by Madelyn Hill
He stirred but did not wake. She felt relief. For she could imagine he wouldn’t be pleased she’d seen beyond the injuries that had brought him to the Rom.
“Will ye be watching him then?” Anya whispered.
Martine nodded and sat in the chair her grandmother had occupied, her mind still reeling over the scars. Her heart clenched over the pain and suffering Declan had endured. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at the angry scars crisscrossing the breadth of his back.
“I’ll keep Rafe from coming this way as much as I can manage.” The elderly woman stretched and rubbed her back with her aged hands. “Yer doing the right thing, lass. ‘Tis a fine man here.”
“I feel something,” she admitted as she avoided her grandmother’s gaze. “But I also don’t know if it is good or will bring shame to our clan.”
Anya wagged a finger in Martine’s face. Her white brows met at the furrow above her nose as she spoke in their native tongue. “Ye’ve given yer life up for this clan. Are ye certain it is worth it? Snatch a bit of happiness for yerself, despite the loyalty ye feel for Rafe.”
Her heart pounded against her chest as she fiercely whispered, “I can’t forsake the clan. Surely you can see that.”
Anya patted her arm. “Aye, you can, my bitti chovexani.”
Martine cringed. She wasn’t a little witch, but her grandmother insisted on calling her such.
If only she were, she’d be able to find a way out of her impending, loveless marriage.
He felt rested, almost peaceful. No doubt Anya had tainted the medicinal draught with an ingredient to induce sleep. Yet, Declan wasn’t angered. No. It had been years since he’d slept without the haunting reminder of his father’s treachery and the years spent in prison.
He rolled onto his back, much relieved after the salve Anya had slapped upon it. Startled, he pulled the sheet over his bare chest.
There sat his Gypsy.
Calm, even amused, if her raised brow was any indication. For a moment, he enjoyed the twinkle in her eyes, not the black pits like her brother’s, but lighter—brighter, reflected the light with golden flecks.
She tipped her chin at him with a haughtiness that now satisfied him instead of vexing him. God, she was lovely. Her skin a mix of honey and gold, soft and satiny. He wanted to kiss his way from the arch of her winged brow to the hollow of her elegant neck now peeking from her white blouse.
Such thoughts rocked him. He must dismiss her beauty, turn his head toward proving his innocence, not taking hers. Nay, his focus couldn’t be turned by a comely lass.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her smile flowing into her tone. “You slept well?”
“Aye.” Declan stilled the grin tilting his lips.
Martine’s brows knitted, then they smoothed as she rose from her chair. “My grandmother prepared a broth for you.”
“Please allow it to have meat in it,” he grumbled.
“Pah, ‘tis filled with venison and wild onion.” She placed the bowl on the small table beside the cot. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength. And then this evening you can eat bolkoli.”
“Bolkoli?” he asked, butchering the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word.
“’Tis a tasty pancake filled with meat.”
Declan nodded and raised up on his elbows, conscious of his bare chest and how unseemly it must be for her to even be in his presence. He noticed how her gaze lit on everything but him, and how roses blossomed on her cheeks. The sight was captivating and endearing all at once.
“Here’s your shirt,” she said with her arm extended toward him.
His shirt dangled from the end of her long fingers, mended and laundered, smelling fresh as the outdoors, not the blood that had saturated the linen.
He grasped the material, purposely allowing his fingers to graze hers, relishing the slight shiver that trembled her hand.
No matter how she tried to hide it, his Gypsy had fire within her just waiting to ignite and flame her passion. Desire like he’d never known flared in him just from the touch of her hand.
“You’re to join the clan in two days for our entertainment.”
Her statement doused all desire. He lifted his brow. “Entertainment?”
She nodded. “My brother leads the clan in music and dancing.”
He frowned. “Dancing?”
She chuckled and he couldn’t help but grin at the lovely sound. When she laughed, her eyes lit up with such joy.
“Music, dancing, storytelling, food.” A furrow appeared between her brows. “’Tis tradition.”
Join them around the fire? Eat with his enemy, the very man who mocked his authority and challenged his innocence. Her Kapo, her brother, and the man ready to send her away to a stranger? Aye, Declan had heard her grandmother gossiping with her cohorts. Rafe Petrulengo would see his sister wed to a man whom Anya claimed treated women like dogs and she could do naught to stop it. All to strengthen the powerful clans with a merger—marriage between them. Surely there was another way?
Declan should steal Martine away from the awful fate of marrying a man who wouldn’t appreciate her. The fineness of her voice, the intellect of her eyes, the sheer beauty of her. Her betrothed didn’t deserve Martine, a doe amongst goats.
Bollocks, who was he to judge? A murderer, prisoner. What could he offer her that proved better than what awaited her? Nothing.
Martine handed him a spoon, pulling his attention away from his thoughts and back to the small caravan and the woman beside him.
“Eat,” she prodded. “You’ll feel better.”
“Only if you sit and talk with me.” Declan wondered at the quick shift in her gaze. How she glanced at the doorway and then back to him. Nodding, she sat and folded her hands in her lap.
