by Addison Cain
Lizzy was all smiles, thrilled to have stumbled upon her friend. “And now you have three seasoned neighbors to assist you!”
“Today I have promised dear Mary all my attention.” Recognizing the mute girl must be introduced, Arabella smiled. “Miss Mary Abbey is an important member of my household. Mary, this is Mr. Jenkins, Miss Jenkins, and Miss Lizzy, friends of mine.” Nothing changed in the maid, yet Arabella patted her arm warmly as if everything were natural. “Mr. Jenkins is the gentleman who thought your cooking so fine he believed you were French. It was a great compliment.”
Lilly’s angelic face turned toward the silent partner glued to the baroness’s side, examining the simple frock and unadorned hat with contempt. “Your maid is simple?”
Stomaching Lilly’s slights when they were directed at herself was easy. Swallowing down her anger once it was Mary under fire, was impossible. Arabella took a step closer to Mary’s persecutor. “Miss Mary is a woman of few words but great ability. You will ask forgiveness of my friend.”
Lilly shrank, immediately stammering something as near to an apology a girl like her could manage.
Edmund was unsure how to smooth the insult. “Would you and your companion like to join us, Lady Iliffe?”
“Perhaps later.” A hollow smile was offered. “Thank you.”
“I insist.” Edmund offered to take her other arm. “I shall be servant to you fine ladies, and between us, whatever you need will be found all the more quickly.”
What Arabella needed was a private conversation with the Romani trader watching the exchange with interest. But that was not to be. Edmund was not giving up the opportunity to have her on his arm.
Edmund Jenkins with his light hair, his fair, unblemished skin... was as English as an Englishman could be. How did he not see that she was brown-skinned, that she was of the very stock of trader he’d sneered at?
Would he still offer friendship once he knew? Would he be afraid of her, ashamed to have called her friend?
Probably. Yes.
Arabella was not going to be led off. “My business with this merchant is incomplete. I have offered to buy the mirror for Mary.”
Edmund could only stand silently as Arabella pulled her arm from his so she might open her reticule. The Romani wrapped the silver in sackcloth, coin was exchanged, the package handed to Payne... and still the Jenkins siblings lingered.
There was no getting rid of them. “Are you considering chastising me for bartering with the old woman?”
Her arm was caught up again, and Edmund directed the party towards the less controversial tents where lady’s goods were offered. “Yes.”
Arabella let out an exasperated sigh.
Ignoring the watching eyes of his sisters, Edmund put his hand to where her fingers rested upon the nook of his elbow. “Far be it from me to question the intentions of a noble woman. Just promise me you won’t try to run away with their circus.”
Laughing, Arabella shook her head. If he only knew... “Now you are teasing too much. I am not one of your sisters.”
His voice dropped lower, Edmund agreeing wholeheartedly. “I do not think of you as I would think of a sister.”
Unsure how to respond to the tone or implication—unsure if there was an implication—Arabella blushed.
He could not actually be pursuing her, or flirting—if he was even flirting. She had no fortune, no land, and her dower would cease the instant she married. He had to know that.
Eavesdropping, a supremely pleased Lizzy grinned.
This would not do.
Looking for a sharp change of topics, green eyes flicked back towards the colorful tent Edmund thought to lead her from—a place where a few young women of the lower classes lingered while working up the courage to go inside.
Arabella knew what waited inside those fabric walls, and from the small red string she’d seen tied around Lilly’s left wrist, Miss Jenkins knew too. “You wear a love knot, Miss Jenkins. What mysteries did the seer reveal to you?”
“Lilly!” Edmund barked at his sister, dropping Arabella’s hand to deal with the issue at hand.
Lilly blanched.
Arabella saw her chance. “Oh hush, Mr. Jenkins. All the girls sneak off to the tent. It’s part of the fun of a fair... And clearly she was very discreet if even her well-meaning and attentive older brother did not notice. Do not ruin the day for her because you are male and do not understand.”
