The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  “But that is not honest!”

  She shrugged. “What does it matter if it makes them happy?”

  “I cannot be a fortune-teller,” Henrietta declared. Pulling her hand away she stood, slightly hunched. “I have no talent for it.”

  “We shall see what Lucien has to say.” Mila clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and pushed to her feet. Almost a foot shorter than Henrietta, and hunched by nature, she was one of the few who could stand upright in the small tents. “Ye must learn to believe in the magic of the Gypsies, girlie.”

  She did in fact. At least when it came to Lucien. Henrietta was certain he had cast some sort of spell upon her. Riding out with him that morning she felt alarmingly alive. Her spirits soared, her blood bubbled. She felt a sense of expectation, the excitement of boundless energy.

  And she felt beautiful whenever Lucien looked her way. She had seen the light of admiration in the compelling Gypsy leader’s eyes. Sensations Henrietta had never felt before poured over and through her like a warm, clear cascading waterfall.

  Knowing she’d proved herself a worthy equestrian to him, she wished to ride further. She longed to ride to the end of England, on to Scotland, to the tip of the north coast with Lucien as her companion. But he could not ride far with her. He was betrothed to another.

  And she had learned he was a man who never broke his word.

  “I do believe in your magic—in a way,” she admitted to Mila.

  “Ye must believe with all your mind and heart,” the crooked old woman admonished. Grabbing Henrietta’s hand again, she began to read. Or tell a tale. “Ah, I see a tall, dark, handsome man in your future,” she chortled.

  Henrietta withdrew her hand. “You are mocking me.”

  “But wait...” Mila’s black bushy brows dove into a frown as she pulled Henrietta’s palm into hers once more. She pointed to a spot where the lines intertwined. “Here ... I see danger.”

  “Nonsense! Is that what you tell people? That they are in danger?”

  “No. But I tell you.” Her small dark eyes locked on Henrietta’s. “Beware.”

  * * * *

  The end of Henrietta’s fortune-telling lesson came none too soon. Jassy came by to ask Mila to look at one of his bears. The oldest, Ike, a Russian Grizzly, was behaving in a strange, lethargic manner.

  Mila acted as doctor to the Gypsy tribe and to their animals as well. Henrietta had learned early that the small band respected her capricious mentor for the cantankerous woman’s knowledge of illness and the application of proper herbal remedies.

  Alone, Henrietta’s thoughts turned once again to her predicament. Lucien would never go back on his word. She knew that even at the risk of alienating his people, he would escort her straight to Liverpool.

  She had overheard the grumblings and complaints. After being whisked away from a lucrative village and forced to travel to Tewksbury at great speed, where they would earn only a trifling for their efforts, not many in the caravan cared to spare Henrietta’s feelings.

  Staring into the small fire, a deep melancholy settled into her bones. Her grand plan no longer seemed to be so grand. She could not, would not, be responsible for this once happy tribe of performers becoming restive and perhaps ultimately turning against their king.

  One hour slipped into another. Mila did not return and Henrietta could not sleep.

  She was not without a shilling. When she planned for her escape, she had taken precautions. She did not leave Fairly Park without her velvet pouch of bank notes, funds put by over a long period of time. The notes had been gifts from Aunt Beatrice who could not be bothered with actual shopping. It was an eccentricity Henrietta did not wholly appreciate in her youth.

  It was a cold damp night and the twigs she added to the fire seemed not to make the tent any warmer. Her conscience urged her to leave the camp—now. Time was of the essence. She would only require a horse.

  There were any number of horses in the pen. She would think of it as borrowing, until she could return the animal. And she would take one of the oldest animals, perhaps Joker, the tinker’s old chestnut.

  She might not have such a perfect opportunity again. With Mila still off attending to Jassy’s bear, Henrietta could slip away unnoticed. Her heart rebelled with a slow, heavy thudding. But her mind told her leaving was the right thing to do.

