The viscount swiped the fallen sword and turned to dispense with the second assailant, only to find a blade careening toward his head. He nimbly ducked to the side.
“Stay out of our affair,” came the determined, and unmistakably lethal, warning.
“I think not,” countered Anthony, and with a sound blow, sliced his opponent in the upper arm.
The blood spurted forth. The startled man winced and grabbed his wound, though he maintained a firm grip on his weapon. Eyes round in indignation, he promptly returned the blow.
“This is none of your concern!” the contender blasted, with yet another failed swipe at his more skillful counterpart.
The rapiers clamored as the brandishing blades collided and the men stood locked in place.
Nose to nose, Anthony gritted through gnashed teeth, “I believe this is very much my concern,” and with a powerful shove, dislodged the entangled swords.
His opponent staggered back before regaining his composure. “That filthy gypsy is a criminal! You have no right to interfere with her capture.”
A gypsy? Yes, of course. He should have guessed. The colorful kerchief floating downstream, the style of her vibrant clothes, her exotic eyes, her long black hair. With her identity revealed, the threat to her life was even more apparent. There was no law prohibiting the mistreatment of gypsies, and therefore no repercussions should the men have captured her and done with her as they’d pleased.
Anthony’s jaw instinctively flexed at the abhorrent images that trampled though his mind, and he demanded darkly, “What is her alleged crime?”
“She is a thief, and I intend to bring her to justice.”
The viscount gave a soft snort. “A thief indeed.” It was a sham of an excuse, as far as he was concerned, to harass an innocent lass. It certainly wouldn’t be the first such attempt to persecute a gypsy.
“Move aside!” the fiend blasted. “That locket is mine!”
The locket? That plain bauble was the root of all the commotion? Surely not. Why, it was no more than a simple gold locket, easily replaced. Not much of a prize for a thief, and certainly not worth all the hysterics this particular scoundrel was making.
No, the brute was after the girl for more nefarious reasons, and Anthony wasn’t about to let him anywhere near her.
His blade swooping across his rival’s chest, Anthony came dangerously close to slicing his opponent from navel to nose. The antagonist jumped back, but not before Anthony’s sword nicked him in the cheek, leaving yet another noticeable mark.
Bristling, the man slowly reached for his face and felt the drops of blood.
“I suggest you depart these grounds.” Though the viscount’s stringent remark could be construed as anything but a suggestion, especially with a blade aimed directly for his adversary’s throat.
But the villain took no heed of the baleful monition and charged recklessly. “I’ll not rest ’til I have that locket!”
Anthony, having had enough of the tiresome skirmish, briskly stepped aside, extending only his fist to soundly connect with the ruffian’s face.
The man stumbled and plowed headfirst into the forest bed, joining his motionless comrade in unconscious bliss.
Jaw thrust forward, tense with the exertion of the afternoon skirmish, Anthony dropped his arm at his side and pivoted, expecting to find the gypsy had fled, but what he saw instead shoved his heart right up into his throat.
There she was, sprawled on the ground, completely still.
He drove the blade into the dirt and fell to his knees. Gently lifting her into his arms, he touched the bleeding wound at her forehead, then glanced down at the large bloody stone she’d struck her head against. With his ear close to her lips, he heard the shallow breathing and sighed.
“Well, my gypsy,” he murmured, “let us hope I can carry you despite the swelling you so kindly bestowed on my shin.”
Carefully, he lowered her back to the ground and shrugged his greatcoat off his shoulders, blanketing her. He then went over to collect her discarded clothing and boots, shoving the garments into the bag she’d been carrying before he slung the bundle of paraphernalia over his shoulder. Once more at her side, he gathered her wet body into his arms, and cautiously made his way back downstream and on toward the haven of the main house.
Chapter 3
S abrina Kallos was lounging on a cloud—or so it seemed. Softness and warmth were all around her. A shaft of sunlight kissed her skin, rousing her from a deep slumber. No sooner had the stirrings of wakefulness touched her dreamy senses, than the rhythmic thumping swarmed her head.
