Midnight Conquest (Book 1) (Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles)

by Arial Burnz

  The young Gypsy made her way around the bush and flattened against the wall, alert to the muffled voices coming through the passage. Peering into the dark entrance, she saw what appeared to be the back of a building and some rain barrels. A devious grin spread across her lips, and she slipped inside. She brushed some webs away as she snuck through the passage. Seeing no one around, she hid beside the rain barrels and dared a cautious peek through the closed shutters of the window. Bits of hay littered the ground inside the building, one side opened to reveal stalls, hanging leather harnesses and mouth bits. The stables.

  “Nica!”

  Veronique squatted in fright.

  “What? You love it when I do that,” his voice teased.

  Veronique narrowed her eyes and cursed under her breath. Nicabar and his ugly Scottish woman were in the hayloft, rolling around like animals. After listening to their grunts of passion, she was grateful she hadn’t given up her virginity to him, but she still needed to resolve this problem with Davina. Veronique scampered around the stable to the side of the structure. Setting against the wall, she inclined her ear toward their voices above. Two minutes of their panting, moaning, and laughing was about all she could stand. She wanted information! Not a heated coupling!

  Pouting, she made her way toward the other side of the stables. Ahead, across the courtyard, lay a door into the castle. A woman carrying two buckets came out of the door, a kerchief on her head. She waddled to the edge of the courtyard and dumped the water into a hole surrounded by stones and covered with a metal grate, then turned to go back inside. Not two moments later, the door opened, and a man came stomping out of the castle. He left the door open, and another woman stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a furrowed brow. “Oh, quit yer gripin’, Seamus!”

  The man stopped and took two steps back toward the woman in the doorway. “This is the third trip I’m making this month! Third trip! How much honey can one person eat?”

  The woman stepped out, the lines on her brow vanishing, her voice softer. “You know her honey is the only thing Mistress Davina has left to keep the memory of her brother alive.”

  Seamus sighed and nodded. “Aye. I will make a short trip of it.”

  Veronique ran behind the stable to the water barrels, to hide and get closer to the passage. The loft became quiet and not too long afterwards, Seamus rode off on horseback through the front gate. As Veronique snuck back to the stone passage, Nicabar and Rosselyn burst into laughter and continued their frolicking. Veronique shook her head, exited through the passage, and headed back to the Gypsy camp. The grin on her face grew wider with each step. She bunched her hands into fists with excitement. She knew exactly what to do about that Davina!

  Chapter Nine

  Davina, Rosselyn, and Lilias sat in the parlor by the wide oriel window with their needlework projects. They took advantage of the mid-afternoon sunlight. Davina worked at her specialty of stitching delicate vines along the cuffs of one of her mother’s chemises; Lilias sat before a tapestry stretched across a frame of a half-finished design, portraying the Stewart crest of her husband and the Keith crest of her own clan, a large piece that would go in the Great Hall once finished; and Rosselyn stitched floral designs on table linens. These quiet times were a welcome respite after their weekly chore of brushing clean all the woolen clothing in their wardrobes.

  “Uncle Tammus said he would be back in a fortnight, did he not, M’ma?” Davina looked up from her embroidery when she didn’t get an answer and saw her mother rubbing her temples. “M’ma?”

  “Nay, Davina. In just a few days,” Lilias whispered, squinting at her.

  “Another spell of head pains,” Davina said.

  Lilias nodded. “I will go lie down and rest for awhile.”

  “Oh, we can go to the Gypsy camp, Mistress Davina!” Rosselyn offered. “Amice has wonderful herbal remedies for any ailment one might have!”

  “What a wonderful idea, Roz. I’m amazed I never thought of that myself. I will tell Fife to accompany you while I tend to M’ma.” Davina put her project aside to help her mother to bed, placing her embroidery threads in the basket beside her chair.

  “Oh, but I hoped you would go with me.”

  Davina stopped in the middle of tucking Lilias’s embroidery threads in her basket and glanced at her mother. Lilias remained seated, squeezing her eyes closed and massaging her temples. Grateful her mother seemed distracted by her head pains, Davina glared at Rosselyn.

