“You, English,” said the eldest, the obvious leader, his words spoken with a foreign lilt. His eyes were light brown, nearly the same color as the swarthy hue of his skin. His hair was black and curly, but for a few strands of gray at his temples, and a thick mustache covered his upper lip. He wore boots that he’d left unlaced, a garish coat, and baggy trousers, and he had a bright pink kerchief knotted at his throat. He looked as though he’d been thrown together with scraps from a ragbag.
Jenny had heard tales of these people. They wandered the countryside at will, stealing pretty English children from their beds, practicing dark magic, and who knew what else. The leader’s companions unnerved her. One with a gold front tooth gazed at her intently, raking his black eyes over her sodden form, lingering at her mouth, then her bosom. When his gaze wandered downward, Jenny had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see through her clothes.
“Your man—he is bad hurt,” said the leader.
She swallowed and glanced up the road. “Yes. Those men, they—”
“Narkri. Banditas.” The man sneered and looked down the road where her attackers had fled. He looked at her, then at her traveling bag with its contents strewn about, apparently weighing the situation. “Come. We take you to camp.”
An elaborately painted wagon drew up behind the horsemen. A man was driving, but a woman sat beside him, also dressed in vivid colors, and wearing gold bangles at her ears and wrists. Here on the isolated road, in the pouring rain, these Gypsies offered the unconscious man his only chance at survival. It was slim, but it was a chance nonetheless.
The leader spoke in his own strange language to his men, who dropped the reins of their horses and came to her. Carefully lifting the hurt man, they carried him to the back of the wagon and moved him inside. One of them picked up his leather satchel and her sodden traveling bag and tossed the whole unwieldy bundle into the wagon.
The leader pointed to himself and spoke in halting English. “I am Guibran Bardo. King of Rom.”
Jenny swallowed her surprise. “K-king?”
“Of Rom. Jip-see as you say.”
Jenny swallowed tightly. “Thank you for helping me. Er…us. I am Jenny Keating.”
“And your husband?”
“M-my…?” she stammered, then suddenly realized Mr. Bardo thought the wounded man was her husband. It was just as well for them to believe she was a married lady, especially while that black-eyed Gypsy rascal was near, watching her as he picked at his gold tooth. She could pretend to belong to her rescuer for a few hours, just until the weather cleared and she could go on her way.
“He is…er…” She swallowed nervously. “M-Matthew. Matthew Keating.”
The Gypsy king took Jenny’s hand and helped her climb into the wagon, where she slipped into place beside “Matthew.” She hoped he would not mind that she’d claimed him as her spouse.
His head hurt abominably and his stomach felt as though one wrong move would make him heave its contents.
Worse, he couldn’t figure out where he was. The smell of wood smoke was strong, but he seemed to be in a small, dimly lit room. The drumming of rain pummeled what sounded like a metal roof of the primitive chamber, and again he tried to understand what place this might be. There were two flickering candles amid the clutter on a tiny table a few feet away, and he could see pictures of strangers hanging on the walls. The windows were covered with colorful curtains, and a potbellied stove at one end warmed the room, the source of the smoke that hovered near the ceiling.
“You’re awake.”
A woman’s voice startled him. Squinting his eyes, he turned and made out the delicate features of a disheveled young blond woman with a dark red gash at the crest of her cheek. Her black dress was torn and her hair a riot of sodden curls that drifted over her shoulders. He felt the sharp pull of attraction to her comely face and womanly form, but practical matters prevailed. “Where am I?”
She wrung her hands and stepped away. “They shot you.”
“They? Who?” He didn’t remember being shot. He thought back and realized he couldn’t recall much. He couldn’t recall…anything.
Surely this bewilderment would pass. Once the headache receded, his thoughts would clear. The nausea would disappear.
“The Gypsies came just in time,” said the woman, adding to his confusion. Her speech was foreign to him, yet…he somehow knew it. “I think the highwaymen would have killed us both.”
“We were attacked on the road, then?”
She nodded. “Don’t you remember? No, I suppose not. First the gunshot, then you fell and cracked your head on the macadam. You only just stopped bleeding.”
He felt the side of his head, but there was a soft cotton cloth wrapped ’round it.
The pretty woman started to speak again, but two swarthy men came into the room, drawing her attention. She was clearly even more nervous with the newcomers than she was with him alone.
“Ah, he is awake, your husband,” said the older of the two men.
“Y-yes.”
Husband?
“You have books,” said the man with the mustache, while the younger man with a gold tooth watched every move the woman made with his intense black eyes.
Merrick felt a proprietary surge at the frank lust in the young Gypsy’s eyes. The fellow had no business eyeing his wife—his wife?—so lasciviously.
She glanced toward a travel case on the floor. “Yes, I have a few.”
“I need learn. Me,” said the man. “And nephew. You teach?”
The woman looked uncertain, glancing from the case, then back to the men. “To read?”
“Yes. To read, Tekari Kaulo and me,” he replied, pointing to the younger man. “You do for safe passage to…where you go?”
“I’m…well, we are going to Carlisle.”
Merrick had trouble following the conversation as he tried to remember the events that had brought him to this place.
