Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Suddenly they were surrounded by people jabbering noisily in Romany. Nicholas managed to get silence by lifting his hand. Arm still tightly around Clare, he gave a terse explanation in the same language.

  A clucking female with a smooth, handsome face took Clare's arm. Nicholas said, "Go with Ani, she'll take care of you. I'll join you later."

  By this time, Clare was quite willing to put her fate in the hands of someone else. Ani took her to one of the bow-topped wagons and helped her onto the porch-like ledge at the end. When the door opened, Clare saw a row of small heads pop up from under a feather quilt, the black eyes bright with curiosity. Nicholas's eyes, she realized. The children started to chatter questions, but Ani hushed them.

  The near end of the wagon was covered with a thin pad. Ani said in lightly accented English, "Sleep here."

  Clare took off her wet cloak and struggled out of her boots. Then, muddy hem and all, she lay down. Ani dropped another feather quilt over her, and within three minutes, Clare was asleep.

  * * *

  It was mid-morning when Clare woke with Nicholas's arm across her waist. Like her, he was wearing the clothes he had escaped in, breeches and a shirt that gaped open at the neck. He still slept, his face youthful and heart-stoppingly handsome. Rolling over, she kissed his forehead lightly.

  His eyes opened. "How are you feeling?"

  "Very well, thank you. A few bruises from walking into trees, but nothing to signify." She suppressed a shiver. "You're a useful man to have around when danger threatens."

  His face tightened. "If not for me, your life would never have been at risk."

  "We don't know that." She gave him a jaunty smile. "And what a splendid adventure. How many people can boast of such a honeymoon?"

  Though he smiled a little at her sally, she felt the bleakness inside him. She wondered how she would feel if one of her oldest friends—Marged, for example—was trying to kill her. The thought produced such a wrench of pain and disbelief that she hastily thrust it away. If she found it so upsetting even in her imagination, how much worse it must be for Nicholas, who wanted to believe in friendship. Deciding to attend to the practical, she asked, "Where do we go from here?"

  "The kumpania was heading north, but they're willing to turn around and take us back to Aberdare. It will take about three days at wagon speed."

  She thought of her pony and sighed. "I hope whoever ends up with Rhonda takes good care of her."

  "When we get home, I'll send a couple of men up here to make inquiries. If someone sells the horses, perhaps I can buy them back. That might also uncover the men who attacked us."

  She nodded and went to her next question. "Is there anything I should know about living among the Rom?"

  He thought a moment. "Try to observe the cleanliness taboos. At a campsite, water is taken from the stream at different points, with water from the highest, 'cleanest' location being used for drinking and cooking. Washing and bathing water are taken from farther down. Always wash in running water before eating, never put food utensils in impure water, because that makes them marhime, polluted, and they would have to be thrown out." He gave her a wry glance. "You won't like this, but women are also considered impure. Never let your skirts brush any man but me, never walk in front of a man, or between two men, or in front of the horses."

  She frowned. "You're right, I don't like it."

  "It makes sense for people living in such close quarters," he explained. "It gives women a degree of privacy and protection that would otherwise be impossible, and reduces sexual tension as well. Though Gypsy women have a reputation for sexual allure, in fact promiscuity is almost unknown among the Rom."

  "I see. I'll try not to offend anyone."

  Drawn by the sound of voices, Ani peered in the wagon. "Breakfast. You go, Nikki, I bring clothes for your wife."

  He obediently rose and climbed from the wagon, then helped Ani in. The Romany woman was wearing a loose, low-cut blouse and layers of full, brightly colored skirts. Earrings of dangling gold coins matched the jingling coin necklaces looped around her neck, and a patterned scarf covered her hair.

  Clare was outfitted with a similar costume, though without the jewelry. Looking down at the deeply scooped blouse, she remarked, "Nicholas will love this."

  Ani grinned, her teeth white against her glowing dark skin. "It is good Nikki has taken a wife. How long since you marry?"

  Clare counted mentally. "Three days."

  "So recently!" She took Clare's hand and looked at her wrist, then nodded with approval when she saw the small, almost healed cut. "It is good. We will have a feast to honor the marriage. But now," she added practically, "you must eat."