  “Don’t fret, Davina. Broderick won’t be there. He doesn’t come to the camp during the daytime.”

  Davina blanched. Another confirmation of what the Gypsy girl told her.

  Lilias strained to peek at the two of them. “Why are you so concerned whether or not he’s there? He hasn’t hurt you, has he?” Panic laced Lilias’s voice.

  “Nay, M’ma.” Davina made efforts to keep her voice calm. “He hasn’t hurt me. There is nothing to be concerned about.” Davina helped Lilias to her feet and glared at Rosselyn over her mother’s head. “Tell Fife I will be down to join you after I have Myrna put M’ma to bed.” She frowned at the gleeful expression on her maid’s face. Just as Davina suspected, Rosselyn was playing match maker and did everything but come outright and say Davina and Broderick should be together. Well, Davina would just have to set her maid straight on the matter. Davina helped Lilias up the stairs to her chamber and fetched Myrna.

  With Lilias tucked into bed, Davina joined Rosselyn and Fife and trotted out to the Gypsy camp.

  They rode in silence for a while—Davina and Rosselyn side by side with Fife traveling ahead of them—before Rosselyn spoke. “Did I say something wrong, Davina?”

  “When?”

  “While we were in the parlor.”

  “Oh. Well, you know how my mother worries. She’s also aware the Gypsy has an interest in me and doesn’t fancy the idea of me being with a wanderer like him. I don’t want to give her any reason to believe something will come of the match.”

  “Do you fancy the Gypsy?”

  Davina pursed her lips at Rosselyn. “If I thought he was to be at the camp, I wouldn’t have come with you.” Rosselyn may have told Davina he wouldn’t be there just to get her to come along. A part of her hoped she had, proving Veronique wrong. “He isn’t going to be there, correct?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis just as I said; he doesn’t come to the camp during the day.”

  She shivered, but Rosselyn might have learned another reason. “Why?”

  “Nicabar tells me Amice does the fortune telling during the day and doesn’t have the strength to continue into the night, so Broderick takes over the duty. I guess he’s used to the unusual schedule.”

  The arrangement seemed logical enough. Veronique may have said such things to keep Davina away, though her reasons were unclear.

  “But I didn’t ask you if you wanted to see the dukker, Davina. I asked if you fancied him.”

  “The what?”

  “The dukker. ‘Tis the Gypsy word for fortune teller.” Rosselyn remained silent, and Davina hoped she wouldn’t repeat the question, but she did.

  “I would want to see him if I had an interest in him, nay?” There, that should satisfy her curiosity.

  Rosselyn smiled a secret smile, one which made Davina uneasy. Aye, she’d satisfied her, all right. Broderick interested Davina, and she grated her teeth at being so transparent.

  They rode in silence for a few moments before Rosselyn turned to Davina, opening her mouth as if to say something, but closed her mouth when their eyes met. Rosselyn’s cheeks bloomed with color and she diverted her gaze.

  “Rosselyn, are you well?” Davina leaned over in her saddle and touched her friend’s hand in a show of support.

  Rosselyn opened her mouth, her bottom lip quivering, and then nodded. “Aye, Davina. All is well.” Patting Davina’s hand, Rosselyn comforted her mistress and then urged her horse forward toward the Gypsy camp.

  As Rosselyn headed for Nicabar’s caravan, an u
nexpected ache rose in Davina’s chest. Rosselyn and Nicabar spent more and more time together. Was she losing her maid and best friend? Perhaps that was what Rosselyn tried to tell her on the ride over. Rosselyn deserved to be happy, and Davina never saw her friend glow like she did with Nicabar. Her brow furrowed and her protective nature bubbled up. He had better not be playing with her friend’s emotions. She narrowed her eyes and encouraged her horse to Broderick’s caravan, making a mental note to keep an eye on this relationship.

  Fife waited with the horses at the edge of the camp, talking and laughing with a few of the Gypsy men. The afternoon chill stinging her cheeks didn’t seem any different from the frostiness of the early morn. The days were definitely getting colder. “And we are in for a storm,” she mumbled at the darkening horizon, watching the fading sunlight.

