For the Love of a Gypsy

by Madelyn Hill

  “Do you mean I haven’t won you yet? Now I’ve more work to do.” He kissed the tip of her straight nose.

  Martine laughed. A musical twinkle that went straight to his heart. Pure, lovely, her. He wiped the back of his neck as he wondered at his winsome thoughts. Bollocks, not only was she bewitching, she’d bewitched him.

  He steered Kindred farther into the village and straight towards Finnian’s Pub. ’Twas the cleanest and friendliest. Details Martine was sure to appreciate. Again, villagers’ attention sought them. Instead of the vulnerable woman who’d just ridden past farmers, Martine’s spine was straight and her chin thrust a notch higher than usual. He was proud of her.

  “Stay here while I arrange for rooms,” he directed.

  She glanced about the walkway and at the people completing their errands. Her chin trembled a wee bit, then she squared her shoulders and nodded.

  Declan walked into the pub and stood in the doorway. He inhaled the aroma of ale and smoke and the underlying scent of stew bubbling in a pot. After surveying the main floor, he almost left in search of something more suitable. Knowing full well that nothing existed, he walked toward the bar area and flipped a coin to the bartender.

  “I need two rooms.”

  The barkeep continued to clean a glass and didn’t even glance at the money on the scarred wooden bar. He jerked his head toward the stairs and a withered-looking woman standing at the landing. “She’ll see to ye, m’lord.”

  He knew this would happen. With Abigail gone and Ettenborough back in London, his authority over the villagers and tenants was gone. The man hadn’t even looked at him. Lord knew who Ettenborough had decided to put in charge, but he was certain ‘twasn’t him.

  Declan approached the woman who looked more worn than his saddle. She hobbled up the stairs and opened the first door on the left. He entered the room and felt assured ‘twas clean and roomy enough for Martine. The second chamber was much of the same and he told the woman he’d take them. “Make sure water is brought up for my lady’s bath.”

  “Reggie won’t be likin’ that, I tell ye.”

  Declan ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m paying more than enough for these rooms. Now see to the water.”

  She headed back down the stairs, talking to herself the entire way. Daft, ‘twas no other explanation.

  He shrugged and went back down to fetch Martine. While she bathed, he’d visit some shops and purchase new clothing for her to wear as they traveled.

  She was still on Kindred when he came back down, eyes wide and bright. Kindred’s nostrils flared.

  As he exited the pub, he saw what had them so nervous. A few men had surrounded the horse, taunting Martine.

  “Aye, look what we have here.”

  The other men chuckled and moved in closer.

  “Quite the beaut.” He laughed. “The horse, not the Gypsy.”

  Rage shot through his veins. “Step away.”

  The men looked to him.

  “I saw her first,” one said.

  Declan quickly glanced at Martine. She looked to the ground, her face ashen. He must get her to safety, far away from the strangers. “Step away from my betrothed.”

  Metal scraped as one of the men pulled a knife from its hardened leather sheath.

  “Put your weapon away,” Declan warned as he reached for Kindred’s reins.

  He sensed his men arriving before they were visible to the men harassing Martine. With a quick grin, he pulled back and punched the man holding the knife.

  The weapon clattered against the rocky road.

  “Grrahhh!”

  Chaos ensued.

  Nate and Pierce flanked one man. Matthew and Lange wrestled another.

  Declan threw Kindred’s reins to Martine. “Go,” he yelled as he turned and punched another ruffian. The man lunged. Declan landed against the ground. He scrambled up, feinted right, and released a punch. The ruffian landed on the ground out cold.

  “Lads, ‘tis enough.”

  The magistrate, Connelly, had arrived.

  “He punched Paddy, he did.”

  Declan wiped the back of his neck and released a sigh. He scanned the horizon to see where Martine had fled. Damn, he didn’t see her.

  “The men were harassing my betrothed.” He said, no longer caring about the men, his concern solely fixated on Martine.

  “We were just being friendly like.”

  He scoffed and the rest of his men gathered close as a united front of intimidation.

  “Gather your friend,” Connelly said. “I’ll take care of them, m’lord.”

  The men looked at him and blanched. “We didn’t know he was a lord.”

  The magistrate shoved the men toward the jail, grumbling the entire way.

  “Where is Martine?”

  Little came around the corner, leading Kindred.

  Declan breathed a sigh of relief as his gaze settled on his betrothed. Thank God she wasn’t hurt.

  She slipped off his steed’s back and raced toward him. He held her tight in his embrace and kissed her head as she shook. “You’re safe, my love.”

  She pulled back, tears glistening in her eyes. Deep pools of brown gazed at him, pulled at his heart. Not only fear lingered in her eyes, but anger as well.

  “Now do you think London will accept me?” The anger shimmered through her tears, fiery hot. “See how they treat your Gypsy fiancé? English women do not have tanned skin. They do not speak with my accent. They are not called Martine. They will all know I am Rom.”

  He cupped her cheek. “You will be my wife. A few ill-mannered ruffians won’t change that.” He ran his thumb over her lips. “I love you.”

