by Lisa Kleypas
Rohan had searched marriage records, birth and death records, to find any mention of his mother, Sonya, or himself. Nothing so far. He had also consulted heraldic experts and Irish historians to find out the possible significance of the pooka symbol. All they had been able to do was dredge up the familiar legends of the nightmare horse: that he spoke in a human voice, that he appeared at midnight and called for you to come with him, and you could never refuse. And when you went with him, if you survived the ride, you were changed forever when you returned.
Cam had also not been able to find a meaningful connection between the Rohan and Merripen names, which were common among the Rom. Therefore Rohan's latest approach was to search for Kev's tribe, or anyone who knew about it.
Kev was understandably hostile about this plan, which Rohan revealed to him as they walked to the hotel mews.
"They left me for dead," Kev said. "And you want me to help you find them? If I see any of them, especially the rom baro, I'll kill him with my bare hands."
"Fine," Rohan returned equably. "After they tell us about the tattoo."
"All they'll say is what I've already told you-it's the mark of a curse. And if you ever find out what it means-"
"Yes, yes, I know. We're doomed. But if I'm wearing a curse on my arm, Merripen, I want to know about it."
Kev gave him a glance that should have felled him on the spot. He stopped at a corner of the stables, where hoof picks, clippers, and files were neatly organized on shelves. "I'm not going. You'll have to look for my tribe without me."
"I need you," Rohan countered. "For one thing, the place we're headed to is kekkeno mushespuv."
Kev stared at him in disbelief. Kekkeno mushes puv, translated as "no-man's-land," was a squalid plain located on the Surrey side of the Thames. The open muddy ground was crowded with ragged Gypsy tents, a few dilapidated vardos, feral dogs, and nearly feral Roma. But that wasn't the real danger. There was another, non-Gypsy group called the Chorodies, descendants of rogues and outcasts, mainly Saxon in origin. The Chorodies were truly vile, dirty, and ferocious, without customs or manners. Going anywhere near them was virtually asking to be attacked or robbed. It was hard to imagine a more dangerous place in London except for a few Eastside rookeries.
"Why do you think anyone from my tribe could be in such a place?" Kev asked, more than a little shocked by the idea. Surely, even under the rom baro's leadership, they wouldn't have sunk so low.
"Not long ago I met a chal from the Bosvil tribe. He said his youngest sister, Shuri, was married long ago to your mm baro.'" Rohan stared at Merripen intently. " It seems the story of what happened to you has been told all through Romanija."
"I don't see why," Kev muttered, feeling suffocated. "It's not important."
Rohan shrugged casually, his gaze trained on Kev's face. "The Rom take care of their own. No tribe would ever leave an injured or dying boy behind, no matter what the circumstances. And apparently it brought a curse on the rom baro's tribe… Their luck turned very bad, and most of them came to ruin. There's justice for you."
"I never cared about justice." Kev was vaguely surprised by the rustiness of his own voice.
Rohan spoke with quiet understanding. "It's a strange life, isn't it?… A Rom with no tribe. No matter how hard you look, you can never find a home. Because to us, home is not a building or a tent or vardo… home is a family."
Kev had a difficult time meeting Rohan's gaze. The words cut too close to his heart. In all the time he had known Rohan, Kev had never felt a kinship with him until now. But Kev could no longer ignore the fact that they had too damn much in common. They were two outsiders with pasts full of unanswered questions. And each of them had been drawn to the Hathaways, and had found a home with them.
"I'll go with you, damn it," Kev said gruffly. "But only because I know what Amelia would do to me if I let something happen to you."
Chapter Ten
Somewhere in England, spring had covered the ground with green velvet and coaxed flowers from the hedgerows. Somewhere the sky was blue and the air was sweet. But not in no-man's-land, where smoke from millions of chimney pipes had soured the complexion of the city with a yellow fog that daylight could barely penetrate. There was little but mud and misery in this barren place. It was located approximately a quarter mile from the river and bordered by a hill and a railway.
