Nevara explained about the late Mrs. Helen Beaumont, a woman who came into possession of a gypsy amulet that could identify anyone in the midst of a shift.
“The Cimaruta?” the gypsy mother asked.
Nevara nodded, pleased to have her theory confirmed that those amulets were of gypsy origin. “You know of it?”
The mother nodded. “It is a seer’s magical amulet.”
“Well, using that amulet, Mrs. Beaumont united alliance members, including myself. After she died, my new employer, Lady Roselyn, herself a shifter, became the alliance’s leader.”
“Family always comes first with Zincali.” The grandfather nodded sagely. “It is only natural they would gather together in time. Living alone is not for us.”
The gypsy mother said, “Now we must not only remember all the centuries of gypsy suffering but also celebrate our future.” She pointed to her eldest daughter. “This one has been betrothed as required by gypsy tradition for two years. She will marry a handsome gypsy man in Sevilla next month. We were on our way there when fortune brought you into our path.”
The father strummed a guitar and his eldest daughter began to dance. As the evocative music rang out, Nevara’s gaze once again searched out the forest and encountered Mark’s lonely figure approaching. She jumped up and raced to his side. He seemed resigned. So Lord Terrance had been right, he had needed time alone. Taking his hand, she led him back, determined to never again allow Mark to face his demons alone.
This night had blessed her with all her wishes. She had discovered the secret of the Rue Alliance’s origins. Mark loved her. Best of all, she now understood that her shifting sight was not evil at all.
She was simply a woman born with an amazing ability to see through illusion to the truth. That was why she had been able to clearly see the dark spell behind the gale attacking the Magdalena and Mark’s incredible netting of light that he had built to protect the vessel.
She could hardly wait to tell Lady Roselyn, Sir Phillip and the rest of her alliance friends about her discoveries. She wanted to shout with joy. Her toes were tapping to the music and she could barely sit still. Watching the young gypsy girl dance, Nevara was tempted to join her.
The grandfather was clicking his tongue to accent the tempo. The girl made eye contact with Nevara, and perhaps seeing her excitement, she gestured for her to join in the dance. With a shy laugh, Nevara shook her head. She could not possibly move her body in the same suggestive sensual manner the girl was, but it was pleasing to watch.
The girl danced toward Nevara and pulled her up.
Nevara stumbled to her feet and glanced anxiously at Belle.
“Dance for us,” the countess said, which was of no help.
The gypsy girl swirled around her, her soft arm movements and finger snapping inviting Nevara to enjoy the rhythmic movements. The enticement became more difficult to resist as Nevara’s ever present curiosity to learn new things asserted itself. Tentatively, she mimicked the young Zincali girl’s swaying movements that were so foreign to her English upbringing. Unlike the orderly formal country-dances she had learned, this dance required the performer to make sensual movements of arms, hands, and torso.
The wild dance offered a sense of freedom and an outlet for her glee, once she captured the essence of it. Her audience encouraged her with shouting and hand clapping.
It was hard to keep her laughter and her sheer happiness inside. A glance revealed that Mark was watching her with an intent gaze, his eyes filled with searing passion.
Nevara shocked herself by dancing for him. Then, seeing the laughter in Belle’s eyes, surprised appreciation in Lord Terrance’s and an appalled expression on Mendal’s face, Nevara ended her dance and hurried to her place beside Mark. Despite the gypsies’ protests, she sat down, her cheeks searing, unable to believe she had acted so brazenly, and in public.
In the dark, Mark’s hand slipped stealthily around her waist and his fingers tantalizingly caressed the underside of her bosom. The resultant rising heat in her belly was as scorching as the one on her cheeks when he whispered in her ear, “One day soon, you will finish that dance for me, Nevara.”
Belle took her hand. “Well done.”
Mark withdrew his hold, and Nevara felt suddenly cold. She clenched her friend’s hand.
Belle squeezed back and whispered, “Mendal once told me to wait for Rufus to become aware of the depth of his feelings for me. I offer you the same advice.”
Nevara watched the gypsies’ singing and dancing in a subdued mood, thinking over the countess’s advice. She was certain that Mark loved her, but Nevara knew that she needed to hear those words of love.
Not because she still believed that she was unlovable. She was as loveable as anyone else. Still, Nevara needed Mark to acknowledge aloud that he loved her.
The gypsy music and dancing carried on late into the evening but Nevara’s joy dimmed a little. The two groups finally separated and spent what remained of the night resting under the canopy of cork oak trees.
She ignored Mark’s frown when she chose to sleep between Mendal and Belle. The maid patted her hand in approval. On the other side of Belle, she heard Lord Terrance quietly chuckling as Mark grumbled about the hardness of the ground.
Nevara’s thoughts inevitably turned to her new discovery about her shifting sight. She took off her spectacles and everything appeared blurred, fuzzy and dark. She shifted her sight and instantly her world came back into focus, but so did the white ribbons of light weaving across the darkness. She finally understood what these lights meant. She shivered in shock at how many lines of power embraced the world. So her ability to see these frost lines, these threads that held the power of magic, was the result of the Huntsman’s spell, distorted to give her the gift of clarity.
