For the Love of a Gypsy

by Madelyn Hill

  Instead of disappointment, he leaned up on his elbows and lapped up the soup as quickly as she gave it to him.

  “Thank you,” Declan croaked, his dry throat not yet soothed fully. “How long have I been here?”

  Her gaze avoided his as she busied herself with cleaning up the soup and folding the cloth that cooled his forehead. “Nearly a week.”

  Bollocks. Declan couldn’t wrap his thoughts around the idea that it had been so many days since Abigail had died. His throat nearly closed and he turned his head away from the woman beside him.

  He had to discover why his wife was murdered. As a pledge to her, a woman who’d been his friend and partner in marriage when they both had no other option, he would discover who killed her. He knew she mourned the love of her life. Her thoughts of her former lover were never far from her mind. Strange how it didn’t bother him, her love for another. Mostly, he felt relief. They weren’t a love match and ‘twas comforting that they didn’t try to woo one another. They married as part of a deal. Declan was free of prison and Abigail’s marriage to him would mean her father wouldn’t kill the man who’d stolen her virtue.

  He moved his head. The movement heightened the megrim and he clenched his eyes shut to void out the light of the day.

  “Anya will have something for your aching head.”

  He scoffed and without opening his eyes, he said, “Who is Anya and how does she know I have a megrim?”

  She chuckled, a feminine sound that eased over him like the lap of a gentle wave. Soft and soothing. “She is my púridaia. My grandmother is well skilled with medicinal herbs.”

  The skepticism must have shown on his face.

  She folded a rag and allowed an indulgent smile. “Not to worry. ’Tis a miracle you survived that bump on your head. No wonder it pains you.”

  He gave a slight nod but feared if he opened his eyes or moved more, his head would split open.

  Declan heard a shuffle from the direction of the door. “Martine? He’s awake?” an aged voice said.

  She muttered something beneath her breath, then cleared her throat. “Aye. Just a few moments ago.”

  “We’ll give him this and see if it helps his pain.”

  Again she chuckled. Were these women witches? Could they just sense his injuries and aid them without further explanation?

  The older woman held a cup to his mouth. The smell assailed him with its bitter, woody scent. He looked to the women holding the cup. No doubt she was Anya. Her white hair topped her head in a regal knot and knowledge lined her face in rivers of wrinkles. He accepted the drink, ignoring the acrid taste it left on his tongue.

  “That’s a lad,” she clucked. “It should ease the pain. If ye need more, just tell my granddaughter Martine to fetch me.”

  “You’re not staying to tend him?” The panic in the young woman’s voice matched that of her widening eyes.

  Anya smiled and patted her hand. “Not to worry, bitti kom. You’ll do just fine.”

  “’Tisn’t proper, Grandmother.” She began wringing her hands and pacing the caravan. “If Rafe were to find out . . .”

  “Pah,” she said as she waved her hand. “What he doesn’t know will not hurt him in the end.”

  Declan watched as the woman, nay, Martine, turned toward her grandmother, fear and frustration clear on her lovely face. “Rafe always knows what happens within this clan. He’s your grandson after all.”

  She made no sense, and the fear Martine displayed troubled him. Was she in danger if she stayed with him? “I’ll do fine on my own,” he managed to say, his megrim becoming less and less intense.

  Anya threw an angry look in his direction. “And undo all my hard work? Not on yer life, lad.”

  Martine stepped close to the cot. “Maybe Lord Forrester is right.” Hope filled her voice as she appealed to her grandmother.

  “Declan.”

  They both looked at him, their brows raised in a question.

  “Call me Declan.”

  Martine’s doe-eyed look surprised him. Concern ringed her gaze. Why? He attempted to move, yet Anya stilled his hand and scowled openly at him.

  “Sit still. Are ye a lad or a man?”

  His stitches pulled as he grinned. “You’re the one who keeps calling me lad.”

  When she smiled, he knew her bark was worse than her bite. She wagged a gnarled finger at him and then another smile cracked her wrinkled face. He’d never known his grandparents, but he knew they’d be nothing like the stout Gypsy before him. She was too vibrant, too full of life. She held herself with a beautiful mixture of heritage and grace. His thoughts surprised him, as he’d been known to loathe their existence as much as his villagers and tenants had.

  She shrugged and frowned. “Yer built like a warrior?”

  He shook his head. “I’m no warrior.”

  “Pash, lad. Just look at yer chest, ’tis fare too grand for a man who doesn’t fight.”

  “Púridaia.” A blush covered Martine’s face like the color of the red roses that climbed Riverton’s walls.

  He started to laugh, but it came out like a weak cough. She patted his shoulder and nodded her head. “You’ll tell us when yer ready.”

  Declan started to protest further, but when she sent him such a reproachful glance, he closed his mouth.

  “My lovely Martine will sit by yer side. Don’t move an inch,” she warned.

  Martine sat in the spindly-backed chair beside his cot. He watched her, enjoying her discomfort for the mere reason he wanted her to stay.

  There was something calming about her, the softness of her voice, her large questioning eyes.

