And that they would keep his servants as hostages. He frowned and his eyes narrowed. At least there had been no signs of ill treatment. Jenny had looked pale, but stalwart. And there were no marks upon Akshat’s face, other than the scar that had already been there.
Given his own recent actions, he supposed he was not entitled to mercy. Perhaps he had been naïve to expect Stanegate to act with civility. He’d thought that the young lord would hold onto the chivalrous rules of war for as long as he could, if only to protect his sister. There would be an air of diplomacy to the release of his hostage. A mutual hatred, of course. But that could not be helped.
At worst, he had expected to get a beating, accompanied by a series of ineffectual threats. The gentlemanly nature of his opponents would keep them from doing the savage things that might dislodge the secret location of the camp, and they would be forced to release him if they wished to see their sister again.
But this had been an ambush. There was nothing in their actions that implied a desire for capture or an opportunity for discussion. It was little better than a miracle that he was not dead. For though Marcus Carlow was not the soldier of the family, he would not usually have missed at such close range.
What had they been thinking to act in such a way? Had Stephano been a less-principled man, this unsuccessful attempt to kill him would have driven him to take his anger out on his hostage. Did they not realize that they placed their sister in jeopardy by their behaviour?
If they meant to see him gone for good, with out taking the time to secure the safety of Verity? Then they were fools. Or driven mad with vengeance, just as he had been. Right now, she was hidden so well that they would never find her without his help.
Having met her, he could not imagine why they would behave so. Surely, she must be the jewel of the family, precious beyond measure. Did they seriously mean to place the fragile Carlow honour over her return? Suppose they had shot him before he had divulged the girl’s location? They might have lost her for ever, in their eagerness to see him punished.
He was sure, after talking to her the previous day, that Magda would have released the girl as blame less if he had not returned to the tribe. Fairly sure, at least. But mightn’t she also be seen as the cause of his demise? And if the tribe decided that a death for a death was fair payment?
The day turned cold for him at the thought. Or was that the only reason he was chilled? He felt unsteady in the saddle, and added another worry to his list. It was not fear for the girl or the narrowness of his own escape that bothered him. He was growing by turns hot and cold, sick and shaky. His fingers were stiff, and had begun to swell to the point that it was difficult to hold the reins. The wound on his hand was turning bad, just as Magda had predicted.
He balanced as best he could and spurred Zor, trusting the horse to know the way home, so that he could arrange for Lady Verity’s return to her family. It no longer mattered what had passed between the Carlows and himself, in the past or present. If his condition worsened, he would not survive to find the truth of it.
Chapter Nine
When he came back to the camp, he found her sitting on the bed in the vardo, staring at a space on the floor in front of her as though it told more tales than a book.
As he looked at her, his injured hand began to throb anew. Verity would tell him that he was foolish. It was just a scratch, and not a curse even stronger than the one placed on him by his mother. It was no different than hundreds of other small injuries he’d survived. She already thought him a superstitious savage. There was no point in proving her right.
‘You have returned.’ Her voice was almost a sigh. She glanced at his clothes, and she saw he had not changed them, and noted the grub bi ness of his appearance. She could tell that he had ridden hard, and that all had not gone as it should.
It made him feel even worse to see his own fatigue reflected in her eyes. ‘Of course I have returned. I would not leave you here, if I did not mean to come back.’
‘Am I to go home, then? Have you brought my brothers with you?’
She could not wait to leave him. Which was as it should be; he must not wish otherwise. ‘It is not so simple.’
‘Oh.’ Her voice was so small, as though her hopes had been dashed by his answer. The pain twisted like a knife in the palm of his hand.
The irony of it almost made him smile. How had he ever thought himself capable of violence against her? If her disappointment could cause him such pain, then God help him if she cried. And if he truly hurt her—
At the thought, his own pain bit into him, with a ferocity that left him gasping for air. It had been so easy with the others. He had but to offer them the silk rope, and all events had followed naturally. And he had been so sure of his right to do so.
But it was clear that Verity Carlow was blame less in this, no matter what his mother’s curse might say. At the thought, the blood pounded in the scratch on his hand, as if to prove her power over him. He could not hurt the poor little bird in front of him. Her pain was his pain. Perhaps to release her was to accept defeat and admit to the world that he could be bested by a girl. But if he forced him self to abide one more moment of her company, he would abandon all pride and beg her to ease his suffering.
He took a breath, and prepared his story. ‘It is all settled between us. But I could not bring them to camp,’ he lied. ‘It would not be fair to the others, to disclose their location. I will find some one to escort you home.’
‘And then?’ she asked.
‘And then, your life shall be as it was.’
‘You can guar an tee that, can you? If you mean to release me, it must mean that you have proven my father a murderer and a traitor to his country.’ Her tone was dry, almost amused. ‘You swore that you would not change your mind in this, for any reason.’
‘Verity, that is not important now…’
‘Not to you, perhaps. Are you freeing me that I might return to see him hanged? Will I have to spend the rest of my life in seclusion and disgrace?’ She was gathering herself together again, letting her anger and frustration boil over against him. And as he watched, she showed the haughty Lady Verity that he had expected and not the sweet, vulnerable girl that he had grown to love.