She grimaced and cracked opened her eyes. It took some time for her misty vision to adjust and focus. The glaring light of the setting sun, shooting in through the row of tall windows, cast a fiery glow over much of her unfamiliar surroundings.
Titling her head to the side to avoid the brilliancy, she was struck by the sheer size of the room. It was massive. Everything inside it was massive. High ceilings, soaring windows, a giant bed with its sweeping canopy of fine dark fabric hovering above her. Why, the bed alone was of a greater size than the entire wagon she and her father lived in. Finely carved furniture filled the gaping space, as did figurines of polished bronze horses and many other knickknacks. Flames snapped in the hearth off to one side, the fireplace framed by glossy wood shelves, littered with books and other curious ornaments. The colorful walls displayed magnificent scenes of woodlands and a distant patch of hunters and hounds in pursuit of one unfortunate fox.
Sabrina didn’t care much for the image. She felt like the very fox in the mural, and thoughts of the danger she was in suddenly overwhelmed her.
It was the gajo’s shadowed figure standing by one of the windows that now seized her attention. His hefty body shifted to block out most of the sun’s direct rays, allowing her a better opportunity to study him without having to strain her eyes too greatly.
Memories came rushing forth. She’d been attacked in the woods, that much she could recall, but beyond that, her mind was clouded in darkness. Where was she? Who was her captor? A quick glance to her wrists confirmed she was not bound. Blankets covered her body, and she sensed the linen coiled around her head, but her clothes were nowhere to be seen.
Heart battering in sync with the pulses in her skull, she tried to sit up, raising her head no more than a few inches off the pillow before a wave of discomfort attacked her senses and she dropped back with an anguished cry.
The dark figure abruptly turned at the sound of her sob and hastened to her side.
“Get away from me,” she whispered raggedly.
The advancing gajo halted just short of the bed. “There is no cause for alarm.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re safe.”
Sabrina, as of yet, could not entirely see the man’s face, for he now had his back to the sun, a veil of shadows concealing much of his features. But she recognized his voice as belonging to one of the men who’d cornered her in the woods earlier that day. “My clothes?”
“Your chemise is drying in the adjacent bath.” He indicated the direction with a gesture of his hand.
She was trembling, her voice quivering. “You took what you wanted. Now let me go!”
Soul-racking sobs congested her lungs, and she tried in vain to halt the surge of humiliating tears. She didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her weep. Of seeing her dignity cut down to pieces. But try as she might to stave off the torrent of tears, rage and disgrace took their hold, her efforts to cap the sorrow dashed.
“Good heavens, woman, I never touched you! I carried you back to the house, to be sure, but I never laid an inappropriate hand on you.”
She didn’t hear him anymore, the tears streaking her cheeks, her breathing noisy as she gulped in drafts of much-needed air. She was tainted, by a gajo, no less. Her innocence brutally taken away from her. How could she ever go home? How could she ever explain this to her father? To her future husband? Oh, God! She had
no memory of the ravishment, but it must have been brutal, for her whole body thrummed with pain.
“You brute,” she sobbed and sputtered. “Just give me back my clothes!”
Muttering something under his breath, the gajo wove his fingers through his hair with a rough movement. “Stop with those tears. I give you my word of honor, as a gentleman, I have not mistreated you in any way, nor have I any intention of doing so in the future. I brought you here to recover. My sister removed your damp chemise so you wouldn’t catch sickness. As for your other belongings, they are right here.” He lifted her bag to prove his claim, then set it back on the floor at the foot of the bed.
The bout of misery that had swept over her only moments ago now dwindled. The tears still trickled down her face, but the suffocating sobs soon faded to occasional gulps of air.
Despite her grogginess and somewhat bleary vision, she managed to narrow her eyes to the shadowed figure hovering above her. “W-who are you?”
He sighed in apparent relief. “I am Anthony Kennington, Viscount Hastings, at your service.”
