“This is for you.”
Charlotte could only stare in awe. The full-sleeved peasant blouse was as white as snow and embroidered with golden threads. Two tiny bells dangled from the drawstring at the wide neck. The skirt gleamed the colors of the rainbow—from golden yellow to fiery crimson to deep violet. Yards and yards of the luxurious material were gathered at the tiny waistband, and the lacy, scarlet petticoats Tamara provided would flounce the skirt beautifully.
“Tamara,” Charlotte said, fingering the soft cotton blouse, “this is too kind of you… to let me wear your best clothes. Really, I couldn’t.”
Tamara giggled. “These are not my clothes. Mateo had them made for you specially.”
“Mateo? I don’t understand.”
“Get dressed. All will be explained soon enough,” Tamara assured her.
Not until Charlotte slipped the blouse over her head did it dawn on her that some articles of clothing were missing. Without a corset or even a thin camisole, her dark nipples made pronounced shadows through the light cotton. Tamara, noting her frown, adjusted the neckline, pulling the blouse off her shoulders and tying the drawstring securely. Then she gathered the fullness in front for modesty’s sake.
“Lovely!” Tamara sighed, standing back to gaze at her handiwork.
Charlotte wasn’t so sure, but there was nothing she could do about it. At least she would have the darkness outside to give her some measure of cover.
As a final touch, when Charlotte was dressed, Tamara placed golden hoops in her ears and draped several finely crafted chains about her neck.
“One more thing is needed,” said the fortune-teller after closely examining the effect of Charlotte’s costume.
She brought out a chain from which several small coins dangled. Carefully she pinned it in place so that the circles of gold lay evenly across Charlotte’s forehead.
“There!” she said with satisfaction. “Mateo will be pleased.”
All this talk of Mateo, when Petronovich’s name had yet to be mentioned, gave Charlotte fresh hope. Maybe things had changed while she’d slept. Perhaps even now she was on her way to wed Mateo before his approving familia. A strange but not unwelcome thrill fluttered her heart. Would she be with Mateo—as his wife—this very night?
The blue-black sky was moonless, but stars twinkled above like silver sequins sewn on velvet. The whole scene seemed a vision of enchantment as Charlotte and Tamara left the brides’ tent. A huge bonfire glowed fiery orange in the very center of the camp, and colorfully dressed Gypsies whirled and leaped about its perimeter to the pulse of the bizarre Romany music.
Charlotte immediately spotted Mateo and Petronovich in a clear space near the fire. The two seemed locked in a duel to the death. But they used no weapons. Sweat glistened on their determined faces as they stamped the packed earth with dancing feet. Their bodies moved in undulating rhythms while they clapped their hands over their heads and whirled in dizzying circles.
She watched, transfixed by the power and sensual beauty of Mateo’s body. His bare chest, etched with dark hair, glistened, bronzed by the firelight, while his thigh muscles rippled with each move. She noted shyly the obvious bulge in his tight buckskins that displayed his aroused manhood, proclaiming him a true and powerful Rom. He moved through the dance with all the power and elegance of one of his own horses. She felt faint just watching him and thought how he and Petronovich resembled two stallions vying for a choice mare.
The music built to a frenzy and the pair of dancers whirled and stamped with ever more zeal. Charlotte could see the strain of exertion etched in Petronovich’s face, but Mateo’s expression was still nonchalant, though his dark eyes radiated a certain mocking irony. At last, Petronovich spun away and stumbled out of the circle, leaving Mateo to finish his exhibition alone. The cheers and applause grew louder. On and on he danced, until the earth seemed to tremble with each stamp of his boots. Then, suddenly, the music crashed into silence. Mateo gave a wild yelp and leaped high in the air. Total quiet gave way to pandemonium as wave after wave of cheers rose and everyone rushed to congratulate the victor.
“He will be coming for you now,” Tamara whispered.