To remember his wife.
Surely he could never forget such a woman. He must have kissed those full, pink lips and caressed her soft, feminine curves many times. He must have seen her beautiful gray eyes go dark with pleasure when he—
“You teach, we take you to Carlisle,” said the Gypsy. “Week’s journey.”
“To Carlisle?” said his wife with a hint of indignation. “But ’tis only sixty miles.” She protested with spirit, but she was clearly uneasy, possibly even frightened. A good husband would get up from his bed and give her the support she needed. He would protect her.
He pushed himself up and garnered naught but a quick glance from the two dark men before they dismissed him and turned their attention back to his wife. Mo oirg, did he appear so pitiful?
“We go the Rom way,” said the Gypsy leader.
Merrick’s wife—what was her name? He wracked his brain to remember, but was momentarily distracted by the elegant movement of her throat as she swallowed. She bit down on her lower lip in a manner so sensual, he felt blood rushing to his groin. No doubt she’d always had this effect on him, but why could he not remember?
He could, almost.
The thoughts were there, just on the edge of his consciousness. ’Twas like a word on the tip of his tongue, one that teased at him, one he could not quite retrieve.
A gust of wind sent the rain hammering against the windows. His wife shivered and gave in to the man’s request. “Yes. I will teach you, but only until we reach Carlisle.”
“Good. We begin tomorrow, Mrs. Keating.”
Keating. Finally, he heard something that sounded familiar, but still he could not remember his given name. Before he could give it further thought, a violent wave of nausea overtook him, and he turned to retch in the bowl he found beside his bed.
“I’m sorry,” said the man. His very pronounced brogue led Jenny to believe he must be a Scotsman. “I’m a good deal of trouble for you just now.”
He was not the only one at a disadvantage. Neither the rain nor the attack on the road ha
d benefited Jenny’s appearance. She turned her back to him and tried to arrange her hair into some semblance of order before facing him again.
And there was the matter of their “marriage.” She had to apologize for taking such liberties with the truth. But that could wait until he felt better.
Bolstering her nerve, Jenny moistened a cloth with warm water from a deep bowl that had been provided, then returned to him and wiped his face when he lay back. He still looked pale—too pale—but at least he was awake and talking. His condition was far better now than it had been during the long ride to the Gypsy camp.
“Just try to rest,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do tonight.”
Helping him to rinse his mouth and clean his teeth, Jenny was struck by her wifely pose beside him. Any onlooker would assume they actually were husband and wife. Yet he was a wealthy man, and she had only a few shillings to her name. The quality and cut of his clothes demonstrated their differences plainly enough, but Jenny had also looked in his satchel for some indication of his identity. She’d found none, but his other clothes and the gold sovereigns in his possession proved that he was a man of means. A nobleman…perhaps even a Scottish aristocrat. A man like her viscount uncle who would have little use for her once he regained his strength.
“We’re going to stay here while you teach those men?” he asked.
“I don’t have any choice,” Jenny replied, glancing around the inside of the shabby, cluttered caravan. It had to be a dramatic contrast to the kind of environment he was accustomed to. There was only the one bed and a small table, a few boxes, a cloudy mirror, and several grimy pictures on the walls. Two small windows were covered by multicolored blankets that had been tacked down on all sides. The caravan was dry, reasonably warm, and safe. At least she did not think the Gypsies would attempt to accost her, as long as they needed her to teach them. An added protection was their belief that this man was her husband.
In truth, he appeared the kind of man who would have women falling at his feet in adoration. His black lashes were long and thick, his eyes a dark, warm blue, and his strong jaw slightly cleft. He’d fought for her like a bold and capable warrior of old, a chivalrous knight come to her rescue from Camelot itself. Even as ill as “Matthew” was, Jenny had never seen a comelier male. She did not doubt that he had a real wife somewhere, waiting, worried over his delayed return.
And as soon as he could move without becoming ill, she was going to get out of there. She knew better than to think she could rely on him for help. As usual, she was on her own.
“We’ll stay until you’re able to travel.” Jenny moved away from the bed and took a seat on one of the boxes. “I don’t want to run up against another band of highwaymen—”
“What happened to us?” he asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“A group of men attacked…us…on the road. Don’t you remember?”
“I canna remember anything. My brain feels hazy…” He touched his forehead pensively. “I doona think I know even my own name.”
Jenny frowned. “Truly? You don’t know your name?”
Closing his eyes again, he clenched his jaw, clearly struggling to remember, to understand what had happened to him. Then he looked sheepishly at her. “No. ’Tis no use. I canna…Nor do I know yours.”
She took a deep breath and considered what to say. It might be another day or two before he was well enough for her to leave him, and Tekari Kaulo was clearly much too interested in her. This could not come out well, no matter what she said.
She could only hope the Gypsies followed a code of honor with regard to another man’s wife and would leave her alone until she made her exit.
“M-Matthew,” she blurted. “You’re Matthew Keating. And I’m Jane. Well, I’m Jenny to my…my closest…” She cleared her throat as he repeated her name quietly to himself, then reached across the narrow space and took her hand in his.
His eyes bored through her as though he would devour her, given the chance. “How long have we been married?”
