Temptation of the Warrior

by Margo Maguire

  “She’s right,” he said, drawing a surprised glance from the two men on the step, although Jenny did not appear to hear him. He said no more as a sudden pain sliced through his head. He swayed on his feet as bright flashes of light pierced his eyes.

  Jenny stood abruptly, concerned at Matthew’s pallor. She hurried to his side and took hold of his arm. “Matthew, you’re ill. Come, we must get you back—”

  “Hey, missus! Not finished!” called Bardo.

  “We’re done for now,” said Jenny to the man. She turned and started back in the direction of their caravan, through the crowd of children who’d followed Matthew.

  “You should be in bed,” she admonished, her voice sounding harsher than she intended. What was she to do about him? She could not go on allowing him to believe she was his wife, and she needed to get to Carlisle, sooner rather than later. “You’re as pale as a ghost. And where’s your bandage?”

  “Jenny, I must lie down.”

  She swallowed, dismayed by her snappish tone. She felt confused and dishonest, and after the morning’s intimacies in bed, completely wicked. Matthew almost certainly had a wife somewhere. Scotland, by the sound of him. And he’d been on his way home to her when he’d stopped to help Jenny. “I’m sorry, Matthew. We’ll soon be there.”

  He tried to walk without her support, but she felt him stagger. Jenny worried that if he faltered any more, she wouldn’t be able to hold him up.

  “Here we are,” she said gratefully, as they started up the few steps.

  “Doona worry, moileen,” he said. “I willna fall.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Moileen? She supposed it was a Scottish endearment, one he used with his wife, and knew she had to tell him the truth. But when Kaulo appeared at Matthew’s opposite side and watched them climb the few steps to their caravan, Jenny was grateful for the presence of a husband, even if he was infirm.

  And not really hers.

  “The lesson is done, Mr. Kaulo. We’ll—”

  “You teach more. I wait for you here.”

  “Then you’ve got a long wait ahead, lad,” said Matthew, wincing as he spoke. He pushed open the door and went inside, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, his posture that of a man unaccustomed to illness. Jenny closed the door, then crouched before him. She skimmed her hands across the top of his head, her thumbs gently pressing his forehead as she lightly massaged his scalp. She could not tell him the truth now, not when he was so miserable.

  It would be all too easy to forget the realities of her life for a while. It was about a fortnight before she was to report for her position at Darbury, but she still had to find Harriet and recover her locket. She had no time to waste with Gypsies and lost Scotsmen.

  “Let me help you with your coat,” she said, her tone businesslike and distant. She pushed the coat off his shoulders, and when she leaned close to take it from him, he slipped his freed arms around her waist and pressed his face against her breast.

  “Matthew…”

  “One kiss, moileen. Then I need to lie down.” He placed one hand on her chin and brought her face close to his. The kiss was gentle and soft, hardly more than a touch. It left Jenny breathless, with her heart pounding for more.

  She rejected such a desire for what it was, the pathetic yearning of a spinster who had elicited friendly affections from no one since Norah’s death. Matthew was entirely reliant upon her at the moment, which could be the only reason he’d developed such an attachment to her. Once he regained his faculties, he would surely recognize the flaws that kept her apart. Jenny backed away, giving him room to move, putting some space between them.

  “What about Kaulo?” Matthew asked.

  His light kiss had dispelled every thought of the Gypsy. Jenny bit her lip and tried to figure a way to extricate herself from the mess in which she found herself. “Once you’re settled here, I’ll go out and work with him some more. The less time we spend here, the better.”

  “Stay close,” Matthew replied, easing himself down to the mattress. He unbuttoned his shirt. “I doona like the way he looks at you.”

  His face blanched with pain as he lay down. Jenny pulled off his shoes and covered him with a blanket, worried about his head, certain he should have felt better today. If only his memory would return, she wouldn’t have to explain her lies to him. He would understand her reasons for the deception, yet he seemed so puzzled and vulnerable now, she could not think of leaving him yet.