He winced at the pain in his hand and the stupidity of that thought. He did not love her. He could not. It was lust that he felt, and the fever had addled his brain to make it seem like something more.
She gave him a bitter smile. ‘Now that you are done with me, my future does not matter. You care for nothing and no one but your dead mother and her foul threats.’
He opened his mouth to argue with her that there was nothing wrong with his accusations. If her family would kill him before knowing she was safe, then they were not worthy of her affection. If she would but stay with him, then he would give her the loyalty she deserved. He would be Hebden or Beshaley, or any other man she wished, if she would only agree to stay. But that was just more foolishness, from the dull banging of his blood which grew with each passing moment. ‘Not true,’ he muttered, for it was all he could manage through his clenched teeth.
‘I hope you are satisfied with your victory. And that your success chokes you. That you do not have a peaceful moment, from this point on. I hate you, Stephano Beshaley. As much as you hate my family.’
With her words, his head began to spin and an other wave of weakness caught him. He reached out to steady himself, for get ting his injured hand. When the flesh made contact with the wall of the caravan, the pain was so sharp that it dropped him to his knees.
‘What?’ The girl stepped instinctively closer. She noticed the bandage. ‘It is not your head that bothers you. It is your hand, where you cut your self.’
He shook his head stubbornly. ‘It is nothing.’ He tried to pull himself upright with his other hand, and barely made it to his feet. He stood weaving before her, unable to disguise the severity of the injury.
‘Show me.’ She held out her hand to demand his. Her vo
ice was free of the anger it had shown just moments before, but had the same stern ness she might use on a child.
‘I said, it is nothing.’ He bit his lip, trying to gain mastery over the pain long enough to send her away.
‘If it is nothing, then it will not matter if I see. Sit.’ She had the audacity to gesture him to sit upon his own bed. When he did not comply, she stood up and put her hand on his shoulder, pushing him down upon the mattress.
He did not resist her, for he could feel the heat gathering in his blood. It was as though the fever were a fire, raging far upwind and growing ever closer.
She took his hand in hers, and he did not protest, fearing that a tug of war over the bandage would show her the extent of his distress more than a simple examination.
‘Go to Val,’ he said. ‘He will see you safely back to London.’
‘If you do not mean to hold me, then cease telling me what I must or mustn’t do.’ She un wrapped his hand, tsked disapprovingly, and threw the cloth upon the floor. ‘No wonder the wound is septic, if this is how you treat it.’
‘Because I am a dirty Gypsy,’ he bit out.
‘Because a silk scarf is no kind of bandage. Lovely, of course, but who knows what poisons were used to dye it. And you have wrapped your wound in them and let them into your blood. But never mind. I will help.’
‘Don’t.’ He feared her help almost as much as the injury. For she owed him nothing, after the way he had treated her in the name of justice.
‘I am not so useless as you think, sir. I have tended my brothers, when they were foolish enough to injure them selves. You will find I am quite a competent nurse.’ She stood up quickly. ‘But I have half a mind to let you suffer if you wish to be stubborn over it.’ She crossed to the door of the wagon, and then turned back to him. ‘Do not move from that spot.’
Once she was gone, he sank back onto the bed, closing his eyes for a moment. It would not hurt to rest. And if he was lucky, she would walk past the edge of camp, not stopping until she reached London.
But it would be better if, after he had collected himself, he took her at least as far as the inn on the main road. If she would not go with Val, perhaps Magda could escort her all the way back to Keddinton. The Carlows would not dare to hurt an old lady, should she be seen.
Verity returned a short while later, with a basin of water and a piece of strong soap.
He eyed her suspiciously, but said nothing.
In response, she gave him a stern look. ‘I mean to clean the wound. If you know what is best for you, you will give me no trouble.’ Then she sat beside him and took his hand in hers.
Her hands felt wonderfully cool where they were touching him, and he looked down for a moment. They were tiny compared to his; white against the dark of his skin. The contrast disturbed him, and he closed his eyes so that he would not have to see it.
She snorted. ‘You are an infant over a little blood. But all men are.’
She thought him a coward, now? So be it. He wished he could stand and walk away from this. Then he would go to Magda and apologize for doubting her. Perhaps the intent to offer help had been enough to save him, and he would not have to endure the feel of those perfect little hands, as they took his injured arm, pushed back the sleeve and dipped his hand in the basin in her lap.
The pain was still there, but each touch brought a little more quiet to his blood, as though she could command the beating of his heart to slow—to a stop, if she so chose.
Verity shifted against him, and he felt her lean forward and place one hand on his calf as she slipped the other into his boot to touch the hilt of his knife. He opened his eyes quickly and gathered enough strength to cover her fingers with his good left hand.
‘I need it to open the wound and to cut a fresh bandage.’
He stared into her eyes. Was that concern he saw, or some kind of trick? ‘Why help me?’
‘Because I would not let a dog suffer as you are.’
At least, she was honest. If she had couched her request in fine words, he might have feared a trap. He slowly removed his hand from hers, and let her draw the knife from the sheath. Quickly, before asking leave or giving warning, she slashed out with it and opened the wound, allowing it to drain.