“Where are the other men?”
“I am not associated with the villains who attacked you.”
“But you were watching me from the woods.”
“Yes, well, I was rather bowled over to find a woman bathing in the stream. I’m not accustomed to the sight, you know?”
Sabrina steadied her irregular breathing and wiped away the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
It was then that Anthony pivoted and strode over to a dresser to remove a white kerchief. He returned to the bed and handed it to her, but she wouldn’t take it, so he just laid the silk cloth on the mattress beside her.
“Where am I?” she asked hesitantly.
“In my bedchamber.”
He had a soothing voice that broke through her mind’s governing chaos, but his choice of words brought her even more unease. A fretful notion came to her, that she would be swallowed up by the manor’s walls and imprisoned eternally for daring to enter the sacred confines, even if it wasn’t of her own accord. Unless otherwise invited by the lady of the house to give a palm or tarot card reading, she would never have ventured into such a home. And if anyone were to find her here, uninvited, she’d be tossed directly into the jail. Was this not taking the chains from her feet and placing them on her wrists instead? She may have eluded her attackers for the time being, but she now had to flee from the house before anyone else grew privy to her whereabouts.
Her eyes grew anxious. “I can’t stay here,” she asserted, momentarily overlooking the fact that she could barely move. “I have to leave.”
“With your head wound? Impossible. But you are safe here.”
So he kept insisting. But the thwack to her head hadn’t left her witless. How could she trust a gajo…a stranger not of gypsy blood? For all she knew, it was Anthony who had struck her.
Sabrina slowly reached for her head. Somewhere beneath the layers of bandages was a tremendous lump, the culprit of her miserable headache. “What happened to me?”
“You were attacked and struck your head on a rock.”
She didn’t remember any of the assault, only the events leading up to it, so she had little other choice but to accept his version of events—for now. Truthfully, so little of it made any sense to her. “Why am I here?”
“I am bound to tend to your injury.”
“You don’t know who I am.” Sniffing, she brushed away the last remnants of her tears. “A man like you doesn’t bother with a woman like me.”
“And who are you?”
Better she confess to him now and be done with it. To offset the inevitable wouldn’t do her any good.
Her voice dwindled to a bitter whisper. “A gypsy.”
“Yes, I already know that. I meant your name.”
But she ignored his last statement to demand, “You already know?”
He nodded. “And by the way,” he said softly, “a true gentleman comes to the aid of any woman in distress.”
Doubt rekindled. Blinking up at him, her sea-blue eyes swept over him in a thorough assessment. Anthony stood with his hands behind his back and one leg bent casually at the knee. His attire consisted of a white linen shirt, the cravat spilling over the top buttons of his butter-yellow waistcoat, and it was then she realized just how broad-chested he really was, for even without the padded coat he’d worn in the woods, his shoulders spanned a good yard or so in width. Long, wiry legs were draped in tight brown breeches and tucked into knee-high, black leather boots. He was certainly formidable, towering above her like that. And the distrust in her eyes must have been evident, for he slowly lowered himself to one knee, the shadows fading the closer he came, and smiled.
He had a friendly smile. One that helped lessen some of those formidable attributes. Certainly one she rarely, if ever, saw from a gajo. Most outsiders never bothered to look at her with anything other than disdain, but his kind expression seemed sincere. Or perhaps it was the head injury making her see such things. Benevolent bluebloods did not go about the woods aiding gypsies in distress, no matter what Anthony claimed. And yet, his simple gesture of affection was enough to bring some comfort to her tormented soul. To find solace in another being, even one not a gypsy, who offered her compassion rather than brutality, helped to lessen the burden on her heart.
The smile also softened his features. His eyes were attentive, tranquil. No hatred burned beneath the dark green pools. Wavy, tawny-gold hair tapered evenly to his collar, a stray curl dangling over his brow. He was handsome—for a gajo. And he was big. She suddenly understood his need for such a large bed. And she suddenly remembered that she was lying in his large bed.