  She looked around the small wagon, obviously attempting not to look at him. He followed her gaze and took in the world in which this woman lived. Colorful weavings bordered the windows and numerous small trunks lined the side opposite his cot. Necklaces hung from nails piercing the wood of the caravan and delicate cloth shoes lay beneath them.

  Declan found himself looking at Martine once again. She was dressed in a vibrant hue of blue along with an embroidered white blouse. Her clothing was foreign and exotic, just like the darkness of her hair and the tan of her skin.

  She held her hands in her lap, fingers tangled as if she were trying to grip them with too much strength.

  “Did you train your dogs this morning?” he asked, nodding toward the leather leashes hanging near the door.

  His question startled her and her gaze sought his with a frank innocence that surprised and humbled Declan.

  “Your dogs?” he prompted, truly curious about the habits of the Gypsies.

  Martine looked at him, her face a study in trying to attempt not to appear excited and failing miserably.

  “I train them every day.”

  He cocked a brow, despite the fact it felt as if his stitch-restrained skin was tearing. “Why is it you do the training?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, the gestured belying the excitement in her voice. “I seem to have a way with them.”

  He regarded her more closely. There was definitely something she wasn’t telling him, but he decided not to push the matter. “Tell me about them.”

  “Oh,” she said. Her face flushed scarlet but she began to speak regardless. “I train them for hunting and then they are sold from town to town. Usually, I have two or three at a time.”

  “And when you sell them? How does that feel?” He sensed sadness in her tone now, and he wished to focus on her, lest she turn the conversation toward him.

  A shimmer of tears deepened her dark eyes. They seemed like endless pools, rich and deep. She blinked them away in an instant and her demeanor strengthened before him. “’Tis hard the first couple of days after the sale, but then Rafe brings more puppies for me to begin the process once
again.”

  Before he could ask another question, Anya rushed into the caravan. “Lass, yer needed.” The old woman’s chest heaved at the extent of her exertion. “The Kapo is on his way to speak to Lord Forrester.”

  Declan watched as Martine paled and swiftly left the caravan. Kapo could only mean one thing.

  The leader of the Gypsies was on his way.

  Chapter 6

  A shadow darkened the caravan. A tall man, lean with a hardened glint to his eyes stood at the threshold as if waiting to be welcomed in. Declan recognized him. How could he not? He wore dark pants and a full white shirt cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt. His tanned skin highlighted the white scar that resembled a scythe on the side of his face.

  “Kapo,” Declan said, ready to break the silence and learn more about this man.

  The man tipped his head and entered the makeshift sick room. “Rafe Pentrulengo, leader of this clan.” His voice, though low, held infinite authority in a calm, menacing way.

  “Aye, Tinker.” The name hung between them, and Declan remembered the day he ordered the Gypsies to leave and had used his title arrogantly.

  “Lord Declan Forrester,” Rafe corrected. “I remember ye well.”

  The Gypsy inspected him, his gaze lazy but his intentions clear. He wanted to make Declan squirm. And Declan would be damned if he showed the fatigue that weighted his shoulders.

  Rafe waved his hand impatiently in the air. “What are we to do with you, Lord Declan Forrester?” He said his name with such a snarl, Declan was ready to leap from the bed and challenge the man to a duel.

  “Ah, I know.” The grin that curled his lips did little to settle Declan’s unease. “Do you think you’d earn yer weight in gold?”

  Gold? Did the Gypsy think to auction him off in the village square? Aye, a hefty price must be wagered for his head by now, and the Gypsies would be all too happy to claim it.

  “I’ve lost a few pounds since I’ve arrived. Mayhap I’m not worth the money bags I see gleaming in your eyes.”

  The man’s mouth slid into a frown, accentuating the sharp angles of his lean face. “Yer in no condition to bargain for yer worthless life. I know what you’ve done. ‘Tis talk about the village of how your murderous hands killed your wife.”

  Anger flooded him with indignation. Rage churned his stomach along with grief. A looming question struck bright in his mind. Who would kill Abigail? And so horridly at that?

  “I know of you. Yer past isn’t as well hidden as you think.”

  Declan snapped his attention back to the Kapo. He watched as delight danced about his dark eyes. Did he really know of Declan’s time in prison? Of the fact that although he didn’t kill his wife, he was a murderer? Blood stained his hands no matter who had died.

  Calling the Gypsy’s bluff, Declan said, “What do you know of my past?”

  He casually shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve enough knowledge to know ye don’t want the villagers to know you are here. Or the magistrate when he arrives. But enough talk. I grow weary of yer face.”

  Declan grunted. As if Rafe’s face was pleasing to him with its scar and harsh edges. He’d much rather that of Martine or her grandmother, as a matter of fact, a contrast of aged beauty.

  The Gypsy turned to leave the wagon. He glanced over his shoulder and stopped. “Hurt my clan, and yer a dead man. Of that be sure.”

  I’ve already been dead, Declan thought. The threats lay idle, yet heavy in the air. “As soon as I’m well, I’ll be on my way.”

  The man left the wagon, leaving Declan ample time to think of their conversation. He was once a haunted man. The face of the prisoner, eyes lifeless and pathetic, flashed before him. Now he was hunted. So much plagued him—his wife’s death, his time in prison, the identity of the men who sent him there.

