For the Love of a Gypsy

by Madelyn Hill

  Declan absorbed the information. Too many details were missing and the shock of it all brought out sympathy for Martine. God, how she’d suffered. “And what of her family? Did you search for others who’d claim her?”

  A wry smile creased his face as he poured a tumbler of whiskey. He tipped his head to Declan and poured another. “Pah, she has plenty of family that would claim her. She’s an Earl’s daughter.”

  He stood, knocking the tumbler from the table. “What?”

  Rafe had the audacity to laugh. “Aye, Irish. Her land and estates have moved on to others, since they thought all were dead, but,” he said with a shrug, “one can assume her family would not welcome her appearance. And if we’d approached the magistrate after the accident, certainly we’d be blamed for causing it.”

  Bollocks. He never thought this was her story. Even when she was standing in the creek and ‘twas obvious she wasn’t Rom, his mind never ventured to the idea she was an earl’s daughter. “I’m sure the magistrate would be interested in her.”

  Rafe drew back, his eyes narrowed, and the muscles ticked along his jaw. “Ye’d ruin her? How would her family accept her after she has spent so many years with us?”

  He cringed and let out a breath. “Nay. I’d never hurt her.”

  The Kapo crossed his arms before his chest and eased his long legs out. “As I thought, Irish.”

  He took a long look at the leader. Weighed his next words, actions. Did he confess to what had transpired the night before? Or did he wait and see if Martine would change her mind and come with him?

  “Kapo!” a young lad yelled as he barreled into the wagon. “Kapo, the magistrate is here.”

  They both swore beneath their breath and stood. “I will distract them. Leave us before ye bring more wrath onto my clan.”

  Declan looked out the small window of the wagon in search of Martine. He must say goodbye. Aye, she’d refused him, but he couldn’t leave her without a goodbye.

  The leader grabbed him by his shoulders and growled, “Leave, Irish. Leave now or I tell the magistrate all.”

  He glanced at the door, then to the window. He could not risk going to prison. She’d understand. Aye, she’d understand.

  He had to leave before the magistrate found him and locked him back in hell.

  She took her time returning to camp. She had to gather her thoughts before she spoke to her brother. Mayhap Declan had already confessed and Rafe was ready to void the marriage contract with Magor.

  Aye and she was truly Rom. She was fooling herself if she thought her brother would shame the clan all because of her indiscretion.

  She continued to linger as a way to deny what she’d refused, thrown away. She’d seen the anger on Declan’s face when she’d pushed him away, made it seem as if his love meant nothing when quite the opposite was true. Martine’s heart clenched within her chest. She surely couldn’t survive and it pained her so. She stopped and held onto a tree to catch her breath, then proceeded further toward the life she’d chosen and farther from the one given to her as a gift.

  Her arrival at camp went unnoticed. Fellow Rom gathered near her brother’s caravan. Urgency and fear overwhelmed her, washed over her as the rain washed over Ireland.

  They know, a little voice said. They know you are soiled. She pushed toward her own wagon to shut out the voice and any speculation from the clan. She collapsed on her bed, ready for rest and the cleansing abyss of dreams. She tossed and turned until a fitful sleep overtook her.

  Her faithful Lurchers chased her about the clearing, yapping with enthusiasm only dogs could manage. A form loomed at the gap in the tree line. Tall, dark, formidable. A scar glowed in the darkness. Rafe. Fury pinched his brow and narrowed his intense eyes. She tried to run in the other direction, follow her dogs and their playful antics. Each turn she took, her brother appeared, growing larger and larger. Martine fell to her knees, her head cast in shame. He spoke to her—harsh condemning words. Tradition, he repeated, tradition of the Rom. The words crashed over her in waves of pain and regret. Never would she forget the look of disappointment that filled his dark gaze. He left her, a crumpled mess on the field grass, her dogs howling in the distance out of her reach.

  Martine attempted to catch her breath as she bolted awake. She threw back the blanket and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her dream appeared so vivid and true. Her mind raced as she tried to glean the meaning of her brother’s appearance. Then her thoughts stopped when all was clear. She’d mocked the traditions of the Rom, slapped the very face that had saved her so many years before.

  God help her, she must tell her brother what she’d done. Then, if she were banished, ‘twould be her own doing and with that shame she’d live for the rest of her days.

  Chapter 13

  Declan raced through the forest, oblivious to the branches ripping through his flesh and the drenching rain. He arrived at Riverton tired, sodden, and hungry. Watching from a copse of trees, he waited to see if there was any life about. He slipped into the barn, empty save Kindred. Thank God his steed had made his way back home.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, then grabbed a saddle pad and made his bed in an empty stall.

  When sleep finally came, Declan rid his mind of Martine and the Gypsies and allowed darkness to consume him.

  “There you are, you wee bastard.”

  Declan wrenched awake as he jolted to his feet. Before him stood the most glorious sight of all.

  Finn Randolph.

  He grinned and reached to shake his friend’s hand. Randolph tugged him into a tight hug and patted his back.

  “’Tis time you returned. I’ve been watching for you.”