  Amice rambled in French at her granddaughter, something about keeping to herself and not chasing after something that would never come to be. As Davina approached their site, the young woman scowled at Davina, and Amice grabbed her arm, whispering in her ear. Gasps of protest hissed from the girl who stomped into the caravan, leaving Davina alone with aged Gypsy.

  “Please, join me, chérie,” Amice invited, and Davina sat on the wooden stool opposite the old woman. From a pot sitting on the fire, Amice ladled steaming pottage into bowls and handed one to Davina, along with a chunk of grain bread. “I do not like to eat alone.”

  Davina couldn’t refuse such a tantalizing aroma and blew on the thick brew before tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the bowl. Pottage never tasted so flavorful. Picking through the stew, Davina could see Amice had skills with herbs in more than medicinal ways. “Thank you, Amice, this is delicious.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Davina.” Amice’s grin was overshadowed by her wrinkled brow.

  “What troubles you, Amice?”

  Amice bit off the end of her bread. “Nothing to concern yourself with, chérie.” She nibbled her stew before continuing. “And how is your mother?”

  “Actually, she’s the reason I came here today. She’s plagued with terrible head pains. I know not what to do. I hope you have some herbal remedies.”

  “Oui.” Amice put her food down upon her stool and opened the caravan door. Veronique sat inside, glaring at Davina. Davina expected the impertinent girl would stick her tongue out as she’d done when she was a child. She tried not to scowl back and pondered what the girl had against her. From a cabinet under the bed, Amice pulled a large woven basket filled with herbs and oils, then closed the door, sat on her stool, and produced a jar with a large cork stopper, which she removed.

  “This is a mixture of several herbs,” she explained as she scooped out the seeds and dried bits, and poured them onto a piece of cloth, carefully wrapping and tying them into a little bundle. “Chamomile, hawthorn, hops, and peppermint, among others, but trust me…they will help.” She corked the jar and handed the wrapped herbs to Davina. Amice cupped her hand and drew circles in the center of her palm with her index finger, saying, “Measure a small amount into your palm and make an infusion for her to drink when her head hurts. To prevent the pains from returning, tell her to eat a fresh leaf of feverfew daily between two slices of bread.” Amice put her basket aside and wrinkled her nose. “The feverfew is bitter, which is why she must eat the leaf with bread.”

  “Thank you so very much, Amice.” The two women went back to eating the pottage and bread. Davina admired the painted tent siding of the woman with flowing blonde hair and cards on a table before her. “This painting resembles your granddaughter,” Davina observed, “but I saw it many years ago when she was little. Surely ‘tis not a portrait of her.”

  Amice glanced at the painting and blushed. “Non, that is not of Veronique.” She leaned forward and whispered with mischief in her voice. “C’est moi!” Amice giggled like a little girl.

  Davina chuckled. “You?”

  “Oui! Broderick is a very talented artist, non? He painted a picture of me in my youth.”

  Davina stopped chewing, surprised by the admission and the shocking aspect of Broderick’s talent. She swallowed the bite of bread she’d taken. “Broderick painted that?”

  Amice nodded proudly and turned her attention to her bowl, stirring the stew with her bread. “He also painted those wooden tablets I have shown you.”

  Davina gasped, remembering the detailed images on the fortune telling tool Amice had used during their last visit. “How amazing! You must be so proud of your son.”

  Amice’s eyes went wide. “My son?” She laughed. “Oh, non, chérie. Broderick is not my son.” Amice scooted forward and scooped some more pottage into her bowl, offering Davina more of the stew. After giving Davina a second helping, she settled back, licking her lips. “I will tell you the story. We made camp along the coast on the south of England, outside a large city called Portsmouth. We did not camp within or closer to the city as Gypsies are not welcome there.”

  “Truly?” Davina protested. “I cannot imagine you not being welcome, with all the variety of wares and entertainment you bring with you.”