  Bollocks, he was cursed.

  Now the quandary of living with the Gypsies. Their lifestyle was not one he’d bless. Blast his conscience and how it easily molded to the situation. He couldn’t judge the clan. God knew he’d met the Devil himself and still paid the price of his actions. No, judging others wouldn’t do. He was on his way to hell. Problem was, he hadn’t had to leave earth to start the journey.

  Five more days. His body lay flaccid on the small cot, limbs lingering over the side like branches from a tree. The only brightness of his days were the visits from Martine. She was shy, but curious. Such a lovely lass with a sweet yet husky voice and a brilliance to her gaze. Her visits were fleeting but gave great insight to her character. She loved her people, adored her grandmother, and relished her time with the children. There was a bit of leeriness when her brother was mentioned, but she obviously respected and loved him as well.

  Regardless, he was bored with the lack of activity. Declan sat up, then fell back against the mattress. He gripped the side of the wagon and pulled himself up, thankful no one had seen his struggle. He was nearly upright. His unused muscles ached and his skin stretched as the stitches pulled across his injuries. The dizziness blurred his vision, but he pushed on regardless. When his feet hit the wooden floor, he stayed all motion. Once settled, he pushed up and grabbed onto the wall nearest him. A smile of satisfaction lifted his mouth as he took small steps forward and glanced out the window to view the encampment.

  The Gypsies bustled about and many swept the dirt from the steps leading to their meager caravans. Even children took part in the daily work, hauling buckets of water that sloshed over the rims and wetting their path. Grim determination cinched their brows with each laborious step.

  Like a voyeur, Declan watched from the cover of the wagon. An outsider, content to stay in the shadows that offered him comfort in the darkness.

  Abigail would love this. She was curious about anyone who wasn’t English. He’d often chuckle when she’d discover something new in the village and praise the Irish for their industrious endeavors. To her, the Gypsy clan would be exotic, foreign. Something to celebrate, not loathe as many did.

  He watched the Kapo leading the Gypsy horses to a makeshift pen near the rear of the camp. He had to admit, the Gypsies had a way with Vanners. The animals gleamed beneath their attention and were some of the best-trained animals he’d ever seen. Strong enough to lead the caravans and docile enough to be around the many children racing about the camp.

  The Kapo then swaggered across the opening to the fire pit surrounded in what appeared to be elder females. They stepped away, making an opening for their leader to advance to the large pot secured over the fire. A hand shot out with a crude bowl. The leader accepted the bowl and ladled his morning meal. He nodded, arrogant, yet a warm smile filled his face. Declan smiled as well as the woman stepped out of the protective circle of ladies. Anya, in her grace and bluster, brought a softness to Declan’s heart.

  She turned toward the caravan, her eyes narrowed with piercing intensity. Declan felt pinned, and he knew Anya, blast her, had sensed his presence and ardent interest. She strolled through the encampment, her steps measured and slow. The morning sun haloed her white-haired head and a shadow hid her expression.

  Declan stepped back to the bed and sat. A thin sheen of sweat covered his torso and trickled down his back. His chest heaved as if he’d just spent an hour training with his men. What a sorry state he was in. Weak as a kitten and alone as the fabled trolls that hid in the hills. He didn’t belong here or at Riverton. The thought skewered his heart and it turned as cold as Ettenborough said it to be.

  When did longing become one of his emotions?

  He thought of his men. Their gazes of uncertainty as they rode out of Riverton still plagued him. He longed to wipe the look of distrust from Nate’s face and the frightened grimaces from Matthew’s and Lange’s faces. Even his butler Pierce didn’t seem to welcome his presence and Declan paid him to be loyal and attentive.

  The sa
me look he knew creased his face when the mob tried to arrest him, heave the unbearable sentence of prison upon his back once again.

  Declan’s stomach clenched with dread and the knowledge he’d been duped. And used. And betrayed. Again.

  Now to determine by whom.

  “Lad,” a crackling voice interrupted his taxing thoughts. “I saw ye. Don’t be denying it.”

  Declan swung his gaze toward Anya. Her grin, one of caring despite the fact he was Irish and had ordered them to leave his land, twinkled in her wizened eyes.

  “Let me be checking yer stitches.” She frowned and inspected him with her shrewd, steely gaze.

  Anya silently whipped up one of her medicinal concoctions, all the while watching him, perhaps judging him if life proved as ironic as he thought it to be.

  “Stand,” she commanded.

  He did as she bade, then cringed as she slapped the ointment over each cut, stitch, and bruise on his chest and arms.

  “Turn, let me see to yer back.” Her voice was terse, its heavy accent mingling with disapproval and a deep furrow between her brows.

  “Nay.”

  “Pash, lad,” she said with a swat of her hand. “We couldn’t move ye when ye came to us. And Rafe refused to allow the men to help save you. I don’t want anything to be festering.”

  Declan stood still, his muscles rigid and unrelenting as she tried to push between him and the small cot. She sighed, and then with slumped shoulders Anya turned. He relaxed.