Strangely, the pain was less than it had been, despite the fresh cut. It was as if he could feel the poison draining out of his hand, and from his spirit, as well, mixing with the blood in the basin. She was massaging the open cut, and it should have hurt like blazes. But instead, her touch was as gentle as it had been, and it made him feel peaceful, almost drowsy. ‘You do not wish me to suffer. But you did not hesitate to cut me.’
There was strain in her voice as she answered, as though the act of cutting had hurt worse than the cut. ‘Attempts at gentleness do little to help when there is a difficult task at hand. Nor would my whinging on, letting my fear affect you. Lift your arm, please.’ She lifted the basin carefully out of her lap, took it to the door and threw the water onto the ground outside. Then she rinsed it with water from the pitcher and poured fresh, bidding him to soak his hand again. She wiped his blood from the knife and went to her clothing in the corner, reaching for a clean petticoat and slashing at the hem to remove the lowest ruffle. She came back to him and examined his wounded hand, removing it from the water, drying it against her skirt and wrapping it carefully with the white cotton cloth.
The petticoat of a woman was mahrime; very unclean. The contact would make him all but un touchable amongst the Rom, if any heard of it. But perhaps, because she was his wife, it was different.
He closed his eyes and opened them again, wishing he could clear his head. She was not truly his wife. Their marriage was nothing more than a jest to torment his superstitious grand mother. But he could feel his strength grow as the cloth that had been so close to her body touched his infected skin.
Damn Magda for pushing him to this. He did his best to ignore the Romany nonsense that the old woman fed him. And then it all proved true. Curses were real and words were dangerous, and the results of using them might have nothing to do with the intent. In for get ting that fact, he had gotten himself a gadji for a wife. He laughed.
‘You find your current condition amusing?’ she asked tartly.
He waved his good hand in dismissal. ‘My life is a joke.’
‘And now, the fever is talking. Rest.’ Verity placed one of her small hands in the centre of his chest and pushed until he fell back on the bed, unable to resist her. ‘You will feel better when you wake.’
‘If I wake.’ He glanced at the knife, still in her lap. His help less ness before her felt strange, as though it were possible for a thing to be both frightening and com forting at the same time.
‘If I’d meant to hurt you, I would have let the cut kill you slowly. If you do not do as I say, it still might.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Some times, I think I must be a great fool.’
‘Not so great a fool as I am, Verity.’ If she was his wife, then it could not be wrong to use her name. He managed a weak smile, and closed his eyes. She had been foolish. At one time, he would not have hesitated to use the knife on her, if she had given him reason. If she cured him of the weakness that had been over taking him, perhaps his resolve to end the curse would return with his health. Maybe she was right, and it was the fever that affected him now.
But more likely, he would have much to explain to her when he awoke from his nap.
‘And what am I to do with you now?’
Verity stared down at the Gypsy who had fallen into an uneasy sleep on his own bed. He needed rest, if he was to recover from the infection. There would likely be a fever, and all the symptoms accompanying it. Someone would need to redress the wound and see to it that he was bathed and fed, assuming he awoke to take any food at all.
And none of this was her problem. If she left him here, she could help herself to a horse and be gone before he awoke. It would not even technically be an escape, for he had promised to release her. Bu
t then he had lost consciousness. Perhaps he would not even remember what he had said, when he came back to himself.
He looked so helpless, lying there before her. It was not a normal state for him, and he would be mortified to know that she had seen it. The tribe had been all too clear in their admiration of him. To run from him now would be to display his weak ness to them. It would embarrass him. And now that she could admire the proud cast of his face, she did not wish that for him. For some reason, the thought of him humbled in the eyes of his people pained her.
For a moment, his brow furrowed as though the pain of his wound still reached him in whatever dream he inhabited. No matter what he might wish people to think, he was sick and in need. She reached out a hand to smooth his forehead, which was warmer than it should be. Someone must tend him. And after two nights alone in the vardo with him, who knew him better than she did?
Removing his clothing would be less difficult if she did it now, before he was too deeply asleep. As she began to undo buttons and tug at boots, he seemed to understand what she was about, and he stirred himself sufficiently to help her, struggling with the garments like a sleepy child. When free of them, he drew himself together on the bed, huddling beneath the covers as though he felt a chill.
But his skin was still hot to the touch, and the water in the basin was foul. She went to Magda with an empty pitcher and explained the problem. The woman frowned for a moment, and then nodded in understanding, offering water and a selection of herbs that would make the fever pass more quickly.
Verity took them back to the vardo, and lit a candle against the growing darkness. Stephano’s skin was even warmer, as though now that she was here to help him, he had given up fighting the sickness.
She pulled back his blanket, and took the basin and a sponge, using the water to cool his body and trying to ignore the dizzy way it made her feel to be so close to him. The body under her hands had been heavily marked by the life it had led. She touched his shoulder. The scar on it was small and rounded; it seemed to be from a bullet. In his elliptical descriptions of their family’s recent troubles, her brother Marc had said something of gunfire and a man that would trouble them no more. Perhaps this mark was a gift from her family. She smoothed her hand over it, as though she could take the pain back from him.
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