She couldn’t stay here. Her life was no longer in peril, so there was no need to hide. If what Anthony said was true, then her attackers had no idea where she was, and that meant it was safe for her to return to her caravan. There was no trail left for the mongrels to follow and therefore no risk to her family’s well-being. Her only concern over the last few days was that her relentless aggressors would uncover her camp and harm, even kill, some of her people in order to capture her. Knowing her fellow gypsies would band together to protect her, she wasn’t willing to jeopardize anyone’s life. It’s why she’d left so abruptly, without a whisper of her intentions to anyone.
She knew her absence would cause her people much grief. How could it not? But she also knew her disappearance was the only reasonable choice. The men chasing after her were determined to find her, whatever the means. They had already proven that. Persistent as a pack of hounds, they’d not given up their pursuit of her in days, and would likely still be nipping at her heels had Anthony not interfered.
That brought another question to mind. Why had Anthony come to her aid? A man of his rank bothering to interfere on behalf of a gypsy? She’d never had a gajo’s help before and didn’t know what to make of the situation. From what she could remember, her attackers had been armed, and Anthony must have seen their swords as clearly as she had. Then why risk his welfare? He claimed it his duty, but Sabrina wasn’t so convinced, which left her all the more mystified.
“I have to go home,” she said again, her voice weak, and pressed the sheets to her chest once more, trying to sit up. “My family will be worried.”
But he nudged her back against the cushions. “You are in no condition to travel.”
Too lethargic to struggle, she didn’t protest, and tried instead to subdue the throbbing spasms in her head by remaining perfectly still.
A light rap at the door diverted both their attentions.
Sabrina’s eyes widened at the knocking intruder, but a reassuring gesture from Anthony put her skittish nerves at ease.
“Don’t fret,” he said. “It’s only my sister, Ashley. She’s here to help with your recovery.”
Another caring soul? Sabrina found it difficult to believe in such kindness, especially coming from a pair of aristocrats, and as profound an instinct to
run as she had, she was just too sore and dizzy to move.
Anthony left her side to unlock the door.
The gaji hastened into the chamber, a large ceramic bowl, crammed to the brim with supplies, nestled between her hands.
“Anthony, I hope you realize how difficult it was to amass all this with no one the wiser, especially with so many bustling bodies below.”
“I appreciate this, Ash.” Bolting the door behind her, he instructed, “Set everything on the desk.”
The lady did as directed and began to arrange the articles on the table: a cloth, a bottle of liquor, small vials, a spoon.
Sabrina focused on the emerging ingredients, wondering what the duo were brewing.
When Anthony casually informed his sister that the patient was awake, Ashley whisked her head over her shoulder to stare at the bemused invalid, and Sabrina couldn’t help but notice how very much she resembled her brother, with that same ash-blond hair and those same deep green eyes. The woman was by no means as tall as her sibling, but she wasn’t short by any standards either, reaching a few inches past Anthony’s shoulders. She wore a pale peach frock, the waistline circling just under her breasts, and her hair was tucked beneath a ruffled white cap, a few carefully positioned curls draped by her ears.
“How do you feel?” inquired Ashley.
Sabrina remained quiet. Those weren’t the words she’d been prepared to hear. Rather, get out of this house! rang more sensible to her ears.
To curtail the stretching silence, Anthony responded on the patient’s behalf with a confident, “She’ll recover,” then strode into the adjacent bath, reemerging with a pitcher. He dispensed the water into the basin.
Her attention back to her brother, Ashley indicated to the bottle. “Pour in about two ounces of the brandy.”
With a soft clink, the glass stopper was plucked from the decanter and Anthony added what he estimated to be the correct amount of spirit.
Ashley gathered the utensil and measured two teaspoons from one of the smaller vials. As the fumes drifted over to where Sabrina lay, she detected the potent scent of vinegar and wrinkled her nose.
A Forbidden Love Page 3