Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “You wish to know your future.” Tamara’s sudden rich voice uttered it as a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, please.”

  “You have come a very long way to find your fortune, miss.”

  Once more Tamara stated facts rather than asking questions. But how could she know? Charlotte wondered. She studied the woman—her bold features, the golden rings and necklaces, and the bright scarf tied about her ebony hair.

  “Well, lady?”

  Charlotte looked up. “What?”

  “Gold! If I am to tell your fortune, my mind must be helped by your gold… freely offered. I take not. I only give. Such is the way of the Gypsy fortune-teller. But your gift will help my powers to help you.”

  Hesitantly Charlotte dropped her last gold coin into Tamara’s open palm. The woman studied it intently, then bit it to make sure it was real. When she looked up into Charlotte’s face, there was a strange, faraway quality to her expression.

  “You have just ended a journey which you think has taken you away from danger and unhappiness.”

  A bit disappointed that the last of her gold had bought her only information that she already knew, Charlotte asked, “Is that all?”

  Taking a small crystal ball out of the ample pocket of the apron covering her flowered skirt, Tamara gazed into it with her night-colored eyes almost closed.

  Her voice took on a trancelike tone. “I see a ring blazing about you, but many other things—a screaming raven, a wild stallion, and a brilliant sunburst. Two people. Two hearts breaking. Love and hate shall mingle and mate. Beware the night! The night of the full moon!” Suddenly Tamara cried out a strangled sob and collapsed to the table. “That is all,” she whispered. “Go! Leave this place before it is too late. There is great danger for you here!”

  Unnerved by the words of the Gypsy fortune-teller, Charlotte hurried from the tent. She almost turned away, back toward the hotel. The few coppers she had left would buy her supper. She had heard entirely too much about danger for one day. Her excited anticipation of seeing the circus acts had fled with the Gypsy’s warnings.

  Then, just as she turned to head back toward the main part of town, she spied Mateo. Gone were his workingman’s clothes. The tall Rom now wore a costume of scarlet and gold—his tights form-fitting, his chest bare beneath a flowing cape of matching colors that bedazzled her eyes in the afternoon sun.

  She caught only a brief, glittering glimpse of him as he led his six black horses into the tent. But it was enough. She could not deny her curiosity about him or her desire to see him perform. There was no longer any doubt in Charlotte’s mind as to how she would spend her remaining coins.

  “One, please,” she said to the copper-skinned girl in the ticket box.

  She hurried inside and found a seat on a wooden bench in time to hear the ringmaster cry out, “And now from the capitals of the Continent, where he has appeared before the crowned heads of Europe, it is with great pleasure I present to you Prince Mateo and his performing grai.”

  Mateo, who had stood like a statue at the far entrance, a curtain of devil-black stallions forming the perfect backdrop for his glittering costume of scarlet and gold, now whirled his cape away. The whip, which Charlotte had seen him use earlier, whistled over his head before slicing the dusty air with a sharp report. The horses reared over him, poised in midair for one magnificent, terrifying instant. Then, with a precise command in his native tongue, Mateo set the stallions circling around the ring until their galloping pace created a black blur before Charlotte’s eyes.

  She applauded loudly, in a most unladylike fashion, as Mateo leaped onto the back of one of the moving horses and balanced there, his arms spread wide, displaying the strong contours of his bare chest. The hard muscles in his thighs strained at the fabric of his tights as he fought for and gained control of his own body and that of the high-strung animal beneath him.

  Charlotte held her breath. How could he possibly maintain his stance? The horses seemed to be flying. If he fell, he would be crushed beneath their savage hooves.

  With all the grace and beauty of a ballet dancer, Mateo maneuvered to the horse’s hind quarters, poised there for a moment to make sure of his balance, then did a breathtaking flip, high into the air. Charlotte gasped, feeling for a moment as if her heart had stopped altogether.