The lovely Gypsy spoke the truth on this occasion. As soon as he could extricate himself from the mob, Mateo strode directly toward Charlotte. With his face gleaming in the firelight and the bulge in his trousers making it obvious that he was still aroused, Charlotte had a moment’s inclination to flee. But his eyes held her riveted to the spot. Whatever he was about to offer, she would have to accept. Before she could move or even force her mind to think any organized thoughts, he was there, reaching out a hand to caress her cheek. She closed her eyes a moment, luxuriating in his touch.
“You were well worth waiting for, sunaki bal,” Ma-teo said. “Thank you, Tamara. You have done a magnificent job.”
With only a smile and a nod, Tamara slipped away, leaving Mateo and Charlotte alone together. She stood before him, aware that his eyes were examining every article of her clothing and jewelry. He nodded his approval almost imperceptibly.
“Yes, it is as I imagined,” he said. “You will be the most exotically beautiful woman in our kumpania, Charlotte Buckland. A queen in your own right.”
His final statement made her breath catch and her heart pound so that the concealing gathers at the front of her blouse actually fluttered over her taut nipples. “A queen,” he had said. How else could she became a queen? She would have to marry a king!
He cupped her face in his warm palms and smiled down into her eyes, caressing her with his gaze until she thought her heart would burst from wanting his kiss. She closed her eyes. Unconsciously, her lips parted and her chin tilted upward, ready for his sweet assault. But instead of kissing her, Mateo let his hands slide down to rest on her bare shoulders. The touch of his fingers felt hot to her flesh. She trembled deliciously and made no protest or attempt at false modesty when his gaze shifted downward to scorch her thinly clad breasts. She felt her nipples ache as they strained at the fabric.
“Beautiful!” he breathed. “Beyond words!”
“Mateo,” she began, not knowing what she would say.
He gave her no opportunity to get beyond his name. His beautiful dark face came down over hers, blocking out the light of the campfire. As its warmth faded from her flesh, another kind of heat took its place. Charlotte felt Mateo’s lips capture hers and send flames of desire raging through her. He was ever so gentle, but the sensations aroused by his kiss sent her reeling, plummeting through a soft, black void where only stardust lit the path back to reality.
Never had she felt such wonder and enchantment. His full lips moved over hers as if he were an explorer, staking his claim on previously undiscovered ground. He ventured cautiously at first, touching lightly, testing her reaction. But when she responded eagerly to the delicious taste of him, he grew bolder, tempting her lips to part for him while his arms stole about her to cradle her close to his hard chest.
Charlotte felt as if some magical door to worlds unknown had just swung open for her. Being in Mateo’s arms, savoring his ardent kiss, seemed so right, so good. She never wanted the moment to end. She wanted to taste the heady wine of his breath and inhale his woodsy essence forevermore, while his strong arms held her close, pulsing new, exciting life through her whole body, making it ache with the sweetest of needs.
When Mateo finally broke the embrace, they stood for a long moment staring at each other. Their eyes spoke eloquently of the wonders of love.
“Ah, victory is sweet,” he whispered. Then, taking her hand in his and smoothing her satiny skin with sensitive, knowing fingers, he ordered, “Follow me!”
For a moment, she realized she had no voice. Her senses seemed to have taken flight, like some night bird rejoicing in the splendor of the free-blowing winds. When she could find words, they came from deep within her soul—a soul filled with love and longing.
“Always, Mateo,” she breathe
d. “I’ll always follow you.”
Chapter 6
The moment Charlotte and Mateo entered the circle of firelight, a multitude of Romany-dark eyes focused on them. The musicians, just as curious as the others, let their song trail off into silence. Charlotte hung back, hiding in Mateo’s shadow, uncomfortable with the heat of so many gazes upon her. What, she wondered, did they imagine her to be? Some golden-haired freak for their sideshow or, perhaps, a sorceress from some misty land beyond their far-reaching pale? Nervously, she slowed her step, but Mateo urged her on.
“Come along, Charlotte. The hour grows late. We must speak with the phuri dai.”
“Your mother?” Charlotte asked, puzzled. Probably, she reasoned, it was a formality for visitors to pay their respects to the formidable old lady.
