by Peggy Waide
Stunned silence was her reward. Both Rhys and Ariana appeared suitably shocked and thoroughly subdued. At least that was what she thought until Rhys's stark appraisal gave way to a mischievous grin, and finally deep rumbling laughter.
"I swear I know how to use this, and don't think I won't. Now give me my horse."
Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, he said, "I cannot do that, little one." Within the space of a blink and a sigh, he lunged, trapped her arms at her sides and wrested the gun from her hand. As Phoebe struggled against his embrace, he loosened his hold and stepped back. "You are full of surprises, gadjo. Unfortunately, Ariana believes the horse to be hers. I cannot intervene. We shall have to find another way to settle this matter."
Elizabeth planted herself beside Phoebe. "We won't leave without our horse. You may torture us or starve us, lead us into the forest to be lost forever, but I warn you, my husband will hunt you down and tear out your heart with his bare hands."
Phoebe had never believed her friend to be so dramatic. But their options had dwindled from zero to none. Gripping Elizabeth's hand in hers, she faced the chortling, rude barbarian, whose behavior in Phoebe's mind now equaled Ariana's. "What exactly did you have in mind?"
"Phoebe," cried Elizabeth, "you can't think to"
"I want nothing more than to ask my questions and leave this place. We are quite on our own. We have no choice but to bargain."
"The horse is mine," Ariana spouted, her hands on her hips, reasserting her claim as boldly as possible. "I am the one to strike a bargain."
"Hah!" Phoebe snorted. "You're a thief. I certainly have no intention of giving you coin for my horse."
"Be quiet, Ariana," Rhys ordered.
"Why? Because she is a lady with fine clothes?"
"This jealousy of yours is unreasonable. I'm warning you. Behave. Miss Rafferty, come with me."
"If you think for one little minute that Lady Payley or myself intend to go anywhere with you, think again. I want my horse. I want it now. You said there were ways to settle disputes such as this. What are they?"
He steepled his fingers together and studied all three women, looking as though he might just strangle them. "Gypsies take their treasures very seriously. They also pos secs great honor and pride. There are games of chance, fights or races, which can be extremely dangerous. I am sure they hold little appeal for a lady like yourself."
If he thought to frighten her, he had another think coming. Phoebe barely contained her excitement. By gosh and by golly, she'd win Flash back. "What sort of races?"
"We ride the horses, you foolish English," spat Ariana, a victorious smirk on her face.
"Oh," whispered Phoebe, thanking the heavens for assumptions that ladies were incompetent once removed from the drawing room. "How difficult could that be?"
"They have lost their collective minds. I swear I will-" In his fury, Stephen couldn't complete the sentence. Locating the abandoned carriage with the broken wheel had done little to appease his worries or his brewing temper.
"My sentiments are the same as yours, my friend," agreed Winston as he nudged the shattered wood with his boot. "Elizabeth and Phoebe are indeed a pair to be reckoned with. The one saving grace is we know that Rhys will keep them safe. He allows the gypsies no nonsense when they camp on his estate."
"True, but what of Rhys himself? He has the devil's own reputation. My God, I've witnessed the man in action. All he needs do is utter a sentence or two in Romany and women practically swoon into his bed."
Winston's eyes lit with amusement. "Now I understand. I never thought to see you so possessive toward a woman again."
"Possessive, hell. I'm furious to be inconvenienced, that's all. Besides, I loaned her money. I'm protecting my investment."
"Really?"
"Of course. Hildegard could truly care less about her well being. Someone has to watch out for her."
"Rhys might be happy to accept that responsibility. I heard he decided to finally claim his title. Odds are he means to claim a wife as well."
"Bloody hell," Stephen muttered again. He had known Rhys since they were fourteen years old. He was a good man and one of the few Stephen called a friend. Rhys would make any woman a fine husband, but blast it all, let him find his own female. This irrational wave of jealously irritated Stephen all the more, which he quickly excused to prolonged lust. Noting none too happily the laughter in his friend's voice, he nudged Cavalier into a gallop, leaving Winston in the dust.
