. But he wasn’t about to tell this strange Gypsy girl anything, including his name. The last thing he wanted was to bring trouble to the people who had saved his life.

  “I can’t disclose the answers you are seeking,” Julian demurred weakly. “ ’Tis best you don’t know. I do not wish to bring harm to your people.”

  Lara mulled over his words. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Call me whatever you wish.”

  “While you are here with us, we will call you Drago.”

  Julian’s brow puckered. Where had he heard that name before? He dimly recalled … No, the memory was gone.

  “They came for you, you know.”

  “Who came for me?”

  “The men who want you dead.”

  Julian tensed. “What happened?”

  “Ramona told them you had smallpox. I claimed you were Drago, one of our people.”

  Julian closed his eyes, pondering everything Lara had told him. He recalled jumping into the firth from the smuggler’s ship, and bullets hitting the water all around him. He remembered precious little after a bullet had found a home in his back. He had no idea how he had reached shore alive.

  “I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble. I’ll leave as soon as I’m able.”

  “Don’t think about leaving until you are well. You’ll be safe here with us. Will you tell me nothing about yourself?”

  “The less you and your people know about me, the better off you’ll be,” Julian replied,
trying to move and wincing at the effort.

  “You’re in pain,” Lara said. “I’ll fetch Grandmother, she’ll know what to do.”

  Julian watched her walk away, not too incapacitated to admire the sway of her curvaceous hips beneath her multicolored skirt, or to note the golden perfection of her shoulders, which were tantalizingly bare above the low cut peasant blouse. He sighed. The Gypsy wench was quite an eyeful. He wondered what lucky man claimed her favors.

  Pain had taken over Julian’s body by the time Lara returned with her grandmother, whom she hastily introduced as Ramona. Ramona took one look at his face and produced a bottle from the pocket of her voluminous skirts. She poured a small measure in a glass and held it to his lips. Julian balked.

  “Drink, Drago,” Ramona urged. “ ’Tis naught but laudanum. Twill ease the pain and make you sleep. Lara will watch over you.”

  Ramona’s last sentence convinced Julian to drink down the bitter brew. He rather liked the idea of Lara watching over him.

  “Lara said you saved my life, Ramona. Thank you.”

  “We will speak of this later,” Ramona said, rising. “I will prepare broth for you and send it over with Rondo. Lara can feed it to you. Try to take as much as you can. Your body needs liquids.”

  The moment she was gone, Julian slid easily into sleep. When he awakened, Lara was still there. She smiled at him. Then a young Gypsy man arrived with the broth Ramona had prepared.

  Rondo handed Lara the bowl and spoon. “This is Rondo.”

  Julian was quick to note the man’s handsome features, and he wondered if Rondo was Lara’s husband … or lover.

  Rondo watched as Lara spooned hot liquid into Julian’s mouth.

  “Has he told you his name?” Rondo asked.

  “His name is Drago,” Lara replied.

  Rondo’s words were ripe with bitterness. “You mean you don’t even know the name of the man you married? Whatever possessed you, Lara? You should have let the gadje have him.”

  Julian listened to the conversation but could make no sense out of it. Who had married Lara? Surely they weren’t referring to him, were they? Had he been able, he would have laughed at the notion.

  “No more,” Julian gasped, pushing the spoon away. His stomach had taken all the broth it could hold.

  Sleep was closing in fast when he heard Rondo say, “Does the gadjo know he is your husband?”

  “He has enough to contend with right now. Besides, you know as well as I that the marriage was a traditional Romany joining. It will mean nothing to him.”

  “But it means something to us,” Rondo persisted. “You have declared yourself before our people. You are a married woman now.”

  Lara gave her head an angry shake. “I saved a man’s life, didn’t I? Come Rondo, Drago needs to rest.”

  Julian felt the lingering effects of laudanum weight his mind, but he had heard every word of the exchange between Lara and Rondo. His ears had to be playing tricks on him. What he’d just heard couldn’t be true. Questions still lingered in his mind as he drifted off to sleep, visions of golden skin and swaying hips dancing in his head.

  Three days later Julian awoke with his wits intact. With Lara’s help he was able to sit up in bed and accept small amounts of solid food. He was far from well, but at least his mind appeared to be functioning again.

  Lara had just entered the wagon with his dinner. He gave her a welcoming smile. “Have I properly thanked you and your people for saving my life?”

  “ ’Tis not necessary. Open your mouth.”

  “I won’t trouble you any longer than I have to,” Julian said, opening his mouth to take a spoonful of stew.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Lara scolded. “You’re safe here for now, though I suspect those men won’t give up on you. They appeared to want you dead … badly.”

  His expression turned grim. “Aye, they do. If your people have no objection, I would like to remain until I’ve recovered my strength.”

  Lara’s relief was palpable. “Ramona suggested that we darken your skin with walnut oil so you won’t stand out among us.”

  “I’d like to try out my legs,” Julian said, “but I seem to have … er … lost my clothing.” A dark eyebrow quirked upward. “Did you undress me?”

  A slow flush crept up Lara’s neck. “Ramona and Rondo stripped you and burned your clothes. I’ll find something for you to wear, something more in keeping with your new identity.”

  He fingered his beard. It itched. “I’d appreciate a razor, if one is available.”

