by Madelyn Hill
His scowl told her he didn’t believe her. “I am responsible for the safety of the clan.”
“Aye,” she said as she nodded. Nerves rattled her as sweat began to moisten her palms.
He tipped up her chin. “Siskkaar.” His tone stiffened and held a warning that he knew she wasn’t being truthful. Ire bunched the muscles along his jaw. If she tempted him further she’d be stuck laundering the clan’s garments as a punishment.
She sighed as she searched for something to say. “’Twas nothing. Just a man refreshing his horse at the stream.”
Rafe grabbed her arms and brought her face close to his. His rough actions contradicted the concern and softness reflected in the lines of his face.
“Next time bring Thomas.” His strained voice unnerved her.
“’Twas only a short distance,” she stammered.
He lessened his grip, but the imprint of fingers stung her arms. “You are too trusting. These people mean us only harm.”
She twisted away and rubbed her arm. “He never saw me,” she lied with a simplicity unlike her. What would it be like talking with an Irishman? Was he friendly? Harsh? She knew she’d forsaken her true heritage when she chose to stay with the Rom, but he was one of her own.
“And what if he did? Would you be able to protect yourself?”
She hesitated and he turned with a grunt of disgust.
No, she wouldn’t be able to protect herself against the handsome man. And although she was betrothed, Martine wasn’t certain she wanted to.
Chapter 2
Declan rode back through his estate, lacking his earlier demons but troubled nonetheless. He squinted at the afternoon sun, and then shielded his eyes. His head still throbbed with a sharp, pounding pain.
As he cleared the dense forest near Riverton, his steward raced toward him.
“M’lord! M’lord!”
Even though the steward rode a most docile horse, he slipped from side to side and his elbows flared out like two flapping wings. Declan hid a chuckle as the lanky Albert Pierce nearly lost his seat in the saddle.
Pulling up beside the anxious man, he waited until Pierce calmed himself.
“Thank the heavens I’ve found ye, m’lord.”
Declan shifted in his saddle. He loathed the title his past afforded, especially since his past represented hell on earth.
“Aye, there’s Gypsies about, blast their tanned hides.” The man flushed, forcing his freckles to brighten like a bad rash.
“I’m aware.” He marveled how swiftly gossip traveled through the village.
“’Tis havoc in the village.” Pierce crossed himself twice. “Talk of forcing them to leave.”
Heaving a patient sigh, Declan thought for a moment. At least a meeting in the village would keep him from the rattling confines of Riverton. And keep Abigail’s father from screeching accusations that lashed at him harder than a prison whip.
While he was responsible for the villagers, he tried to allow them a freedom they’d never experience if Abigail’s father were in charge. At least Declan had retained the right to govern as he saw fit. Not that it stopped Ettenborough from challenging each and every decision. The village nestled in the midst of his land. They worked for the estate, were farmers of grain and livestock, sellers of cloth and, thank the Lord, ale.
Regardless, he was reluctant to become involved in the lives of the villagers. It was as if somewhere deep inside him, Declan didn’t want to become attached to anyone save his wife and his loyal men. If he did, perhaps his situation would change, shift, and he’d be alone once again, like he’d been so many times in his life. Like when his mother died and his father had allowed him to be dragged away to prison.
“M’lord?”
Declan blinked to clear the vision of his past from his mind. His steward quivered in his boots. Declan surmised his scowl was the cause of the dread on Pierce's thin face.
“I’ll speak to the villagers.”
Pierce nodded. “Knew ye would. I told meself, Lord Forrester would rid us of their flea-bitten hides.”
Declan grimaced. “Where are my men?” he asked as he reined his horse toward the small gathering of shops and thatched-roof homes.
“Aye, they’re making their way to the village.”
“Thank you, Pierce.”
Damn. Not that the news surprised him. The woman in the glen had foretold any trouble.
After Declan had placated the villagers and ensured them he’d handle the matter, he pulled on the reins and turned Kindred toward his estate. In no time, they crossed the lone open field between the village and Riverton. The rhythm of hoof beats pounded through his aching head, each movement pushing the sharp edge further as if a knife twisted within his brain. He’d need an elixir. Considering the circumstances, he loathed to be under its influence.
Which was worse, he wondered? The skull-crushing pain, or asking Ettenborough to have his butler prepare the secret concoction?
Martine ensured the caravan was neat and left the comfort of the small traveling home. The air felt heavy with indefinable energy as the wind whistled like a warning through the treetops. She wrapped her arms around her torso to stem the chills pricking the fine hairs of her arms.
She searched the camp filled with happy children and their mothers completing chores. The men either hunted or enjoyed tobacco not far from the grove. The circle of colorful caravans, twelve of them since a storm had toppled two, made for a protective community, almost like the villages they’d passed through. Her grandmother’s stout figure eluded her, however, and Martine felt a wave of rising panic.