They crested the hill and without stopping cantered into the camp, which seemed to be a whirlwind of activity. Scanning the wagons for any sign of Phoebe and Elizabeth, he finally spied Rhys, who stood with his feet braced apart and his arms crossed over his chest like a sultan. Stephen swung from his saddle and shouted, "Where the devil are they?"
Rhys merely grinned. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He enveloped Stephen in a powerful embrace. "I assume from your question that you come for the redhead. Pity. She is an intriguing mix of womanhood, packaged in quite a delightful body."
Winston joined the two men and exchanged a warm embrace with Rhys. "Tread lightly. Stephen sees himself as the girl's protector."
Rhys lifted one brow. "You will marry again?"
"Hell, no. You of all people know my circumstance. It's simply.. .never mind."
"I understand. She is a handful. I also recognized your wife, Winston. It has been an interesting afternoon, my friends. I thought to teach the ladies a lesson. I believe sixyear-olds would be better students."
"Where is Phoebe?"
"At this moment, she prepares for her race."
"She what?"
Shaking his head, Winston said, "You'd best impart the whole of it."
When Stephen heard the entire tale he didn't know whether to offer Phoebe a medal for her bravery or a lecture for her foolishness. Likely she was deserving of both. He knew one thing for certain: He wanted to see her. This instant. "Phoebe Rafferty," he thundered. His voice boomed across the glen.
Dogs scuttled under the wagons and children tucked their heads in their mother's skirts. Rhys and Winston stared in amused silence. Phoebe peeked from behind a nearby wagon and hid once again. But not before Stephen saw her. "Phoebe Rafferty, no point in hiding."
"The same goes for you, my dear," yelled Winston.
"Oh, spit," Phoebe muttered. Granted she was glad to see Stephen, thrilled in fact, but the murderous expression plastered on his face meant a lecture or maybe something worse.
"What now?" asked Elizabeth.
"We take the offensive." Phoebe stomped over to Stephen's side, matching his glare with one of her own. "I've had a miserable day, Stephen Lambert, and as far as I can tell the fault lies at your feet, so don't you dare yell at me."
Elizabeth hobbled behind, trying her best to look dignified, no small feat with an ankle that was surely the size of her thigh. "The same goes for you, Winston."
A snort, suspiciously like laughter, escaped Rhys's lips. He slapped both men on their backs and walked away shaking his head.
Phoebe felt like throwing a rock at Rhys's head. In fact, at the moment, she felt like drubbing all males in general.
"Elizabeth, do you realize that you could have been seriously injured?"
Winston's tone of voice, one Phoebe had never heard him use before, indicated his mood. Thunderation, he was angry too. "It's not her fault," Phoebe said. "I forced her to accompany me."
"Humph," Winston grumbled. "Like you, she possesses a decent amount of intelligence and common sense when she elects to utilize them. Today, you both seem to have lost all reason."
Elizabeth's eyes started to tear. "I injured my ankle." On a sigh, Winston opened his arms. She curled into his chest and winked at Phoebe.
For all of two seconds, Phoebe contemplated such a ploy. One look at Stephen's scowl and she knew it was a waste of time. "If you intend to lecture me," Phoebe said, "you can just mount your horse and ride back to London."
"I should, you
know. I should ride away and abandon you to your own devices. I don't know why I bother."
Because you care, she thought to herself, knowing he'd laugh himself silly if she offered that suggestion. "This is all your fault anyway."
"You dare blame me for your lack of judgment? Sweet Mary, I've been in residence all day. What the devil did I do?"
"You exist," Phoebe snapped. His eyes rounded and his jaw clenched. She sighed, knowing she'd have to explain all of it. Even if she didn't, Elizabeth would likely tell Winston, who would then tell Stephen. "I came here for your benefit. I figured if a gypsy could curse you, then a gypsy could uncurse you."
"L.." He snapped his mouth shut. His stride devoured the distance between him and Phoebe when suddenly he veered toward a nearby tree stump. Back and forth, back and forth, he paced, stomping about like an angry troll.
Suddenly, he marched to Phoebe's side, gripped her chin in his hand and claimed her parted lips. He released her just as quickly.
"Do not think for one minute that we are finished with this. Be careful," he commanded before he stomped, once again, to the edge of the clearing beside Rhys to watch the race.