  Lara nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  He touched her cheek. “You’re very good to me, Lara. Isn’t your husband jealous of the time you spend with me? Is Rondo your husband?”

  Mutely, Lara stared at him. Julian understood the reticence behind her hesitation. Obviously Rondo was her lover, not her husband. ’Twas common knowledge that Gypsy wenches shared their favors indiscriminately.

  “I’ll go fetch something for you to wear,” Lara said as she turned and fled out the door.

  Julian waited until she was gone, then slid his legs over the side of the bed. A jolt of pain shot through him, but it was bearable. Cautiously he stood, swayed, then steadied himself against the bed. He took a step. And another, until he’d walked the length of the wagon. Satisfied with his progress, he retraced his steps to the bed, sat down, and pulled a blanket over his loins, waiting for Lara to return.

  While Lara was gone, Julian studied the inside of the wagon with interest. Built on a long wagon bed, it had wooden sides and a wooden roof just high enough for him to stand. Snug and compact, the space was crammed with colorful cushions, benches, and baskets. An unlit brazier stood in one corner, and the low ceiling was draped with swaths of cloth, giving the interior a cozy, intimate appeal. A single window admitted a small patch of light.

  Lara interrupted his visual inspection when she arrived with an interesting assortment of men’s garments over her arm. “Some of these belong to Rondo and some are my grandfather’s,” she explained. “You haven’t met Pietro yet, but you will. He’s bringing shaving gear for your use.”

  Julian sorted through the clothing and chose a pair of baggy twill trousers, loose white shirt, and red vest that matched the waist sash.

  “Do you need help?” Lara asked.

  “I think I can manage on my own.”

  He stood. The blanket slid away from his loins but he thought nothing of it. Gypsy women weren’t noted for their shyness. ’Twas a well-known fact that they were more knowledgeable in the ways of men and women than English ladies of good birth, and were no strangers to men’s bodies.

  Lara tried to look away but couldn’t. She’d seen Drago’s body before, but he’d been ill and unable to do for himself. He looked different now. Trying to keep her eyes above his waist, she concentrated on his face. His hair was thick and black. His eyebrows were steeply arched and oddly elegant. His thickly lashed eyes were the color of a midnight sky. Her gaze settled on his unshaven cheeks and chin, and she wondered how he would look without the beard.

  Her gaze strayed downward, over his broad shoulders and wide chest. A mat of dark hair sprouted around his flat nipples and continued in a diminishing line down his corded stomach to his … She sucked in a startled breath. She’d seen his manhood when she’d taken care of his needs, but suddenly it had taken on a life of its own. It wasn’t exactly aroused, just … alive.

  Her gaze flew upward, to those incredible dark eyes, grateful that Drago seemed unaware of her flustered scrutiny and flaming cheeks.

  “Were my boots salvageable?” Julian asked as he pulled on his trousers. “I know they’re not much, but they fit reasonably well.”

  She fetched his footwear. “I cleaned and dried them. They still look serviceable.”

  When she turned around, she was relieved to see that Drago had pulled on a shirt and was winding a sash around his slim waist. She set his boots down and helped him don the vest.

  “Now you look l
ike a Rom. After we darken your skin, no one will suspect you’re not one of us.”

  A knock sounded on the door and Pietro entered.

  “This is Pietro, my grandfather,” Lara said. Pride was apparent in her voice and in the way she looked at the older man. “Grandfather, you haven’t been formally introduced to Drago.”

  Pietro stepped forward. His piercing gaze searched Julian’s face a long moment. “You are a lucky man, Drago. If Lara hadn’t found you, you would have surely perished.”

  “I am eternally in her debt,” Julian vowed.

  “You should be. I am not enthusiastic about Lara’s choice, but if a gadjo pleases her, who am I to judge? Lara said you wish to shave off your beard.” He didn’t wait for Julian’s reply. “Sit down, I will do it for you.” He spread out the shaving gear he had brought with him.

  Lara placed a cloth around Julian’s shoulders. She could tell by Drago’s confused expression that he didn’t know what to make of Pietro’s words.

  “Go help Ramona prepare the walnut stain, little one,” Pietro said dismissively.

  Lara cast an anxious glance at her grandfather, and another at Julian, before taking her leave. She knew Pietro wished to speak privately with Drago and had a good idea what he was going to say, and it worried her. What would Drago do when he learned he had married a Gypsy?

  Julian sat stiffly while Pietro shaved off his beard. He knew the old man had something to say and waited with diminishing patience for him to begin. Would Pietro ask him to leave? Julian couldn’t blame him if he did. Pietro knew nothing about him. Lara had found him under mysterious circumstances, and Pietro’s keen senses surely had warned him that allowing Julian to remain with the Rom could prove dangerous to his people.

  Julian’s nerves were at a breaking point when Pietro finally said, “I was not happy with my granddaughter’s choice, but she made her decision and I will honor it.”

  Julian had no idea to what Pietro was referring, unless he meant that Lara should have left him lying on the shore to die.

  “Ramona said ’tis God’s will,” Pietro continued. “I am less certain. If Lara was meant to have a gadjo husband, why couldn’t she choose someone worthy of her? We know nothing about you, except that someone wants you dead. Are you involved in something that will bring dishonor to my granddaughter?”