She sank down in one corner, too furious to continue her hopeless battle. The darkness was oppressive inside the wagon. As her eyes adjusted to it she suddenly realized that she was not alone. A huge shape blocked the moonlight that tried to filter in through the thick curtain over one window.
Already the wagon was rumbling through the night. She could hear Petronovich’s whip cracking and his growling voice encouraging the horses to more speed. Where was he taking her? She dared not think about it.
The one thing that she had to concentrate on was escape. She forced her mind into a calm mode while never taking her eyes off the dark shape a few feet away from her. She had to be rational if she hoped to save herself from this mad Gypsy. She noticed a slight movement from her fellow passenger. Was it a man sleeping there? No, it was too huge. What, then?
With her sudden realization, Charlotte’s breath froze in her chest. She should have guessed from the smell—the gamy, earthy odor that permeated the wagon’s interior. But it couldn’t be! Not even Petronovich would do such a thing!
She shrank back in the corner. Perhaps if she stayed perfectly still and didn’t make a sound…
But Charlotte couldn’t help herself. When the thing moved and coarse fur brushed against her bare legs, she screamed as she never had before. Boski, as terrified as Charlotte herself, moved away from her. From the far side of the wagon, she could hear the bear sniffing the air, trying to identify her scent.
Oh, God! she thought. Why didn’t I stay in Kentucky?
Just then, the caravan lurched to a jolting halt. Charlotte was thrown across the floor, landing in a heap against Boski’s heavy haunch. The bear put a paw across her, caressing and licking her gently as if she were his Phaedra. Charlotte held her breath, not daring to move a muscle.
Mateo lay in his tent, alternately burning with an inexplicable fever and shivering with chills. His body ached as if it were possessed by devils, their pitchforks stabbing him from inside. He tossed on his pallet, thrashing his arms, biting hard on a piece of twisted rawhide to keep from screaming in his agony. His eyes refused to focus, but it didn’t matter. He had secured the tent flap against the painful glow of the full moon. If one single ray fell upon him, he would be lost to the madness completely.
For a moment he lay quiet, breathing deeply, trying to clear his fogged senses. Why was he cursed? How could he spend the rest of his life this way? He was a strong man… a man of reason. But neither his strength nor his reasonable mind could win out over this hideous, nameless foe that attacked his body and soul with each full moon.
“An ancient curse,” his mother, Zolande, had explained gently when he was still a small boy. “In time, you may find a way to banish it. But for now there is only endurance. I am sorry, my son.”
Mateo remembered that he had seen silver tears in his mother’s eyes as she’d spoken to him. It was the only time in his life that he had ever seen the noble queen of the Gypsies cry.
The full moon hushed the camp. Every man, woman, and child knew of Mateo’s struggle with the spirits. They crept into their tents early, hiding their heads beneath the covers, praying for dawn and an end to their prince’s suffering.
So the woman’s screams rending the still night came as a shock. Mateo, eased somewhat by the waning of the moon, sat up and listened. Had he imagined the sounds? No! They came again—louder and more frantic.
Struggling to his feet, Mateo threw back the flap and looked out. On the far side of the camp, he saw Petronovich’s caravan pulled up outside of the circle. His cousin, cursing loudly, was struggling with a woman.
Suddenly she spied him and cried out, “Mateo, help me!”
He knew that voice. It was the golden-haired gajo woman he had taken to the hotel—the same fair-haired beauty who had watched his act and praised him.
He summoned all his strength and made a rush for Petronovich, tackling him about the knees. More startled than hurt, Petronovich let go of Charlotte Buckland. She staggered backward, falling to the ground beside the wagon. The two men wrestled in the tall grass near where she lay. Finally, Mateo got the better of his cousin. He sat astride the downed Petronovich, daring him to make another move.
“This is none of your affair, Mateo,” Petronovich snarled. “She is mine! I took her!”
“Took her?” Mateo repeated, glancing quickly toward the sobbing girl.
What he saw made him want to take her in his arms and soothe away her tears and her grief. Her shining hair, loosened from its pins, tumbled in wild abandon about her face. Her great eyes, the color of aged brandy, stared up at him, pleading for his protection. She wore only a thin nightgown, torn open at the neck. Her heavy breathing caused her breasts to rise and fall, offering a glimpse of pale rosettes from time to time.