Gratified to see Phoebe rendered immobile and speechless, Stephen crossed his arms over his chest. When she realized she was standing there watching him like a frightened hare, she frowned and ran to her horse. She likely thought him insane, yelling one minute, kissing her the next. Truth be told, he felt as though he were teetering on the edge of insanity, and had been for days.
Whenever unwelcome and impossible ideas of marital bliss invaded his mind, he remembered Emily's crumpled body, her limbs askew and broken. Any thought of Phoebe, limp and mangled in such a manner, was unthinkable. Thus far his resolution to have her as his mistress or not at all had held firm. Silently, he renewed his vow.
With a mix of trepidation and pride, Stephen watched Phoebe mount Flash. When she hiked her skirts above her knees and tucked the fabric between her legs, he fought the impulse to stomp across the clearing to tug the fabric back down to her ankles. Instead, he studied the horses and the course.
After circling the glen, the riders would ascend a hill to the north, then travel back down again to dash for the finish line, where Stephen stood along with most of the observers. Three obstacles blocked their path: a small creek, a downed tree and the wooden hitch from a wagon.
The white mare Ariana rode was magnificent, athletic and agile with a strong, short-coupled body. Colored ribbons decorated the horse's wavy mane. As if she knew she had an audience, the horse swished her tail with the same arrogance with which Ariana tossed her unbound curls.
Flash, on the other hand, was all grace and elegance with powerful hindquarters and a deep girth for maximum lung expansion. The thoroughbred excelled in sports demanding great strength of will, stamina and speed. Stephen nodded toward Ariana's horse and spoke to Rhys. "One of your Spanish breeds, I assume?"
With his arms crossed over his chest, Rhys grinned like a proud father. "The mare is spectacular. Like her brother, she will breed a fine line of steeds. How well does Miss Rafferty sit a horse?"
"I have little knowledge firsthand, but she claims to be quite proficient. Either way, I'm sure she'll do her best to try my patience during the race."
Chuckling, Rhys added, "You know, men and women are like horses. With the right pairing, a fine family line can be established."
Stephen eyed Rhys. "Do not start."
"Do not scowl so. Miss Rafferty is a package worthy of worry, my friend. That is all." With that, Rhys signaled Torio, Ariana's father, who stood between the two women, a blue scarf in his outstretched arm. Both riders watched it drift downward. The moment one corner touched the ground, Phoebe spurred Flash into a gallop, her head low over the horse's neck. His hooves hurled dirt into the air, his powerful muscles pumping as he fought to give her his all. Ariana kept pace with Phoebe, her face determined. Stephen couldn't help but admire the skill of both women. A horse gave its heart only to a rider who knew how to ask for it.
The crowd cheered wildly as both riders cleared the creek together. The hill lay ahead. The animals dug their hindquarters into the soft ground, disappearing into the trees and, much to his dismay, out of Stephen's sight.
Birds scattered and a small rabbit scampered to safety. A squirrel chattered noisily, protesting the invasion of its shaded sanctuary. Phoebe ducked even lower to avoid a branch on her right, the sound of Flash's labored breathing music to her ears. Mercy, the horse could run. She had sensed his power before, but today, he was running with his heart. For her. She cooed words of encouragement into his ear. His hooves crashed through the bracken and leaves, climbing higher and higher. She felt as if she were soaring, floating through the air like a bird's song.
The top of the hill came suddenly. She burst through the trees, whirled the horse about and started down. Ariana was right beside her. Phoebe admired the skill of the woman and the power of the mare. Sharing a bond, the love of the race, the thrill of freedom, both women smiled. With a shrill cry, Ariana spurred her horse, leaping forward. Phoebe did the same, thundering down the hill and laughing all the while. Despite the steep decline, Phoebe centered her body, her weight in the stirrups to combat the slope of the descent. Miracle of miracles, at the bottom she gained a slight lead.
Stephen's hand clenched about the limb of a tree as the horses sprung from the shrubbery at neck-breaking speed, Phoebe a hairsbreadth ahead. Flash jumped the downed log with ease. Only the open meadow and the wagon hitch remained. Soaring over the final obstacle, Flash's hind legs bobbled as his feet touched the rocky ground, forfeiting Phoebe's slight lead. Stephen's heart plummeted.