“Tell me more about the clan.”
Martine smiled and began talking about the tribe. When she regaled him with stories during her teaching sessions, light danced in her eyes and excitement laced her voice. Her hands became animated, gesturing, emphasizing the antics of her pupils.
He chuckled when she told him how the boys had hidden all of the slates so they could fish instead of study. “’Tis unusual, teaching in a Gypsy clan.”
She narrowed her eyes and her hands stopped midair. “Ah, you do believe we are the dregs of society.”
“Nay,” he said, his hand raised, palm up. Truly he didn’t. In the past he wouldn’t have been so generous. But now, after spending time with the clan, his mind had changed and mayhap his heart as well.
She shrugged and stayed silent. After a few moments, she spoke again. “I had the good fortune to learn to read, and I convinced my brother to allow me to teach others.”
“How did you learn?” he asked, interest piqued. He knew many Irish children who did not have the fortune to learn to read, let alone Gypsy children.
She remained silent as she lifted from the chair.
Declan feared she’d flee the caravan. “No matter, let’s talk about something else.” His words appeared to soothe her and she sat back in the chair after a moment and her shoulders relaxed.
“What of you?” Martine said with challenging tone. “Tell me of your life at Riverton.”
Declan grunted. Martine cocked her brow and looked down her nose, haughty, impossibly regal. He believed her in the role of Gypsy princess. It suited her, whether her feet were bare or if she were dressed in gilded finery.
He shrugged. “I enjoyed training my men.”
She smiled, apparently amused with something he said, although he wasn’t sure what. He sat up and leaned against the caravan wall. “Ah, and what did you train them for?”
“I . . . needed to have men ready to protect my . . . estate.” Damn, answering questions wasn’t his forte.
“And your wife, wha
t was she like?”
Declan hesitated as his heart nearly stopped. She obviously knew he’d been married. Did her brother share how his wife died? If he did, surely she wouldn’t be at his bedside. He grappled with sharing the story, the accusations, then quickly decided not to. It wasn’t as if making her privy to some of his demons would rid him of them. Nay, it would only make her look at him as if he were a monster.
Sympathy filled her gaze and she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry. Anya always says I don’t know when to leave good enough alone.”
“Nay,” Declan replied. How was it possible her brother hadn’t shared his wife’s murder with Martine? “My wife died just before I arrived here.”
He didn’t want to talk about his wife. She was—she was one of the saving graces of his life and now she was gone. And it was certainly awkward to speak of her with Martine. He rubbed the back of his neck as he grappled with what to say. Abigail’s advice came to him, what she always said to him prior to her father’s visit.
You are worthy of love, Declan. And you should find her, find the love that is worthy of you.
He always wondered what would have happened if a woman, a woman like Martine, had arrived on the estate when Abigail was alive. Did she truly think he’d leave her and run away like she urged him to do?
Remember Declan, she’d say in the efficient manner of hers, love, true love, comes once in a lifetime.
He mulled over Abigail’s words and how she’d often push him to leave her. He couldn’t—not that she believed him—but he’d made a promise and said vows. But now, Abigail was gone. He held her memory close to his heart and he’d fondly remember her. But he couldn’t help but wonder if the memories were trying to tell him something, push him to move forward. As if Abigail, God rest her soul, were there with a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving a squeeze, then a slight push.
Martine bit at her lip, an action that appeared innocent, but it made Declan want to slowly feast on her ripe mouth. He thought about their kiss in the glen and how every time he’d seen her since all he wanted to do was gather her in his arms and kiss her again. Not just kiss her, but embrace her until they could kiss no more. Rather unfaithful thoughts for a newly widowed man, but true nonetheless.
“I’m sorry. Rafe mentioned she had died. Please excuse my thoughtlessness,” she said as she reached for his hand. Her touch was gentle, caring, and enticing.
“Thank you,” he said with a thick voice.
“Declan, I am sorry.” Tears filled her eyes as she moved the chair closer.
“Aye.”
Martine rubbed his arm to console him. Did she realize that her touch inflamed him? “Abigail, my wife, was English.” God, he felt guilty talking about her—just as he felt guilty not revealing the true nature of her death.
She nodded but continued to gently rub his arm, her attention fully on him as if what he said was the most important thing in the world.
He watched her, the gentleness of her actions, the pure loveliness of her. Never had he met a woman who had so much compassion for others. Would she still feel compassion toward him if he revealed the accusations against him?
“I miss her.” He gripped her hand. “Abigail—she and I—it was never a love match.”
A flash of anger flared in her eyes. Darkening them, making them as murky as a lough.
Martine seethed inside. Marriage without love. Why would a man choose to marry if not for love? Power, money—what else could prompt him to make a woman miserable as Martine would surely be once she wed Magor?
“Pah, not a love match. You men certainly hold the world’s arrogance. Forcing women to marry you regardless of their feelings.” Rage gripped her tongue before she could stop it as she ripped her hand from his grasp and stood to pace the caravan. “Bully your way into her bed. And then expect her to endure your presence.”