  Amice nodded and rolled her eyes. “Oh, there are many places we are not welcome.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “The large town of Strathbogie being one of them. Especially after that horrible Black Death. So much distrust. That is why we come to your little village. We make our parade through Strathbogie to announce our arrival, and those who do favor us come here. We are fortunate you are close enough for them to venture, yet far enough away for them not to bother us.”

  “I see.” Davina knew some of the people from Strathbogie through the various marketing trips she and her family made to the larger establishment. The people from Strathbogie also came to Stewart Glen to enjoy what the Gypsies had to offer, which brought additional business to their village.

  Amice waved her bread as she continued. “Veronique was only four years old at that time and wandered off. I only turned around for a moment and the child was gone! I searched the tents and wagons in the darkness of night. I asked the other people if they saw her, and then I heard her yelp—a quick, little cry, but I heard it well, and the sound froze my heart as I realized it had come from the water’s edge. Running as fast as my legs could carry me to the water, I screamed for help. Many of the people in our camp ran with me.” Amice leaned forward and laid a hand on Davina’s forearm, whispering in amazement. “Before we reached the shore, this giant man rose from the water, carrying my little Veronique in his arms as she cried. Broderick was an angel rescuing her from a watery grave, and he has been with us since that day. He has most definitely become like a son to me through the years, though. That is why I call him my son.”

  “What a wonderful story!” Though the story did delight her and presented insight into the heart of Broderick MacDougal, Davina now understood why Veronique held such contempt for her. The young girl was not a niece of Broderick’s as Davina presumed, but must fancy herself in love with him. No doubt the Gypsy girl knew of Broderick’s pursuit of Davina, and probably saw her as the enemy. Well, the girl fretted over nothing. She wouldn’t get in Veronique’s way.

  When they finished eating, Davina helped Amice wash the bowls and the old woman led her to the front side of the wagon. “Help me with these, s’il vous plaît,” she ordered, and Davina struggled with Amice to pull out and uncover four life-size portraits from a long and apparently deep side cabinet. Names delicately carved on flat wood pieces labeled the bottom of each portrait.

  The resemblance was striking. “Broderick’s family,” she whispered.

  “Oui. All murdered by his rival clan, the Campbells.”

  Davina’s heart ached over Amice’s words. “Aye, he did share the loss of his family with me, but briefly. He said he doesn’t talk about it overmuch.” Knowing a feuding clan was responsible put the mass destruction into perspective. However, such brutal clan wars were not so common these days, at least not in this part of the country, and especially since such battles wer
e outlawed since the Crown took over the dispensing of justice.

  “His mother,” Amice said, pointing to the appropriate portraits. “His father, and these were his younger brothers.”

  Standing with pride in the first painting, Moira MacDougal stared back at Davina with intense eyes so much like Broderick’s, yet golden brown instead of Broderick’s emerald green. Her ebony hair cascaded over her right shoulder, and she wore a red, green, and light blue plaid, which Davina assumed were Broderick’s clan colors. This portrait showed a woman of a fiery nature. Courageous and forceful, Davina guessed, judging by the male garments she wore and stood in with such pride. How unusual and, Davina suspected, even frowned upon. Scotsmen loved such courage and independence in a woman, but not in open display or in such a masculine way. They also loved and reveled in a woman’s femininity, as she assumed most men of any nationality would. Didn’t a woman’s feminine nature make a man feel all the more masculine? This woman intrigued Davina and created more of a mystique around Broderick MacDougal.

  Broderick’s fiery, russet hair blazed upon the head of his father, Hamish MacDougal, and most of Broderick’s striking, handsome features and green eyes came from this man, as well as his demanding appearance. Hamish stood regally in the painting; as if confident he would get what he wanted when he wanted it. She snorted—like father, like son.

  Davina stepped to the next painting, labeled “Maxwell MacDougal.” Maxwell’s black hair shimmered to his broad shoulders, his features handsome and linear. His painted brown eyes gazed back with a touch of humor and even vanity, one might say, one raven brow raised a touch higher than the other—so much like Broderick’s gesture Davina had come to know. With his hands resting upon the hilt of his sword, Maxwell stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, the tip of the blade between his feet.