His hand was warm and firm, and nearly twice the size of her own. She closed her eyes and savored his touch, surprised by the unusual sense of security—and the heat—she’d never felt with Frederick Ellis. This man had risked his life to help her, and Jenny had no doubt he’d saved her from a terrible fate. She would have preferred to be honest with him, but this was anything but a normal, natural situation. She needed this husband only for a day or two, and by then his confusion would surely have resolved.
Once she told him the truth, they would split up and she would leave for Carlisle on her own, at a much faster pace than the Gypsy travelers would go. It was only a matter of getting back to the road and waiting again for the mail coach. She would start out much earlier next time so she wouldn’t miss it.
“Not long,” she said in reply to his question. “Er…only a few…days.”
“Ah. So that accounts for your bonny blushes,” he said. “Come here, lass.”
Jenny’s breath caught in her throat, and she wavered. She’d never shared such intimate quarters with a man before, not even with Mr. Ellis, who had been a most proper suitor until he’d discarded her for Clara Tremayne.
Matthew gave her hand a gentle tug. “Jenny.”
She came to her senses and realized she could not do it. She had to tell him of her deception. “I need to—”
“Lie down beside me,” he said, his voice troubled. He drew her into the intensity of his gaze. He was hurt and confused, and she was making it worse.
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “I need to think.”
“Later, sweetheart. I want to hold you.”
Such an endearment was completely foreign to her, but utterly compelling. Jenny found herself moving to the bed and easing onto the mattress next to him, allowing him to pull her into the circle of his arms. He drew her close, aligning their bodies tightly together. They lay face-to-face, his eyes searching hers, as though he might find the answers to all his questions there.
“I canna believe I am always this weak, Jenny.” He lightly touched his lips to hers, sending wondrous prickles of awareness through her. “Can you trust that I’ll take care of you?”
She could not speak, not when his strong hand was stroking the length of her back and his lips nipping tiny kisses along her jaw. She let out a shuddering breath and slid her arms around him, savoring his heat and the sense of being enveloped and sheltered by his powerful body.
She put Bresland and all its unpleasantness from her mind and allowed herself these few moments of abandon.
“No, you are not always so weak.” She knew it because he’d come valiantly to her rescue, a brave knight without armor. And now he paid the price for his courage.
Jenny had always slept alone, shivering on a narrow pallet in one of Bresland’s dormitories, then in the cold, stark bedroom assigned her when she’d become a teacher. She had never felt heat like this, not even on the warmest summer night. It was a heat that made her heart flutter and her mouth go dry. It made her yearn for something she’d never had any hope of attaining.
Matthew shifted, moving his leg between hers, sliding his strong thigh between hers, just above her knees. Jenny swallowed and allowed him to press against her, presumably as intimately as a husband would do with his wife.
“Jenny.” He whispered so quietly that she hardly heard him before he kissed her, cupping the back of her head with his hand. He opened his mouth over hers, and she responded in kind, swallowing back her shock when his tongue swept into her mouth.
His leg moved higher, and hot sensations gathered at the juncture of her thighs.
She broke the kiss. “Matthew!”
He spoke as he touched her face with his fingertips, gently sliding his fingers over her scraped cheekbone, whispering so quietly, she was barely able to hear his strange words with her one good ear. “A mo tàrmachadh, iocshlaint an ciùrr anns an aghaidh.”
Jenny could not understand his strange language,
but she felt an odd, shivering chill at his touch that should have repulsed her, but was strangely alluring. Her cheek felt odd, the skin cold and tight, and then the sensation stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
“You…I-I…” She did not know if she could make herself do what was right, not while her heart pounded and her body demanded that she pursue the heady sensations he aroused in her.
“You are so beautiful.” He gazed at her as though she were the most alluring female he’d ever seen. It gave her a quiet thrill, even though she knew it could not possibly be true. Reverend Usher had told her often enough that she was a vile, sinful creature who offended even the most generous of God’s angels. Mr. Ellis had believed it, too. She’d given him her heart and all her affections, yet he’d jilted her with the cruelest of words. Words that were very likely true.
Jenny stopped Matthew’s hand by taking it and stilling it in hers. “We m-must not…You are injured. We need to take care.”
Gingerly, he rolled onto his back. “Aye. My head is splitting.”
And Jenny’s was reeling. If this was what husbands and wives did when they lay together…She took a deep breath and looked over at Matthew, at the thick eyelashes that lay in dark crescents over his cheeks, at the fullness of the lips that had kissed her senseless. She felt an unfamiliar liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
She had to contain herself, for none of this was real. In the morning, he would surely remember who he was, and what had happened to them. Jenny hoped he would understand her reasons for claiming him as her husband, but more than that, she hoped he would feel well enough so that she could leave the Gypsy encampment.
She had to find Harriet and get on with the safe, unfettered life she was meant to lead.
Matthew looked up at the stained and patched ceiling above him and muttered a few words in his own familiar tongue. Through some deep instinct, he’d known he could heal the scrape on Jenny’s face, even though he hadn’t managed to do much for his own wound.
Temptation of the Warrior Page 3