It was obvious the man wanted to rail at his sister. Reaching out a gloved hand, Arabella squeezed Edmund’s forearm. “It is just silliness, I will prove it.” Brushing past the family, leaving Mary to Payne’s care, Arabella openly approached the colorful fortune telling tent and pulled the drape. The panel fell, the baroness concealed in a dark room rich with the scent of herbs and tobacco smoke.
She took the single waiting chair.
A blind crone wrapped in shawls called, “Welcome, honored mistress.”
Looking into rheumy eyes, coins were handed over, her glove removed, and the game began. Gnarled fingers, traced the shape of her poor, silver ring, of her calluses from labor and the holding of reins, and from that alone placed her class and distinction below her station. For five minutes, the woman cooed out the same nonsense she told all the other girls who entered the tent. A script she knew herself.
When the fortunetelling ended, Arabella did not rise from the seat. She leaned closer, taking a grip of the old woman’s hand while whispering in their shared language. “I will marry no farmer. There will be no six children or eternal happiness—though the tale was lovely.”
The seer stiffened, nervous. “Who are you?”
Arabella’s voice caught. “A baroness.” Lifting the old woman’s hand to the small ringlets at her temple, Arabella let the gypsy finger the strands and then the multitude of feathers in her hat. “But before my father sold me to an Englishman as wife, I was once like you.”
Withered hands moved to trace the lines of her face, arthritic fingers stinking of tallow following the shape of her nose. “And your husband?”
“Three years dead.”
“A woman without a husband is incomplete.”
“Is that what I am?” Utter contempt saturated Arabella’s every word. “If I am incomplete then what are those who turned me away from their fires when I begged them to save me from a man who beat me—a man who let his friends use me? I wonder what it makes you and all Romani.” Curses were a very real, and Arabella was tired of carrying hers alone. “It makes every last one of you in debt to me.”
Before the old woman could respond, Arabella stood. “I have a proposition for your people and will bring gold to your fires tonight... a great deal of gold. In exchange, I’m going to ask for very little.”
The crone’s voice held fear. “What is it you want?”
“To be able to sleep at night.” Arabella had nothing else to say. She left the tent as abruptly as she’d entered.
As if nothing was amiss, the baroness went straight to her friends, smiling beautifully. “As you see, Mr. Jenkins, I am unscathed. Though, I now know that I will marry the King of Prussia.”
Lizzy laughed behind her hand, even Lilly’s lips twitched, but it was Edmund’s reaction that mattered. The man sighed. “Where is the string for your wrist?”
Arabella offered a shrug. “I am afraid I will have to disappoint the Prussian King... I do not wish to marry again. In fact, I paid her extra for a chant so that I might never meet him.”
“Do you not wish for children?” Edmund asked, uncustomarily grim.
“Are you in agreement with the gypsy? Should I seek out King Frederick?”
Edmund seemed ready to speak on the subject, unfortunately another spoke first, “And now we all know her true intent. The baroness seeks to be a queen.”
Biting her lower lip, Arabella turned to find Mr. Harrow lounging in the shadows. He was positively humored. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harrow.”
Sitting atop a low wall, he smirked. He did not
stand or bow, simply purred her title in a way that set her teeth on edge. “Good afternoon, Arabella, Baroness of Iliffe and future queen of Prussia.”
“Perhaps you should visit the tent, Mr. Harrow,” Arabella replied. “I hear gypsies are skilled in summoning ghosts. You could exorcise the White Woman who haunts my home.”
“No.”
Chapter 10
C reeping downstairs amidst a slumbering household, Arabella appeared as a ghost of her past. The long plaits she’d worn in her hair as a girl, hung to her waist. Dressed in her shabbiest gown and cloak, she unhinged the door and snuck into the dark in search of her horse.
Payne was not to know what she was about. He would try to stop her, or go with her, and she could not allow either possibility. The man was too large, his appearance too unique to move in the shadows unrecognized as she could.