  A thunder of applause followed the daring stunt. She sat back, breathing deeply, weak with relief. There followed a series of exquisitely executed dismounts and remounts, flips, and hurtles through the dust-choked air. Charlotte thought she could take little more as she watched him mount the great black in the lead for a final somersaulting round of the horses’ backs. But he never missed a step or lost his balance for a moment. It was as if Mateo had invisible wings.

  As a final stunt, he stood upright once more on the back of his lead horse and whistled a command. A second stallion of equal, magnificent proportions moved in alongside until the two horses’ flanks were amost touching. Eight hooves beat with a perfectly matched, galloping rhythm, echoing the thunder of Charlotte’s heart. With flawless timing and daredevil bravado, Mateo placed one foot on the back of the second animal. Around and around they dashed, with their master balanced between the two, a wide and triumphant smile on his face as he waved his arms above his head, acknowledging the audience’s appreciative cheers.

  At last he back-flipped off the pair, giving another shrill whistle as he landed on his feet directly before Charlotte. At his signal, all six horses stopped, posed with one foreleg raised, then bowed their graceful necks to the audience.

  Mateo, his sweating chest heaving, stood so close to Charlotte that had she dared reach out to touch him, as she longed to, her trembling fingers might easily have brushed away the droplets of perspiration from the damp curls about his face. His arousing scent of heated horseflesh and leather seemed to envelop her. Their eyes met for one galvanic moment, seeming to bond their souls. To Charlotte it was like a physical jolt.

  Then the instant passed. Mateo’s lips curved upward at the corners in a kind of wild, heathen joy. It was as if no one else in the world existed in his eyes. She felt his gaze—a tangible force pressing against her heart and awakening unexplained longings deep within her. No man had ever looked at her this way… or made her feel this way.

  “You were wonderful, Mateo,” she whispered, barely conscious that she had spoken the words aloud.

  “For you alone, my sunaki bal,” he answered, clasping her hand and bringing it to his lips.

  The cheering throng within the tent seemed to be in another dimension, with Charlotte and Mateo suspended somewhere in between physical planes. This space they occupied offered tingling thrills and rarefied air. Best of all, it was exclusively theirs.

  Charlotte couldn’t force her gaze away. She caressed him visually, from the tensing of his muscled thighs to the wild disarray of his gleaming hair. And as she devoured his form with her eyes, he made love to her with his. She felt weak, confused, out of her element, but very much a part of his, as he touched his fingers to his lips and blew her a parting kiss.

  Suddenly, the crowd around her made itself known to Charlotte. They hadn’t missed Mateo’s special attention to her. Their applause and lewd jeers were now meant for her. She looked up and saw that even Poor Little Pesha and one of her Gypsy brothers had noticed Mateo’s special favors to her. The two children stood nearby, miming the scene they had witnessed. Pesha’s large eyes gave her an all-knowing look.

  In utter shame, Charlotte rose to flee from the tent, but at the exit a strong hand caught her arm.

  “No, golden one! You will not leave yet. You have cheered my cousin Mateo. You will show Petronovich the same courtesy. Please to stay and observe my performance. I promise to show you my most extravagant gratitude.”

  Charlotte stared, unable to move, as this equally dark and handsome man brought her fingers to his lips, imitating Mateo’s gesture. Still holding her hand, but now in a l
ess than gentle grip, he looked into her eyes with a fierceness that sent chills through her. Trying to pull away, she cast about frantically in search of Mateo. But he and his horses were gone from the tent.

  “No, please!” she begged. “I must go!”

  “No! You must stay!”

  This man was so much like Mateo, yet so different. His Gypsy eyes held a threat not to be taken lightly. Mateo’s voice was deep and musical, while that of this stranger held menace in its depths. Charlotte struggled against him, but his grip proved as powerful as his gaze.

  “Let me go!” she demanded. He would not.

  Almost dragging her now, he placed her firmly back in her front-row seat and ordered, “You will stay right here!”

  Petronovich moved away from her, and Charlotte rose to leave. But he had anticipated this and made a slight motion toward the tent flap. At his signal, two burly men took up posts in front of Charlotte’s only escape route. She saw the Gypsy’s smile of victory as she took her seat once more.