  Covering her head and body with layers of heavy shawls, she peered out of the tent. The camp was quiet and most of the outside fires had been put out. The night was pitch black, the stars hidden behind a low blanket of clouds. She could smell rain in the air.

  Henrietta left Mila’s tent. Guided by distant torches, she made her way slowly toward the pen. Twigs and leaves crunched beneath her feet But who was near to hear, save some nocturnal creatures?

  Her pulse skipped at every unfamiliar sound as she made her way to the horses. Riding through the night would be a truly frightening adventure even though she had not far to go. The caravan had not stopped more than two miles from the town. She must go now, for to attempt to leave the camp during daylight hours would certainly be foolhardy.

  When she reached the pen, she found the guard asleep, surely a sign she was doing the right thing. Henrietta studied the horses, smiling at Bay and Ursa off by themselves. She found the old chestnut she sought on the other side of the pen. Two worn leather bridles hung on the post by the crude gate. She took one and hurried to the tinker’s horse.

  “Hello, old friend,” she crooned to the sway-backed beast. “How would you like to take an evening ride? I do not weigh much.”

  The docile animal allowed her to slip the bridle in place. Cautious, she glanced about but saw no one but the guard. Henrietta led the horse out of the gate. Her heart pounded against her chest. Apprehension lodged in her throat like stale bread. She could hardly breathe. Just a few more yards. She feared the guard would wake at any moment and catch her.

  Her heart hammered faster, harder. She looked over her shoulder at the sleeping guard, keeping her eyes on his immobile form. Just a few more yards and she could mount and be on her way.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Ayyyyye!”

  Her gaze had been on the guard, not on the path in front of her. Henrietta wheeled around. And froze.

  Lucien’s towering form blocked her path. With his arms folded across his wide, iron chest, he shook his head slowly as if he were preparing to scold a naughty child.

  The air was cold and damp. Without stars or moon the night sky was dismally black. Soon it would storm. The wind was wet with it. But would the weather be any match for the storm brewing within Lucien?

  Although he’d suffered from insomnia less in the last week, he could not sleep tonight. He had walked out, hoping to tire himself.

  “Lady Henrietta, this is getting to be a habit of yours that I do not look favorably upon.”

  “Do you follow me? Do you enjoy frightening me?”

  Instead of replying, he exhaled in an exasperated rush of air. “What are you doing here?”

  “Walking this horse.”

  “How far did you plan to walk him? Tewksbury? Buckingham? Or beyond?”

  “I was feeling restless—”

  “Or did you plan to steal him?” Lucien demanded gruffly.

  Henrietta raised her chin. “Do I look like a thief?”

  “No. But neither do you look like the headstrong young woman I know you to be.” He jerked the reins from her and seized her hand. “Every night I come by to check on Ursa and Bay. I am especially glad I came tonight.”

  Henrietta struggled to free herself from his grasp. “I must leave.”

  “You may leave when I say you may leave.” Leading the horse with one hand, he dragged the defiant English beauty back. He only wished to protect her. Why could she not be grateful and content with his concern?

  “Do you know that even Mila is vexed with me?” she asked. “She blames me for the tribe leaving Gloucester too soon, as do the others. These feelings
can do no good for either you or me.”

  “These feelings will pass. Or have you changed your mind and would return to marry the Earl of Oster?”

  “No. I will not marry him.”

  Lucien directed his attention to the old chestnut as he removed the bridle Henrietta had just put on the poor beast.

  “By setting off by yourself you are dooming yourself to the fate you do not wish—if you are not killed or kidnapped first.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “You are ill equipped for a journey across the country by yourself. You are too innocent.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  Tonight, she required all of his patience. He drew a steadying breath and answered calmly. “Perhaps, but once we reach Birmingham my tribe will forget this small inconvenience. They will no longer send scowls your way.”

  A drop of rain plopped against his nose. Catching her hand in his once again, Lucien dashed to the protective canopy of a large sheltering oak.