God help me, Mateo thought, she arouses far more than my sympathy!
But no! She was not one of his kind. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts about her. She would have to be returned to her own people. Then he looked down at Petronovich and saw the malicious smile twisting his cousin’s lips. Perhaps it was already too late to take her back.
“What is this?” demanded a low, female voice.
Charlotte looked up at the old woman. Her face was brown and lined, but aristocratic. Though she wore nightclothes, huge hoops of gold dangled from her ears, and her neck and arms were elaborately adorned. Obviously she was a leader of the clan. She ignored Charlotte for the moment and glared down at her son and nephew.
“Does the phuri dai, the ruler of you and all your kin, not deserve some explanation? Mateo? Petronovich?”
“I am sorry. Mother, that we disturbed you.” Mateo stood up, allowing his cousin to rise, also. “It seems the moon madness did double duty tonight. Petronovich left camp and stole a woman—a gajo.”
The old queen’s gnarled hands flew to her lips. “In the holy name of Sara-la-Kali!” she swore. “I should have known it would come to this someday. How many times in your youth, Petronovich, did I have to cross some farmer’s palm with gold after you stole his chicken? But a woman! How do I repay that debt?”
Queen Zolande stood directly in front of Petronovich, her glittering black eyes seeming to pierce him through. Her voice quivered with rage.
“It may be worse than you know, Mother,” Mateo said quietly. “Look at her.”
Zolande swung around. Her lips drew back in a tight line as she took in Charlotte’s disheveled appearance and torn gown.
Feeling self-conscious under the woman’s blazing stare, Charlotte tried to smooth the wild tangle of her hair from her face.
“So, it was not enough to steal her; you have used her as well?” the queen said to Petronovich while still gazing at his victim.
When Petronovich made no answer, Zolande demanded of Charlotte, “Well, has he bedded you?”
Still stunned and not fully understanding what the woman meant, but wanting her attacker punished, Charlotte cried, “Yes! He sneaked in through my window while I slept and climbed right into my bed! When I tried to fight him off, he tore my gown. My arms and mouth are all bruised, he held me so tight and used me so savagely!”
“She lies!” Petronovich snarled. “That may have been my plan, but I haven’t touched her. Mateo saw to that!”
“You did!” Charlotte yelled at Petronovich. “You forced me to…”
Zolande watched dispassionately as Charlotte lapsed into angry tears.
“So, we see as well as hear what you have done to this woman, Petronovich. I now have choices to consider. I could return her to the town and have you jailed.”
“Please, no!” Petronovich cried. “You know that I would die in jail as quickly as any other Gypsy. I must have my freedom, Queen Zolande!”
“Allow me to finish,” she said, a cold edge to her voice. “I cannot have you jailed, for fear it would bring trouble to all of us. As I have heard the gajos say, ‘One rotten apple spoils the barrel.’ I am afraid they believe that, and
you may be the rottenest fruit to taint our family tree since Xendar the Accursed.” She glanced at Charlotte and added in a low tone, as if speaking to herself, “And, too, she may be with child even now.”
Petronovich had lost his cool, superior air. “No, Queen Zolande! I did not lie with her! I swear it on my own mother’s grave!”
The phuri dai’s bejeweled hand lashed out like lightning to slap Petronovich’s mouth.
“How dare you speak in desecration of sacred ground? Do not whine to me about your punishment. The least you can do is act the man!”
“Mother,” Mateo broke in, “she needs warmth and rest. She’s shivering. Can’t we continue this later?”
“Here, Mateo,” a soft voice answered. “Put this blanket around her.” It was the fortune-teller, Tamara.
Mateo took the blanket and went to Charlotte. Gently, he wrapped her in its warmth, then took her cold hands between his. His touch was reassuring. She knew he’d never let them harm her.
“Phuri, dai, I know this woman,” Tamara said in her quiet voice. “I read her fortune only yesterday.”