  Leaping into the ring, the menacing stranger postured before his audience as the ringmaster announced, “We have now for you the masterful, the magnificent, the marvelous Rom Petronovich and his trained bruin, Boski, aided most deliciously by the ravishing Princess Phaedra.”

  The men in the crowd stomped, cheered, and whistled at Phaedra’s name. A moment later, Charlotte watched the tall beauty lead a great black bear into the center of the tent, tugging him along by a chain attached to a large ring through his nose.

  Petronovich and Phaedra bowed to each other, their Romany-black eyes flashing sensually in defiant lust. The moment became so naked in its passion that Charlotte looked away. She couldn’t explain why this pair gave her such a fearful feeling, but there was no denying her discomfort.

  When Petronovich shouted an order and the bear gave a loud growl, Charlotte looked up again. The exotic Phaedra, dressed in a flowing costume of purple, green, and silver that matched her partner’s tights, whirled about the ring in a pagan dance, pulling the ungainly bear along behind her. He ambled on his hind legs, front paws flailing the air in an effort to keep his balance. When he faltered from time to time, Phaedra jerked the chain cruelly.

  Suddenly Petronovich grasped Phaedra about her slender waist and raised her high in the air above his head. The bear stumbled about, making pitiful noises, trying to rescue his mistress.

  Petronovich taunted the frantic animal, saying, “You want her, eh, Boski? You want your lovely Phaedra? Ah, but don’t be so anxious, my furry friend. You say you will die without her?” Petronovich flashed a meaningful look at the audience and said, “Many men have said the same, among them the great graiengeri, Rom Mateo! So, if she can have such a prince of Romany, why should she desire you? Eh, Boski?”

  When he spoke Mateo’s name, Petronovich shifted his gaze to Charlotte Buckland. Again she would have fled, but a quick glance at the exit told her the guards were still on duty.

  “Boski, my Boski, come save me!” Phaedra cried in a teasing voice, sending the poor bear into paroxysms.

  Suddenly Petronovich whirled Phaedra around, then placed her on his discarded cape in the center of the ring. The bear master stepped back, allowing the frantic Boski to run to his mistress, Phaedra stretched out her shapely white arms to the creature, who proceeded to lick her all over with his long purple tongue. The woman moved her body as if she were in a lover’s embrace. She sighed and moaned her feigned pleasure.

  The men in the crowd went wild, stamping and shouting as they watched the clumsy bear tease Phaedra’s tempting flesh.

  Charlotte turned her head away. She couldn’t stand to watch. The exchange between two men sitting behind her proved even more embarrassing.

  “You reckon she really gets her kicks from havin’ that varmint slobberin’ all over her, Gus?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Gus answered. “But I’ll fill that there bear’s skin any-damn-time them Gypsies want to give me the job. I guaran-damn-tee you I’d do it for free! That there Princess Phaedra’s some piece of female!”

  A wild yell from Petronovich silenced the audience and brought Charlotte’s attention back to the ring.

  “Enough, Boski! Away from her! She is mine!”

  A mock battle ensued between man and beast. They wrestled about the ring, vying for the attentions of the still reclining Phaedra, who shouted encouragement to each in turn.

  With a sudden roar of rage—mock or real, Charlotte couldn’t decide which—Petronovich shoved the bear away from him and grabbed his whip. He lashed Boski brutally until the creature roared out in pain. The crowd cheered and yelled their approval.

  Charlotte’s stomach turned. She had to get out of the tent—away from this vicious man, whose maniacal black eyes were now on her once more. She jumped up from her seat and dashed not for the guarded exit but directly across the ring—past bear and performers—and hurried through the far tent flap, used only by the members of the troupe.

  She thought she heard Mateo call after her, but she dared not stop, for fear Petronovich might be in pursuit. She never slowed her pace but ran all the way back to the Planters Hotel. What had begun as an exciting afternoon had ended in humiliating disaster.

  The sun was sinking low by the time Charlotte reached her room and locked herself in. She had no money left to buy supper. It didn’t matter—she couldn’t have eaten anyway. Her nerves were ragged, her emotions in a turmoil.