  Declan rubbed weariness from his eyes and sat back upon the blanket and straw. His body fatigued beyond reason, his muscles protested the slightest movement. “Welcome to my palace,” he said with a sweep of his arm. “Sit.”

  His childhood friend sat and reached into a leather saddle bag. His pants were filthy, shirt untucked, and jacket rumpled. Aye, ‘twas Finn all right. And with that roguish gleam in his eye and that long hair, he’d sent many a lass into a swoon with one look. “I was sure you’d be hungry.” He tossed a loaf of bread at him and then reached for more. An apple and chunk of cheese followed. Declan devoured them as if it were his last meal. When Randolph produced a tankard of ale, Declan nearly kissed him square on the mouth.

  “What took you so long to come, you eejit?”

  Declan smiled at their familiar insult. “A certain Gypsy beauty.”

  “Aye, she’s a beaut to be sure, but what of yer innocence. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  Declan frowned, his anger now curdling his breakfast. “What do you know of Martine?”

  Finn cocked an arrogant brow and anyone but Declan would be intimidated. “I’ve been trying to locate you for the past fortnight. I spied the Gypsies, even visited the camp looking for you and only one could garner yer sniveling attention.”

  Ah, the men who’d visited and sent him and Martine to the clearing. He decided to steer the subject away from the love he lost to something more attainable. “What have you learned in London?”

  A smile some would call sinister spread across Finn’s handsome face. “Aye, we’ve some enemies there, to be sure. Ettenborough has weaved a fine tale, but some truth came out regardless. Yer name is wagging on many a tongue.”

  Declan clenched his fist at the mention of Abigail’s father. The man had made both he and Abigail suffer.

  “’Tis that English bastard Broderick who worries me. He runs deep in yer past. Yer father and him were friends at one point. He wouldn’t mention anyone else but yer father. Ranted about him—and you. Not altogether, that one.”

  “Why?” Declan asked. “Why do they hound me?”

  Finn hunched his shoulders. “A
ye, he wants to hound you to hell, that one. ‘Tis about politics. Yer fathers and Brodericks, Ettenboroughs, and some other man who has yet to reveal himself.”

  He gripped his friend by the shoulders. “Why, damn it?”

  Finn patted him on the shoulder. “I was close, but then he clammed up on me, the bastard. Even when I broke into his townhome, I found nothing.” Finn rose and swept his black clothing clean of straw. “I was ready to return to London when I met up with yer men.”

  Declan stood as well. “Where are they?”

  “Just outside of town.”

  He leaned against the stall door. “’Tis too dangerous for them.”

  Finn chuckled. “Och, Declan, they’re not bairns in need of a nursemaid. Grown men, they are. Ready to prove yer innocence.”

  He doubted that. When Nate had left, ‘twas distrust in his all-seeing eyes. They proceeded out of the protection of the stables. The estate was silent, save for the chickens clucking a few feet away.

  “The estate is empty. Ettenborough cleaned the place out except for yer chambers. I,” he said with a gleam to his eye, “have been using them.”

  Declan punched at his friend, then eased into pacing beside him and thought of the next plan of action. “Did the villagers question your presence?”

  “I was careful, you ken. No candlelight at night and I stayed in the shadows during the day.”

  Declan shook his head. Of course his friend knew how to remain undetected. It had saved his life many a time. “We must go to London.”

  Finn stopped and looked at him. “And yer beauty? What of her?”

  He tried to speak, yet the torture of admitting her refusal lodged in his throat. He glanced away and shrugged his shoulders. “I have to prove my innocence.”

  Finn nodded and walked up the front steps to Riverton. No candlelight burned welcome, nary a servant was available to ensure comfort. Nay, only solitude, damn solitude.

  “I’ll leave at dawn.”

  Declan watched his friend, uncertain whether he should ask him to stay. The haunting cries from prison rose to a crescendo in his mind along with the cries for justice from the villagers. “I’ll go with you.”

  Finn turned to him, his dark eyes searching his face. “Aye, ‘twould do me good to have company. I just don’t want you blathering on about yer lass, bonny or no.”

  Chuckling, Declan entered his chamber, opened the armoire and grabbed clean clothing. The full linen shirt of the Rom and straight black trousers had long ago replaced the waistcoat and breeches he was wearing when he’d left Riverton. Their comfort had surprised him. Now, they only reminded him of what he’d lost. Stripping down, he accepted the washbowl of water from Finn and began administering to his numerous cuts and bruises.

  His friend cocked an arrogant brow. “You’ve a fair share more than when I left you.”

  He nodded and hissed when he washed a particularly deep gash. He folded the Rom clothing and set them inside the armoire. He couldn’t part with them just yet.

  Back in his own clothing, Declan lay upon his bed and crossed his arms behind his head. He’d strode past Abigail’s chamber when they’d entered the estate, not able to look in. Mayhap later he’d venture into her room and say a quick prayer. Try to think of the happier memories of their union.

  Finn sat in the wing chair before the fireplace. His friend kicked his feet onto the small stool and leaned back into the damask upholstery.

  “Nate sends his concern. They seem to be waiting. For what I’m not sure. But they’ll be glad to see you.”