Seeing his tension, Rhys said, "Relax, my friend. Watch her. She knows what she is doing."
"Damn reckless female," Stephen complained. "I told her to be careful." He watched as she righted herself, gripping the reins low to the horse's neck. Her hair, loosened by the wind, flew like a scarlet banner behind her. He saw her lips move, knew she coaxed Flash to victory with soft words and praise. Neck and neck, the lathered mounts raced toward the finish. Twenty feet lay between her and the spot where Torio stood, the scarf held high once again. With a burst of strength and sheer will, Flash surged into the lead. Phoebe plucked the scarf from Torio's hand and raised her arm over her head, her face aglow with unabashed pleasure. Her eyes sparkled with vitality and her cheeks were flushed pink. Stephen didn't think he'd ever seen her look more beautiful.
Emotion filled him. First came pride, followed by an unbearable longing that made breathing difficult. He recognized the stirring of something other than lust, and it terrified him. Like a window to her heart, Phoebe's open gaze met his. She beckoned to him.
It was an offer to share her victory, but more, it was a promise to ease his loneliness. She offered the key to unlock the emotions he'd successfully buried for all these years.
Rhys clamped a hand on Stephen's shoulder. "What will you do?"
"What can I do?"
"That is a question only you can answer, my friend. But look at her, the way she watches you. A man would be a fool not to listen to eyes that speak from the heart the way hers do."
Ignoring his friend, Stephen fought to recall the image of Emily's twisted limbs amid a pool of blood, her last gasp of life. Maybe he did choose the coward's way. He didn't care, he couldn't afford to. Desperate to escape, knowing that if he went to Phoebe now he might not have the power to refuse what she silently asked of him, he stomped into the shelter of the forest.
Her disappointment keen, Phoebe watched Stephen separate himself from Rhys and disappear into the woods. What did he expect from her? She'd seen his eyes as she dashed across the finish line, witnessed the pride and much more. Stuff and nonsense. Maybe she saw only what she hoped for.
Rhys sauntered to Phoebe's side and lifted her from the saddle. "Now we celebrate."
Rhys led her to a small wagon and pushed her inside. A mound of blankets and pillows topped a bed that stretched
from end to end near the back. Two chests sat beneath the bed. Boxes and baskets were stacked on top of one another along the sides. Brightly covered shawls, silky scarves and pots and pans hung from a wooden bar. A gypsy named Anna moved about the cramped space with an ease born from years of experience that one learned when all one's worldly possessions fit in a wooden box on wheels. Anna placed a bucket of water and a rag on top of a three-legged stool and gestured for Phoebe to wash.
Stripping down to her shift, Phoebe asked, "Why is everyone being so nice? I won."
"True, but nothing was lost. The horse was yours to begin with." The gypsy laughed at Phoebe's wide-eyed expression. "Do not be shocked. Ariana found the horse. Had you not appeared she would own a fine animal. When you did come, it became a matter of pride. Also, she saw Rhys look at you. She forgets he is noble and can never be hers."
"Rhys is a...he's not a..."
"Rhys is a bastard. Half gypsy, half English. This is his land. Does that shock you?"
Phoebe had wondered about the bond the three men apparently shared, but she would never have guessed that bit of information. She answered, scrubbing her face vigorously. "I know better than to make assumptions. I'm just surprised. Rarely are things as they appear."
"Very true and very wise. Today you rode like a gypsy." Anna pulled a woven skirt and a flowing white shirt from one chest. "Tonight you dress like one. Your man will be pleased."
"He's not exactly my man. I mean, I'd like him to be, but he has other ideas."
"Fire bums in his eyes. Tonight it will be difficult for him to refuse you. Rhys said you had questions. This gadjo nobleman, he is why you came here?"
"I had hoped to gather some information," Phoebe said, as she fingered the skirt, a luscious blend of purples that seemed to shimmer with life. Casting aside any modesty, she slipped her shift to the floor and slid her arms into the shirt. It fell from one shoulder and draped suggestively across her breasts. The skirt came next, flowing to her ankles. She twirled in the cramped confines of the wagon, relishing the freedom of movement in the outfit, the soft swish of the fabric.