Declan stared at her, a perplexed expression marring his perfect features. Nay, she thought, ignore his handsomeness before it draws you once again.
He blinked then narrowed his gaze as the lines around his mouth tightened. “My wife’s father arranged the marriage. ’Twas not I.”
She didn’t ignore the low growl of his voice, or the snap of fury stiffening his shoulders and pulsing at his jaw. But she didn’t allow it to deter her train of thought.
“You could have refused. Her father most likely forced the matter on her to begin with.”
Ah, how his face now resembled a brutal storm, harsh with thunder and fierce with lightening, his blue eyes a tempest of dark midnight. “I wasn’t in the position to refuse. Marrying Abigail ensured my freedom—and hers. Without the marriage we’d both be living in hell.”
Martine flushed. Heat raced up her neck and lodged itself on her face. Duly chastised, she held her tongue. Not an expert on the way of aristocracy, she didn’t know what to presume. The more she thought about it, she knew a man of Declan’s obvious resourcefulness must have been in a dire situation if he wed a woman not of his choosing.
She sighed, trying to temper her tone and demeanor. “Tell me why.”
A knock rattled the wagon’s door. “Martine,” a voice whispered, “The Kapo is headed in this direction.”
Martine quickly stood as she gripped the chair about to topple. “I’ll see you before the fire?”
He nodded. Oh, how she wanted to reach down and touch his face, perhaps kiss his cheek.
Yet, if her brother found them—it would be disastrous.
And he’d be murderous.
Chapter 10
Tired of wasting away in the little caravan or vurdon as Martine called it, Declan breached the berth and walked, albeit slowly, toward the center of the encampment. ’Twas odd how he was learning the Gypsy language when before he loathed their existence. Each day, he absorbed more and more. The dynamics of the clan were much different than that of his society but just as noble. The elders advised the Kapo and he assumed the many women of the clan advised their elder husbands. Children worked hard, obeyed their parents, and played with abandon. Much like Irish children, impish enough to gain a smile from their parents and mayhap a treat or two.
He passed by the fire blazing beneath a cast iron pot. The scent emanating from its boiling center was the venison broth he’d enjoyed earlier. And while he’d enjoyed a hearty serving, his stomach grumbled from the savory aroma.
Martine’s kinsmen continued to notice his appearance, yet kept their distance as if he carried a lethal disease. A group of men, strong and armed, raced into the camp. Declan watched as they went to the largest caravan. The richly appointed home on wheels was obviously the Kapo’s. A deep burgundy covered the wooden boards that formed the walls and gilded trim accented the edge of the windows. A tin roof capped the home. Rafe emerged at the commotion, his face stern and intense.
“’Tis riders near,” one of the men said as he caught his breath. “They’ve been following us.”
Declan’s stomach clenched with the hollow resonance of regret. He’d brought the wrath on these people. In their effort to assist him, they’d put themselves in danger. Walking closer to hear what the leader said, Declan found he was limping. The realization annoyed him, reaffirmed his inability to make a safe exit.
“Come this way,” a voice whispered from behind.
He turned and saw Martine partially hidden by the brush. She crooked her finger at him and he found himself drawn to the lighthearted action. She skipped far into the woods swinging her deep blue skirt, her dogs dutifully following without so much as a whimper. He paced himself as his legs stubbornly refused to navigate the brambles and fallen logs. His height allowed him a visual connection with her and the Lurchers, despite his slow stride.
They continued to walk until he heard a brook tinkle in the distance, with a steady rush of water and the sweet sounds of the
woodland animals that flourished near it. The clearing offered the dogs the ideal area for a quick romp as Martine quietly laughed at their antics and tossed a small branch into their midst.
“Come,” she called, “your turn to play.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Surely they were far enough away from the encampment. The riders hadn’t followed and he shrugged away any uncertainty that had settled into knots between his shoulders. He smiled, reached for a small twig, and tossed it. The dogs lunged and then went sprawling about as they frolicked with one another.
Declan inspected the area once again, doubtful they were truly alone, but hopeful regardless. He ran his fingers through his hair, anxious yet wanting to enjoy the carefree moment. He sat near Martine on a fallen log. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. A soft murmur eased past her full lips as she smiled at the sky. The sun filtered through the clouds and the leaves above, freckling the ground around them. They stayed in comfortable silence as the dogs barked and yapped as they chased each other into the brook.
“They’ll scare all the fish.”
He shrugged. “Aye, but why ruin their fun.”
She chuckled and opened her eyes. “They do enjoy life, do they not?”
Declan reached for her hand. Long, graceful fingers gripped his own. “How do you calm them?”
“They know the signals. I’ve taught them since they were wee pups and weaned from their dame.” As if to accentuate her point, she thinned her lips and whistled. It was low, barely perceptible to his ears, and he sat just beside her. The dogs’ response was immediate. They now stood before her, their golden ears perked for more commands. This time she whistled through her fingers and then gave a hand command.