  He grunted. “The last time I saw them, Nate wanted to skin me alive.”

  Finn sighed. “Been a time or two I’ve been wanting to do the same.”

  Declan chuckled. “You’re a bastard, you are.” The camaraderie felt good. Damn good. “Rest,” he said, “then we’ll have ourselves a wee feast before we head to London.”

  “’Twill take a while, lad. And yer not in the best of shape, you ken?”

  Inwardly, he wanted to scoff at Finn’s words, but he knew it was the truth of it. While he knew his friend spoke of his physical state, his hear hurt more than anything else. The image of Martine with the tears streaking down her face came to him. If only he’d remained in control. She’d still have her innocence and he’d still have his sanity. After one taste of her, he knew he was spoiled for life and none would ever compare. “I’ll manage.”

  “Aye, I’m sure you will.”

  With that said Finn closed his eyes and rested his hand on the hilt of his knife. It reassured Declan that all would be well. ’Twas the knife that had staved off many a fight when they visited pubs.

  Aye, ‘twas good to see Finn Randolph. He just hoped the rest of his men were truly as glad to see him.

  Sadie crouched behind a yew. The window was partially blocked by curtains, yet she’d know that tall masculine form anywhere.

  Lord Declan Forrester was at Riverton.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Despite Trenmore’s devoted attention, she felt a lack of excitement. But it appeared as if that were about to change.

  Sadie shivered as gooseflesh skittered over her arms. Aye, ‘twas more than excitement. ‘Twas near bliss she felt.

  Another man moved into her view. “Hmmm,” she cooed. Bollocks, this one was almost as grand as Declan. Tall, dark. Dangerous.

  “Forgive me, Abigail, but Declan will be mine,” she whispered. “I can’t help myself.” She inched away from the window and strolled back toward the kitchen entrance. As luck would have it, the dark one had left. She grinned. She’d welcome Declan home in the proper manner. And if the other one returned, why she’d take care of him like she’d taken care of her husbands.

  For one moment, sympathy for Trenmore seeped into her mind. He’d been such a dear. Accommodating, a fine cut of a man, but without the viral masculinity Lord Forrester exuded. Such was life, she surmised with a lift of her shoulders. Sadie rummaged through a drawer to find a knife and sliced some bread. Abigail’s father hadn’t removed everything, it appeared. A few thick cuts of ham, apricot crumb cake, and a pickled egg. ’Twasn’t fine fair, but ‘twould do. She laid out the food on an ornate tray and found a not so wrinkled cloth napkin.

  Now she just had to wait.

  Chapter 14

  “I’m ready to marry.”

  Rafe whipped around. “Pah, as if you had a choice.”

  Martine shrugged as if her brother’s words didn’t emphasize how little control she had over her own life.

  Her brother advanced and stood too close. The scar across his cheek whitened. She braced herself for his words, although she wished they would remain unspoken.

  “I make the decisions, Siskaar.” He retreated a step, yet fury still reigned over his face and in his posture. “What makes you certain your Magor would welcome you now?”

  Martine twisted her hands together. “He must. ’Twas arranged.”

  Rafe sliced his hand through the air. “The clan is in a precarious position. I fear word of the Irishman may have reached Magor’s clan.”

  She cast her gaze to the floor. She rubbed her brow, her head now aching at the worry and heartbreak. ‘Twas obvious Declan didn’t reveal what had happened the night before. He’d left as he said he would, and now she knew what was expected of her. Martine inhaled deeply before she spoke. “I know I must wed.”

  Rafe tipped up her chin. “’Tis time for you to have a husband and a family of your own.”

  She looked into his eyes, now filled with concern and compassion. Aye, she’d miss him dearly, her moody brother. Rafe and Anya were the only family she’d known. She so wanted to stay, remain with them forever.

  Just as she thought of it, the idea of family and babes of her own sent her heart careening.


  He let go of her and tugged at his chin. He placed his free hand on his waist as he tapped a booted foot. “Go, we must prepare. You must wed. You know it, and Anya knows.”

  “Anya knows what?”

  They both turned toward the doorway. Anya stood watching them, obviously disgruntled. She bustled forward and wrapped a protective arm around Martine. “’Tisn’t her fate. Didn’t I tell you, bitti chovexani?”

  Martine nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. Rafe shook his head as he filled a cup with whiskey.

  “Púridaia, you know as well as I, ‘tis done. The bride price has been paid and Magor awaits our lovely Martine.”

  “Pash,” Anya said as she strode to his side. She helped herself to some spirits and glared at her grandson.

  “Our clan will lose the respect we have earned over the generations.”

  “Nay,” Anya said with a growl as she set her cup down with a thud. The whiskey splashed over the side and spread over the maps on the table. Rafe whisked them up and set them on his cot.

  “Please, don’t argue.” Martine took a rag from a shelf and began blotting the maps. The action helped her ignore the tension, thick and palpable, humming through the wagon. “I’ll marry Magor.”

  “What of Lord Forrester?”

  She looked at her grandmother, drew from her strength. “He has left.” And she gave him no encouragement to return.

  “Are you certain?” Anya asked as she came closer.