“Not only my mother, but my queen as well. She must give final approval to any decisions made within the familia.” Mateo paused for a moment and gave Charlotte a grave look. “I would never dream of speaking my mind to you without her permission.”
Charlotte forgot all about the staring Gypsy eyes and the rest of the world. Mateo’s expression remained a mystery to her, but his words seemed to indicate that he had made an important decision while she’d slept, unknowing. Her heartbeat accelerated, but cautiously, as if it were afraid to let her believe what she hoped to be true. Like a sleepwalker in a happy dream, she followed Mateo, still clutching his hand.
Then she was standing directly before Queen Zolande. The old matriarch sat on a thronelike chair, a bear robe draped over her lap, although the night air was warm. A scarlet cape hugged her thin shoulders, and gold chains, hoops, and coins festooned about her person glinted their ancient mysteries in the firelight. Her face was placid except for her eyes—tiny, piercing bits of black glass like miniature crystal balls, seeing past, present, and future all in the same unblinking instant. Her gaze darted quickly over her tall son but soon locked on Charlotte.
Mateo leaned forward and kissed his mother on one cheek and then the other. She acknowledged his filial homage by clasping his hand with long fingers that seemed covered with brittle, blue-lined parchment. She spoke softly to him in the Romani dialect. Although Charlotte couldn’t understand the words, she recognized the deep love in the queen’s tone.
“I would speak to you, Queen Zolande,” Mateo said formally.
The woman’s expression changed, the light of mother-love curtained by the sterner countenance of the phuri dai.
“I will hear you, Prince Mateo,” she answered, sitting up with more authority and nodding slightly.
“It has to do with the gajo woman.”
Once more Queen Zolande pierced Charlotte with an intense, dark look. She did not smile. Charlotte felt her discomfort growing. Why didn’t Mateo just get on with it?
“Petronovich’s woman?” she said, narrowing her eyes as if to take better measure of the girl standing before her.
Charlotte’s head jerked up and her level gaze jousted with the queen’s piercing stare. “No!” she cried impulsively. “I am not Petronovich’s woman!”
Mateo turned a warning frown on her and whispered, “You will remain silent!”
Fury boiled up inside Charlotte’s breast. How could he speak to her that way? Surely Mateo no longer thought of her as “Petronovich’s woman”! She was her own woman! But Mateo’s warning look stopped her tongue. He offered her a reassuring smile, and she felt a sudden softening inside. She returned his fond look, thinking that she would never be angered by anyone calling her “Mateo’s woman.”
“I am in need of her, Queen Zolande,” Mateo continued.
Charlotte winced at his choice of words. An odd way, she thought, to express love and a desire to marry.
The queen’s eyebrows arched and her lips pursed in disapproval. “You will have Phaedra soon enough.”
“Phaedra has chosen to be with Petronovich. Besides, she doesn’t like my horses. They terrify her. But Charlotte Buckland comes from a line of horse breeders and trainers. She and I will be a perfect team.”
Charlotte was confused. She realized that ancient cultures that still arranged marriages and haggled over brideprice were totally foreign to her, but what did her relationship with Mateo’s horses have to do with whether or not the queen would give her permission for them to marry? Charlotte shrugged off her misgivings. She loved horses! She loved Mateo, too. If her expertise as an equestrienne enhanced her chances of becoming Mateo’s bride, then she loved him all the more for being wise enough to use this argument with Queen Zolande.
“And what if she is too delicate?”
Mateo turned his eyes on Charlotte as if measuring her physical capabilities, then looked back to his mother. “I will be most careful with her. She will not be hurt; that I promise you.”
Charlotte felt herself blushing all over. How could they discuss such a matter—the very difficulties of a virgin bride on her wedding night—and right in front of her? Still, Mateo seemed to know exactly how to handle the old queen. Zolande was almost smiling now. Yes, she even gave a slight nod of approval.
“We will see how it works out, Mateo. You understand, though, that there is still Petronovich to be considered. He brought her here; he is responsible for her. But I will speak to him.”