  The first gentle drops of rain soon developed into a downpour. Although the wide branches provided protection from the thick sheet of cold rain, enough slid through the leaves to dampen Lucien and Henrietta.

  “Killed, kidnapped or married to the Earl of Oster? I do not favor any of the choices you offer. But just why should anyone wish to kidnap me?”

  He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back. “Any number of enterprising ruffians might decide to up the reward by holding you for ransom.”

  She raised her chin, her luminous eyes shone silver-blue in the dark as they met his. “I have one other choice.”

  “Yes,” he replied quietly. “You may make the voyage to North America.”

  A small frown wrinkled her brow as she searched his eyes.

  Tiny drops of rain glistened on the tips of her long curling eyelashes. The shawl had fallen from her head and long wet silky tendrils of henna dark hair framed her face. Heaven’s tears spilled down her cheeks, glistening like small jewels.

  She had never looked so lovely.

  Foregoing the impulse to warm and dry her lips beneath his, Lucien reached over her shoulders and carefully pulled the fallen shawl up over her head.

  “North America. You know that is where I wish to go.”

  Much to Lucien’s chagrin. But he had no right to Henrietta, to ask her to stay in England. “I wager you will meet a husband there,” he said with forced cheer, “more to your liking than the earl.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed.

  “The men outnumber the women in North America. The fellows are desperate for women,” he told her. “You will have any number of strong, healthy males from which to select your husband.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I read. As I told the Bow Street Runner, Gypsies are not all ignorant.”

  “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to infer ...” Henrietta pulled her black shawl more tightly around her. “I recall seeing many books in your tent on my first night”

  He was heartless, keeping her here, standing in the rain conversing as if it were a bright summer day. But he was reluctant to part from her.

  “And on a night such as this, I wish to be in my warm tent reading by a bright lantern.”

  Henrietta lowered her head. “Of course you do.”

  “Shall we go back now and get out of the rain?”

  “May I ask you something first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of a personal nature?”

  “Yes. If I have your promise not to run from the caravan.”

  She conceded with an unconvincing nod.

  “Now, what is your question?” he asked.

  She chewed on the corner of her lip as if gathering courage, before raising her eyes. “Have you ... Have you ever been in love?”

  He answered with a twist of his lips. He could not bring himself to smile. “Yes, once. When I was younger.”

  “A Gypsy woman?”

  “No. A young lady who lived near our estate in Wales.” He gazed over her head into the rainy night “It was the summer of my twenty-second year. At the time I thought I could follow my dream and raise horses.”

  “What happened?”

  “She learned I was an English Gypsy ... too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “I had already lost my heart to Roxanne.”

  “What happened?”

  “She refused to defile her line with Gypsy blood. She refused to see me, let alone marry me. She was a village girl.”

  “How horrid for you!” Henrietta’s eyes widened and flashed with indignation.

  “The incident is just a memory now,” he assured her.

  “If you will forgive me for saying so, she did not deserve you. A woman who would be so shallow and callous is beyond the pale!”

  He chuckled as his gaze came to rest on her. “You are a true friend. Opinionated, but loyal, I expect.”

  “Yes. I would like to be ... I would like you to think of me as your friend.”

  Lucien’s lips parted in prelude to a kiss he must have. A splash of cold rain hit his cheek. As he bent his head, her soft smile stopped him.

  She was an innocent. He could not betray her trust, no matter how much he wanted her.

  He barely recognized the hoarse timbre of his voice. “We’d better get you out of this rain before you become ill.”

  Hand in hand, they dashed through the rain. If she became ill, he would have no one to blame but himself. He never considered that he might be the one who would fall into a sickbed.

  Chapter Six

  Less than a week following his rainy evening rendezvous with Henrietta, Lucien raised a pint of ale in the Bull and Baker Pub in Worcester. Musty, dark and dirty, the atmosphere of the low-ceilinged, thatch-roofed Cotswold pub was depressing at best.