Beside her, Belle too seemed bathed in a brilliant glow. When she had first met her, Nevara had thought the countess abnormal, when in reality, her friend had the unique ability to utilize these lines of power that surrounded her, to draw on them to show her what normal people could never envision.
Nevara put her spectacles back on and refocused until she again saw the forms of her companions highlighted only by the moon’s gentle glow.
All these years, she had thought her shifting sight was a curse. But in fact, it was the opposite. It was a blessing. Just as Lady Roselyn had once suggested. Nevara opened herself up to accepting who she was, with all its good and bad components. She wished she could tell Mark this. That made her wonder what he was thinking, lying on the far side of Lord Terrance.
She turned over and looked into the fire. Mark was so tight-lipped about what mattered most to him. The only thing she knew for certain was that he loved his grandmother. After Miguel died, the old lady became the only family Mark had left. Then Nevara froze in place as she recalled the end of the gypsies’ tale.
They believed the original Huntsman was still alive. No wonder Mark was upset. The Huntsman was Mark’s ancestor. Part of his family. If the Huntsman was still alive, Mark would want to rescue him and she wanted to help him with that goal. If they stole the statue, they could take it back to England, where Mark’s grandmother, who still had her magic, might be able to free him.
It was a dangerous plan, but having come through the wreckage of the Magdalena, been reunited with her lost gypsy clan, and won over the witch’s latest attempt to kill her by setting those wolves on her trail, Nevara was full of optimism. She no longer felt as if God was against her, but rather, was urging her on to conquer her greatest fears.
All of her life, Nevara had been afraid. Now, with Mark and her friends by her side, she felt invincible. With that happy thought keeping her company, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
NEVARA BLINKED her eyes open. Warm sunlight bathed her face. Her friends had allowed her to sleep late. The scent of fres
h oranges enticed her to sit up, to find she was the only one still abed. The gypsy women were busy packing their cart, and Belle sat by a smoldering campfire eating oranges.
Mark was nowhere in sight, but his lynx remained beside Nevara, watchful. The cat’s wounds no longer leaked. Mark must have applied a new dressing. Earnest sat beside Belle, eating the orange slices that she fed him.
“I am sorry for being such a lie-a-bed,” Nevara said.
“Not at all,” Belle said. “You have woken in time for breakfast.”
“Where is Mark?” She stretched aching muscles that protested sleeping on the rough ground. “I have to speak to him. I think we should try and steal that statue of the Huntsman from the witch.”
Instead of replying, Belle studiously avoided Nevara’s gaze.
“Belle, where is he?”
Her friend’s glance finally met hers. “I suggest you wash yourself by the stream and come have a piece of this delicious fruit. After that we may talk about the whereabouts of your Mark, my errant husband, and the gypsy’s father, Paco.”
Nevara instantly noticed that all the men, with the exception of the grandfather were absent. Her gaze swung to where the two horses and a half dozen mules should be grazing. Three of the mules were missing.
“They have left!” She jumped to her feet and swirled around in search of the missing men.
“To Seville, miss,” Mendal said with a heavy sigh. “To rescue Mr. Mark’s great-great-grandfather.”
“Why did Mark not speak to me first? I want to go with him.”
“For that very reason, I suspect,” Belle said in a sympathetic tone.
“But . . .”
“As you obviously have guessed, Mark has refused to allow his relative to remain enslaved any longer,” Belle said. “Even if he cannot change the Huntsman back to human form because he has lost his magic, he intends to, at least, remove him from the witch’s power.”
Nevara’s heart thudded. “Belle, Mark has no weapons, no magical defenses. We must go after him and help.”
“He took my husband.” Belle’s words came out fiercely, and then she shook her head. “That was unfair. Mark wished to go alone, but Rufus insisted that two hands at this game would be better than one. The gypsy father went along to guide them as far as the de Rivera estate. Mark left you a message.”
Nevara’s gaze trained on Belle’s. “What?”
“He said he is sorry for alarming you by going away.”
“And that he loves you, miss,” Mendal added.
Nevara could have cried. “He finally admits to loving me, and I have to hear it from someone else. It is a good thing he is not here, for I would hit him.”
That brought a smile to Belle’s lips. “Mark believes the witch’s focus is aimed at you. That is the reason why he did not want you to come with him. He left his lynx behind to protect you. His name is Don Sabio. The gypsies are to take us to Seville. The de Rivera estate is situated outside that town.” She handed Nevara a piece of fruit.
“How can you be so calm about this?” Nevara asked, as she took the orange, her mind spinning with thoughts of Mark and Lord Terrance being attacked by a ruthless witch.
“I am not calm, my dear.” Belle gave Nevara a glimpse into her worries. “I am terrified of losing my husband. I blame myself for his presence here and all the risks he has taken on our behalf.” She sighed, curling her fingers into a fist. “Rarely can destiny’s call be denied, and then, only at a worse price. That is why we are all here. Unfortunately, last night, destiny’s siren ensnared Mark, and he will only return when the price has been paid.”
MARK WAS DESPONDENT as he, Terrance and Paco wound their way on mules through the Guadalquivir valley toward Seville. Would Nevara understand his need to leave her in order to rescue his relative? He had had no choice in the matter. He could not live with himself if he left Spain without attempting to rescue his great-great-grandfather.