  She snuggled into his hand. But he saw the doubt that flared in her eyes, the slight flare of her nose. It killed him to see her so uncertain, so fearful.

  “They will never accept me. How can I do that to you? To us?”

  Dread punched him in the gut. He kissed her forehead. “I have faith in us.”

  She shook her head while tears raced down her face.

  “A bath is being drawn for you, m’lady.”

  A small smile quirked her mouth, even as tension tightened her shoulders. “Och, thank you. I feel as if I hadn’t bathed in months.”

  Declan chuckled. “This way.” He nodded thank you to his men. They saluted and went about their business. He’d have to check with the magistrate to ensure the men were sent on their way.

  As they entered the pub, the establishment went silent. Martine ducked her gaze, knowing full well she was the cause of the silence. Dear God, it shamed her to be treated as those men treated her, to be glared at by the people in the pub.

  “Ye can be staying. But her,” the barkeep said as he pointed at her, “will have to leave.”

  Declan drew up and glared at the man. “Tell me, old man, do you wish to die today?”

  The man blanched and the lump in his throat bobbed up and down. His gazed raked over Martine in her red dress. “I’ll not have a damn Gypsy in me pub.”

  Declan rested his elbow on the bar and lifted his boot onto the brass footrest. “You’ll provide a room for my betrothed.” He spoke low but with an undisguised growl. “Do we understand each other, old man?”

  The barkeep nodded and picked up a glass. He must have decided Declan needed reassurance, because the glass was soon filled with frothy ale.

  Never had she felt so humiliated. She felt rooted to the dusty, wooden planks of the floor, unable to force herself forward or back.

  Surely Declan would see the errors of his ways and decide he couldn’t marry someone who would never be accepted into his society. She felt the interest of every man in the pub, disgust and mistrust. No matter she wasn’t truly a Gypsy. The villagers
didn’t know she was English—they saw only the brightly colored clothing, tanned skin and heard her accent, thick and foreign.

  They saw Rom.

  Martine tugged on Declan’s elbow. “Let’s leave.” The begging tone of her voice shamed her. Where did her courage flee to? Even more degrading was the fact the barkeep and everyone in the pub seemed to agree with her.

  He took a long draw from the ale. “Nay. Go and bathe.” He drummed his fingers on the bar. “I’ll purchase a traveling costume.”

  He placed his hand at the small of her back, offering an encourage smile. “Go, ‘tis safe.”

  She tried to smile at him, but she knew her mouth didn’t form more than a straight line. With trembling fingers, she gripped the railing to the stairs and began walking up one step at a time. She could feel the scrutiny of the pub’s patrons as if they were burning holes through her back with their intense stares.

  Just as she also knew Declan was there and wouldn’t allow harm to come to her.

  As she reached the door, she heard Declan leave and wanted to run back down the stairs and cling to him. No, she chastised herself, I’m a Petrulengo, or at least was raised as one. Rise above. Martine straightened her spine and continued through the door, refocused and determined not to allow the villagers to strip her of her dignity.

  The chamber was clean and warmed by a small fire in the hearth. A small bath sat in the center and beckoned to her like a sweet. She shut the door and began to undress. When she spied a linen towel and a chunk of soap, she almost squealed with glee.

  A knock on the door stilled her actions. Cautiously she put her ear to the wood. “Who’s there?”

  “’Tis me, m’lady. Ruth, the chamber maid.”

  Martine sighed, rebuttoned her blouse, and opened the door. “Come in.”

  The stooped woman struggled with a steaming bucket of water.

  “Let me help you.” Martine relieved Ruth of the cumbersome bucket and set it on a stool near the tub.

  The woman ducked her head. “’Tis for rinsing.”

  Martine touched her arm and said, “Thank you for bringing the water. I’ve been dreaming of a bath for several days.”

  “Aye, ‘tis been quite the time ye had at Riverton. That crazy Sadie is being taken care of, more’s the pity. She was a fine tipper, that one.”

  Not knowing how to reply, Martine absently straightened the coverlet on the bed. She didn’t want to talk about Lady Bannon. She wanted to forget the loathsome acts the woman had perpetrated.

  “Listen to me chatting like a hen. Me Joseph always says I don’t ken when to quit.”

  Martine smiled. “No matter. I’ll take my bath now.”

  The older woman bobbed her head and ducked out of the room. Before she closed the door, she said, “I’ll be sending a meal up for you and the fine lord.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t know why, but a nervous tremor clenched her stomach. She was to be married to Declan. Something she never hoped to dream of and now it was coming true. Oh to have her grandmother here to witness the event. Martine rubbed her eyes to stop the winsome tears clogging her vision. She sniffled and then began to undress once again. With a second thought, she put a spindly-back chair beneath the doorknob to ensure there would be no more interruptions.

  She slipped into the tub and sighed. ’Twas glorious. The heat, scented soap, and just getting the grime from her body. She nearly fell asleep she soaked so long. After lathering her hair, she rinsed with clean water and began drying off.

  “Martine,” a voiced called between banging on the door. “Let me in.”