Queen Zolande’s features softened when she looked at Tamara. The girl was like a timid bird, she mused. Strong enough to see and tell the sadness in the futures of others, but not willful enough to hold her own man. If only Mateo could have been cast with Tamara, how different their lives would be. But Fate would have her way, Zolande thought with a shrug.
“Did you see Petronovich, your own betrothed, in this woman’s stars, Tamara?” asked Zolande. “Were you warned that he might do such a shameful thing, my dear?”
Tamara looked down, wanting to avoid Petronovich’s defiant eyes. “I saw one of the Rom, Queen Zolande. I felt ill winds. I warned her to leave this place before it was too late.”
Queen Zolande clutched her shawl about her as if she felt a sudden chill. “Then it is so! We cannot turn her away. She must stay with us until we know for certain if she carries Romany seed. And you!” She whirled about, pointing an accusing finger at Petronovich. “You will remain in camp at all times unless we are performing. Am I understood?”
Petronovich only nodded, but his eyes flashed dark anger. Why should they believe the gajo woman instead of him? Couldn’t they see she was out to make trouble? Very well! he thought. They had accused him of the crime. He would see that it was committed!
Charlotte had all but forgotten the others. Mateo’s handsome face looking down into hers was all that mattered. Why not stay with the Gypsies, if they would have her? That way she could get to know Mateo—understand the troubled look in his wonderful eyes. Those very eyes now hypnotized her, making her forget that Mateo might not have room in his life or his heart for her.
“Mateo, will you keep me with you? Protect me?” she begged.
He shook his head. “I cannot. I am sorry, but the queen would forbid it.”
“But you must!” she insisted.
“Shhh! don’t upset yourself, little one. You won’t be badly treated. And Petronovich will not be allowed near you… not until…”
Charlotte stared at him. “Until what? I don’t want Petronovich near me ever again!”
He gave her a strange half smile. “How like a Gypsy woman you are, to protest so. He will be forced to stay away from you until he earns your brideprice and can marry you.”
“Marry me? You’re crazy! You’re all crazy! I’m not going to marry him. I’d sooner marry his trained bear!” Charlotte’s voice broke suddenly and she clutched at Mateo as if for protection.
Something deep inside him seemed to tear loose from its moorings. His heart thudded loudly, pulsing against Charlotte’s soft, warm breasts. He slipped one arm around her waist and smoothed her hair. He could feel little gasps of breath on his neck, like the softest of kisses. She was weeping.
“Hush now,” he urged. “The others will hear you. Gypsy women don’t cry.”
“But I’m not a Gypsy. And I’ll cry if I feel like it!”
“You are strong for one who looks so frail and vulnerable. I saw that in you right away.” His lips brushed her hair and she could feel his words whispered against her forehead. His breath was like a hot brand.
Charlotte clung to him, feeling some of her panic subside. If only he would marry her! The thought shocked and thrilled her at the same time. What had come over her? She had traveled hundreds of miles to escape a forced marriage planned by her own mother. Now these strangers seemed to take it for granted that she would marry the crazy man who had kidnapped her. And she was no better than they were—wishing she could marry Mateo, a wild Gypsy horse trainer she knew nothing about, except that he might have fathered a sizable army of dark-eyed children already. Still, it felt too wonderful to be in his arms and feel his heart beating against her own to worry about that right now.
Suddenly she was wrenched out of Mateo’s embrace. Sharp nails flew at her face and neck, scratching painfully. A scream that could have come from a wild animal filled the dawn. Charlotte looked up into Phaedra’s hateful black eyes.
“So, you pale-haired witch, you are not satisfied with taking little Tamara’s man! You want my Mateo, too! Well, you will not have him! He is mine—all mine!”
Charlotte cringed away from the spitting, clawing woman. Had Mateo not grasped Phaedra’s arms, she might have ripped Charlotte’s throat out with her long nails.
A bitter smile curved Mateo’s lips. Still holding tight to Phaedra, he said in a loveless tone, “Why, my dearest, how you surprise me! I thought your eyes and body were for Petronovich alone. But here you are acting and sounding like a jealous lover. How sweet!”