  “Turn over, Matthew,” she said.

  He complied without question, and Jenny sat on the edge of the bed beside him. She put her fingers on his head again and resumed the massage she’d started a few moments before. Her strokes became firmer, and he sighed as his shoulders began to relax. She rubbed the back of his head and neck, then pushed the blanket down to his waist to knead his shoulders. They were broad, and her fingers tingled at the feel of his thick muscles. He was masculine and hard, even while half asleep, and Jenny felt a stirring in her blood when she touched him…and a desire to feel his touch.

  He made a low sound of pleasure. It would be so easy to slide the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, then rub his bare skin.

  Dismayed by the direction of her thoughts, Jenny quickly finished tending him and left him to drift off to sleep. She took a shaky breath and knew she had to get away from here—from him—and her romantic musings.

  She knew better.

  She’d escaped one bad situation, only to land in another. She knew what she had to do, and it did not include the man on the bed. Better to get away from him soon, rather than develop any deeper connection to him, one that would shatter as her few other connections had done.

  A good position awaited her at Darbury, and that was the only certainty in her life. That, and finding the woman who had stolen her pendant.

  Harriet had once mentioned that her brother was a rum dubber in Carlisle, and had seemed embarrassed to have let it slip that he was in the distillery business. A too-liberal use of liquor was deplorable, of course, but surely there was no shame in honest employment at a distillery, even though the wages might be inadequate to support his sister.

  Having spent more than half her life at Bresland, Jenny knew little of big cities. She’d heard some accounts of dissatisfaction and difficulties among the weavers of Carlisle, but she did not think that would interfere with finding the distilleries in the city. At each one, she would inquire after a Mr. Lambton, and would soon find Harriet through him. And her locket.

  Jenny had never been without it, not since the day her parents had drowned in a boating accident. She did not doubt her uncle Arthur would have taken it had he known of it, and her aunt would have done nothing to prevent him from confiscating it. Aunt Helen would have had no say in the matter, being only the wife. It did not matter that Jenny was the daughter of Helen’s sister, and Arthur was no blood relative. A husband’s will was always law.

  It occurred to Jenny that marriage with Mr. Ellis would have been the same. He’d have assumed control of every aspect of their married life, as he would soon do with Miss Tremayne.

  She shuddered at the thought of giving such power to a man. From her experience so far, few were kind or trustworthy. It was far better to keep her own counsel and rely upon her own abilities to survive than to trust a man to cherish her. She looked at Matthew, who slept peacefully with low and regular breathing. Jenny had no reason to believe he would be any different from every other man she knew…yet she did not like to think he might be just as uncaring as the others.

  She intended to distance herself before she found out the hard way.

  The caravan was small and close. Jenny’s traveling bag lay forgotten on the floor under the table with her spare dress and underthings inside, a sodden mess. The highwaymen had dumped her two precious books on the ground, but since the Gypsy men had carried them separately, they were nearly dry.

  Jenny draped her clothes over the two chairs near the table, stopping when quiet voices outside ca
ught her attention. Opening the door, she saw a pretty young Gypsy woman standing on the step in front of Tekari Kaulo, holding a bundle of colorful cloth.

  Smiling, she handed Jenny a needle and a spool of dark thread. “Guibran Bardo send,” she said, pushing the sewing things into Jenny’s hand and pointing to the torn sleeve and collar of her dress. “For you.” She handed Jenny the bundle of cloth. “You mend. Wear these.”

  It was a skirt and blouse.

  “Thank you,” Jenny said. “You are very kind.”

  “I wait still,” Kaulo said, his manner impatient and suggestive at the same time. Jenny had never encountered this kind of behavior before. During their courtship, Mr. Ellis had maintained a distant, formal manner, never allowing his eyes to wander brazenly over her body as Kaulo did. Reverend Usher looked at all the pupils and teachers with disdain, and the men of Kirtwarren averted their eyes whenever the students of Bresland came into the village, as if they did not want to acknowledge that the austere school existed outside Kirtwarren’s borders.