  Tomorrow, she decided, when she had calmed herself enough to think, she would set her new life in order—find a job and a homey rooming house. She would stay away from the Gypsies. All of them! Mateo had been right: they could only bring trouble!

  Having a bed to sleep in for the first time in many nights, Charlotte wasted little time thinking of Fairview, her grueling trip west, or her empty stomach. Neither did she dwell on Mateo’s mysterious attraction, nor Petronovich’s cruelty. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she fell into a deep sleep.

  Hours later, the full moon crept through her window, silvering her face. But she didn’t feel its touch. Neither did she hear the rattling of the window opening, nor the soft thud of boots approaching her bed. Not until she felt searching hands upon her body did she try to scream.

  But unknown lips, pressed tightly to her own, refused to allow any sound of protest. Only then did she come fully out of her dreams to awake in a nightmare.

  Chapter 4

  Charlotte Buckland fought like a tigress, trying to escape. But strong arms held her fast. The prolonged and demanding kiss smothered her cries. Never before had any man touched her this way. Now, in one terrifying moment, a stranger was about to possess her totally.

  Grasping both her wrists in one hand while still clinging to her lips with his own, the man tore open her linen nightgown. Charlotte experienced a moment of shock when cool air found her exposed breasts. Then a hand was there, teasing, taunting her nipples to erection. She strained away, trying to bury herself in the mattress, but there was no escaping him. His hard bare chest pressed down on her, taking her breath away.

  He broke off the kiss at last, but the hand that had tortured her breasts quickly covered her mouth.

  “Not to struggle, my beauty. I wish you no harm. I have come to love you.” His voice was a husky growl against her ear.

  The heavy accent brought instant recognition. Mateo! But no. He would never force a woman. He would never have to! Then her mind grasped her attacker’s true identity. Her defiler was Petronovich, the cruel bear master!

  Shock and terror possessed her, robbing her of survival instincts for a moment. She stopped fighting him and lay still, staring up at the rugged profile and the mass of black hair tumbling over his forehead.

  “Ah, is better now.” He crooned the words suggestively, tracing the contour of one cheek with his fingertip. “You remember Petronovich. You want me… no?”

  Believing that Charlotte understood and accepted what he meant to do, Petronovich re
laxed his guard, releasing his hand from her mouth to find her lips with his again. But in that split second before he leaned down to kiss her, Charlotte filled the room with her screams. She fought like a wild thing, scratching his face and neck, sinking her teeth into his arm. Petronovich let fly a stream of Romani curses, adding to the fracas. Immediately the sound reached them of doors opening and feet running in the hallway.

  Mindless of the pain he was causing her, Petronovich grabbed Charlotte roughly in his arms and pressed her face into his hard chest. Though she continued to scream for help, her voice was muffled. Her struggles proved useless.

  “Now you have done it!” her abductor snarled through clenched teeth. “Big trouble for both of us! But I will have you—one way or another!”

  The next moment, Charlotte felt herself falling through the air, still in Petronovich’s arms. He landed on his feet on the ground below, jolting her to the very core, then took off running. Her whole body ached from his rough treatment. Her mind fought to deny this terrible reality. Surely, someone would stop this madman and rescue her!

  But when she recognized the voice of the surly desk clerk coming from her open window, her heart sank.

  “Well, I could have told you this would happen,” she heard him say. “She come sashayin’ in here this afternoon with one of them Gypsy fellers! And that’s the same one making off with her now. She’ll be in his wolf skins in no time!”

  Another voice argued, “But Jess, the girl’s screamin’ her head off. Shouldn’t we do something?”

  “Hell, no, Chester! It’s all part of the ceremony.”

  The sounds from the hotel faded. A moment later, Petronovich hoisted Charlotte up over the high wheel of his painted caravan and shoved her through the door behind the porchlike front of the wagon.

  “You let me out of here!” she screamed, pounding with all her might on the locked door.

  “All in good time, my fiery beauty!”