Phaedra’s eyes narrowed. Her head swayed on her graceful neck as if she meant to strike like a snake. She turned to look at Mateo and hissed, “My body is my own. What I do with it is only my concern. But you belong to me. It was written at my birth. I do not share my possessions!”
Mateo released her abruptly. Phaedra turned for a moment to glare at Charlotte. Then, throwing her arms around Mateo’s neck, she sought his lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Charlotte wanted to turn away, but fascination won out over propriety. She stared fixedly as Phaedra’s long-nailed fingers dug into the flesh of Mateo’s bare back.
Mateo’s arms remained stiffly at his sides, his fists clenched. He refused to respond, even when Phaedra pressed her breasts tightly to his chest and rotated her hips against him suggestively. Charlotte felt her pulse pounding and blood rushing up to color her cheeks. At the same time, unfamiliar stirrings warmed her deepest parts.
As suddenly as Phaedra had captured her prey, she released him. Mateo’s eyes blazed his anger. The Gypsy woman laughed and turned to Charlotte.
“There, my fine gajo lady! Now you know what a real Rom expects of his woman. Of course, no one would expect it of you. Poor, pale little creature!” She turned back to Mateo, taunting, “Why, darling, this one would faint dead away at the mere thought of such passion! But then perhaps you aren’t up to it either, my wretched, moon-mad dear!”
Charlotte Buckland had inherited a hot temper. Her mother swore it came from her father’s side of the family. She worked hard at controlling it and tried to remain ladylike at all times. But Phaedra had pushed her past her limits. Something—no everything—about Phaedra boiled her blood.
Without even thinking about what she was going to do, Charlotte threw off the blanket covering her torn gown. She walked past Phaedra to where Mateo waited, sensing her intention. When they were facing each other, Charlotte looked up into Mateo’s warm eyes. For several seconds, their gazes locked.
“What is it, golden-haired one?” he questioned. He lifted his fingers to her face, brushing a damp strand of hair from her lips.
In answer, Charlotte let her hands touch his waist tentatively. As if the test had proven safe, her fingers moved up to his bare chest, stopping for a moment to entwine themselves through the black hair that glinted golden red in the dawn. Slowly, inch by inch, her hands crept up unti
l her fingers laced behind his neck. Then, with only slight pressure, she drew his mouth down on hers.
His lips were soft, full, and enveloped hers with a caressing tenderness. She felt his tongue testing, teasing, until she responded, parting a way for his intimate exploration. Her head felt light. Warmth from their mingled lips suffused her body. She could feel her own heart pounding in her breast like some Gypsy rhapsody.
Still their bodies had not met, though they stood so close that Charlotte could feel a delicious heat radiating from Mateo’s nearness. Then, as the kiss possessed them both, she felt his strong hands grasp her hips, pulling her to him. It seemed to Charlotte that their very souls touched and clung to each other at that moment. Their hearts throbbed together to a frantic Gypsy rhythm. She became aware of another throb against her thigh—pulsing heat that made her ache for something she didn’t understand.
Mateo drew away slowly. They stood staring at each other. Charlotte thought she would always remember that moment—the rising sun, a halo behind his raven mane, tingeing it with Gypsy gold. The misty light obscured his face—all except those wonderful eyes. She could see her own reflection in those deep black pools, as if he had locked her within himself and sealed her enchanted prison forever with his kiss.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Phaedra cried. “The little gajo did not swoon!” Then her voice dropped to a low, suggestive whisper as she spoke directly to Charlotte. “You may kiss him here to taunt me, but I dare you to go to Mateo’s bed! What would you do—all pale and tender—when he crushed those pristine breasts against his hard chest, making them throb and ache? Would you cry out when he stroked your quivering thighs with his powerful graiengen’s hands, forcing from you the same obedience he demands of his horses? And what if you did have the courage to open your delicate petals to the great Rom Mateo? Would he ride you gently or with wild abandon as he gallops his stallions in the ring?”
Seeing Charlotte start to pale, Mateo warned, “Enough, Phaedra!”
“Enough? For your little white Anglo, perhaps, Mateo, but not enough for Princess Phaedra! I am all woman. And I demand all from my man!”
Gypsy Moon Page 5