Kev was grim and silent as he and Rohan led their horses through the Romany camp. Tents were loosely scattered, with men sitting at the entrances and whittling pegs or making baskets. Kev heard a few boys shouting at one another. As he rounded a tent, he saw a small group gathered around a fight. Men angrily shouted instructions and threats to the boys as if they were animals in a pit.
Stopping at the sight, Kev stared at the boys while images from his own childhood flashed through his mind. Pain, violence, fear… the wrath of the rom baro, who would beat Kev further if he lost. And if he won, sending another boy bloodied and broken to the ground, there would be no reward. Only the crushing guilt of harming someone who had done no wrong to him.
What is this? the rom baro had roared, discovering Kev huddled in a corner, crying, after he had beaten a boy who had begged him to stop. You pathetic, sniveling dog. I'll give you one of these- His booted foot had landed in Kev's side, bruising a rib-for every tear you shed. What kind of idiot would cry for winning? Crying after doing the only thing you're good for? I'll drive the softness out of you, big bawling infant- He hadn't stopped kicking Kev until he was unconscious.
The next time Kev had beaten someone, he had felt no guilt. He had felt nothing.
Kev wasn't aware that he'd frozen in his tracks, or that he was breathing heavily, until Rohan spoke to him softly.
"Come, phral."
Tearing his gaze away from the boys, Kev saw the compassion and sanity in the other man's eyes. The dark memories receded. Kev gave a short nod and followed.
Rohan stopped at two or three tents, asking the whereabouts of a woman named Shuri. The responses were grudging. As expected, the Roma regarded Rohan and Kev with obvious suspicion and curiosity. The Roma's dialect was difficult to interpret, a medley of deep Romany and what was called "tinker patois," a slang used by urban Gypsies.
Kev and Rohan were directed to one of the smaller tents, where an older boy sat by the entrance on an overturned pail. He carved buttons with a small knife.
"We're looking for Shuri," Kev said in the old language.
The boy glanced over his shoulder into the tent. "Mainl." he called. "There are two men to see you. Roma dressed like gadjos."
A singular-looking woman came to the entrance. She was not quite five feet tall, but her torso and head were broad, her complexion dark and wrinkled, her eyes lustrous and black. Kev recognized her immediately. It was indeed Shuri, who had only been about sixteen when she had married the rom baro. Kev had left the tribe not long after that.
The years had not been kind to her. Shuri had once been a striking beauty, but a life of hardship had aged her prematurely. Although she and Kev were nearly the same age, the difference between them could have been twenty years instead of two.
She stared at Kev without much interest. Then her eyes widened, and her gnarled hands moved in a gesture commonly used to protect oneself against evil spirits.
"Kev," she breathed.
"Hello, Shuri," he said with difficulty, and followed it with a greeting he hadn't said since childhood. "Droboy tume Romale."
"Are you a spirit?" she asked him.
Rohan looked at him alertly. "Kev?" he repeated. "Is that your tribal name?"
Kev ignored him. "I'm not a spirit, Shuri." He gave her a reassuring smile. "If I were, I wouldn't have grown any older, would I?"
She shook her head, her eyes slitting in a leery squint. "If it's really you, show me the mark."
"May I do it inside?"
After a long hesitation, Shuri nodded reluctantly, waving both Kev and Rohan into the tent.
Cam paused at the entrance an
d spoke to the boy. "Make certain the horses aren't stolen," he said, "and I'll give you a half crown." He wasn't certain whether the horses would be more in danger from the Chorodies or the Roma.
"Yes, kako," the boy said, using a respectful form of address for a much older male.
Smiling ruefully, Cam followed Merripen into the tent.
The structure was made of rods stuck into the ground and bent at the top, with other supporting rods fastened to it with string. The whole of it was covered with coarse brown cloth that had been pinned together over the ribs of the structure. There were no chairs or tables. To a Rom, the ground served perfectly well for both purposes. But there was an abundant pile of pots and trenchers in the corner, and a light pallet covered with cloth. The interior of the tent was heated by a small coke fire glowing in a three-legged pan.