  They climbed from the wagon, which was made of wood and decorated with bold painting and carving. The rain had cleared, leaving the sky fresh and clear. The men were gathered around the tethered horses in the middle distance. Closer to hand, women moved gracefully around the campsite and a pack of near-naked children raced about, shouting gleefully. A tiny old woman with a face like a wrinkled walnut studied Clare intently, then nodded her head and went back to smoking her pipe.

  Near the wagon was a cook fire with a tin pot and a cauldron warming over the coals. As Clare sniffed hopefully, Ani said, "Wash first." She lifted a metal pitcher and indicated that Clare was to wash her hands under the stream of water that Ani poured. As Clare obeyed, she was glad that Nicholas had given her that brief lesson in Romany ways.

  Ani served her with a mug of fierce, sweet coffee and a plate of fried onions and sausage. Both were delicious. As Clare ate, she saw that the women were packing things away in preparation for leaving, but without any great sense of urgency.

  Nicholas returned with three men, all of them talking earnestly. He had acquired a loose leather vest and a red handkerchief around his throat, and looked entirely at home among his kin. She would never have known him for a British nobleman.

  He saw Clare and started toward her, but made a detour when he saw the old woman. "Keja!" he called. She gave a gap-toothed smile and the two began talking in Romany.

  As Clare finished her coffee, a boy ran into the camp. "Men are coming this way," he panted. "Carrying rifles."

  Clare's heart leaped into her throat. Perhaps they were simply hunters, but it seemed more likely that they were last night's attackers, looking for the prey that had eluded them.

  "This way!" Ani made sweeping gestures toward the wagon.

  Clare and Nicholas both clambered inside. "Lie down," he said, suiting his actions to his words.

  As Clare obeyed, Ani brought an armful of feather quilts that had been airing outside. One by one, she spread them over Clare and Nicholas until they were completely covered by layers of quilts. Then a weight plopped down on top. A weight that wiggled.

  Feeling Clare start, Nicholas took her hand in a warm clasp. "Ani has put her four-year-old son on top of the dunhas. Even if someone is searching for us, they won't look beyond little Yojo. He's usually quite sticky."

  Though she felt half-suffocated, Clare forced herself to lie still, her hand gripping Nicholas's. A few minutes later, she heard a hard voice just outside the wagon, speaking in English. "Have you seen a man and woman, traveling on foot? We're worried. They... they have fever and wandered off from our camp."

  One of the Rom said, "No Gorgios today but you, sirs."

  "Tell your fortune, honored sir?" a female voice said. "A beautiful woman lies in your future, with hands as graceful as birds. Only cross my palm..."

  Ani chimed in, "No, honored sir, for dukkerin, I am the best. I have the true Gypsy sight."

  Next a child's voice, "A penny for the guy, good sirs!"

  A shrill chorus of children's voices rose. "A penny, sir, or a ha'penny."

  "A penny, please!"

  "Penny for the guy, sir."

  "For God's sake," the visitor snarled, "Guy Fawkes Day is six months away. Get away from me, you brats."

  The door to the wagon opened with a squeal. Clare'
s fingers clamped so hard on Nicholas's that she must have stopped the blood. A preternatural sense of danger warned her that one of the attackers was looking into the end of the wagon only two feet from their heads.

  The child above them suddenly began squirming. "Penny, penny!" Yojo demanded.

  Another English voice said, "Anything inside?"

  "Just another filthy little brat," the first voice said in disgust. "They must be born knowing how to beg."

  The door slammed shut and the voices faded as they walked away. Clare let out the breath she had been holding. Nicholas had known what he was doing when he sought refuge with his kin.

  It was a long, stuffy wait beneath the feather beds. Yojo soon wandered off in search of more congenial pursuits, but they stayed where they were until a male voice said, "You can come out now, Nikki. The Gorgios are gone. Maybe you should stay inside wagons when we are on the road, but I think you're safe now."