This was too perilous a mission to involve the ladies, so he had made arrangements with the gypsy grandfather to transport Nevara, Lady Terrance and Mendal to Seville in their caravan. According to Paco, there was a section of Seville known as the Faubourg where, aside from the Zincali, only robbers and other desperate characters resided. Since few ventured into that section of town, the grandfather suggested that area as the safest place to hide the women from the de Rivera witch.
The Zincali grandfather promised to keep the women concealed within that mountain of dilapidated walls and ruined convents. The grand colony of Spanish gypsies who lived there would act as the three English women’s protectors until Señor Alvaro and Señor Lord Terrance returned to escort their women back to their island in the West Sea.
Mark brought his focus back to his surroundings. The region they currently traveled through bore witness to the devastation left behind as a result of the fighting by the English and Spanish soldiers against the French army—everywhere, they glimpsed toppled houses, torn down fences and burned buildings.
Mark had read of the carnage during the recent war on the Peninsula, but only now did the extent of the devastation sink in. The three men rode their mules in silence, passing farms slowly recovering from war with the re-growth of slender lemon, orange and olive groves and freshly ploughed black fields.
They spent the first two nights on the road, sleeping under the stars since most locals welcomed strangers with suspicion and violence.
Mark could understand their qualms since he and Terrance no longer looked anything like respectable Englishmen. Dressed similar to Paco, the two wore jackets of brown cloth above plush waistcoats of red or blue that sported numerous buttons and clasps. Crimson silk girdles, which Paco labeled a “faja,” were wrapped around their waists. A wicked looking “cacha” was tucked into Paco’s faja, which the Zincali said was but a simple tool to trim the hair off mules. Mark doubted that mules were the only things Paco trimmed with that sharp-bladed cacha.
To finish off their costumes, the men’s limbs were encased in pantaloons of coarse cloth that descended to the knee, with the calves protected by woolen stockings that ended in stout high-lows. No polished Hessians for this trip, for it would give them away too easily as Englishmen. To complete this colorful attire, an odious scent emanated from the borrowed clothes that enveloped them from toe to collar.
After a day spent wearing the smelly garments, Mark had hoped to become used to the odor, but every time he breathed too deeply while looking downward, he still choked. He was, therefore, secretly glad they spent so much of their time in the fresh air.
Terrance’s pale features were the only thing that might give them away. His high-peaked, narrow-brimmed hat was inadequate to hide his fair English complexion. So Paco had smeared his lordship’s face and hands with dirt, making him seem the most disreputable of the three.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, Mark’s group arrived in Seville and navigated through its widest calle—the city’s tortuous, narrow, winding lanes. They rode down confined and gloomy streets until they reached a coffee house. They stopped there, hoping to procure information about the whereabouts of the de Rivera estate.
Mark and his friends’ entrance into the darkly lit, cavernous room caused a bit of a stir. The word “Gitano,” the Spaniard’s label for gypsy, was whispered more than once, spoken with little respect or courtesy, and accompanied by pointed fingers.
Paco approached the proprietor. In Spanish, he requested a table for himself and his companions. After a bit of wrangling, he produced a coin Lord Terrance had given him earlier. That payment convinced the coffee house owner he intended to pay for services rendered. The owner, with obvious reluctance, led them to a small rickety table.
They all took a thirsty swallow of their drinks when a Spaniard sitting nearby turned his chair to face them. He had pockmarked cheeks, curious, suspicious eyes and spoke
in Spanish. “What is your business in Sevilla, Gitanos?”
“We seek work,” Paco replied. “We heard the de Rivera estate was looking for good men. Can you tell us where this great estate might be?”
“Hah!” the blemished one said. “You do not want to go there. That place is evil.”
“Shush.” The large man beside him frowned. “Do not spread such foolish tales.”
“They are not foolish,” the blemished one said. “Young girls have been disappearing from nearby villages these last few weeks. I have heard of at least one whose mother claimed the girl went to that house looking for work but never returned.”
Mark listened, worried. Was this superstitious nonsense to cover some tragedy in the surrounding countryside? Or something more sinister?
The blemished one added in a low tone, “It is rumored that the señorita is a witch who is sacrificing these girls to the devil.”
“Señorita Anna Louisa de Rivera is a good woman,” the large man said in a harsh voice. “She has given much to Sevilla, supporting the local orphanage and the church with needed funds. Do not defile her name.”
The blemished one grumbled, but his companion held up his hand for silence. “You will have the Inquisition on all our heads with such felonious talk about the beautiful lady.”
“That is another thing,” his blemished companion said, undaunted. “The señorita should be the same age as my grandmother, yet she looks no older than my youngest girl. How do you explain that, if not for the practice of witchcraft?”
“Perhaps she possesses a lode stone,” Paco offered, sounding impressed with the tale.
Terrance raised his eyebrow in question.
“It is said to possess much power,” Paco explained. “Death itself has no power over the person who has one.”
“That is more superstition,” the large man said. “Gitanos attribute all sorts of miraculous powers to this fabled stone.”
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