  But Matthew…Jenny suddenly remembered that expression of sheer delight in his eyes when she’d come to his aid and bashed the highwayman with the branch. As though she was not just a mere woman, but an equal in the fight for their lives.

  Dismissing her foolish fancy, Jenny put the clothes and sewing tools on the table, then stepped outside and closed the door.

  “You come now,” said Kaulo.

  Jenny ignored the young man’s rude manner and spoke to the woman, who wore a colorful head scarf knotted at her throat. “What is your name?”

  The pretty Gypsy looked askance at Jenny’s slight of Kaulo. “Rupa,” she said, pointing to her chest.

  Kaulo tried to push Rupa aside, but Jenny bristled, placing her hand on the woman’s arm as she glared at the young man. This was the kind of attitude she’d escaped on leaving Bresland, and she would not tolerate it from this grimy man who was in need of her help.

  She spoke to Rupa. “If I could ask another favor, Rupa…I need some food for my husband. Something not too spicy. Some broth, perhaps, or eggs?”

  Kaulo muttered under his breath and gave Jenny the same kind of harsh look Reverend Usher had used to intimidate her. She refused to feel threatened anymore, and ignored him, though she wished she had the nerve to meet his gaze with an obstinate one of her own.

  He turned to leave, and Jenny let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Rupa giggled and nodded at Jenny. “I will find eggs. Bread, too. I come back.”

  Jenny returned to the caravan where Matthew still slept soundly. Undressing quickly, in case he should awaken, she took off her torn gown and put on the multicolored Gypsy clothes. The skirt was made of four long panels of deep green, blue, gray, and red that swirled over the tops of her ankles, leaving her petticoat showing.

  She decided to be reckless and removed the undergarment.

  The Gypsy blouse was even less conventional. Made of the same colors as the skirt, but in a floral pattern, its sleeves were short and the neckline was gathered low, leaving a good deal of her chest and upper back bare. It exposed an indecent amount of her plain cotton chemise.

  Jenny removed her corset, then rearranged the chemise, pushing her straps down just enough that the blouse covered them. She looked in the mirror, stunned by the change in her appearance.

  She hardly recognized the smudged-faced wanton who gazed back at her with clear gray eyes. Her hair was a wild mess, haphazardly pinned to the nape of her neck. She turned her head slightly for better light, and saw that the scrape on her cheek was gone.

  Or had she imagined seeing it the night before? Perhaps it had been Matthew’s blood on her face, and she’d only imagined that it had felt sore.

  She looked down at the colorful Gypsy clothes she wore and felt altogether different in the lively costume—young and pretty, and free. For the first time in years, she felt she could be anything or anyone she wanted to be.

  She pulled the pins from her hair and let the mass of curls fall loose, allowing it to cascade down her back. Using her fingers to comb through the tangles, she turned her head this way and that, surprised at the dramatic change in her appearance.

  A noise startled her, and she turned to see Matthew sitting up. A wave of embarrassment came over her to be caught in such a state, posing in front of a mirror as she’d done wearing her mother’s finery in the years before Bresland.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  He rose from the bed, and with one step, was standing before her. He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and bent to kiss her. Jenny quickly moved away and picked up the gown that needed mending.

  As much as Matthew wanted Jenny, he knew he was not capable, not when that excruciating pain could return at the least opportune moment. Besides, her reticence was clear.

  ’Twas not that she was unapproachable or entirely unwilling. He knew she was tempted, but he guessed she was unnerved by his memory loss. Likely she did not care to make love to a husband who did not actually know her.

  “I may no’ remember you, lass,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “But you are no stranger to me.”

  “But I am, Matthew. You don’t know me at all.”

  His finger skated across the bare skin of her back, and his cock rose with arousal. How he wanted her.

  “I willna ask you do aught that strikes you wrong, Jenny.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, then to her cheek as he lowered his hands to her hips, pulling her against him. He wanted her to know how she affected him, and that his memory loss meant naught. “But neither will I refrain from touching you as a husband ought.”