  Nicholas pushed aside the quilts and they both sat up with relief. Squatting outside on the wagon's ledge was Kore, a handsome, stocky man who was Ani's husband and the leader of the group. Nicholas asked, "Was the green-eyed man I described one of the Gorgio?"

  Kore shook his head. "There were four men, but not the one you spoke of." He lifted a stone jug. "The boys are back from searching the ground around the burned hut. Not much was found. Your things were all destroyed and the horses taken. Nearby was this empty jug of whiskey, and this." He handed over a flat silver case.

  Clare's heart twisted when she saw that it was a card case, the kind a gentleman carried. His face like stone, Nicholas opened it. The cards inside were damp but perfectly legible.

  Lord Michael Kenyon.

  Seeing Nicholas's expression, Kore politely turned away and jumped from the wagon.

  Clare whispered, "I'm sorry, Nicholas."

  His hand clenched to a fist, snapping the case shut. "But it makes no sense," he said, stark pain in his voice. "Even assuming that Michael has gone mad and decided to hunt me down, why here in the mountains? Why hire men to help him do what he is quite capable of doing himself? And if he was looking for me, he would have known that a Gypsy kumpania would have to be searched more thoroughly."

  "But he wasn't with the men—he may have wanted to be sure that no suspicion could fall on him," she said quietly. "This far from Penreith, our deaths might have been thought accidental. If there was an investigation, bandits would have been blamed when it was seen that several men were involved." She hesitated, then added, "It may not make sense, but it's likely that he isn't fully rational."

  It was all perfectly plausible. Yet as she took Nicholas's hand, she wished with all her heart that it wasn't.

  Chapter 30

  Though Clare was within sixty miles of her home, traveling with the Gypsies was like visiting a foreign country. Many of their customs were British, and all spoke at least some English and Welsh as well as Romany. Yet in other ways, they were totally alien. As Nicholas's wife, she was able to see them as few Gorgios ever did, for they accepted her with charming casualness, as if she were a kitten that had wandered in. Though she could not approve of some of their attitudes, neither could she resist their warmth and immense vitality.

  Seeing the Rom gave her a better understanding of Nicholas. Their ability to live in the moment, as if there were no past or future; their cheerful fatalism; the graceful freedom of their movements—all of those traits were part of her husband's heritage from the Rom.

  Yet though he blended in easily and was very popular, gradually she realized that he was not truly a member of the group; there were parts of his mind and spirit that had grown beyond the narrow world of the Rom. She wondered if he would have been happier if he had never left the Gypsies. Perhaps someday she would ask him, but not now. When they reached Aberdare, Michael would have to be dealt with, and she felt the grief of that inside Nicholas.

  On their final night, the promised feast was held, with lavish amounts of food and drink and laughter. The centerpiece was a suckling pig stuffed with apples and roasted over the open fire. As Clare finished her portion, daintily nibbling the roast meat from a bone in her hands, she remarked, "I hope this piglet was honestly come by, but I'm afraid to ask."

  Nicholas grinned. This evening he had buried his concerns and was enjoying himself with Gypsy gusto. "It's legitimate. By luck, I happened to have a guinea in my breeches when we escaped. I gave it to Kore as my contribution to our expenses. I saw him pay for this little porker myself."

  Ani approached the log where they sat. "Since this is a feast in honor of your marriage, we will have a little ritual, yes? Not the abduction, nor the lament, but a little something to symbolize your union."

  Clare said doubtfully, "I don't know your customs."

  "This will be simple," Ani said briskly. "You will have no trouble. I will ask Milosh to take up his fiddle now. Later, Nikki, you will play the harp for us."

  As Ani bustled away, Clare said, bemused, "Lament?"

  "Usually the bride sings a song to her mother, bewailing the fact that she has been sold into marriage and wishing she were dead," Nicholas explained.

  Clare stared at him. "Not very festive."

  "It's considered very moving. That and the ritual abduction paint an interesting picture of Romany history."

  She licked the last traces of grease from her fingers. "Where did the Rom come from originally?"