Alone on Mamioro’s back, her midnight race could be conducted quickly before any might know she was gone.
There could be no lantern, so she had to trust the stars. She could not be seen, so there were no roads to keep her safe from bogs. All she had as protection was the desperation of a woman with a dangerous idea. An idea that might help keep her and those she loved from ruin.
She was breathless by the time the fires of the fairgrounds winked in the distance. Mamioro’s coat had foamed, his heavy pants too loud for her to ride him any closer. She left the stallion to graze at a distance, and veiled her hair and face with a hood.
The young Romani men sat skirting the edges of camp, gambling with those Englishmen brave enough to play their cutthroat games. One foot before the other, Arabella marched past their tables, straight to the center of the caravans as if she had a right to be there.
Beyond the hung washing, in the corner set aside for family life, for chores and cooking, the old seer, the silver peddler, and a man with shining oiled curls waited. They eyed her warily, as did the other women and children, the old and young men... but none moved to stop her intrusion.
She was expected and equally unwelcome.
Carrying five times the amount of coin her demonic husband had tossed at her father’s feet, Arabella held her head high.
The man, arms crossed over his chest, stared meanly when Arabella took a seat at their fire. “The outcast I have heard so much of today.” He shifted his weight to get a better look at her. “You were not invited to sit.”
Her back to the villagers, she pulled down her hood and showed the man her face. “My name is Arabella. My father, Nicu Karela sold me at the age of fifteen to a noble. He let him drag me to a church in the middle of the night, where a clergyman was pulled from bed to see through a farce. My father let a stranger mount me over the altar seconds after I was forced to make vows to an outsider everyone knew was mad. And my father LAUGHED when he saw virgin blood on my wedding gown.”
Arabella rubbed a hand over her face, working to gather her temper. “After things were done to me I cannot repeat with children so near, I found a chance to flee. I fled back to my people. They would not look at me...” Even after so many years, the pain of that memory cut deep. “Not one of them tried to stop him when my father dragged me back to Baron Iliffe.”
Clearing his throat, the man frowned. “What is it you want?”
This was her chance to do more than pretend to be a baroness. She threw the heavy sack of coin toward the man. “The death of my husband did not lift my curse. His successor finds my Romani blood a shame upon the Iliffe name. For three years I have run from his threats. I am tired of running, but I know that once he finds me, I will die. I need to know when, where, and how he intends to do it.”
The silver peddler gave a gap-toothed smile. “My grandson, Ion, is handsome is he not?”
Narrowing her eyes, Arabella nodded in agreement with the crone. With his long curling hair and strong jaw, the man at the fire was well-built and virile. It changed nothing.
“You may remarry into our clan and rejoin your people. The English would forget about you.” It was the seer who made the offer, her unseeing eyes pointed at the fire. “That is how you will find your way again.”
Arabella shook her head, laughing to the point it was an insult. “You think I will reject your offer because I bear a title that commands respect from the English? You are wrong. I reject it because it is not only my life that is threatened. My household would suffer. I will not leave those who have been loyal to me without protection. Your caravan cannot shield us all.” Green eyes locked on Ion, her warning for him. “More importantly, your grandson cannot want me and would only accept such a flawed wife to fulfill his duty to family. I made that mistake once. You should desire better for him.”
Ion was no more interested in the prospect of marriage than she. Weighing the laden pouch, he asked, “What became of your father?”
“He thought to demand more money from Baron Iliffe for returning me.” Arabella needed this man to understand the danger. “His arguments were silenced by a blade through the heart. My husband killed him right in front of me.”
For long minutes he watched her through the sparks and crackling tips of the flames. There was a great sum of gold in his hand, almost enough to buy the soul of a man, but he was unmoved.
Arabella had not made the risk of coming to this place to leave empty handed. She grew desperate. “This is only the first payment. I will give you everything I have, if that is what it takes.”
Ion’s lips ticked up at the corner, dark eyes glittering in the firelight. “I’ll take your coin. Tell me what I need to know.”