Mateo bowed his head, acknowledging the phuri dai’s words. “I understand.”
“Then let it be,” she said. Turning back to Charlotte, the queen commanded, “I will abide no more trouble from your presence in this camp. If you are to become as one of us, you will follow our ways: You will obey Mateo at all times!”
Charlotte, who had experienced a growing joy as the talk progressed and imagined herself about to become Mateo’s bride, suddenly felt fury flood her being. Obey indeed! Words she knew she shouldn’t say were trembling on her lips, ready to burst out before the old queen, when Mateo took her by the arm and led her quickly away.
In an instant, the peculiar form of the marriage request was forgotten. She was aware only of the man next to her, his strong arm about her waist, guiding her away from the others.
“So, it is done, my sunaki bal!” he said with obvious satisfaction in his voice. “Now we need time to be alone… to talk… to learn of each other.”
“Yes, Mateo,” she answered meekly—not because Queen Zolande had ordered her to obey this man but because he spoke to her needs as well as his own.
He led her away from the campfire and the curious onlookers. They walked the woodland path for a long time in silence. Charlotte was too transported by her feelings, her longing for Mateo, to speak. And he seemed happy simply to have her beside him, all to himself. They owned these silent woods, the gentle breeze whispering its night song, and every one of the millions of stars overhead. They were in love. And that love made them wealthy beyond belief.
Charlotte had never realized she possessed such depths of emotion. Her mind and heart sang with joy, relief, excitement, and a slight quickening fear at the thought of becoming this Gypsy’s bride. Would he be gentle with her as he had promised the queen? Or would the deep passions she sensed smoldering within him surface to claim her with ruthless abandon once they were alone and away from the others? The thought sent a shiver through her.
But as they strode on through the forest, side by side and hand in hand, her fears fled and her whole body responded to Mateo’s warmth. She quivered in anticipation of what she guessed was about to happen.
Had she been home in Kentucky, safely shielded by old standards and archaic values, she would never have allowed herself to be put in this position. She could never have walked out into the night with any man. Certainly she would not be thinking the thoughts that now mesmerized her. She would have demanded that they wait until after their wedding.
But this was not Kentucky, and the old values meant nothing. And this was not just any man. This was Mateo—her Mateo!
Behind them, Charlotte could hear the bittersweet sound of a Gypsy love song
. Though she couldn’t understand the words, the weeping strains of the music relayed a universal theme. The violin told of sweethearts loving, parting, sobbing out their longing for each other.
How happy it made her to know that she and Mateo were about to be joined! She squeezed his hand and felt the pressure returned. He, too, was aware of the mournful lovers’ song.
“Beautiful, is it not?” he said in a hushed voice. “Beautiful, but so very, very sad.”
“What do the words mean, Mateo?”
He paused on the trail and took both her hands in his. “She is young and very lovely and innocent. She is also very poor—daughter of a rashai, a parson. Her lover is older, but not so old, and his family is not so poor as hers. They say he must marry a rawnie, a great lady, who will bring much sunaki, Gypsy gold, to their familia. But the young man and his lover refuse to listen. They sing to each other that they will live on golden honey instead of sunaki and be rich with the silver of the moon and stars. As they flee, a Romani chiriklo, the Gypsy bird of happiness, flies over their heads, singing out his blessing.”
“The flute—I hear it,” Charlotte said.
“We call that instrument a chavora, but, yes, you are right. That is the little bird singing.”
“Then why does the song sound so sad, Mateo?”
“Gypsy love songs are always sad. I haven’t finished the story, little one. His parents have engaged the ababina, the village sorceress, to put a spell over him so that he will leave his lover and return to them. While the runaway couple is making love one night beside the dariav, the great sea, the evil spell comes over him. He thrusts the girl away and calls her ‘full tschai,’ ‘bad girl.’ She weeps and pleads. Hear even now the sighing of the violin? But her young man can only hear what the ababina allows.” He paused and gave a heavy sigh.
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