A group of young girls just a breath away from womanhood sewed near the fire. She waved and they shouted a greeting, then she continued toward the river that bent its way around the encampment. A sigh of relief escaped her as she walked toward the water.
“Púridaia, you shouldn’t strain yourself.” Martine removed the damp chemise from Anya’s gnarled hands and shoved the washing bucket aside.
“Pash, girl. ’Twill be a dire day when I can’t be doing my own laundry.”
Martine swallowed a chuckle, but concern stayed with her as her gaze swept over the old woman. Her grandmother’s once raven hair, now white as a newly born lamb, fell loose from its usual secure bun. Red veins mapped her dark eyes, making them rheumy. The same eyes seemed to bore into her with a knowing intensity.
“You’ve need of me, then?” Anya dried her hands on a rag and then stared patiently at her.
Martine crossed her arms before her chest. “You were expecting me?” Aye, as the sky expects the sun each day.
Her grandmother shrugged her hunched shoulders and an indulgent smile pulled her lips. “A problem is nagging at your heart. ’Tis written on that fair face o’ yers.” She gave a chuckle when Martine gasped. “Not to worry, girl. Not many know you as I.” The old woman patted the log beside her. “Sit.”
Martine complied, but not before she glanced across the creek. Assured no one watched from a distance, she grasped her grandmother’s hand in hers. “Has Rafe spoken of the nuptials?”
Anya chuckled, a raspy, humorless laugh as disbelief pinched her features. “Why would he speak to me?”
Bristling, Martine tightened her grip on her grandmother’s hand. “You’re as close as a mother to me.” Pity she didn’t have her real mother, the image of the face that had once taken care of her was now a blurry recollection. The image of her father even more vague.
“The council will decide, my dear.” Anya tipped Martine’s chin with a crooked finger. “Is that yer trouble then? Yer marriage to Magor?”
Martine rose from the log, despair and desperation weighting her shoulders. How could she gain control of her future? Was there another option? “I’ve never even spoken to him.”
Anya shrugged. “’Tis the way.”
Of course she was aware of the custom, but it troubled her nonetheless. Most customs she embraced despite her earlier upbringing. Yet how could a council of men determine the best match for her? Her brother must have talked with a honeyed tongue if Magor’s clan was willing to accept her despite her true heritage. ‘Twas interesting and since she was a woman, she wasn’t privy to the conversations between the leaders of the clan. In the end, they had accepted her, Gypsy blood or no.
And no matter how much she begged her brother, he wouldn’t relent. And now there would be more than her at stake. Rafe’s bartering had brought a steep bridal price.
Like selling cloth to the tailor, she thought with dismay. She had hoped she’d be able to sway her brother by appealing to his heart.
Slowly, Grandmother rose from her seat and Martine witnessed the flash of pain in the old woman’s eyes. “Go. Rest.”
Anya nodded, seemingly too tired to speak. Martine watched the woman, once graceful and lovely, make slow progress toward her caravan. She couldn’t bear to see the lines of pain etched deep into her weathered skin. She’d have to ensure her grandmother rested.
Her fate, sealed and lonely, couldn’t be turned by Anya. Regardless, Martine wished there was a different path she could accept. Like the one others accepted for her so many years ago.
“The children are waiting for you, Siskkaar.”
She turned toward her brother. “Aye, Rafe.”
Actually, she looked forward to the distraction of teaching the children to read, an unusual Gypsy trait, but one she’d insisted on. Her own skills were rudimentary, but enough for what she planned for the children.
Martine realized it made the rest of the clan question her presence, but she would share her limited education with them, and Rafe had agreed with her intentions and indulged her. Luckily she remembered how to read when nearly all of her memories had vanished along with the accident.
He watched her, his relentless gaze inspecting her. “Grandmother is well?” he asked.
She nodded, but she never looked away. Deep down, she knew her brother meant well, even loved her in the only way he knew how. But his unwavering insistence that she marry battled with everything she held dear. “I’ll have Zoya fix her a draught.”
“Ah, the medicine of sleep, keeper of pain.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It struck her once again how he differed from the Irishman in the glen. Not only in looks, but demeanor as well. Her brother was serious, mysterious, traditional.
At night before the clan, Rafe became lively as he spoke of their history, sang, and even danced. “Martine . . . the wedding will be in a fortnight.”
She gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth. Dread rose within her like a crash of waves ready to bury a wee carrack boat. “Nay,” rushed from her despite her clenched teeth. “’Tis too soon.” Too soon to be thrust into a loveless marriage. Too soon to be ripped from family and all she held dear.
Rafe’s brow arched as if he dared her to say more. “In a one month, twilight will bless your union before both clans, over in the glen. This will unite us, unite two strong, blessed clans.” He nodded in the direction of a yellow-roofed wagon. “The children.”
She longed to say more but knew it would be futile. Instead, she squared her shoulders and left her brother in exchange for six rambunctious children too impatient to sit and learn. ’Twas a responsibility she normally savored, but today, with thoughts swirling and crowding her mind, she longed to be in the forest training the Lurchers.