At Shuri's direction, Cam sat cross-legged by the fire pan. He stifled a grin as Shuri insisted on seeing Merripen's tattoo, which provoked a long-suffering glance from him. Being a modest and private man, Merripen was probably cringing inside at having to undress in front of them. But he set his jaw and tugged off his coat, and unbuttoned his vest.
Rather than remove his shirt entirely, Merripen unfastened it and let it fall to reveal his upper back and shoulders, the muscled slopes gleaming like copper. The tattoo was still a mildly startling sight to Cam, who had never seen it on anyone but himself.
Muttering in deep Romany, using a few words that sounded like Sanskrit, Shuri moved behind Kev to look at the tattoo. Merripen's head lowered, and he breathed quietly.
Cam 's amusement faded as he saw Merripen's face, detached save for a slight frown. For Cam it would have been a joy and a relief to encounter someone from his past. For Merripen, the experience was pure misery. But he bore it with a stoic endurance that touched Cam. And Cam discovered that he didn't like to see Merripen being made so vulnerable.
After glancing at the mark of the nightmare horse, Shuri moved away from Merripen and motioned for him to dress himself. "Who is this man?" she asked, nodding in Cam 's direction.
"One of my kumpania," Merripen muttered. Kumpa-nia was a word used to describe a clan, a group united though not necessarily by family ties. Pulling his clothes back on, Merripen asked brusquely, "What happened to the tribe. Shuri? Where is the rom baro?”
"In the ground," the woman said, with a pointed lack of respect for her husband. "And the tribe is scattered. After the tribe saw what he did to you, Kev… making us leave you for dead… it all went bad after that. No one wanted to follow him. The gadjos finally hanged him, when he was caught making wafodu luvvu."
"What is that?" Cam asked, unable to follow her accent.
"Counterfeit money," Merripen said.
"Before that," Shuri continued, "the rom baro had tried to make some of the young boys into asharibe, to earn coins at fairs and in the London streets. But none of them could fight like you, and their parents would only let the rom baro go so far with them." Her shrewd dark eyes turned in Cam 's direction. "The rom baro called Kev his fighting dog," she said. "But the dogs were treated better than he was."
"Shuri-," Merripen muttered, scowling. "He doesn't need to know-"
"My husband wanted Kev to die," she continued, "but even the rom baro wouldn't dare to kill him outright. So he starved the boy and put him in too many fights, and gave him no bandages or salve for his wounds. He was never given a blanket, only a bed of straw. We used to sneak food and medicine to him when the rom baro wasn't looking. But there was no one to defend him, poor boy." Her gaze turned chiding as she spoke to Merripen directly. "And it wasn't easy to help you, when you would do nothing but snarl and snap. Never a word of thanks, not even a smile."
Merripen was silent, his face averted as he finished fastening the last of his waistcoat buttons.
Cam found himself thinking it was a good thing the rom baro was already dead. Because he was feeling a powerful urge to hunt the bastard down and kill him. And Cam didn't like Shuri's criticism of Merripen. Not that Merripen had ever been a model of charm… but after he had been raised in such a merciless environment, it was a bloody miracle that he was able to live like a normal man.
The Hathaways had done more than save Merripen's life. They had saved his soul as well.
"Why did your husband bear Merripen such hatred?" Cam asked softly.
"The rom baro hated all things gadjo. He used to say that if any of the tribe ever went with one of the gadje, he would kill them."
Merripen looked at her sharply. "But I'm Romany."
"You're poshram, Kev. Half gadjo." She smiled at his open astonishment. "You never suspected? You have the look of a gadjo, you know. That narrow nose. The shape of your jaw."
Merripen shook his head, speechless at the revelation.
"Holy hell," Cam whispered.
"Your mother married a gadjo, Kev," Shuri continued. "The tattoo you bear is the mark of his family. But your father left her, as gadjos tend to do. And after we thought you died, the rom baro said, 'Now there's only one.'"
"Only one what?" Cam managed to ask.
"Brother." Shuri moved to stir the contents of the fire pan, sending a brighter glow through the tent. "Kev had a younger brother."