  She wrapped the towel around her still-damp body and removed the chair from before the door. “’Tis open,” she called as she moved into the protective shadows of the room.

  Declan entered with packages overloading his arms. “I’ve bought the stores out.”

  “Aye, I can see.” His generosity warmed her. Pah, what sentimentality. Still, the girlish side of her nature was thrilled to be wearing stylish clothing. Her brother would seethe if he saw her in the dress of the Irish. And since she was still peevish when it came to him, it brought a wee bit of satisfaction that she’d done as she pleased instead of bowing to Rafe’s wishes.

  “Come closer,” he said as he crooked his finger at her. “I have another surprise.”

  Curious, Martine came forward as she attempted to guess what his surprise might be. Not that he needed to give more to her. He’d already saved her from a hellish marriage and made her heart fuller than she’d ever imagined. He set down the packages and pulled her into his chest. She caught her breath, then released it as she looked into his loving eyes. They darkened to a deep midnight blue as his gaze roamed over her face.

  Declan smoothed her hair back and his fingers tangled into the wet curls. He tugged her head back and kissed her thoroughly. She returned the kiss in kind as heat coiled within the pit of her stomach. She sank further into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck. As she did so, the towel slipped to the floor in a puddle at her feet. Cool air hit her skin as internal heat surged within with a provocative decadence. Declan’s hands roamed her body, a soft touch with slightly abrasive hands. Her heart beat fast against her chest, pushing her to open her mouth to his demanding tongue.

  “No,” he said breathlessly. “After we wed.” He rested his forehead on hers. His hand slipped behind her neck, warm and protective.

  “You’re a good man, Declan Forrester.” She rose up on her tiptoes and gently kissed him on the lips. “’Tis why I’m marrying you.”

  His mouth tilted into a cocky grin and then he started opening all of the packages. “This,” he said while holding up a lovely rose-colored skirt, “is for you.”

  She accepted the skirt and held it up to herself to check the fit, not caring a whit she was naked. She wasn’t surprised when it appeared to be the perfect length. He followed suit with several blouses, waistcoats, and under garments.

  With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I’ve saved the best for last.” He opened a large box and unfolded a deep sapphire blue gown.

  The luxurious fabric tempted her fingers and she slid them down the silk. He held it up and mockingly pretended to waltz around the room with the gown draped before him. Martine laughed and hugged him. “’Tis elegant, to be sure. And such a grand shade of blue to match your eyes.”

  “’Tis your wedding dress.”

  “Blue?” she said as she caressed the fabric once again.

  He cocked a brow. “You were going to wear a red dress, were you not?”

  She shrugged. “Aye, I was.” ’Twas true, but Martine wasn’t sure how she was feeling. Homesickness. That was the answer. She tipped up her face and said, “I’ll take my dress, if you please.”

  Declan handled it to her. As she stepped to retrieve it, he wrapped his arms around her and just stared into her eyes. “I’ve another gift.”

  She swatted at him. Never had she had this much attention before—the gifts, his loving words. “You’ll spoil me.”

  “’Tis my right.” He reached into his pocket and took out a slim box.

  Martine glanced at him, then back at the box. She untied the white ribbon and opened the lid. A golden band, etched with scrolling filigree, nestled in silk and sparkled with a large red stone. She touched the cool metal as she marveled at the ring’s beauty. Anticipation swirled within her stomach and tears overflowed her lashes. ’Twas the most precious item she’d ever seen.

  Declan lifted the ring from the box and went down on one knee. She gasped as he slipped the ring on her finger. “Be mine forever, Martine. Tell me you will.”

  She brought her free hand to her chest and said, “Aye, I will.”

  He stayed silent, his firm jaw making his face appear hard as granite.

  “Declan, is s
omething wrong?” Panic surged through her. Did he change his mind?

  “Nay.” His voice rasped the word. “I’m proud to have you as my wife.” He lifted from his kneeling position and brought her hand to his lips. “You’re my treasure, my life.”

  Her heart missed a beat at the vehemence of his words. Never had she felt so wanted and accepted.

  “Get dressed, woman. You’re too tempting to be sure.”

  She nodded, too touched for words. She pledged she’d never shame him, never allow those in London to know she was Rom.

  From this day forward, she was English.

  Chapter 18

  She watched Declan rise and begin to dress and ready for their departure to England. Och, her head hurt as she thought of the voyage and then landing in a land so foreign to her. No matter, her betrothed’s body garnered her attention as he shucked his clothing unaware of her perusal. He was an excellent example of manhood. Broader of shoulder than most Rom men, taller, and with a rugged handsomeness that pleased her beyond comparison. His muscles rippled and bunched as he moved, strong, powerful. Pah, she was like a love-sick cow.

  The only sour note was the band of scars across his back. Stark white against his tanned skin, they stood out horribly. It sickened her to think of the pain he endured.

  He turned and noticed her watching. A cocksure grin creased his face, then concern shone as he approached. “Why are you troubled, my love?” He knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms.

  She shook her head. “’Twas nothing,” she said softly as she dressed.