  “Matthew—”

  “Time to answer the door, moileen.” He released her, pleased to know she’d been so affected by his touch, she had not even heard the knock at the door.

  Matthew returned to the bed as she opened their small home to a woman carrying two plates. Jenny exchanged a few words with her, then closed the door and returned to him, setting one of the plates beside him on the mattress.

  “That was Rupa.”

  Jenny uncovered the food, and Matthew realized how hungry he was. He leaned his back against the wall and took the plate on his lap. Jenny set the other one on the table and avoided looking at him. By the way she chewed her lower lip, he could see that she was discomfited, mayhap even puzzled.

  Aye, he was puzzled, too. He could not understand why she was so shy with him. If ’twas only because she felt she was a stranger to him, he could remedy it.

  “You look verra fetching in your Gypsy attire,” he said, and grinned at her blush. The upper portion of her chest had been left deliciously bare by the blouse, and the deep cleft between her breasts enticed him. Self-consciously, she placed one hand across her chest, as if she could hide her feminine bounty from him.

  “Doona cover yourself from me, moileen. We are husband and wife, and you are beautiful.”

  “Matthew, you must not—”

  “Come and sit by me. Are you no’ hungry, lass?”

  She sighed and did as he asked. “Yes. Starving.”

  Chapter 4

  It was no use. With Matthew so completely convinced that she was his wife, Jenny worried that telling the truth now would do him some damage. She could only hope that with frequent naps he would awaken from one of them in his right senses, with his memory intact.

  But she could not stay inside any longer, hovering so closely, watching him sleep.

  Too restless to mend her Bresland dress, Jenny put on her cloak, gathered Rupa’s plates, and went outside. The skies had cleared, and as she made her way across the muddy ground, she considered keeping on walking until she reached the road.

  The watchful Gypsy eyes prevented her. They would know where she’d gone, and Bardo—or worse, Kaulo—would surely follow her. Besides, she could not abandon Matthew. Not yet.

  She found the Gypsy leader near his caravan, sitting at a makeshift table, drinking black coffee from a chipped cup while he smoked
a foul-smelling cigarette. Kaulo sat beside him, and they were poring over the chart of letters she’d left for them to study.

  They raised their heads at a sudden commotion at the edge of camp. Visitors had arrived.

  Bardo stood and looked toward the crowd that was gathering around two men in black uniforms. They looked like town constables, but they were not from Kirtwarren. Jenny was familiar with everyone in the village near Bresland, and knew that none of them had come to the aid of the girls at school. Yet they had to have known of the harsh conditions there.

  “We want someone who speaks the Queen’s English,” said one of the men.

  “You keep head down. Stay quiet,” Bardo said to Jenny in a low tone. He pushed through the crowd and spoke to the intruders. “I Guibran Bardo. King of Gypsies.”

  The constable gave an audible huff of derision at the title. The Englishmen must have known that Bardo took the designation of king merely because he was the one who spoke enough English to represent his people. “We’re looking for someone…a female runaway from a school hereabouts.”

  Jenny nearly gasped aloud in her concern for whichever student had decided to escape Reverend Usher’s institution. As she had so recently discovered, the road was no place for a solitary traveler.

  “We see nobody,” said Bardo.

  “’Tis a young woman with blond hair and eyes of gray. Goes by the name of Jane Keating.”

  “Or Jenny Keating,” said the second constable.

  “We keep to ourself, mister,” said Bardo. “Don’t know no runaway gajo.”

  Bardo turned his back to the constables and started to walk away in the opposite direction from where Jenny sat. She rolled up the chart of letters and moved quietly away, sinking more deeply into her hood and cloak.

  The Englishmen followed Bardo, ignoring the children who started to pull at their coats, asking for money in pat phrases of perfect accented English.

  “This particular girl has stolen something of value from the school,” said the first constable. “I daresay there will be a reward for her recovery.”