Emotion flooded Cam. He felt a dazzling change in all his awareness, a new inflection in every thought. After he had spent all his life believing himself to be alone, here was someone who shared his blood. A true brother. Cam stared at Merripen, watching the realization dawn in the coffee-dark eyes. Cam didn't think the news would be as welcome to Merripen as it was to him, but he didn't give a damn.
"The grandmother took care of both children for a while," Shuri continued. "But then the grandmother had cause to think the gadjos might come and take them. Perhaps even kill them. So she kept one boy, while Kev was sent to our tribe into the care of his Uncle Pov, the rom baro. I'm sure the grandmother didn't suspect how the rom baro would abuse him, or she never would have done it."
Shuri glanced at Merripen. "She probably thought that since Pov was a strong man, he would do a good job of protecting you. But he thought of you as an abomination, being half-" She stopped with a gasp as Cam shoved up his coat and shirtsleeve, and showed his forearm to her. The pooka tattoo stood out in dark, inky relief against his skin.
"I'm his brother," Cam said, his voice slightly hoarse.
Shuri's gaze moved from one man's face to the other. "Yes, I see," she eventually murmured. "Not a close likeness, but it is there." A curious smile touched her lips. "Devlesa avilan. It is God who brought you together."
Whatever Merripen's opinion was of who or what had brought them together, he didn't share it. Instead he asked tersely, "Do you know our father's name?"
Shuri looked regretful. "The rom baro never mentioned it. I'm sorry."
"No, you've helped quite a lot," Cam said. "Do you know anything about why the gadjos might have wanted to-"
"Mami," came the boy's voice from outside. "Chorodies are coming."
"They want the horses," Merripen said, rising swiftly to his feet. He pressed a few coins into Shuri's hand. "Luck and good health," he said.
"Kushti bok," she replied, returning the sentiment.
Cam and Merripen hurried outside the tent. Three Chorodies were approaching. With their matted hair, filthy complexions, rotted mouths, and a stench that preceded them well before their arrival, they seemed more like animals than men. A few curious Roma watched from a safe distance. It was clear there would be no help from that quarter.
"Well," Cam said beneath his breath, "this should be entertaining."
"Chorodies like knives," Merripen said. "But they don't know how to use them. Leave this to me."
"Go right ahead," Cam said agreeably.
One of the Chorodies spoke in a dialect Cam couldn't understand. But he gestured to Cam 's horse, Pooka, who eyed them nervously and shuffled his feet.
"Like hell," Cam muttered.
Merripen replied to the man with a handful of equally inco
mprehensible words. As he had predicted, the Chorodie reached behind his back and produced a jagged knife. Merripen appeared relaxed, but his fingers flexed, and Cam saw the way his posture altered in subtle readiness for attack.
The Chorodie lunged forward with a harsh cry, aiming for the mid-to-lower torso. But Merripen turned in a nimble sidestep. With impressive speed and dexterity, he grabbed the attacking arm. He jerked the Chorodie off-balance, using his own momentum against him. Before another heartbeat had passed, Merripen had flipped his opponent to the ground, twisting the bastard's arm in the process. An audible fracture caused all of them, even Cam, to flinch. The Chorodie howled in agony. Prying the knife from the man's limp hand, Merripen tossed it to Cam, who caught it reflexively.
Merripen glanced at the remaining two Chorodies. "Who's next?" he asked coldly.
Although the words were spoken in English, the creatures appeared to understand his meaning. They fled without a backward glance, leaving their injured companion to drag himself away with loud groans.
"Very nice,phral" Cam said in admiration.
"We're leaving," Merripen informed him curtly. "Before more of them come."
"Let's go to a tavern," Cam said. "I need a drink."
Merripen mounted his bay without a word. For once, it seemed, Merripen and Cam were in agreement.
Taverns were often described as the busy man's recreation, the idle man's business, and the melancholy man's sanctuary. The Hell and Bucket, located in the more disreputable environs of London, could also have been called the criminal's covert and the drunkard's haven. It suited Cam and Kev's purposes quite well, being a place that would serve two Roma without blinking an eye. The ale was good quality, twelve-bushel strength, and although the barmaids were surly, they did an adequate job of keeping the tankard full and the floor swept.