“In London you’ll find my husband’s successor, Lord William Dalton...” For hours Arabella spoke of secrets, of places she feared, and men who had hurt her. She told Ion everything, a gypsy seer and gap-toothed trader as witness. She spoke until she found there were no words left, and then she stood to leave, but there was a pair of black eyes watching from the edge of the grounds. Where men threw dice and drank, still as carved earth, Gregory made it clear in one dark gaze he knew who she was. She turned to him so he might watch her cover her hair, so he might know he was correct, that it was her—the pirate—and that he could do nothing with such knowledge that would not bring him disgrace.
Walking past wide-eyed children, past women who no longer sneered, Arabella merged into the night, feeling like bones left out in the sun—like the color had been bleached from her.
She was the White Woman as Gregory had claimed.
A shrill whistle and Mamioro ran to her, the very prize horse that had stomped her husband almost to death. Astride his back, she set off, but not in the furious gallop that had brought her to the caravans. Slowly she rode toward her stone warren—back to a place no Romani would ever abide in—a place that would never move or rock in the wind.
A tomb.
His voice was severe and cutting. “Had any recognized you, you would have been cast out! What game is it you think you are playing?”
She’d heard him ride up, having known he would follow her, but Arabella did not spare Gregory Harrow a glance.
He turned his gelding, cutting off her stallion’s path. “No noble’s title would protect you from the slander of these people if you were exposed in such a way. You would be hounded. Men would feel free to touch you, especially as you are young and unmarried. Farmers would not trade with a gypsy or your servants. Shops would not take your custom. Your safety would be forfeit.” Gnashing his teeth, he growled. “Are you not happy on the moors?”
“My lineage is not a secret in London.” Utterly drained, Arabella refused to argue. With a heavy sigh she shook her head. “It is only a matter of time before the news reaches Harding.”
“You think I did not already know what you were? That I did not suspect the second I saw you on that bluff or heard the Romani curse for which you named your horse? How about how well you cheat at cards? The way you ride... No matter how much silk you drape yourself in, no matter how much you pretend to be one of them, you are not.”
She
agreed. “A Romani baroness and a bastard gentleman. Are we not the sorry pair?”
“Are we not, indeed.”
She raised her eyes to his, and before she might protest, Gregory reached out and hooked her waist. There was no struggle when he pulled her from her monstrous horse to tuck her safely across his thighs.
Strong arm fast about her middle, Gregory set off with his prize.
She didn’t struggle, curse him, or scream. Instead she tucked her face against his neck and closed her eyes.
He took her safely around bogs that would sink a horse and rider, her stallion following his mistress. It was not until they were deep into his lands that he slowed his pace. At the foot of the spire where they’d first met, Gregory dismounted.
He pulled her from the saddle, and lay the stiff woman down on a bed of heather. Braced over her body, he breathed against her lips. “Shall I build you a fire?”
The wind was blocked by the outcrop, the devil sprawled over her body hot as pitch. “No.”
Gregory pulled the tie between her breasts, having given her the one chance to refuse. “You’ll be cold...”
There were no further pointless questions or demands for explanations, just slow touch and a sucking kiss. When his hands delved under the thin fabric that bloused over her breasts, when the pressure of full lips left her mouth and sucked a trail of searing heat down her neck, Arabella found her hands in his hair.
“To see you alone in that place...” Though his touch was gentle, his voice was furious. “Never go there again.”
The feel of his mouth warming her skin, Arabella sighed to the stars. “I am not afraid of the Romani.”
“Fear the men who visit the gypsies to gamble, drink, and leer at dancing. One of them might have followed you from the caravan.”
“One of them did.” She didn’t want to talk of the Romani or of dangerous men. She’d talked enough for one night. All Arabella wanted was to lie in the flowers and forget.
Pulling his head from her breast, Gregory warned, “You wanted to go with me, you knew where I would bring you, and you need what I’m going to do to you.”