A cacophony of little voices reached her at the door. The caravan swayed on its berth as two errant boys wrestled in the corner. Martine ducked into the barrel-shaped structure and silence blanketed the wagon. Solemn bright-eyed faces tilted up toward her, sweet and lovely. A smile tugged at her mouth, sweeping her dour mood away for the moment.
“Martine. Martine.”
She looked down and tousled little Katya’s raven hair. “Aye, wee one?”
“See,” she said pointing to her tester with a pudgy finger, “Me letters are done.”
Martine accepted the chipped slate board from the six-year-old and applauded the girl’s efforts. She was rewarded with a beaming grin, missing a few upper teeth, and a quick curtsy.
Moments like this she would miss. Once married, Martine would teach no more, see her grandmother only when both clans were in the same area. And her beloved Lurchers—all was to be taken from her. She was powerless. Martine owed the clan for saving her, healing her, and if she were to return to distant relatives, the magistrate would seek the clan and---it was too horrid to think upon. Those who had become so dear to her would be in jeopardy.
Regardless, Rafe and the council’s arrangement lay like a heavy cloak blackening her days.
Chapter 3
She stewed for a few days, still vexed about her impending marriage. Just as she was about to share tea with her grandmother, a young man raced by, nearly unsettling her. “’Tis men approaching.”
Martine turned around and forced her grandmother back into her caravan. “Please, stay until I come and get you.”
Despite her bluster, fear clutched the older woman’s face and she trudged back into her berth.
“Remember, Grandmother, wait for me.”
After receiving a terse nod, Martine headed toward the center of the clearing. Five riders astride glorious horseflesh trotted through the entrance. The branches of the trees arched over them in twisted brambles. The mist from the river floated around them in a sheen of white clouds. The horses flared their nostrils and pawed at the ground with their hooves. A maelstrom of dirt swirled about the area and formed around the horses and riders, making them look if they sprouted from the earth in one explosive motion.
Her brother stayed in the center of the encampment, feet spread and balled fist secured at his waist. His rigid back a strong wall of energy and power. Martine continued toward him, not allowing his fierce exterior to deter her. One thought came to mind--their leader certainly held the confidence of the clan, but would he be able to dispel the intruders without bloodshed?
With a quick glance, Martine noticed she was the only woman who dared venture into the dilemma. Others gathered in their wagons, heads peeking out due to curiosity, she supposed, most likely a human combination of fear and interest.
She edged closer to Rafe, a silent gesture of support and, she imagined, foolhardiness.
A rider urged his horse forward. He wore a leather doublet of a quality she’d never seen. The black hide was pierced with metal and thick stitching formed elaborate Celtic designs. Regal and rich. His breeches hugged his thighs so closely ’twas indecent, but that didn’t stop her gaze from venturing along the hard expanse of his legs. Heat crept up her neck and flushed her face like a flame.
He tipped his head in her brother’s direction. Martine gasped.
The stranger from the glen.
“We’ve business,” was all he said.
Rafe nodded, but didn’t twitch a muscle. Martine wanted to run from the confrontation, hide in her grandmother’s berth safe from the bewitching blue eyes of the intruder. But her feet stayed rooted to the ground.
Och, this man was handsome. Strong jaw, brilliant eyes, and a broad mouth composed a man so striking. His face was a composite of hard planes of granite that matched the intense glare of his eyes.
The man sighed and his comrades inched closer to his side. They dressed as he did, except their clothing lacked the obvious quality she could see stitched in the leather of his.
“The villagers are concerned with your presence, Gypsy.”
She could feel the tension in the tight line of her brother’s shoulders, taste the anger in the air that hummed about him and the stranger. His jaw clenched and he remained silent.
“I’ve
come to ask you to leave. Gypsies bring foul memories to Riverton.” His voice was rough, husky, as he commanded her brother.
Rafe stepped forward. She knew he wished to throttle the tactless man. “We’re Tinkers. Men and women with skills and trade.”
“And itchy fingers if Lady Bannon’s sheep have say of it,” the man behind the stranger spouted. The other men chortled and slapped the man on the back.
The stranger held up his hand and was rewarded with instant silence.
Her brother shrugged, a harmless action unless you were Rafe Petrulengo. “My clan has no need of other people’s sheep.”
Martine took a step forward.
The stranger’s head snapped in her direction.
He leaned forward in his saddle. “You’ll leave my land, or pay the consequences.” His tone brooked no room for argument.
“We’re people of the land, trainers of dogs, and masters of horses.”
Her brother’s words seemed to befuddle the stranger’s friends. They looked to one another, smirks creasing their faces. If only they knew her brother’s genius.
“I’m Lord Declan Forrester, Earl of Riverton,” the stranger pompously said. “This is my land—and you are to leave.”
Rafe bowed deep at the waist, his extended arm almost grazing the dirt before him. “As you wish.”
“Be gone by morning. ’Tis all the time I’ll give you.”