  After several disappointing days in Tewksbury, he had moved the caravan on to this larger village in Worcestershire County. Thus far, the new route he’d embarked upon had not proved lucrative for his tribe. The mutterings of discontent grew louder each day.

  Without Steffan to travel ahead of the caravan and announce its impending arrival, the Gypsy performers were forced to make themselves known. While Lucien waited in the pub, Gilda, Tawnie and Jassy made simple purchases in the town shops and invited those they met to the camp on the outskirts of town.

  This method of spreading the word was usually successful. Lucien went along to intercede in case of trouble.

  He spoke little, but listened for news in the pubs he visited. Today he was eager to hear of any developments concerning the runaway bride, Lady Henrietta Hadley.

  After standing in the rain with the beautiful fugitive and never for an instant feeling wet or chilled, he’d become even more acutely aware of the danger in tarrying with the blue-eyed, dimpled charmer. Although he did not understand the nature of her influence, she exerted a powerful effect on him. Puzzling.

  For days after Lucien had intercepted her in the storm, he’d worried the lady had caught a chill. According to Mila’s daily report, however, Henrietta remained strong and well. The old woman further related that while Henrietta proved quick to learn her herbal lessons, she was hopeless in palm reading.

  This insight did not disturb Lucien overmuch. She would not be reading fortunes as he’d thought at first. For her own protection, and that of his tribe, he’d ordered Henrietta confined to either Mila’s van or the old healer’s tent.

  And since their last meeting, he had taken to avoiding the lady. Lucien did not trust the way he responded to her smile, her eyes, the gentle sway of her sweet body. Long ago, he’d vowed never to love again. He could not think of a worst time to lose his resolve—en route to his wedding.

  The problem was Lucien could hardly keep her at arms’ length until they reached Liverpool. The camp was too small and the journey too long. It was unlikely he could confine the spirited young woman for many more days. How did one capture a soft summer breeze as it moved across the meado
w and flitted among the flowers?

  Lucien drained his mug of bitter ale. He had other matters requiring his attention. The English beauty occupied far too much of his thoughts of late.

  He signaled for another ale. It was late afternoon and the pub had surprisingly few customers.

  The burly publican appeared unconcerned about the cobwebs in the corners of his establishment, and the hardened droppings from mutton pie on the counter. He sauntered over to where Lucien stood and leaned his raw elbow on the bar.

  “More ale?”

  “Yes, sir. Your brew is excellent”

  “Aye.” He turned to the wood cask behind him to fill Lucien’s mug. “Have you just arrived in town, Gypsy man?”

  “We made camp last night.”

  Although he had a full black beard, the man behind the bar was more bald than not. “How long be your stay?”

  “Four nights, or five.”

  Unwilling to further antagonize his people, Lucien had decided to give the performers as much time here as needed to refill their pockets. His income did not depend on what the tribe collected during an evening, but he was more concerned for his people’s welfare than his own.

  After initially disowning his mother for marrying the Vaslav Gypsy, her family eventually welcomed her back into the fold. As a result, Lucien and his brothers had inherited a sizable income several years ago.

  But he missed the comfort of his home in Swansea, Wales. He longed for the rocky cliffs, the ocean air and the simple life he enjoyed there. Up until the time he was twenty-five years old, he bred and raised his horses in the stables and pastures of Haven House. It was where he yearned to be during those night hours when he suffered insomnia and stalked through the camp.

  “We got sickness in Worcester,” the pub owner said. He plunged three fingers deep into the thick center of his beard and scratched. “Ye might not want to be stayin’ here.”

  This was not good news. For Lucien to lead his people into a sick village was far worse than forcing them to break camp early.

  “What sort of sickness?” Lucien asked.

  “Ague.” The pub keeper lifted a pint of dark ale and wiped his lips with his tongue. “Most of me friends are down with it.”