  He took a swig of wine from a jug before answering, drinking Gypsy style, with the container slung over his shoulder and his finger linked through a loop on the jug's neck. The effect was very dashing. "Since Gypsies have no written language, no one really knows. An Oxford linguist who has studied the language told me that his guess was that the Rom began their wanderings in Asia. Northern India, perhaps."

  Thinking of what she had read of India, she studied the dark-skinned people around her and decided that the linguist's theory sounded plausible. "Are there no oral tales of Romany history?"

  "Many, most of which contradict each other." He chuckled. "There's an old saying: ask the same question to twenty Gypsies and you'll get twenty different answers. On the other hand, if you ask one Gypsy the same question twenty times, you will still get twenty different answers."

  Clare laughed. "You're telling me that consistency is not considered a virtue to the Rom."

  "And all of them, from the youngest to the oldest, can lie beautifully and fluently when necessary." He took another swig from the bottle, then handed it to the next man in the circle. "Or they may lie from an excess of creativity, or for amusement. A crafty man is admired here, just as an upright man is honored among the Welsh."

  On the far side of the campfire, Milosh struck up a tune on the fiddle, another man accompanying him with a tambourine. Conversation died and people began clapping hands, emphasizing the odd beat of the music. Her lush body swaying, Ani walked over and presented Clare with a crimson scarf. "You and Nikki dance together while holding the ends," she explained. "To show that you are now joined."

  Though Clare's dancing skills were almost nonexistent, she was willing to try. As she got to her feet, Nicholas suggested, "Let down your hair."

  Obediently she took off her head scarf and raked her fingers through the thick tresses so that they fell into a dark, shimmering mantle. Then she and Nicholas took opposite ends of the scarf, and they moved into the center of the circle. "Behave like a flirtatious maiden," he said with his Demon Earl smile. "Be the teasing minx I know you can be."

  She thought about that as they began circling slowly, the scarf taut between them. How had she felt when falling under Nicholas's spell? Terrified of his sexual magnetism, yet utterly unable to resist it. Looking deep into his eyes, she let the potent memories flow through her.

  She began by lowering her eyes in a pantomime of shyness, then letting her low-cut blouse slip seductively off one shoulder as she turned away. Lithe and powerful, Nicholas responded as pure male animal in pursuit of his mate, tugging on the scarf to dra
w her back.

  She glided close, then slid away when he reached for her. When he followed, she darted beneath his arm, her hair lashing across his face, both defense and enticement. He allowed her to retreat, then whipped her close again. Modestly she covered her face with her free hand, yet when she spun away her shirt swirled provocatively high. He followed with the proud arrogance of a stallion, wordlessly promising conquest and fulfillment. As the music beat faster and faster, they whirled across the circle like beings possessed, their movements a fiery prelude to the inevitable end of their dance.

  With one last wild flourish, the fiddle stopped, leaving pulse-pounding silence. Nicholas swept Clare into his embrace, bending her back over his arm.

  As she pitched backwards, she experienced an instant of reflexive panic. It vanished as quickly as it had come, for she knew in every cell of her body that Nicholas would never let her fall. As her hair splashed across the grass, he gave her a kiss that claimed her as his own. The Rom roared and stamped their feet with approval.

  Gently he brought her up again, his gaze a caress. "One last ritual, Clarissima. We must jump over the branch of flowering broom that Ani just laid down."

  Hand in hand they raced across the clearing and leaped over the broom. Under the cover of the ensuing applause, she hissed, "Jumping the broomstick is an old Welsh country tradition that has probably been around since the Druids."

  He laughed. "The Rom are very eclectic. They'll adopt any custom that pleases them."

  The fiddle struck up again, and this time everyone joined in the dancing, from old Keja to all children who could walk. Circles formed, then split into smaller groups. The musicians took turns so no one would miss a chance to dance. For Clare, it was a revelation. This was not dancing as mere amusement or sinful temptation; this was dance as the breath of life.

  And Nicholas was the most ardent of all. When he caught her hands and swung her about, she felt his energy pulsing through her like a river of fire. She responded with all of the passion that had so recently blossomed within her. Before she had been the maiden; now she danced as the temptress, a woman proud of her femininity and utterly confident of her ability to please her man.